《Wild Agenda: A Short Story Collection》 My Fox ¡°Have you seen my fox?¡± It wasn¡¯t a very good question. Aiden wasn¡¯t expecting an answer. But the man walking along the dirt at the side of the road in his boxers and one sock holding an open jar of peanut butter looked so much like the way Aidan felt, he had to slow down and ask. Neither of them stopped entirely. The man shook his head. ¡°No.¡± He scooped out some peanut butter and crouched to wipe it on the exposed roots of a laurel bush. His arms were scratched and bleeding. Aiden opened the glove box and pulled out a roll of gauze and gave it to the man. ¡°I¡¯ve been using steak,¡± he said. He rolled up the window and drove off. The man didn¡¯t need a ride. Three empty crosswalks later, a fox darted across the road. Aiden slammed on the brakes, scaring two more foxes out of a recycling bin overturned on the sidewalk. Tuna cans clattered into the street. Aiden stared after the foxes, trying to see where they¡¯d gone, but the hedge they¡¯d disappeared into wasn¡¯t even quivering. He looked back at the road and a can rolling oblong in the wind. Tuna, he thought. He fished a piece of paper and half a pencil from his pocket and wrote Tuna Melt. The pencil point stabbed his thigh through the paper. Maybe open-face on rye. With a pickle. The grocery store was quiet and cold and full of men drifting along, towed by their shopping carts. A little boy huddled in a cart between canned soup and hot dog packets stared up at Aiden and picked his nose. ¡°Don¡¯t do that, kiddo,¡± his father said, not looking away from the spectrum of orange juices. A fox trotted down the aisle, enormous tawny ears pricked, and stopped to sniff at a half-chewed burrito. Aiden and the boy stared at it, but all it did was give the foil wrapping a couple halfhearted licks before burrowing through the parmesan to the next aisle. The father looked around at the noise. ¡°It¡¯s okay, Daddy,¡± the boy said. ¡°It was just a fennec.¡± Vulpes zerda, Aiden mouthed silently to the carton of orange juice he pulled from the shelf. Only one checkout lane was open. The man behind the counter whistled in harmony with the scanner¡¯s beeps as he rang up Aiden¡¯s purchase: a six-pack of canned tuna, a box of cereal, a gallon of milk, a block of cheddar, a jar of pickles, orange juice, QuickMix salad, rye bread, and a bottle of tequila. ¡°I.D. please?¡± Aiden flipped open his wallet and a photo fell out, landing facedown on the counter. Red fox (Vulpes vulpes) was scribbled on the back in smudged pencil. The checkout man nodded at the driver¡¯s license and started whistling again as he put groceries into bags, hands swift and practiced. When he saw how Aiden was looking at him, he just shrugged. ¡°Son,¡± he said, ¡°I lost my fox a long time ago.¡± Aiden drove home with his right foot on the gas and left foot hovering over the brake, racing the sun and his own nerves whenever something flickered across the road. Twilight was fox-time. He needed to be home before the ferns cooled and the shadows under the porch grew long and bruised. What time was sunset¡ªsix? Seven? It didn¡¯t matter anyway, Aiden had thrown both his watch and his phone off the porch at a Doberman chasing two hoary foxes (Pseudalopex vetulus) in the back yard, as well as a flowerpot, hose nozzle, watering can, and both his shoes. His car radio didn¡¯t show the time anymore, not since he¡¯d smashed it with his fist three days ago when it had just happened and all the radio screamed was mystery, tragedy, catastrophe, orphaned sons and anguished husbands, ecstatic ayatollahs and devastated Mormons and what did the gay community have to say about this, Steve? Something was happening further up the road. A couple cars had stopped and a small crowd was gathering, slowly and reluctantly. Aiden honked. A fox leaped out from underneath a parked car at the noise and ran. ¡°There goes another one!¡± Aiden jumped, making the horn blare again. A man vaulted over the hood of the car ahead, face hidden behind a paintball mask. He wore thick gloves on each hand, but he¡¯d still managed to jam two fingers through the trigger guard of the paintball gun hoisted over his shoulder. ¡°Aw, god damn it.¡± The fox had disappeared. ¡°God damn it.¡± A few others, all masked like the first, lowered their guns and slowed their crouched run, slipping between the cars like leaking oil. The wind plucked at the bandanas they used to cover their heads. ¡°Shit, man.¡± One fired a shot at the ground, fingers barely twitching against the trigger, splattering the asphalt with green paint. A dark scraggle-tailed fox started from its hiding space behind the wheel of a parked truck, muzzle misted with a spray of green. ¡°There!¡± yelled the shooter, lunging forward and raising his gun. ¡°There, there!¡± Aiden wrenched open the car door. It slammed full into the shooter¡¯s running knees, and the rest of his body followed in a rush, face mask rebounding from the window with a crack. He lay on his back for a moment, stunned, while Aiden tried to figure out what to do to get the explosion out of his chest¡ªscream or spit or strangle or crush¡ªbut the world froze with a click. ¡°You fucks!¡± The gun the minivan driver held didn¡¯t shoot in color. Tears of rage spilled down his fat cheeks. ¡°You motherfuckers!