I motor over Lake Saki on my sky skiff.

  A wake follows in the morning stillness. It handles water decently enough, hovering five feet over the light ripples. But it’s slower than on land. I’d not move over the ocean with any speed, not that I want to find out.

  Keeping a hand on the steering globe, I rummage for my seashell. I squeeze it. A moment later, Erson’s voice crackles in my head. Seven Oaks.

  “That’s Warchief, you senescent berk,” I say into it.

  The reply comes quickly. Sorry. It won’t happen again. What can I do for you?

  “I’m gonna need a ship,” I say. “The big one. Get it in the water within the hour and meet me in Port Nakanai. I might be bringing a friend.”

  There’s a pause. Can’t you just magic your way here?

  “That’s a good point. How’d you like being my new master of the arcane?”

  What, really?

  “Fuck no. I can’t teleport a godsdamned skyship. Is that boat in the water yet?”

  I’m busting heads right now, he says, making no mention of where in the sweet hells I got a skyship. It’s normally four days, but I’ll squeeze it to two.

  “Lovely. Be ready to get out quick.”

  Understood.

  I tuck the seashell back into a pocket. I’ve had Erson refurbishing Irminric’s deplorable slaving ship after I halfway sank it months ago. Now’s the time to test it out.

  I follow the glimmer amidst the lake. An island emerges from the sunlit, foggy water. A dreary building is surrounded by tall, iron fences. A lighthouse rises several tens of feet up, or maybe it’s a spotlight. There’s a dock. I’m sure they’ve already got eyes on me.

  I breathe, reaching for my flask. It’s empty. I’ve gotta sell this.

  I stuff my mandolin, swords, and whip into my magical bag. Wearing chainmail is understandable enough, visiting a high-security prison. I slow down and pull up to the dock. A few skiffs are lashed there, too, although the kind that travel in water. I lower the sky skiff so it bobs and rests with the waves, lashing it.

  Then I head to the gates.

  A guard meets me. Two more are standing behind her with long guns. They’ve got blades and shields, too. She’s a birdfolk, but of a buzzard variety. She’s wearing a blue, patterned headscarf with long chainmail and a tabard bearing the cherry blossom sigil of the Guild.

  “What’s your business here?”

  She’s an Ammonite, her accent throaty and wide-open. It’s profoundly rare to find them outside the continent.

  “I’m Chouncey of Seven Oaks, representing Cantero & Associates in Byra." I rummage in my chest pocket and hold up an illusory, official-looking paper, too blurry to be read. I pretend to tuck it back in my pocket. "I’m told you’ve got my client here. There’s a bit of a squabble over the family estate I’m here to deal with.”

  She glances me over. “Alright. I’ll bring you to the warden.”

  “That’d be lovely. Thank you.”

  She brings me past rows of guards and sharp chain fences, then through massive, wrought-iron doors. I’m sweating already. How by a hag's canescent hair am I getting out of here? That’s a problem for another time. I’ve gotta focus on getting in, first.

  I’ve seen washrooms given more thoughtful design than this place. There’s nothing that could be considered a foyer or waiting area – it’s just straight to bare concrete hallways. She brings me down a few turns to a door that just says Warden. She offers me a concrete bench outside. She goes inside and, after a few moments, returns.

  “He's ready to see you. I just need to check you over.”

  I stand, shrugging off my chain jacket and handing it to her. She inspects it, then sets it aside. “That’s a lovely headscarf. Is it Sondorian wool?” I ask.

  She touches it. “Yes. My mother sent it as a birthday gift. She lives there.”

  “Well, happy belated. I’ve unfortunately never been – the only land I’ve not touched so far.”

  “It’s beautiful. I grew up there. I miss lemon season,” she says. She pokes and prods me, having me slowly spin while we chat. “Could I just peek in your bag?”

  I open it for her, showing only blackness.

  “Oh. What’s inside?”

  I give my best charming laugh. “A small nation’s worth of paperwork. If you confiscate it, you'll get me off this case.”

  The feathers around her neck rustle. It’s a common sign of amusement for birdfolk. “No thanks. Alright, you can go in.”

  I step inside the office. A single barred window looks over the lake. The warden is a hulking bugbear wearing chainmail laced with metal plates. He sits cross-legged behind a desk half his size, and a long club as tall as me sits in the corner, spiked with metal.

  “Good morning, fair warden,” I say, parking myself on a mat. “Thank you for accommodating me on short notice. You can understand this is a headache for everyone involved.”

