Requiem for a Caged Bird

Mortal Time—Day One

Chapter 1: Scrits and Murks

I almost died. Again.

I wish I could say I took a moment to celebrate still having my throat in one piece, but I was too busy running. You gotta prioritize. The Scrit which had missed my throat had gotten to its feet and I could hear its dinner-plate sized paws pounding the ground. I tried not to think about how it would feel to have its claws rip me into shreds. Of course this only encouraged me to run faster. It was exactly because of times like this that I dragged myself out of bed way too early in the morning and forced myself to go running. Some people like to stay fit and look good; I like to survive.

Most Scrits looked like big cats, the ones that pounce on you in jungles or on the savanna, mixed with a healthy dose of canine. The one thundering after me looked like a lion with its gray-black ruff. Its ears were long and pointed, sticking straight up like a Great Dane's cropped ears. I wished it was one of the doggy Scrits because they aren’t as determined or as vicious as the catty ones.

Having a particularly determined kitty on my tail made me glad I could run faster and longer than normal humans. Still, running through the Shadowlands isn’t the easiest thing to do even if you know the lay of the land. In this world of varying grays, blacks, and the rare glimpse of white, the ground is covered in a dense, ever-shifting fog which hides the dips and hills. I avoided the blackest spots which were the ankle-breaking holes left behind by the rabbit-like Hoppers and chubby groundhog-like Munchers and veered off to the right. Thirty feet ahead the fog parted, and a wide, jagged slice of deepest black appeared. Crap. In the terror and thrill of running for my life I’d forgotten the gully. It was too late to do anything but try to jump the gap. I put on an extra spurt of speed and yelled as I launched myself into the air.

Adrenaline is a wonderful thing. It allows people to accomplish feats they wouldn’t normally be able to such as lift cars off their loved ones, carry a person twice their weight…or even to jump a twelve-foot gully. I heard the Scrit’s teeth snap together just behind me, the sound a thunderclap in the grey night, but it missed me and that’s what mattered.

I hit the mist-covered ground, rolled, and came back to my feet. Breathing hard, my heart pounding in my ears, I took a moment to catch my breath. The air here was warmer and smelled of sulphor, which meant there was probably a vent close by. This world didn’t have a sun which provided light or heat; instead warmth bubbled up from some unknown source beneath the surface. Sometimes it was like running barefoot over really hot sand.

The Scrit was still on the far side, its hesitation giving me more time to breathe. Big breaths. It growled and planted its feet, its ruff standing out from its head like an ungodly halo. Then it roared. Movies and nature shows have nothing on the sheer intensity of a lion’s roar. Well, this, this was even louder. I clapped my hands over my ears and squeezed my eyes shut, but it still drove me to my knees. The ground vibrated under me and its roar echoed through the air long after the Scrit had shut its jaws.

When the sound had ebbed, I took my hands from my ears and met its milky white eyes. Then I forced myself to stand and my knees to cease wobbling. After that I straightened my spine. When facing a predator, you must never show you’re afraid. If you do, you’re admitting to being prey and it encourages them to attack.

I am not prey.

“Yeah!” I yelled as I gave the Scrit the middle finger. “Bastian, one, Ugly Scrit, zero!”

In return, the Scrit snarled, its eyes flaring brighter in stark contrast to the dark of the Shadowlands. Then it howled. Chills like miniature ice cubes ran through every inch of me and my hair stood on end. The howl changed, becoming something high-pitched and screechy. It was a sound that would make a normal human freeze as they remembered they weren’t the top of the food chain, but it just made me turn and run. From far in the distance I heard answering howls. Shit!

What I do isn’t magic. The Sidhe told me this and I believe them since no one knows magic like fairies. Maybe it's a talent. Whatever it is, I have it and no one else does.

Doors were built by the Creators long, long ago and link the five planes and all the worlds therein. When humans were enslaved and taken to other worlds, the Creators decided to close all the Doors. Without purpose, some fell into a coma-like sleep while others faded completely from sight. Only I can see every Door, hidden or not, and I'm the only one for whom they will wake and open. The Door which led out of here was only about a hundred yards away. All I had to do was get there in one piece, open it, and close it behind me. Simple.

Isn’t it always the simple things that are so complicated?