¡± ¡°Whoa, man, just¡ª¡± ¡°What the fuck is wrong with you?¡± Spit flew from his mouth and landed on his tie. Behind him, a soccer ball and a pair of small purple shin guards fell out of the open minivan door. The paintballers stood with their arms out, loose and beseeching, paintball guns pointing at the sky. The one on the ground rose as cautiously as he could, clutching at his knees and trying not to stagger. ¡°Dude, take it easy, there¡¯s¡ª¡± ¡°Drop your guns!¡± The paintballers began to move gingerly, as though they¡¯d already been shot. ¡°Drop your guns! This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. The guns clattered as they hit the ground. ¡°Dude,¡± said one, ¡°it¡¯s only paint.¡± The gun never wavered, but the voice of the man holding it did. ¡°You people are sick. Sick. Get out of here.¡± The paintballers glanced at each other warily. ¡°Get out!¡± They took off running down the block, one of them limping. The minivan driver lowered the gun and breathed heavily as he straightened his tie, unaware of the silent crowd leaning out of their cars or stopped on the sidewalk. He simply turned, put the soccer ball and shin guards back into the minivan, climbed into the driver¡¯s seat, and shut the door. When the traffic didn¡¯t immediately move, he honked. Aiden leaned back and shut his own car door. His seat belt was still on. The milk container was sweating a damp patch into the upholstery already; this was taking too long. He could see the traffic unknotting ahead and it was still taking too long. The scent was fading from the sheets and the wrinkles in the clothes on the bathroom food were growing stale. If there weren¡¯t a man with a handgun in the next car over, he¡¯d be leaning on the horn. Futilely. Aiden rolled the window down as he drove, squinting against the sun. It felt good against his side, and the air cooled the anxious sweat that stuck his shirt to his skin, but the empty rushing highlighted the silence of the world. Nobody sang or giggled. The few remaining voices were too gruff, too heavy and cadence-less, all hushed in mourning and despair and shock. Only a few foxes flickered at the side of the road now. They must be taking siesta, curled in their dens with tails over their noses, all shades of rust and earth and snow. As Aiden pulled into the gravel drive across from his condo, an arctic fox (Alopex lagopus) trotted out from behind a woodpile. Two kits tumbled after, floppy white paws noodling beneath them, snapping at each other¡¯s ears and yelping. They paraded up the street, ignoring the car that slowed to a crawl and gave them such a wide berth it mounted the sidewalk. The trio turned right at a mailbox and bounded up a short flight of steps to where a man held the door of his house open. His smile was lost in his beard. Aiden¡¯s heart disappeared for a moment, only to be replaced by one twice its size, pounding at his throat. The kits stopped to chew experimentally on the laces of a pair of sneakers by the door. ¡°Come on,¡± the man said, ¡°don¡¯t drool on the mat. Bluey¡¯s on. What would you like for a snack?¡± The kits stopped their gnawing and scrambled over each other to be the first inside, yapping and growling. The man shut the door behind them, making sure their tails weren¡¯t in the way. Aiden gasped for air. His hands spasmed around the steering wheel. Then he flung himself out. The pickle jar cracked with the ferocity of his grocery grabbing and leaked a trail of pickle juice all the way to his condo door and through the kitchen. ¡°Oh fuck,¡± he whispered, chest lacerated with hope. ¡°Oh please, fuck, please, fuck, fuck, where¡¯s the can opener?¡± Mayonnaise, eggs for hard-boiling, celery, dill, knife for cutting, bread for toasting, fork for mashing. Get out the hand-painted blue plate for the tuna melt and the matching bowl for the milk. Nonfat. The cheddar sizzled in the toaster oven, burning to black on the heating coils where it dripped. Then everything in the kitchen lurched when the neighbor¡¯s door slammed. ¡°Baby!¡± the neighbor called. His voice filtered through the wall, clear and loud. Something clattered as he stumbled over it. ¡°Baby, you gotta¡­ I¡¯ve got¡­¡± Something else got knocked over. There was silence for a moment as he righted it. ¡°I¡¯m angry!¡± If he got louder, he¡¯d scare away the foxes. Aiden threw out yesterday¡¯s steak package and opened the back door. His neighbor lurched outside at the same moment in pajama pants and socks and bloodshot eyes. Smells of vodka and weed wafted from his apartment. He nodded blearily at Aiden. ¡°Hey.¡± He gestured at a hookah smoldering on his wood-and-cinderblock table. ¡°You can¡¯t have any,¡± he explained, not unkindly. ¡°It¡¯s not for you.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think foxes can smoke hookah.¡± The neighbor glared at him. ¡°¡®I don¡¯t think foxes can smoke hookah,¡¯¡± he mimicked, waving his arms in Aiden¡¯s face. ¡°I don¡¯t think foxes can fuck you, you fucking twat! You¡­ it¡¯s not for you. I know what. And no chocolate either. Chocolate-man. You think I don¡¯t know? You think I don¡¯t know? I know exactly.¡± He sat down heavily on an inflatable armchair. It squealed under his weight. ¡°S¡¯not that. We were going to drive to Mexico. Through TJ. See the ruins, swim with the¡­ the fish. The dolphins. Mota.