  “You’re Chouncey of Seven Oaks? Isn’t that the new Warchief of the Byrian Isles?”

  I laugh politely, holding up a finger. “I get that a lot. A few of us were born that year. Mine’s with an O, not an A.” It’s more fuckable that way.

  His thick, ruddy brows scrunch. “And you’re a lawyer?”

  “I am indeed. We’ve got no shortage of need in Byra. You know how the fey are. Which is what brings me here – I’m told you’ve got Deach in custody. I’ll need to speak with them.”

  He pauses. “Who told you that?”

  I gesture like it’s obvious. “Their family estate. That’s what I’m overseeing. Their great aunt passed away, and there’s squabbling about the house – it’s all tedious. Anyway, I need to get some signatures from them, and I can be on my way.”

  He grunts. “He's meticulous - I figured he’d have someone overseeing it.”

  I press my lips together. “It runs in the family. She was very particular. I’ve never seen a more solid trust. And wouldn’t you know, Byra’s doesn’t fuck around with property law. It barely passed muster from the Department of Urban Development.”

  “Well, there’s a problem,” he says. He rummages through pages on his desk. “He’s in the petrification ward.”

  I blink. The petrification ward? “Does that mean what I think it means?”

  “Unfortunately. I’d love to help, but it’s very costly to bring him out and put him back in.”

  “Well, there must be something we can do. You understand the predicament this’ll put me in.”

  He pauses, clawed finger over his short, furry upper lip. Then, he taps a claw against a tusk. “I can send you to Karl. He oversees the ward. He can at least get you proof that he’s out of commission.”

  “I’ll take that,” I say. That gets me to the ward. Maybe I can fit a statue in my magical bag. “I dearly appreciate your help.”

  He stands, opening the door and bellowing down the hall. “Sven!”

  A few moments later, a guard steps into the room.

  He’s a broad-shouldered maridon wearing the same chainmail as everyone else. A round metal shield is slung across his back. His glistening skin is aquamarine in color, and his ears are frilled and pointed. A faint scar cuts across his squared jaw, disrupting the beard. His damp-looking hair is the dark green of seaweed, shaved on either side and braided down his back.

  And belted at his hip is a Vasterholmian shortsword.

  “This is Sven Odegaard. He’ll take you to the petrification ward.” The warden turns to Sven. “This is Chouncey of Seven Oaks. He needs to talk to Karl.”

  A dark eyebrow twitches. In a painfully familiar accent, Sven says, “Great. Right this way.”

  I follow him out the door.

  I clench a fist. I know a raider when I see one. How much does he know of me? Enough to recognize my name? My face? Fuck me. I'm balls-deep already. It's too late to get out.

  He takes me down bare hallways to a double door of stone. It slides open with a small, illusory arcane button, revealing a square chamber lit with a lantern overhead. He motions me inside. The doors shut, and a magical panel appears on the wall. He touches it. The room begins to hum and move, magic condensing around us. We stand almost shoulder to shoulder along the rear wall.

  We begin to descend.

  “Odegaard, was it? That’s a lovely sword,” I say. “I’m sure it’s served you well.”

  It sings from its sheath as he draws it. He hands it to me handle-first. “Thanks. It was my dad’s.”

  I pause, then take it. It’s worn, but well taken care of. The handle has a small string of seashells and stones hanging from it, the wood carved with knots and the profile of some tentacled beast. It wafts with faint magical enchantment. The edge is sharp enough to cut a toenail. It feels slightly different from my own Vasterholmian weapons. But at the same time, it's as familiar as ever, sturdy in my grip. “You’re letting me have a weapon here?”

  He looks over with something like an amused smile. “I’d be a terrible raider to not give the Warchief a weapon when he needs one.”

  I go cold. I flip it and hand it back. I keep my chin up, looking straight ahead. We’re still going down. “The Warchief is telling you to keep that to yourself.”

  “I will,” he says gruffly. He sheathes it, pausing for a moment. “I left Jor four years ago. It was all wrong. I don’t know if I ever saw you. But I knew that name when I heard it a few months ago. Thanks for sending him to the hells.”

  My mouth is dry suddenly. “And how’s the Guild treating you?”

  He gives a dark laugh. “Just as bad. The contracts get worse every year – more work for less pay. I give it all back for meals and supplies in the compound. The closest place to go for fun is Sunai, and we barely get time off for that. I’d rather go back to raiding than this.”

  Suddenly, the darkness vanishes. The walls are glass, not stone. I turn.