I glanced back over my shoulder and saw the Scrit in midair, its paws stretched out before it and its razor-sharp claws fully fucking extended. It put my leap to shame and might have been beautiful were it not trying to kill me. I knew it would overtake me before I could open the Door. I’m a great runner, but I was getting tired. I had no choice; I had to stand and fight. The other Scrits still sounded far away, so best case scenario I would only have to kill the one.

I skidded to a stop and pulled the long knife from its sheath along the top of my spine. As the twenty-inch blade cleared the collar of my leather jacket, it shone with a white-blue light. This light formed a globe around me than shrank inward, vanishing into the blade. I rubbed my thumb over the knife’s guard and the light dimmed.

I readied myself, took a deep breath, and tried to reach the stage of relaxed readiness necessary for fighting. It wasn't always as easy to attain as it is now, but I've had practice. Lots of practice.

Then I realized I couldn’t hear the Scrit.

It’s a terrifying thing, the silence which enfolds you in moments like this. The moment when Death sidles up, leans against whatever’s nearby, and waits to collect Its due. Cold spreads through you as Its eyes trace your body for It does not tolerate warmth. You strain your senses to their limit, knowing the slightest sound could keep It from claiming you instead of your adversary. You wait and try to relax while remaining alert, because you know from watching all those horror movies the moment you relax is the moment right before you die.

The Scrit leapt out of the mist, a creature from one of Hell’s most torturous rings. The Hound of the Baskervilles would’ve scurried away with its tail between its legs at the sight of this thing. I dodged to the left, then turned to face it squarely. I adjusted my grip on the knife while we circled each other, never taking our eyes away from one another. Its tail danced back and forth above its head like a demented pompom. It was meant to be distracting, but I ignored it. The Scrit made a low laughing sound which made my skin feel like beetles were crawling just beneath the surface.

We couldn’t just walk in circles all night. Why wasn’t it attacking? I realized it was stalling! and I could suddenly smell the dry stink of reptile mixed with the acidic reek of piss. The noxious combination made my eyes water and my throat burn. I heard the slithering sound of scales moving over the rock above and behind my head and couldn’t help but shiver: a Murk.

Murks are the worst of the Shadowlands' creatures. They are smarter than Scrits and much, much quicker than Hoppers. As big as crocodiles, Murks are as fast as komodo dragons, but more graceful than salamanders and snakes. Able to walk on two feet or four, they live in only the darkest and worst places, preferring the stink of their nests to the open lands where the Scrits, Hoppers, Kizicks, and Munchers roamed. So why was it here? What had made it leave its nest?

Its pearly-white reptilian eyes looked down at me as I moved to the right, keeping both predators in sight. I hate being outnumbered.

I moved my thumb on the knife’s guard and its blade grew brighter. The Scrit’s eyes narrowed as it growled and the Murk let out an angry, evil hiss, its forked tongue flicking in and out of its lipless mouth. No wonder I don't like snakes. The Murk spat and I ducked to the right, dodging the lougie missile, but as I had moved so had the Scrit.

Pain tore through me in waves as the Scrit's jaws seized my left calf. I screamed in pain and rage and stabbed it in one of its snowy eyes. The light burned its flesh and smoke rose, accompanied by the smell of seared meat. I wasn’t sure what was worse, the smell of freshly grilled Scrit or the Murk. The Scrit yelped and released me, stepping away and whining. It shook its head and wiped at its face, smearing its silver mercurial blood with the bright red of my own. The combination was both beautiful and grotesque.

It sounded almost like wounded puppy, and I might have felt bad if it hadn’t just gotten a big mouthful of me. “Serves you right, motherfucker,” I muttered as I stood, putting as little weight on my leg as possible. Damn, it hurt! It was burning; the Scrit’s venomous saliva was already working its way into my body. Even though I healed faster than a normal human, I could feel my calf swelling.

I expected the Murk would seize the opportunity to jump me while I was wounded, but it was gone. Even its terrible stink had begun to dissipate. When facing Murks you want as much space between you and their saliva as possible. It has a numbing narcotic effect which makes you feel all nice and fuzzy while they eat you. I pressed a tiny button on the knife’s hilt and a length of crystalline metal shot out, rotated slightly, and then clicked into place. The white-blue light of the blade spread down the spear’s length, shining through the intricately looping swirls carved into the metal. The gav'elar, or sword spear, had saved my life on more than one occasion. Isn’t it nice some fairies like me enough to make me things I can use to defend myself?