¡± The hookah pipe fumbled to his hand and snaked to his mouth. ¡°Mota. Mota will work. I was going to ask. They smell, right? Everything?¡± He rested his head in his arms. ¡°Good sense of smell.¡± Aiden watched the pipe drop from his neighbor¡¯s fingers. A thin gold ring rolled out of his slackened fist, hitched on the tiny stone clamped in the prongs, and settled on the table. A moment later, he snored wetly. The glow in the hookah¡¯s foil-wrapped tip faded. Foxes hated smoke. Aiden¡¯s fox did, at least. He picked the hookah up and brought it into his neighbor¡¯s condo, pushing pizza boxes and sandwich wrappers to the floor so he could set it on the table. His neighbor was harder to move, but Aiden grabbed him under the armpits and hauled him inside, dragging the inflatable chair along for the ride. He left the man snoring on a pile of laundry and shut the door. He left the ring outside on the table. The tuna melt was done toasting. Aiden levered it out of the toaster oven with a knife and carefully placed it in the center of the plate, then flanked it with two pickle slices. He brought it outside and set it in the last of the fading light on the porch alongside the bowl of milk. If any raccoons tried to eat it this time, he had the broom ready by the side of the door. A cold sandwich was all he needed. He scraped the last of the tuna out of the bowl, piled it haphazardly on a slice of rye, and crammed it into his mouth one-handed while he scrolled through his music. It was time for Debussy; he¡¯d already played his best Strauss and Tchaikovsky. He opened the windows and let Claire de Lune seep out into the evening, then settled at the table with the remains of his sandwich and the bottle of tequila, afraid he¡¯d scare the foxes¡ªhis fox¡ªaway if he sat outside. The air thickened from gold to red to purple. Trees swayed and shushed in the wind and the ferns rustled with life. Shadows snuffled and dodged through the edge of Aiden¡¯s vision as he strained to see in the growing dark. Sometimes he felt as though all their hidden eyes were upon him, winking charcoal and red as they followed the shot glass from table to mouth, ears pricking to catch the clink of glass on wood. Other times, he felt ignored, so peripheral to their wild agendas he might as well not be there at all. They barked shrilly to each other, laughing, and accompanied the opening strains of Syrinx with vixen wails. Maybe they were talking about the males, the dog-foxes, whom they now must outnumber a hundred to one, or the men they¡¯d left behind. Maybe they weren¡¯t talking at all, just calling to make noises of being alive. Flies buzzed from the untouched tuna melt as the air cooled and stars emerged through the suburban haze, but Aiden left the porch door wide and let the tequila keep him warm. The carpet was warm too. He was cold when something woke him. Subtle sounds and the smells of redwood and wet granite moved around his head. Everything looked shapeless and gray but the glint of copper that shifted through the shadows of the room. Aiden closed his eyes again, inviting the dream to fade, but it licked at his eyelids, warm and wet. He reached out his hand and felt a nibble on his thumb, gentle but solicitous, as though implying he needed grooming. Then there was a tight circling, a moist-nosed sigh, and the tickling of soft, thick, red fur in Aiden¡¯s arms as his fox settled against his heart. Reverse Persephone Death sits quietly. In His hands, a circlet of laurel leaves slowly withers. He does not move as they blacken and begin to crumble. There is a woman weeping at his feet. A moment ago, She was laughing. Before that, She raged. The flowers in Her golden hair bloom; bees, previously disturbed by the excesses of frenetic emotion, now bumble about their business in her tresses, heedless of her muffed tears. A sheaf of wheat lies on the ground where She flung it down and ground it beneath Her sandal. It looks no worse for wear. Somebody is shouting; two somebodies are shouting. The Sun and the River, bellowing overhead, sizzling and steaming in turn. "None cross!" bawls the River. Strings of pearls garland Her hair. "They arrive at My shores, yearning to continue, but without his Master''s call, the Ferryman is kept ashore on the other side! They weep and they wail, they tear their hair and kick at the silt, and then they return from whence they came! Do you understand Me? Do you heed My words?" The woman moans and grinds Her face into the dirt. Death watches in mute disinterest as the laurel ash falls from His fingers and peppers the white of Her robes. "Please," implores the Sun. He''s decided to try something other than shouting. Light glints from the bronze of His beard. "Please, be reasonable. All that I have lain My eyes upon is chaos. Chaos. Mortals are mortal, dear one. They are not meant to persist like this. Temples are afire; our offerings go up in smoke!" He said this last part like it was the crux of the scandal. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. The woman storms savagely to Her knees, scattering bees. "I don''t care!" She screams, eyes red-rimmed and wild. "He''s Mine! He ate of My fruit; He is Mine to love forevermore! You can''t take Him away!" She clutches at Death''s hands, getting the remainder of the laurel soot on Her palms. "Mine!" She sobs, pressing His fingers to Her lips. "Mine! Mine!" Death stares vaguely over Her heaving back. "Enough," snarls the River. She pulls the woman away; when the woman shrieks and tries to bite, the River butts Her in the stomach with the blunt end of Her trident. She falls to the side, sobbing once more, cringing in the dirt. Worms surface to join Her agonized dance. The River pulls a shell from Her belt and holds it to Death''s mouth. "Drink." Death swallows once, twice. Before He can swallow a third time, He vomits. Torrents of river water pour out, far more than went in, murky and clear by turns, until finally, in a last heave, six pomegranate seeds dribble out. He stares at them in surprise. "Come," commands the River, and takes Death by the hand. He casts one last look back at the woman, face unreadable, before following the River into the dark once more. The Sun watches the woman weeping on the ground and sighs. "Come on," He says gruffly, "get up." She stops crying and glares at Him, but stays on the ground. Sighing once more in defeat, He settles down next to Her in the dirt. He pats Her roughly on the flank, like He would one of His firey steeds. After a moment, She sits up and claws Her sodden hair back from Her eyes. She hiccups. They sit there together, Life and the Sun, and watch the pomegranate seeds begin to sprout. Vampires Do Not Sparkle ¡°Another funeral.¡± I turn to my right to see who has spoken. A rangy woman dressed in black is leaning against the same low wall I am, sucking on a freshly lit cigarette. ¡°More and more funerals these days.¡± I look again at what I had previously thought was a wedding. It¡¯s a joyous troupe, led by a small brass band. Each of the many members in the company has a white handkerchief, which they are waving enthusiastically at the crowd, while a man in black with a calla lily corsage and woman in a white dress skip along at the front, grinning. Other than the lily, perhaps, it doesn¡¯t seem like a funeral. ¡°I¡­ think that¡¯s a wedding,¡± I offer. ¡°Oh it is.¡± She blows out her smoke. ¡°I just like to call them funerals. I don¡¯t believe in weddings.¡± She takes another thin puff. ¡°I take it you do?¡± ¡°I¡¯m an optimist,¡± I say cheerfully. ¡°So am I,¡± replies the woman. ¡°About everything but marriage.¡± ¡°Have you tried it?¡± I ask, suspecting I already know the answer. ¡°Yep.¡± She ashes. ¡°Didn¡¯t work out so well.¡± ¡°It worked well for my parents,¡± I say lightly. ¡°I figure I¡¯ll give it a shot, someday.¡± I look at her curiously. ¡°What do you do? For a living?¡± ¡°This.¡± She gesticulates broadly towards the area in front of St. Louis Cathedral with her cigarette; rough brick streets, wrought iron lamps, a busker playing an eerie rendition of House of the Rising Sun on an array of water-filled glass goblets. ¡°I¡¯m a Vampire Tour Guide. You¡¯re going on it, right?¡± I am. I love all vampire media; the schlockier, the better. I refuse to apologize. You have to see the humor in these situations. I might have gone crazy a long time ago, otherwise. I open my mouth to ask the tour guide what her day job is, but before I get a chance, she flicks her cigarette to the ground and walks away. When the cathedral bell strikes the half-hour, the guides round us up. There are three, and our group has been assigned to ¡°Jonathan.¡± I turn. A tall, long-haired man is standing to the side, looking extravagantly broody and mysterious. He is wearing tight black pants¡ªfaux-leather, even in this nighttime heat¡ªand a flowing white shirt that is meant to look colonial. It is tremendously silly. This, then, is Jonathan. I hide a smile. Jonathan leads us to an alley beside the cathedral and strikes an immaculately offhand pose in an arch. I turn a snort into a small cough. He looks at his attentive listeners and begins, ¡°Ladies¡­¡± I look at my companions, slightly taken aback. Unlike the others, this tour group is, indeed, entirely female. And I am the only woman who is neither fourteen nor forty. Jonathan finishes his sentence: ¡°Let¡¯s get one thing straight. Vampires¡­ do not¡­ sparkle.¡± A breathless laugh runs through the girls. This is exactly what they wanted: the real stuff. They fan themselves furiously in the still air with their tour pamphlets. We walk slowly through the French Quarter. Even off-season, the bars are strewn with beads and masks and elaborate plastic drinking paraphernalia. Everything sold in the shops we pass is a luxury¡ªantebellum weaponry, sterling silver necklaces, silk scarves, antique crab tongs, hats and perfumes and carven grand pianos¡ªall delightful to look at, but unlikely to be useful unless Ulysses S. Grant swings by again, or you find yourself serving tea to a visiting duchess. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Jonathan is speaking. He is affecting a vaguely Transylvanian accent as he orates. He tells us that New Orleans is the largest center for modern vampirism; humans who spiritually identify as vampires. Elemental, pranic, sexual, sanguinary. One of the girls asks nervously, in a moment of quiet as we all draw up outside a shop selling nothing but fur stoles, ¡°Are you a vampire?