  We’re deep under the lake.

  Lights glimmer below. Bubbles whoosh past. Faint sunlight illuminates the underwater landscape. Fish swim by, and trailing plants stretch from the lake floor. An expansive outline of some finned beast is visible in the distance.

  “How’d you like going back?” I ask, unable to tear my eyes away.

  “Anything’s better than here,” he says, his voice becoming eager. “Why?”

  I glance over. “I’m gonna make enemies. I could use a bodyguard, especially one as capable and endowed as yourself. One Vasterholmian raider’s worth a dozen of these saps.”

  His brows go up. He stammers a moment. “I’d be fucking honored – the Warchief who challenged the black dragon and sent all the slaves home? Are you kidding? What do you need?”

  I cross my arms. The descent into the deep, dark water is dizzying. “I need the Mask. Walstad’s got a ship headed to Port Nakanai, and I’ve got a sky skiff to get us there.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “The penalty is high for breaking contract.”

  “Fuck your contract,” I say. “Come back to the Isles. I need people I can trust. And I’m frankly tired of getting the shit kicked out of me.”

  He laughs uneasily. The elevator slows and touches the lake floor. “Alright. But if we’re getting him out of here, we’re gonna need Genk.”

  “What’s a Genk?”

  The door opens. I’m speechless.

  A minotaur waits outside. He looms a whole foot over me, covered in coarse, black hair. A shaggy mane is tossed down his back. Curved, steel-tipped horns sprout from his brow, and a ring is pierced through his broad nose. He’s built like a stack of bricks – even his tits have biceps. They really let him walk around with those out? He’s wearing bulging pants and a leather harness with a single studded pauldron. A black tail swishes behind him. Fastened across his back is a massive maul. Magic hums off it like a baritone.

  “This is Genk the Destroyer. We drink together,” Sven says. He turns to Genk. “Do you want to get out of here?”

  Genk shrugs. He could break me over his knee. His voice rumbles through my bones. Or maybe through my cock. “Sure. What’s the plan?”

  Sven motions him inside. Genk curls a black fist and knocks it against the magical panel. The door slides shut. What I’d give for the three of us to have twenty minutes in here.

  I clear my throat. “I’m Chouncey of Seven Oaks. It’s an absolute pleasure meeting you. My dear friend Sven says you can help us get the Mask. We need to get him out of here without too much hassle. Then we’re headed to Jor.”

  Genk nods. His bassy voice has a surprisingly velvety and gentle timbre, like a heavy blanket. “You’ll want to talk to Karla. She’s pretty reasonable.”

  “Pardon me, but is it Karl or Karla?”

  “Karla,” Sven sighs. “Did the warden call her that?”

  “He did.”

  Genk grunts. “I already reported him twice.”

  “Well, I appreciate you saving hurt feelings. This’ll count as breaking contract, if not a few other things. Are you alright with that?”

  He nods. “My family is in Kennobe. The Guild can’t touch them there.”

  I press my lips together. I gesture. “I don’t mean to be an ass and imply that all minotaurs know each other, but… do you happen to know Gertrid Copperfound?”

  “Yeah. She’s my cousin.”

  I’m sweating again. Tits must run in the family. “What a small world. I can see the resemblance. I met her and Jerry a few months ago, stopping through there. They’re a lovely couple.”

  Genk smiles. His black eyes linger over me. “I bet they liked you.”

  “That’s kind of you, Genk the Destroyer. I’m sure you’re just as lovely.”

  Sven gives a polite cough. “Let’s get to Karla.”

  They take me down a long, vast hall lit with magical lanterns. The hall is made of thick, glimmering glass, throwing off gobs of magic. Wings branch off. Through the glass, I can see cells and people in them. We find the end of the hall, sealed with a thick metal bulkhead.

  Genk grips the metal wheel, straining. His arms flex and ripple. I stare. The wheel groans, and the bulkhead opens. As I step through, something feels odd. I pause, looking at the metal frame.

  It’s lead.

  Lead is impenetrable by certain types of magic, or so an old birdfolk druid told me while wandering through Hartland. It’s not like iron and fey, where it’s an old myth. It’s a real way of foiling things like scrying or magical communication. They really want people to vanish down here. Sven and Genk usher me further down the ward. I glance through cells only five feet across and see frozen figures. We walk past one room with a sign overhead. It reads: Cockatrices. Use caution.

  That’s who’s buying them.

  “What’s that maul about?” I ask Genk as we walk.