The Scrit took a swipe at me. I blocked its paw with the gav'elar’s shaft and it howled as tendrils of smoke drifted from its scorched fur. I slammed the butt of the spear’s end into the right side of its face, reversed the grip of my right hand on the metal, and drove the blade into the Scrit’s chest. It slid in easily, burning its way through the creature’s flesh and turning its heart to goo. The beast crumpled to the ground, silvery metallic blood pooling between its paws.

The Murk was nowhere to be seen. I took a quick moment to check my leg and make sure I wasn’t going to bleed to death. I wasn’t, so I held the blade over each puncture wound and burned out what venom I could. The rest would have to wait for later. I couldn’t press my luck and so I hurried—as much as I was able to—towards the Door, using the gav'elar as a walking stick. I was twenty feet from the pair of pillars when I smelled the Murk. I flipped the gav'elar up into a defensive position before me and scanned the twisting, swirling fog. The Murk's reek was getting stronger, so I knew it had to be getting closer.

A sudden hissing made me spin awkwardly around, but there was only fog. I backed towards the Door, my heart ba-bum ba-bum ba-bumming in my chest. I might be able to make it. I turned, preparing to make as much of a dash as I could, but this time there was no sound of scales on rocks to let me know where it was. The Murk simply materialized out of the fog between me and the Door. It was seven feet tall and looked more like the Lizard from the Spider-man comics with its muscular chest, abdomen, and legs than most Murks I’d seen.

Then it did something so completely unexpected I couldn’t think for a full ten seconds: it spoke.

“You mussst not leave, Ankiel.”

Despite its hissing, it was surprisingly easy to understand. I found my tongue and a few seconds later my spine. Deciding it was better to skip the shocked "You can talk?’" bit, so I said, “Well, I’m gonna.”

“My Massster wantsss to ssspeak with you.” It held out its claw-tipped hand in a gesture of entreaty. “You musssst come.”

It was crazy. That was the only explanation. I shook my head. “I’m not going anywhere with you, Slimy. You just tried to kill me.”

It shook its head. “I wasss not trying to kill you.”

“Oh, so you didn't spit at me so I would be paralyzed and the Scrit could kill me. Cause from where I'm standing that's what happened.” It stepped towards me and I lifted the spear towards its chin. “I don’t believe you,” I said as it turned its white eyes away from the spear’s light.

Lizards can do expressionless better than any other creature I’ve ever seen. You know they’re thinking a million miles a second, but they never let what they’re thinking show, and they’re wicked fast—which is how I ended up with the Murk batting my gav'elar aside and wrapping one clawed hand around my neck. It lifted me a few inches off the ground and I gasped for air as my head started pounding in time with my heart. I kicked at it with my good leg, but it was like kicking a concrete wall and it made my wounded leg hurt more.

It made a hissing laughing sound as I tried to pull one of its thumbs back and shook me so hard my teeth rattled. My leg wasn’t feeling so good either. Then something cold and slimy slid over my cheek and up my ear and I relaxed.

Chocolate melting slowly on your tongue; warm sunshine on your face when the winter cold has past; really good sex which leaves your muscles singing with elation as you lie next to your lover. Those didn’t come close to how good that one lick made me feel. A small part of me was aware I was choking, but even that didn’t seem as important as enjoying the sensation of floating weightlessly on a cloud.

I sighed as the Murk picked me up in its arms and cradled me against its hard, pebbled chest. I could hear its heart’s slow beating. It was nice. I didn’t have to worry about walking on my bad leg. I didn’t have to be in pain. I didn’t have to worry about anything.

Which was wrong.

I knew it was wrong because I had lots of things to worry about in my life. Like when I would get my next mocha. Like fixing the washer in my apartment and keeping my brother Neeko from stealing my new boots. And getting through the Door. I frowned—noticing doing so took a lot of effort. Had my face turned to molasses?—and tried to pull my thoughts together. I could feel the Door growing farther away. Which wasn’t right. I tried to move and the arms holding me tightened. Just relax, a seductive voice whispered in my mind. It will be fine, just fine.