¡± Jonathan looks her straight in the eye and says, gently but firmly, ¡°That is a very rude question, young lady.¡± I must remember that one. He continues to answer individual questions as we walk down a street smelling of ¨¦touff¨¦e, so after a trio of girls leave off¡ªthey¡¯re collectively writing a vampire story: one of them is busily scribbling notes into a notepad¡ªI step in and ask quietly, ¡°What do you do during the day?¡± He smiles. ¡°Sleep.¡± Perhaps I should be the one taking notes. ¡°What do you do after you¡¯re done giving tours?¡± His grin gets wider. ¡°Stay awake.¡± ¡°Doing what?¡± No easy glib answer for this one; he thinks for a moment before responding, in his most charming voice, ¡°It depends on who I¡¯m with.¡± I laugh. I drop back to the group, and we all walk on to the site of an alleged vampire murder. Suddenly, in the middle of a frank discussion of having one¡¯s aorta ripped out of one¡¯s back, one of the girls faints. I watch as her mother kneels in front of her and holds her hands. She¡¯s conscious but dazed. Everybody directs their frantic fanning efforts at her. Except for the outfits, it¡¯s exactly the sort of scene you¡¯d expect to find in Gone with the Wind. I stare for a moment before realizing nobody knows what to do. I kneel at her side. ¡°Okay,¡± I say gently, ¡°I¡¯m going to have you put your head between your legs. We need to get your head lower than your heart¡ªyour brain¡¯s not getting enough oxygen.¡± She bends over slightly. I put my hand on her back and press her lower. ¡°I know it¡¯s not ladylike,¡± I say, ¡°but you need to get your head as low as possible, way between your legs. Here¡ª¡± I commandeer some water from the other girls and have her sip at it. Her mother pours some of it over her neck as the rest of the tour group moves on, leaving us behind. After a few minutes, it doesn¡¯t look like another swoon¡ªor more serious medical problem¡ªis imminent, so one of the mothers and one of the girls immediately offers to walk me over to the rest of the group, because it¡¯s not safe to walk alone. I¡¯m amused. The group can¡¯t have gone more than a few blocks, and the French Quarter¡¯s quite safe, but, seeing as how we did just listen to a story about how two girls got brutally murdered in this area at night, I don¡¯t think they would have taken, ¡°Thanks, but I¡¯m fine,¡± as an answer. Their concern is sweet. I look young for my age. I rejoin the group just as Jonathan is wrapping up (¡°How do you keep a vampire from following you home? ¡­ Tip him!¡± We all did). The girl who fainted and her gaggle of friends file by, each thanking me as they go by after the moms like a row of ducklings. Very polite. Jonathan is treating the stragglers to one last story. When he finishes, I turn and head for home; a large old house in the Marigny, built in about 1850 for a wealthy family and its servants. Since then, it has been a brothel, a Jewish group home, an insane asylum, and now the bed and breakfast at which I am staying. I¡¯m halfway down the block when I hear my name called. I stop and turn. Jonathan is striding towards me. ¡°Wandering alone into the night?¡± he asks as he nears. He smiles. ¡°I like it.¡± I smile back guardedly, no longer certain how my evening will go. I remain silent and keep my face as attentively blank as possible. ¡°Are you lost?¡± he asks. ¡°Do you know where you¡¯re going?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± I reply, cheerfully neutral, ¡°I¡¯m going¡­ that way.¡± I point in the direction we¡¯re already walking. ¡°And I still want to know what you do afterwards.¡± ¡°I told you,¡± he answers easily, ¡°it depends on who I¡¯m with.¡± He¡¯s matched his pace to mine, and lopes along casually for a while as we make small talk: where I¡¯m from, the shirt he¡¯s wearing, when to get a beignet from Caf¨¦ du Monde such that the line will not be around the block. He stops at a cross street. ¡°This is where I leave,¡± he says, and then, very seriously, takes my hand. I think he is going to kiss it for a second, but instead he just holds it for a long moment. Then he turns and walks away. ¡°Wait,¡± I call. He turns. I walk towards him. His eyes light up. ¡°Your tour was very good,¡± I say. I approach him at an angle, as though I am going to pass him in the street. He drifts towards me. We are both walking now, very slowly, away from the light, towards an archway that leads to a shadowed courtyard. ¡°Excellent actually.¡± I stop just on the other side of the arch. ¡°You only missed one thing.¡± ¡°And what might that be?