  He retrieves and hefts it. “It’s a gravity maul.”

  Despite the lacking explanation, I know with utter certainty that I’d rather eat shit, literally or metaphorically, than have something called a gravity maul coming at me.

  “Here’s Karla,” Sven says. He gestures to a door. It’s a regular wooden door, unlike the cells.

  “Lovely,” I say. “If you gentlemen could wait here, I’ll be out directly.”

  They both take up positions on either side of the door. I knock. A voice calls from inside, and I enter.

  Looking up from a desk is a dwarf.

  She’s got deep, chocolate hair, coiffed and neat, as well as a trimmed, stubbled beard. She’s wearing a royal blue kimono with an official-looking signet on one side — a stylized cherry blossom. She takes off a pair of glasses, setting them on her desk and peering at me. Her eyes are the color of sand. In front of her are papers full of numbers. She sets down a pen.

  “Good morning,” she says. “Come in, please.”

  “You must be the remarkable Karla I keep hearing about,” I say, giving a quick bow. I sit across from her, crossing my legs. “I’m hoping you can help me.”

  “Yes, Nogai sent word. Are you Chouncey?”

  “The very same.”

  “Your request is… unusual. But the Guild is particular about property law, so we understand your predicament.”

  I nod. “Well, I wish us both a speedy and productive business. I’ve got rather private matters to discuss with Deach, if you could arrange a meeting.”

  She weaves her fingers together on her lap. Her nails are painted light blue and tidily manicured. “Unfortunately, I can’t do that. I need direct communication from the High Justicar to release him from petrification. I can send word, but you won’t meet with him today.”

  That’s a surefire way to prevent this from happening. And this story won’t hold up under the scrutiny of the best minds in the Guild.

  “I can, however, provide whatever signatures you need as proof that he’s unavailable.”

  I give a pained smile, leaning against a knee and rubbing my eyes. “I’m afraid that won't work. I can’t take anything but his direct word back to the firm. This has gotten messy already with the cousins.”

  She grabs a piece of paper and a pen, beginning to write something. “Then I’ll get in touch with Mr. Konishi to see if they’ll release him.”

  “Oh, gods above,” I breathe. “How long is that gonna take?”

  “I’m not sure. Deach is a name that will certainly trigger interest in the Ministry, but I don’t know how much priority the Guild will give it. He’s in for serious crimes.”

  I glance at the placard on her desk while she writes. It reads Karla Anklebreaker. It looks new. There’s also a small folded calendar with paintings of dinosaurs. Wooden dinosaur figures are on the desk beside it. “How’d you come to be in charge of this ward?”

  Her slender brows go up as she writes. “My family is a long line of formidable adventurers from the Bellenstein Dynasty. It wasn’t the life for me, so I got a job working at the canteen upstairs. The Guild loaned for my schooling at the College in Carthesia after the previous officer retired. I oversee our residents and the acquisition of our materials. Hopefully, next year, I’ll be up for promotion as a financial officer for the whole Shadow Vault.”

  A wizard, then. “I can appreciate someone from humble beginnings,” I say. I need to get Deach, or this whole thing's gonna fall apart. I sigh. “Maybe you can tell me who I’ve gotta get on my knees for to see my client.”

  She pauses, pen hovering over paper. Heavy silence stretches. She looks up at me, lingering. “Are you… offering?”

  I tilt my head. “That depends. Could I get ten minutes with him?”

  She sets her pen down, glancing around like we’re gonna be spotted. The only window looks into the bottom of the lake. We both know nobody can scry down here.

  She looks at me for a long moment. Then, she babbles, her voice quivering. “Yes. Just… I’ll have to be there with you, though.”

  “Those two gentlemen outside can escort me. Don’t trouble yourself.”

  “No, I mean, I have to take him out of petrification. And I may have to subdue him. He’s… slippery.”

  Shit. I’ll have to work with it. I stand, shrugging off my chain jacket and magical bag. Her brows go up, eyes on me. “Then I believe, Ms. Anklebreaker, that we’ve got ourselves a deal.”

  She puts a finger to her lips, hushing me. She beckons me over, rustling within her skirts.

  I barely taste skin before we conclude our business. I’m not sure if I should be flattered or not. She hands me a trembling cup of water from her desk.

  Then, she starts sobbing into her hands.

  “Gods, I’m sorry. This is embarrassing,” she quivers. “I’ve been so lonely. I haven’t been on a date in two years.”