No, it wouldn’t. Dammit, I didn’t come all this way to be drugged and carried around like some freakin baby! I tried to speak, but my lips wouldn’t do what I wanted them to. I rubbed them with numb fingers, ignoring the almost painful tingling as I did, until I was able to whisper a <word>.

Words are an essential part of who we are. There’s not a single person on this planet who doesn’t use words for something. We use them because without them we would be lost, unable to express ourselves, our thoughts, and our desires. <Words> of power, of Naming, help you control and manipulate the world around you. Usually they involve using a little magic, but I’m no wizard so that wasn’t an option. Some <words> though, you don’t need magic to use; some can be linked to your life energy, which then gives the <word> power. I was told a <word> which could control one very important object.

The blade lying flat in its spring loaded contraption against my forearm shot out and the world was filled with sudden light. It burned away some of the mind-fog and I plunged the blade into the Murk’s throat and twisted. It let out a gurgled cry and fell to its knees, dropping me in a heap. I screamed as my injured leg hit the ground and waves of agony threatened to overwhelm me.

I lay on my back looking up at the dark, starless sky and listened to the Murk die. That had been way too close for comfort. I sighed. If things had gone differently I could have been on my way to some weird Murk-Master and who knows what would have happened. I whispered another <word> and my bright blade vanished back up my sleeve. I only felt a flash of fatigue and then I just felt like I’d gotten my ass kicked again. The blade didn’t take a lot of energy to control which was why it was a great secret weapon in an emergency.

When the gurgling had stopped, I forced myself to my feet and hobbled over to my fallen gav'elar. With a twist, it went back to being a very long knife and I slid it into its spine sheath. I heard the howls again, much closer this time. I went to the Door. It hummed in eager anticipation and I smiled as its energy slid over me. A slice of pale green light as tall as I appeared midway between the two pillars and the Door opened just like an elevator. I made sure the ring I’d come to retrieve was still in my pocket, stepped through, and returned to the Mortal World.

Chapter 2: The Falinn

This, the place where we eat doughnuts and pizza, drink beer and mochas, and listen to Pink Martini, Rob Thomas, and Dave Matthews, this is the Mortal World, the real world. At least I say it's real because I consider it my home. The Sidhe and the smaller fae come from the immortal world of Emladyus and call this world Backushai, meaning Backward Hell Hole. Tells you what they think of us, doesn’t it? I don’t mean to say that their world is any less real than this one, but this world has a solidity that doesn’t exist elsewhere.

While everything in the Shadowlands was a bit wispy about the edges, in the spirit world of Veritan solid form has even less meaning with its ghosts and forgotten gods. Necrosham is where the really bad things are: demons, fallen angels, and things too terrible and evil to live anywhere else. Since there must be balance in all things, the Mortal World is smack dab between all the baddies and all the goodies. Yep. Aren’t we lucky?

Right now home meant I had access to chocolate, pain killers, and sunlight. Everything I needed, though not necessarily in that order.

The Door I’d stepped through opened into the recessed entrance of an old cellar down the block from my bookstore—yes, I own a bookstore. Why is that so surprising? Anyway, the Doors that haven't faded completely are pretty easy to spot if you know what you’re looking for. Most freestanding stone archways or a pair of pillars seemingly out of place could be a Door. I’ve seen them made of bones, the curved boughs of pine branches, and even carved statues hundreds of feet high.

Scrits are the only creatures able to reach into other worlds and they don't use Doors to do it. I’ve a theory that small echoes are created in places where the nature of the Shadowlands is mimicked, and these echoes cause cracks, maybe even windows, in the barrier between worlds. In closets at night, beneath beds, and that place at the bottom of the basement stairs before you turned the light on make the best places. So, moms and dads, listen to your kid next time they say they saw a monster because they probably did.

That's how Mrs. Borelli's ring was taken, snatched from the top of her bedside table while she snored unawares. It now felt like it weighed three pounds and was dragging my pocket down to my ankle. Good thing I wear a belt. The ring needed to be cleansed with sunlight and so did my leg. Of course, this is Portland and today was grey and rainy, which was no help at all. Sometimes I wondered why I didn’t just move to California where there’s tons of sun, but some things must remain under cover of darkness. So I have an ultraviolet light, which makes more sense than sitting in a public park while black goop is forced out of wounds no common animal could make and evaporates in sunlight.