¡± The Transylvanian accent is gone. His face is practically incalescent with anticipation. It never gets old, watching men become such eager boys. I have never suffered from the ennui that plagues so many of my compatriots. I smile. My fangs are sharp. The Adventure Begins Herynh? Megansra was born on an old potato sack, surrounded by yams. It was stuffed with straw and wedged in a corner of the Blue Heron Inn¡¯s root cellar. Her mother Megan, a barmaid at the inn, delivered her alone, assisted only by a wad of numb-leaf that turned her spit bright green and reduced her screams to a handful of wheezing moans that couldn¡¯t be heard over the clatter of boots on the floorboards above. She delivered alone by choice, not necessity; the midwife from Reed Lane had offered to assist for only two coppers, three if it was a breech birth, but Megan was not entirely sure what she was giving birth to. She thought it best that she do so privately, in case she had to smother the whelp and dispose of it in the river. Getting driven from Reedport¡ªor worse, hanged¡ªfor lying with a lich, or skinwalker, or whatever darkling it was that should have been Fourth-Lord Aerduin but maybe wasn¡¯t, was not part of her plan. Fortunately, the baby came out red-faced, pointy-eared, and screaming like any half-mortal infant. The resemblance she bore to the Aerduin clan was obvious: emerald eyes, black hair, and unmistakably peaked ears. Megan briefly considered going back to the Keep, as soon as she could walk and the baby was cleaned up, and parading her bundle of evidence back and forth at the gate. But given the reception she¡¯d received last time, Megan was sure she¡¯d be driven into the street by the butt of some Elven guard¡¯s spear. Last time, five months pregnant, Healer in tow (not cheap) to verify paternity, Megan had been informed coldly by the family bursar that the Lord in question had been found dead seven months ago. Megan couldn¡¯t fathom precisely where she¡¯d gone wrong, she¡¯d confessed to Herynh? years later. This wasn¡¯t her first con, after all. Well, it was the first that involved getting pregnant. But it was simple. Step 1: Get pregnant. Step 2: Blackmail wealthy married father. Step 3: Profit. She¡¯d been waiting for the opportunity since her first day at the Blue Heron, when she¡¯d overheard a drunken gnome slur something about hush-money and numerous ¡°wee bastard Fourthlings¡± before passing out on the table. The inn was well enough¡ªthey kept the maids¡¯ room warm in winter, and turned a blind eye to the few extra coppers Megan made extending additional hospitality to the guests¡ªbut if she could get herself with the child of an Elf-lord, she¡¯d be set for life. No more petty theft, no more ¡°admirer¡¯s gifts¡± from whatever wealthy merchant or fortune-favored adventurer that happened her way, no more sleeping in farmer¡¯s crofts and pigpens after fleeing town yet again. She¡¯d spend her days reclining on silk pillows in a pleasure barge with a team of halflings fanning her with palm leaves and feeding her peeled grapes and duck canapes until she got so fat she sank the boat. That, Megan decided, was the way to go out. Given the likely value of an actual payoff, Herynh? later concluded her mother was not the swiftest fish in the shallows. When Fourth-Lord Aerduin himself appeared not three weeks later, she could hardly believe her luck. Reedport was a large trade city, set at a bend in the River Reed (the populace was not creative with names) where the water ran wide and deep. Enough wealth floated north from the sea and south from the mountains to support a dozen merchant lords, Human and Elven, and fuel their endless family turf-wars and bribes to the Magistrate. Plenty of that wealth found its way to the dockside taverns, gambling dens, and brothels via the more outgoing nobility. The Blue Heron Inn was large, upwind of the fishmarket, and its mead never had the remains of disintegrated rats at the bottom of the tankard, so it was popular. Classy, even. Megan was reasonably confident some married Lord would stop by sooner or later, possibly high or missing most of his jewelry after a bad game of draughts. Fourth-Lord Aerduin was both sober and in full possession of his finery when he handed the reins of his horse to a very surprised-looking boy outside. More importantly, Megan thought as the room went momentarily quiet, he was Fourth-Lord Aerduin. Elves were particularly sensitive to anything that might impugn clan honor, and byblows of any stripe¡ªespecially those gotten on barmaids¡ªsquarely fit that bill. As the wealthiest and most generously offspringed clan in Reedport, the Aerduin were in a position to marry themselves off in favorable directions¡ªnamely, up¡ªbut only so long as said offspring weren¡¯t a tremendous embarrassment. Lords First through Sixth had all nabbed strategic wives, with the exception of the Fourth. Despite the unrelenting efforts of his noble parents, Fourth-Lord Aerduin had evaded every potential betrothal¡ªusually, to hear the cityfolk talk, by causing a scene. After the incident with the suckling pig and the chastity belt, they¡¯d banished him from their estate for a year and a day and cut him off financially. He promptly set about flirting with every dowager in the city who would keep him in gambling money... and impregnating their scullery maids. When a steady stream of black-haired, pointy-eared babies started trickling to the back gate of the Keep nine months later, the Lord and Lady Aerduin conceded defeat and terminated their son¡¯s punishment early¡ªbefore it cost them half the gold in the kingdom, Lady Aerduin purportedly screamed, to keep all the whores he¡¯d plowed from opening their mouths as wide as their legs. They day he strode into the Blue Heron, three years later, Fourth-Lord Aerduin was either dead or, even less likely, willingly betrothed to G¡¯Resha Urk-Urula, the youngest daughter of the powerful