  I freeze. Maybe I should take my sky skiff and leave. I swish and pour more water. I kneel beside her, offering it. “Well, people have been missing something wonderful. What’s not to like? You’re smart, successful, and have lovely taste.” I gesture to her outfit. “I’m sure you don’t get many visitors down here. That’s perfectly understandable.”

  She sniffles, dabbing her face with her sleeve. She gulps some water. “You’re right. It’s terrible.”

  “Maybe it’s time for a change,” I say, shrugging.

  “I don’t know. Who’s going to hire me? I work in a prison.”

  I cock a brow. “A wizard of your talent? You’re surely not deserving of this place. Your asswipe of a boss even misgendered you on the way here.”

  “Again?” she throws her fists against her knees. She pauses, then sags. “I don’t know. It’s a big change. It’s actually a cushy job. The contract is pretty good. And I get to work by myself. Nobody bothers me down here.”

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “A lovely woman like you could do anything. You’ve still got your whole life ahead of you. Don’t waste it on this place.”

  She sighs. “No, you’re right. I need to get out of here.”

  I nod. “Go home and spend time with your family or treat yourself to something nice. Start fresh tomorrow.”

  She takes a deep breath, wiping her eyes. “Yes. I need some time off. This isn’t working. Gods. Do I look okay?”

  “Here, you’re losing…” I wipe black smudges and fix her up. I snap my fingers, and her kimono comes clean. “There. Beautiful.”

  She smiles. It’s bright. She stands, adjusting herself. “Okay. We had a deal. Let’s go.”

  I reaffix my things, and she leads me out the door.

  Genk and Sven fall in behind us. I give a subtle thumbs-up. Sven only cocks a brow.

  We head further down the long ward. At the end is a single door set with a small window. I see only a frozen figure inside. Karla pulls a key ring from her sash belt and unlocks the metal door with a resounding clank. Genk heaves it open, and we step into the tiny room.

  I stop.

  Whatever I expected to find, this isn’t it. I tilt my head. Deach is a… something. What in the execrable lord of hell’s good graces is this?

  There’s no hair to speak of, only pointed ears and gaunt, alien features – big eyes, thin, almost nonexistent lips, and a slitted nose. He seems too thin and wiry to be upright, the contours of his bones exaggerated. He’s smooth and sculpted in an uncanny way. He’s completely naked but has no genitals or nipples to speak of. There’s a plaque on the floor that reads Deachrome.

  “This is Deach,” Karla says, sounding rather chipper for the horrific expression frozen on his face. The door closes, and Genk stands in front of it. Sven puts a hand on his weapon, hovering at my shoulder. “I’ll bring him out of petrification. Wait before we know it’s safe to proceed.”

  She produces a notebook from her robes, licks a finger, and flips through it. Shimmering blue ink flashes. She puts a hand on the figure and closes her eyes. Magic begins to channel into her hand.

  “Stasis.”

  Blue light laces through the stone. It cracks, energy pouring through the gaps. Chips flake off. Stark, silvery skin emerges. There’s a cracking sound and a burst of magical energy.

  Deach collapses to his knees.

  He gasps, looking at his hands, at himself, then whirling wildly. “What the fuck –”

  He scrambles backward into the wall, bracing himself against it. He’s got the look of someone desperate for a weapon. But he doesn’t move toward one. Maybe he’s smart enough to know he’s outnumbered.

  Then, he locks eyes with me.

  They’re stark white with no pupils. Dark gray shadows deepen the skin around them, giving a skull-like look. His palms have the same color. That’s when I notice shadows dancing across his silvery-white skin – in his skin – coiling and wavering like ink in water.

  “Who the hells are you?” he pants. His voice is a nice tenor, but it’s got an odd warping underneath, like it’s hollow. His face is hard, his eyes darting.

  I clasp my hands, words on my tongue. But I haven’t got the faintest clue how I'll get him out of here. With Karla present, the whole story’s gonna fall apart. That leaves my most reliable method.

  I reach into my magical bag and pull out my mandolin.

  I sling it on and scratch underneath my eye. The mandolin hums in response. I grasp a connection. “Pardon me not wishing you a good morning, as I’m seeing the extent of it.”

  Pink flashes in front of his eyes. Karla, too. They both take on a familiar blank look for a moment.

  Deach blinks, relaxing a bit. He eyes me, but it’s with interest, not hostility. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Chouncey of Seven Oaks. I’m offering you a way out, and I suggest you take it.”