Try explaining that to a cop and see how long you stay on the happy side of a jail cell. Then again, this is Portland, Oregon. People would probably just assume you’re weird and leave you alone.

There was no one around so I took the opportunity to inspect my leg again. It wasn’t the first time I’d been bitten by a Scrit. It was, however, the first time the Scrit had such big teeth. If I was human, I’d need a lot of stitches and a short vacation in the hospital. As it was, blood trickled out of only two of the punctures and it seemed to have pretty much stopped. Crossing back into this world always seemed to help speed up healing, but it was still going to take a few hours to heal completely. It could have been a lot worse. I was lucky to be immune to the worst thing about the Shadowlands: its forced mutations. If you're somehow fortunate enough to survive the crossing and aren't immediately made into some creatures dinner, you are forced to become one of its creatures. I've seen it happen before and I don't think I'll ever be free of the nightmares.

I sighed and limped towards my store and my home.

A flicker of pink light flashed briefly as I stepped onto the doormat. “Hey, Dorna, I'm back,” I said to the small fairy who had appointed herself my watchdog. The pink light fluttered brightly a handful of times, then spiraled out of the large blue ceramic pot containing snapdragons and up into the sky. She had adopted my brother, Neeko, and me decades ago. She didn't actually do anything but say goodbye when we left and greet us when we returned.

The small fae are just one of the preternatural groups that made up the Kindred: the others were the Sidhe, Shifters of all sorts, witches, goblins, vampires, and myself. Darklings, the results of demon-human or demon-wizard couplings were included, but were somehow never really included. They're kind of like the outlaw in-laws in that none of them are really welcome to family holiday dinners. I've known a few darklings, but only in passing and when they left I was relieved.

The second my hand began reaching towards the back door of The Falinn, the lock clicked and it opened. “Thanks,” I said as I hobbled inside. The door shut softly behind me and the lock reengaged.

I grabbed my LOOK! ZOMBIES! mug off the drying rack near the sink, noting that small droplets of red paint meant to resemble blood had been tastefully added during the night. Usually I would have complained about the shop messing with my stuff, but it was cool. The room’s second door opened and, mug in hand, I stepped into the world of The Falinn Bookstore, Portland’s only truly hidden bookshop.

I ducked on instinct as an entire shelf of paperbacks soared through the place where my head had been a moment ago. Like a flock of birds, they arched up among the shop’s wooden crossbeams, then dove into the Romance section. I eyed the aisle warily—the books had either shelved themselves or were lying in wait. Since Romances were seldom well behaved, I pitied the next person to pass by. I made my way past customers; some silently perusing, some eagerly searching for something unknown, but everyone smiling in pleasure. That’s the effect The Falinn has on people.

The Falinn was given to me as payment for retrieving a necklace of fire opals for one of the Seelie Sidhe. The Seelie court is where the beautiful, nice elves are found. I always look forward to visiting there. Trips to the Unseelie court always require weapons. Lots of them. Anyway, I’d wanted a bookstore, but I got one unlike any other in this, and any other, world. It was run entirely by magic.

It was every book lover’s dream of an escape and every bookshop owner’s dream of a business. Books floated, hopped, and danced across aisles and above everyone's heads as if they had wings. They also rearranged themselves and created displays. When the Harry Potter books came out, a customer had joked that the shop must have come straight from the novels with all its flying books. The Falinn had been so offended it had peppered the man with spitballs until he fell on his ass on the sidewalk outside.

Shipments were received and signed for when I wasn’t there, but the delivery men never seemed to remember my absence. The computers updated themselves daily and kept track of our inventory. Taxes were somehow filed and paid quarterly. The windows were always clean and the shelves always dusted. Every evening a broom and dustpan swept the hardwood floors which had lost their polish in the wake of thousands of trodding feet. The air was filled with the anticipation of finding that perfect story and smelled of books, old and new.