Orc warlord who¡¯d recently taken control of a major tributary upriver. The marriage was in a fortnight. It was said on the day they¡¯d met, for the Truce-Feast hosted by both families on a soggy riverbank, she¡¯d charmingly braided flowers into her bristles. And this, Megan sighed, was where everything stopped making sense. It was perfectly understandable that Fourth-lord Aerduin might wish to fake his own death under these conditions. Actually cause his own death, for that matter. But either way, how¡ªand why¡ªhad it been kept quiet? This was a city that knew how many moles the Duke¡¯s mistress had on her right buttock. The death of a noble, especially one whose impending wedding night was likely to involve a broken groin, should have set the city on its ear. More likely, then, he was actually alive, and the Aerduins were covering something up. He certainly seemed alive in bed, Megan added smugly. By the time he had sat himself in a shadowy corner of the inn, Megan had tacked up her skirts, yanked down her blouse¡ªconveniently showcasing the telltale contraceptive amulet that had reassured her gentlemen callers for years¡ªand sashayed over to his table with a large mug of ale. Her bodice was so low, she nearly dropped a tit in his drink as she leaned over. He noticed immediately. ¡°Herynh?,¡± he called her. He whispered it hoarsely in her ear as he took her on the bed. ¡°My little Herynh?.¡± He pulled her hair. For a moment she was worried he would see the amulet no longer dangled from her neck with her head thrown back, but either he didn¡¯t see or was too drunk to care. ¡°Do you like this? Meleth nin beleg ohtar, Herynh?.¡± If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. At least he didn¡¯t puke. She slipped from his room as he lay tangled in the sheets, completely unconscious, and wondered what Herynh? meant. Probably ¡°honey¡± or ¡°sweetling.¡± That was nice. Most of the other men Megan had lain with had simply grunted until they were finished. She placed her hand over her belly and closed the door. It would make a nice name for a girl. It wasn¡¯t until Herynh? was nine years old that she learned it meant, ¡°Bitch.¡± She learned this from Toddrick Smith as they stood in the shallows of the river, shivering. Spring had only just begun, and their feet were numb with the cold of the snow runoff that swelled the river to the high-mark on the docks and swept the ice-crabs downstream. Toddrick was pale, blond, and three months older than Herynh?, which meant that he got to decide where to put the crab-traps. Herynh? stared at him mutely after his pronouncement. ¡°No it doesn¡¯t,¡± she said at length. ¡°Yes it does,¡± he replied. Goosebumps covered his skinny frame, naked from the waist up. ¡°¡®Heryn¡¯ means ¡®lady¡¯ and ¡®h?¡¯ means ¡®dog¡¯ and the word for a lady dog is ¡®bitch.¡¯¡± Herynh? felt the cold seeping into her muscles and up her legs, making her bones ache. A crab-trap sat unopened in her hand. ¡°You don¡¯t even know Elvish, stupid,¡± she snapped. ¡°Yes I do,¡± he snapped back, then amended, ¡°I¡¯m learning. Gramma taught me ¡®dog¡¯ and ¡®cat¡¯ and ¡®fish¡¯ and ¡®lady¡¯ and ¡®lord¡¯ and your name means ¡®bitch.¡¯¡± ¡°Shit!¡± Herynh? flung her trap into the water. ¡°Shit!¡± She ran away before Toddrick could see her start to cry. She didn¡¯t notice the water she splashed onto her skirts as she ran, nor the way the drops hung suspended in midair wherever she had passed. Toddrick stared. Herynh? came back to the inn to find her mother carrying an earthen jug of water to the washbasin and told her she was crying and wet because she¡¯d fallen. Then, red-eyed, she announced she was changing her name to Heron. When Megan laughed, the jug exploded. Water spilled upward and pooled on the ceiling. Megan stopped laughing and looked thoughtful. Toddrick agreed to call her Heron the following day, but he didn¡¯t want to set traps with her anymore. He didn¡¯t say why. Megan also agreed to call her Heron, then asked if ¡°Heron¡± would like to go to the nightmarket on Seventhday. She didn¡¯t say why. Herynh? had never been to the nightmarket before. Toddrick had said there were naked ladies there, but he said there were naked ladies everywhere he hadn¡¯t been. It was his default imagination of the unknown. The only naked ladies Herynh? saw were the stone ones in the market fountain, squirting water from their nipples. Megan left her at the base of the fountain with a handful of raisins and told her to stay put. Then she disappeared into the crowd. Herynh? sat cross-legged and ate her raisins one at a time, watching the people. Mostly they looked like folk she¡¯d seen at the daymarket, although there were a few jugglers and mummers wandering the crowds in masks and wigs. The beggars were a little scarier, though. They were dirtier and hairier, although none of them were missing legs. They shook their tin cups under the noses of commoner and noble alike and breathed their foul breath in the faces of anybody who didn¡¯t immediately step away. Herynh? saw a Dwarf, an upriver lord from the mountains in fine furs and gold rings, jab the flat of his battleaxe into a beggar¡¯s gut when he wouldn¡¯t leave off. A bad smell, like fish drowned in alcohol, washed over Herynh?. She turned around, scrambled to her feet, and saw a one-eyed beggar squinting at her from under a heavy brow. He grunted something unintelligible at her and rattled his cup. A lone copper clanked. ¡°N-no,¡± stammered Herynh?, trying to sound forceful. ¡°I don¡¯t have any money. Go away.