  “Out of where?” He looks down at himself again. He lifts a hand, staring. He strains like he’s blocked up and contemplating a pisspot. Nothing happens, except the inky dark shadows on his skin dance a little faster. There’s a bump in the shaft of his forearm. He puts his arms over himself like we just caught him stepping from the bath.

  “The Shadow Vault,” I say. “We’re at the bottom of Lake Saki.”

  “Fuck, that’s right,” he mutters. He blinks more. He looks at the flakes of stone on the floor. “Is it still 1138?”

  Does he mean the time of day? I open my mouth and stop. No, he means… that was five years ago. “I’m afraid not. It’s really best we get out of here, Mr.… Deach-rome.”

  His face falls flat. “It’s Dea-chrome.”

  “Chromedome, whatever. We’ve gotta go. Can you walk?”

  He pushes off the wall, staggering upright. I still don't know what in the ass end of Coramine he is. He looks like something lurking in the corner of the room when you wake up because the whiskey’s hitting odd. There's no polite way of asking.

  Genk opens the door and ushers us outside. We hustle down the hall. Deach gapes, blinking and swaying.

  “What’s the plan?” Sven asks.

  I open my magical bag and buckle on my belt of weapons. He gawks. “We fly casual until they stop us. I’ve got a skiff at the dock. We head for that.”

  “Which one?”

  “You won’t miss it.”

  “Wait,” Deach says. “Where’s my shit?”

  “It’s probably at the booking station,” Karla says.

  I whirl. Karla. She followed us. Fuck me. I’ll have to take her. Getting out of this job will be the least of her worries if she stays.

  “Alright,” I say. I hand her the magical bag. “Take this. Protect it with your life. You’re in charge of grabbing his things.” She flusters, eyes wide. “Is there a way to open all the cells at once?”

  “Yes. It’s upstairs, though.”

  Maybe she’ll be more useful than I’m thinking. “Lovely. Take us there.” I look at the rest of them, pointing to myself. “Once we get to the sky skiff, I have to be the one to start it. Do you all hear me?”

  They nod. Sven peers at me, brows together. He’s not even an hour into being my personal guard and already rethinking it.

  The elevator ride is dead silent. I glance at Deach. He scratches his forearm raw, peering at it. He strains. The shadowy patterns on his skin flutter faster, then ease. The curiosity's nagging me. I almost ask, but I run out of time.

  The doors slide open. We shuffle out like we’ve got a skiff to catch. I lead with Karla. Sven and Genk take either side of Deach. I chat with her like we’re wrapping up business. I’m sweating. This is gonna turn south fast.

  We don’t make it more than five feet down the hall when someone stops us.

  A half-giant guard puts a hand on her sword. “Where’s he going?” She juts her square chin toward Deach.

  “He’s got a court date back in Byra. Unfortunately, he’s gotta be present. It’s family estate business,” I say. “Karla here decided he’s been on good behavior, so he can attend in person.”

  The half-giant takes a pen from her belt. She talks into it. “Warden, did you authorize –”

  Sven bashes her into the wall with his shield.

  He and Genk drag her into the elevator. They close the door and send her down.

  “Hey!”

  We whirl. Two more guards are headed toward us. I scratch underneath my eye, grasping another connection. “Genk forgot his coffee down there. She’s grabbing it.”

  Pink flashes in front of their eyes. The human blinks, shaking his head. It doesn’t stick.

  “Would you be a dear and escort us out?” I ask the oread.

  “Oh, right this way.” He beckons us and starts moving.

  “What the hells are you doing?” the human hisses, turning to him.

  “He just asked – come on. Let’s get him out of here.”

  “What – oh gods. Fuck.” A pen comes out of his belt. “Alarm! Raise the alarm –”

  “Don’t let him!” I snap.

  The oread tackles him to the ground.

  I shuffle past, beckoning everyone onward. “Keep him there!”

  The oread wrangles him into a headlock, giving me an eager smile.

  A siren blares outside. We freeze. A dozen guards pour from rooms and hallways ahead of us. They whirl, eyes falling on us. I go cold. I can’t hold up in fights like this anymore. And Arriel’s not here to drag me back.

  I draw my swords. “Well, fuck me.” Pink flame shoots out. The guards stiffen.

  Sven is suddenly beside me, blade drawn. He bashes it against his shield. The hallway’s wide enough for the two of us.

  “I’ll kiss you on the mouth if you get me out of this.”

  He glances at me. “In a Warlord-honoring way or a gay way?”