The shop’s glamour made it appear to be a dingy, badly lit shop with a taped-up glass front door. It looked like no place you’d want to enter for fear of being attacked by giant monster cockroaches. In reality, it had stained glass windows with brightly painted teal and gold trim. Mosaics surrounded each window, swirls of colors flowing over the creamy exterior in a tribute to Moorish architecture.

Only those seeking adventure and learning, a place to abscond themselves in the comforts of its luxurious chairs, and to sit on perfectly placed stools to peruse a newfound delight—could see past the dingy facade. I’ve seen people leave their friends on the sidewalk because they couldn’t see the shop. I’m sure it’s the glamour that keeps reporters away, since The Falinn would know the falsity of their intentions as soon as they stepped within a block. Customers also seem to have the habit of forgetting about The Falinn whenever they want to talk about it to someone who hasn’t been inside. I don’t know how the shop manages to do it all, but I’m glad it polices our customers because I don’t have to.

Here’s to being the boss.

The Falinn took up a small building, but it was much bigger on the inside. It couldn’t move through time and space, but it could rearrange the store’s architecture whenever it pleased. One day I’d walked in to find four comfy nooks containing small beds that had appeared among the shelves. Another day, a small café had appeared near the front of the shop. The following week the café had vanished, but the cappuccino machine remained. Black iron rolling ladders with polished wooden steps could take you to any of its multiple levels, which is nice as the shelves were constantly rearranging themselves to suit The Falinn’s whims.

Genres weren’t difficult to find; they were marked with colorfully painted signs sporting a staring face. The white mask worn by Gaston Leroux’s Phantom of the Opera identified Theater and Plays. A carved wooden skull with one glowing orange eye socket identified the Fantasy section. Bob the Skull would be winking at customers for a while. Yoda’s wrinkled green visage gazed sagely down from the Sci-Fi section while Anna, all dressed in blood, smiled sadly above the Young Adult books. A distraught looking cow hovered over the cookbooks next to a rooster that appeared just as apprehensive.

Thinking I had enough time before the poison spread to my groin, I made a beeline for the shockingly bright red espresso machine located on a long table set near the steps up to the raised sitting area in the store’s heart. As it always happens when you’re trying to get somewhere in a hurry, things happen to slow you down. This thing had a name: Monica.

Our most frequent customer was only too happy to seize upon my limp as an excuse to touch me. I put up with it because

I was in pain and I knew she wasn’t an assassin trying to kill me. It’s important to be on the lookout for these things when you're me. Besides, I had more important things to worry about right now than Monica's unrequited lust.

“Oh no, Sébastien, you're hurt! Shall I get you a chair?” Her French accent made my name sound exotic. The concern in her voice was fake, but the ample breasts that heaved with every breath were completely real. I knew because she brushed them up against me whenever she could. The corners of her mouth lifted in a smile that clearly said she would be more than happy to take my pants off and do things that would distract me. She was one of those relentless I-don’t-believe-you-don’t-want-me types. No matter how many times I turned her down, she always popped back up with new seduction techniques. It was a bit sad actually.

I shook my head and shamelessly lied. “I twisted my ankle. There’s a chair in my office. I’ll be fine once I get there.” I didn’t add that I might get there a lot faster if she got out of my freaking way.

The air suddenly smelled faintly of an electrical fire and I glanced around, trying to locate the source. My sense of smell could always be relied upon to tell me what kind of creature or creatures were nearby, and burning wires and rubber meant a fire witch. There were five clans of witches: water, earth, wind, spirit, and fire, this last being the most powerful. The Falinn only let a select few fire witches inside and I couldn't see any of them.

A young girl appeared before us, her green and yellow scarf identifying her as an University of Oregon fan. I took in her skinny jeans and had a moment to think what terrible things the fashion world was doing to young mortals before I saw the tat.

A narrow, spiraling tribal band in black, red, orange, and yellow encircled her right wrist and glowed with a faint light that only Kindred could see. Here was the witch I smelled. Witches were descended from fae/human matings and it was just a matter of luck whether the child born had any power or not. If they did their tattoos intensified and grew as their personal power increased. I've never seen any witch whose tattoos extended past their elbows, though I heard tales about old European witches whose tattoos crawled up their necks. They were known as World Breakers, which should tell you everything you need to know.