¡± He grunted something again and took a step towards her. Herynh? took two steps back. ¡°Fuck off,¡± she said loudly. She could see a couple people glance at her, then look away again. The beggar didn¡¯t move. Herynh? turned to scan the crowd for her mother when she felt a heavy, hairy hand grab her arm and pull. Hard. Herynh? screamed. Behind her, the fountain¡¯s water gushed, stopped... and then it exploded. Chunks of stone went flying into the market crowd. An entire stone bosom flew through the stained glass window of a Mithran temple. The hairy hand let go with a sudden curse. And finally, Herynh? caught sight of her mother. As everyone rushed towards the fountain, or scrambled away from flying masonry, or simply stood staring and shouting, Megan was flitting from booth to booth and purse to purse, and stuffing the spoils in her skirts. By the time the crowd had settled and begun to observe their surroundings once more, Megan had acquired two peaches, a stick of cinnamon, a gold bracelet set with emeralds, nine silvers, and a bag of coppers. The cinnamon and one of the peaches were handed to Herynh?, the bracelet went on Megan¡¯s wrist... and two of the coppers went into the beggar¡¯s cup as payment. And Herynh? never trusted her mother again. She did, however, learn from her. She learned a little pickpocketry, but mostly, Megan warned, that was a good way to lose fingers¡ªor an entire hand. Better to use flattery, and guile. And magic. Megan was delighted with her daughter¡¯s sorcery. Unpredictable and unstable, perhaps¡ªbut within a year, Herynh? could heat the bathwater quick as a wink, nine times out of ten. (The tenth time, it might vaporize or turn to ice and crack the bathtub, but that was all right; Megan was sleeping with the cooper and could always get more bath-barrels.) Fishing and crabbing became a simple matter of bringing the flash-frozen meal back in a chunk of ice. By the time she was fifteen, Herynh? could flip a boat without looking at it, which was helpful when Megan needed to claim injury and lost-property money from a wealthy tug-captain on a busy morning. That claim kept Megan and Herynh? in sweets for a year, and bought Herynh? the lovely dress Megan had had her eye on that so nicely framed her daughter¡¯s... collarbones. By the time Herynh? was eighteen, Megan was dead. Probably. It was very strange. Megan came back one morning, drunk but otherwise hale and hearty, crawled into bed, and was snoring by the time Herynh? had rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She let her mother sleep as she crept out of bed. She had a breakfast date with a visiting count¡¯s grandson at the market¡ªwhich was a free meal, at the very least. More if she smiled just so and he didn¡¯t have to leave tomorrow. And even if he did, well... he didn¡¯t keep his purse tied very well. When Herynh? returned to the Blue Heron that afternoon, she found a trio of maids sobbing in the room and a grave-faced man in black. He took off his hat when he saw Herynh?. ¡°Are you Heron Megansra?¡± he asked. He had a voice like gravel. ¡°Yes.¡± Already she knew. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, my dear. You mother is dead.¡± Herynh? simply looked at him. ¡°How?¡± ¡°Seems there was a... hm, ah...¡± He shuffled his feet. ¡°A transaction of some business resulted in a disagreement, I¡¯m afraid. A knife was used to slit her throat. Her body was recovered in a fisherman¡¯s net this morning, and one of the dockside loaders recognized this.¡± He held out the emerald bracelet. Herynh? put it on her own wrist. It was cold. It was exceedingly odd¡ªnot the cold, but that the bracelet had made it back to Herynh?, and not managed to grow legs between her mother¡¯s murderer, the folk who found her, and the man standing before her now. If it had been Herynh? finding the body, that would have become her bracelet in very short order. ¡°That was how she was identified, you see. Judging by the state of the deceased¡¯s, ah, remains, she¡¯d been in the river for a few days.¡± ¡°No.¡± The man in black looked taken aback. ¡°I beg your pardon?¡± ¡°I just saw her this morning,¡± Herynh? replied calmly. ¡°She came in drunk.¡± The eventual verdict was that Herynh? was mad with grief. Confident in her sanity, Herynh? was more concerned by the notion that she may have slept next to the undead all night. All too aware of the story of her own birth, Herynh? shivered. Reedport might be prosperous, but there was a distinct possibility something was highly amiss. She packed all the belongings she could carry in Megan¡¯s old leather rucksack and sold the rest, making sure to distribute the money evenly about her person in several unlikely places. Then she put the bracelet on her wrist, covered it with rags, laced her boots, dipped her hand in the water basin, and drew out a knife of glittering ice. It would probably melt within the hour, but it made her feel better to have its weight and coldness in her hand. Then she walked out the door.