  “Definitely gay. Fags are back on Jor.”

  He smirks. “Great.”

  The guards charge. We meet them.

  It’s chaos. Half of them hesitate, seeing Sven. The other half pushes. They’re clogged in the hallway. Sven bashes, kicking out. His sword sinks chest-deep into a guard. I scatter a few back with the roaring flame of my shortsword. I spin, slicing a thigh. I rake across chainmail. Gods, how did I ever do this while utterly tanked? It’s sheer luck that I’m still alive. Sven pushes them back, tucking behind his shield and advancing. Bodies fall. I’m damp with sweat. How many more guards could there be? What about the ones outside?

  A boom echoes down the hall ahead of us.

  “That’s the doors!” Sven yells over the commotion. “Now what?”

  “That’s a problem for later,” I call back, blood sizzling on my blade. I’m covered in it.

  “Watch out!”

  A spear comes at me. And then something warbles past my shoulder.

  A dagger hilt grows from the guard’s eye. They crumple. I whirl. Deach nods curtly. He resumes trying to cover himself.

  “Where in the sweet fucking hells were you hiding – never mind.”

  Deach and Karla are lingering back, watching the chaos. Genk is spread in front of them, maul ready. His steel-tipped horns nearly touch the ceiling, razor-sharp.

  Sven cuts through like softened butter. I keep pace. Half our advantage is that the guards have no clue whose side he’s on. They hesitate at Genk, too. I flip a sword around, scratching under my eye. The mandolin hums. Pink flashes before the eyes of the next guard.

  “Would you mind taking a turn here?”

  She’s a burnished, bronzy dragonkin. She blinks, turning around. She squares up, opening her spiky maw. With a horribly familiar sound, she begins to retch.

  Crackling liquid lightning spews down the hall.

  Anyone not immediately cooked in their chainmail staggers toward her, smoking. She holds them back with a halberd. Sven and I cut a path.

  “There,” Karla says, pointing. We follow her down a hallway. Sven and Genk guard the entrance. She pushes through a door, and I follow, tucking a blade away and unraveling my whip.

  A couple guards are sitting inside, talking into pens.

  I snap my whip toward one. It slaps his face, sending him over in his chair. I twirl it around his ankle, pulling him closer. I finish the job with my flaming weapon. A halberd comes at me. I duck. It’s admittedly a terrible choice in tight quarters. I snap my whip, wrapping it around the handle. I pull. The wide blade cleaves into a cupboard. I open a new mouth in the guard’s neck soon after.

  Karla’s finicking with an arcane control panel along the wall. A collection of scrying screens shows the various wards.

  “You want all of them out?” she asks.

  I check my weapons, fitting two shortswords in my hands. “All of them.”

  She touches an illusory big red circle. A new alarm blares. On the screen, every cell door opens. Prisoners pour out.

  “Lovely work. Time to go,” I say.

  We scrape everyone together and hustle down the main hall. Guards fly about, ignoring us. They’ve got bigger problems. Wild, screeching prisoners tear through. We stop at the abandoned booking station. Karla digs through crates. She dumps one inside the magical bag, then slings it over her shoulder.

  We soon find the tall, double iron doors that lead outside. They’re locked tight. A couple guards stand watch.

  I fly at them, feinting and leaping. I spin, coming down at an angle and chopping into bone. My blade sticks. I slice at the other guard. It glances against chainmail. A halberd comes at me.

  She careens to the floor, a shield denting the back of her head. Gods bless Sven.

  I wrench my shortsword free, letting the other guard drop. “Let’s get this open.”

  A thick iron crossbar is dropped across the door. It’s connected to chains and a leverage system that goes into another room. That iron door also looks thoroughly locked. To my understanding, we’ve got a rogue with us, but unless he’s got lock picks tucked in the same pocket he was keeping that dagger, he’s useless.

  I sheathe my weapons and heave against the bar.

  It doesn’t move. Something pops in my shoulder blade.

  Everyone shuffles, watching. “It has an unmovable enchantment,” Karla says.

  “Well, why didn’t someone tell me?” I pant. I gasp, my blood pumping.

  “I thought you knew. I can help,” Karla says. “I just need a minute.”

  “As in, a second or an actual minute?”

  “A whole minute.”

  We spin when more guards pour down the hallway. Some bear away from us, toward the elevator. I draw weapons. Karla puts a hand on the iron door, and it glows light blue.