This fire witch asked me if I could help her find a book. I wanted to impersonate a Scrit and growl, but instead I asked what she was looking for. Don't alienate customers by snarling. She tittered and told me the title and I directed her to the Classics. She blushed faintly and glanced around, then leaned towards me and pulled the Gosh-ain’t-I-cute-and-stupid-look and asked if I could just show her.

I wasn’t fooled and Monica wasn’t either. She snaked her arm around my hips in a clear declaration that I was her territory. I was hurting, but I wasn't that fucked up. I took a shuffle step away from Monica and for a moment I thought she would move with me, refusing to relinquish her grip, but she didn't. This didn't stop her from trying to put the girl in her place. “Can’t you see he’s hurt?” She didn’t say you dumb bimbo but I heard it nonetheless.

Gosh, you'd think she was my girlfriend.

Bimbo’s round blue eyes widened and she glanced down at my leg. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn't know.”

I didn't believe that for a second. She probably thought places where books were kept on shelves were for making out or even a good quickie during the quieter business hours and had selected me as her treat for the day. Lucky me.

She nibbled the corner of her lower lip. I was safe from its allure as it was covered in shiny pink lipstick that gleamed like polished wax—which I thought was disgusting—and the fact that it was attached to a woman.

“You don’t think you could show me if I helped you over there, do you?” she asked, dismissing Monica completely. A mischievous sparkle filled her eyes. “I'll help you hobble.”

I gripped Monica's elbow to keep her from ripping the girl’s lips off. “I’m sorry—”

“Tina,” Bimbo supplied, her smile broadening and her white teeth blinding me. Some dentist had made a killing.

“—Tina.” I nodded. “Normally I would be glad to help you, but I need to see to my leg. However, I’m sure Monica will show you.” I turned my smile on Monica who then directed her withering glare at me. I have a nice smile; it disarms angry women. Usually.

“I am not an employee,” Monica hissed.

“No, but you know this store,” I pointed out.

Her glare intensified and I felt like screaming.

“Look, do it as a favor to me,” I said. “I'll owe you one.”

“Fine. But know that I'll expect you to actually come through this time.” Monica stalked away as only women—and some men—can do. A disappointed Tina followed, her blonde ponytail bouncing happily with every step.

Finally free, I reached the red machine which provided this world’s most amazing hot chocolate and put my mug on the tray beneath the spigot through which all good things come. I pressed the green button under which YES!! was written in bold black permanent marker. Nothing happened. I frowned and pressed it again. Still nothing.

“Come on, you stupid machine,” I muttered as I jabbed the button with my finger. Nothing. “Argh!”

Neeko appeared at my side and peered at the machine. “It was working a minute ago,” he said, his dark eyebrows arching into a frown. I took in his hair and laughed.

My brother changed hair colors and styles almost every day, but today he’d created a masterpiece. Although his hair was mainly red, there were orange, yellow, black, blue, and white strands intermixed. As I watched, the orange strands changed to yellow, the white to blue, the black to red. The slow changes made him appear to be covered in dancing flames.

He grinned. “Looks good, huh?”

“You know it does,” I told him.

Despite my brother’s shapeshifting ability, we usually look a lot alike. The shape of our eyes is the same, but mine are pale grey blue and Neeko’s green. Someone once told us we had our father’s eyes. We’d asked which of us he meant, but the wizard had shrugged and said, “Both of you.” So either our dad has two sets of eyes, one grey and one green, or he has one grey and one green eye. I’m hoping for the latter. My hair is black with blue highlights, while Neeko's is whatever he feels like.

I’ve never seen Neeko’s true form. He says it’s a secret and I long ago decided not to push it. If I needed to know, he'd tell me. Neeko was my older brother since my first memory and my bodyguard after I fell through my first Door when I was ten. After decades of training with him and a few Sidhe warriors, Neeko decided he didn’t have to go everywhere with me anymore. I'm sure I gave him a heart attack the first time I returned home, all covered in blood and wearing a Cheshire Cat grin. When I think back on how many times that's happened, it's a wonder he lets me go outside at all.

Unlike Neeko, I'm mostly human. I age, though at a much slower rate. I was pushing two and a half centuries though I looked only twenty-eight. I drank beer, ate food that was bad for me, and I bitched about taxes and politicians. Definitely mostly human.

It’s the inhuman part of me that gives me the ability to move safely between worlds. I spend half my time retrieving stolen items or taking messages to leaders or loved ones. No one knows that I can take others with me and it’s going to stay that way.

Neeko flipped a switch behind the espresso machine a few times. “Try it again.”

I did. It made a clunking noise before falling silent. I pounded the side of the machine with the flat of my hand.

Neeko looked me over, his pupils elongating into cat-like slits. His nose changed slightly and he inhaled. Then, frowning, he leaned closer and whispered, “You know the shop doesn’t like you bleeding all over its floors.” He shook his head as his features returned to normal. “It probably won’t let you have anything until you’ve taken care of your leg. In fact, it may even come up with creative ways of reminding you not to be so stupid in the future.”

“It won’t do that,” I grumbled right before a book thunked! into the middle of my back. It fell to the floor where it lay as if dazed and confused as to how it came to be there. The cover said First Aid for Dummies. I scowled down at it and it cheerfully zipped up from the floor and crashed into my chest. I growled.

“It sure looks like that’s what’s going to happen.” Neeko’s eyes danced.

“Well, it’s not,” I protested and snatched the abusive paperback from midair and threw it towards the front of the shop. It fluttered and flopped about like a manhandled duck before the shop took pity on it and it slid itself back onto the shelf where it belonged.

Neeko sniffed the air, his eyes narrowing as he looked over the shop. “Someone doesn’t smell right in here.”

“Yeah, there's a fire witch I haven't seen before back in the Classics.”

He sniffed again. “It's not a witch, I don't know what it is. I’ve never smelled anything like it before.” He shook his head, clearing the scent from his nose. “Whatever it is, it smells awful! I’ll check it out in a sec.” He glanced down at my leg. “You know, I’ve got everything taken care of out here. You need to get that shit out of your body and get some sleep. I’ll even get rid of Monica.”

I sighed and admitted defeat. He met me by the steps onto the sale platform and put my arm over his shoulder. My office door wasn’t far, but it felt like it took forever to get there. Maybe I was worse off than I thought. As we went inside a stuffed whale hit me in the side of the head and bounced into the room.

“Where did that come from?” I asked. “We don’t sell stuffed toys.” Neeko chuckled as a sea turtle followed the whale.

The door closed, I took off my jacket and let it fall to the floor. Neeko picked it up while I limped over to the long couch along one wall. Behind it was an octopus lamp, its arms spread out so that its light would cover the length of the couch. I turned on the lamp and UV light bathed the couch. I was about to lowered myself onto it when I realized it would be easier to get my pants off if I were standing.

“I’ll help,” Neeko offered as I fumbled with the button.

“Kay,” I mumbled. Together, with much hissing and cussing, we got my pants off.

“Holy shit!” Neeko’s eyes widened as he saw the bite. From the knee down, my leg looked like it was fighting a major infection—and losing. Swollen and bright red, it was a wonder I wasn’t in more pain. Above my knee, red tendrils stretched out towards my hip in telltale signs of blood poisoning.

“Well, crap,” I said, between clenched teeth as the light washed over the wound. Black goo bubbled out of the punctures, turning into a noxious dark green smoke. We both coughed and covered our noses and mouths.

“Holy shit!” Neeko repeated.

“Yeah,” I replied wearily.

The light burned the fumes into nothing and the air smelled better in a few minutes.

“All this for a ring?” Neeko pulled the golden band from the pocket of my pants and set it down on the floor in the light. I expected it to make a loud clunk, but it didn't.

“You make it sound like you don’t know I risk this every time I go through a Door,” I said dryly. “Though I don’t normally let Scrits get so close.”

He frowned. “What else happened?”

I closed my eyes. Suddenly it was all just too much; the Scrit, the Murk, Monica. “I’ll tell you when I wake up,” I said.

He handed me a few tablets of ibuprofen and a glass of water that had appeared from nowhere. I chewed the pills then quickly downed the water to clear the grit from my mouth. Neeko handed me the black mask that would protect my eyes and set the timer for five minutes. Then he said, “I’ll make sure you get your chocolate, too.”

“Thanks.” Mask over my eyes, I let myself relax into the softness of the couch. It was nice.