  “Alright,” I say. “We’ve gotta buy a minute.” I turn to Genk, gesturing at Deach and Karla with a sword. “Keep them safe.” I turn to Sven. “Stay ready for when the door opens. You know what's on the other side.”

  It’s an odd time to realize they’re following without hesitation. I march forward to meet the riffraff.

  It’s brutal chaos. Every second feels like an hour, my heart hammering and heat flaring through my muscles. Guards keep coming. More prisoners appear, fighting with scavenged weapons. It draws some off. I hope to the gods my sky skiff is still there. And I can’t think about how in forty-five minutes, I’ve gotta have good reason for charming Karla and Deach.

  A minute later, I’m absolutely staggering. I can’t keep this up. I’ve got a slash on my arm and one of my fingers is throbbing. I think it’s broken. My head’s fogged, and I’m not sure how many more spells I can muster.

  “Karla, where are we at?” I shout.

  There’s a pause. “There! Go!”

  An ear-splitting crash comes behind me. I whirl. The door is splintered open. Somehow, it’s now made of wood.

  Booms echo outside. There’s a high-pitched pinging sound. Sven and Karla step through the door, Sven with shield up and Karla with a light blue arcane aegis hovering in front of her.

  Pain explodes in my thigh.

  I shriek. It’s like a crossbow bolt, but there’s no bolt. Just a hole. Blood pours out.

  “Chouncey!” It’s Deach. “Come on!” More guards are coming. They pour past me, toward the door. A figure emerges – a hulking bugbear with a tall, spiked club. He points at me, barking orders. I stagger back, my leg burning and weak. I’m gonna be overwhelmed.

  Then a roar rumbles down the hall. The hair on my neck prickles.

  Genk tosses his black head, lowering his steel-capped horns. He heaves and snorts. His eyes turn crimson. And he bellows and charges.

  I throw myself against the wall. A little piss dribbles out. Sweet fucking hells, I’m trapped in a labyrinth with a minotaur. A guard hits the ceiling. Another squalls and flies over his allies, two holes in his guts and entrails stringing behind him. Another guard splats into the floor. Others scream and flee. The warden tries to rally them. Genk rushes past me. He clobbers two guards together, blood spraying from their helmets. His maul strains one through her chainmail against the wall.

  Then Genk hefts his maul and slams it to the floor.

  There’s an odd channeling a split second before it hits. Something clicks into place with magical condensing – or maybe magnifying. It sails downward with his massive, rippling strength, but the maul head seems to kick back briefly, then surge forward.

  The floor not only cracks, it explodes.

  Concrete sprays, a crater hammered into it. A fissure cracks along the floor, down the hallway. Guards scramble away. The warden stumbles in, screeching. What’s underneath? We can’t afford to find out. I cower against the wall. I can barely walk.

  Then Genk turns, rushing toward me. His eyes are still crimson.

  I go cold. “No – it’s me! It’s –”

  Like a sack of potatoes, he hucks me over a mountainous shoulder. And then he runs.

  We barrel through the broken door. I go ass first. We’re outside. More booming sounds crack around us. Genk grunts. Blood sprays from his back. I can only see a thunderous ass working below me, tail swishing. His shoulder’s big enough to take a nap on. His hand, keeping me in place, is clenched around one cheek. I’m hard. With a roar, he leaps. My stomach bottoms out.

  His hooves clop on the deck of my sky skiff.

  “We need to go!” Deach calls.

  I’m set on my feet by Genk. Sven closes in before me, dented shield up. Metal pings off it. Karla’s ducked near the steps into the cabin, hands over her head. More invisible missiles whizz by. The siren blares. Guards charge toward us. I stagger to the control panel and chuck my blades down. I slap a hand on the steering wheel, hitting the illusory heart-shaped button to start the engines. They hum to life. I unlock the immovability. We hover, leaving the water.

  And we fly northeast.

  It’s unnervingly quiet as we motor eastward. Water sprays behind us. Sven ties my leg off with a haphazard piece of cloth. I take us as fast as the sky skiff will go. Then, boats begin to follow.

  “Fuck m –” I stop. My shortsword’s still out. “Karla, I need you.” She appears. I quickly show her the controls. “Here’s the – it’s magic. You’ll get it. Remember, don’t ever start it without me.” If anyone, she can tell there’s a charm on it.

  I step onto the deck and bring my mandolin around, snapping out my pick. I breathe. My leg’s still bleeding. I’m getting dizzy. Gods, I hope this works. I finger my second ley line connection. I hover some fingers over the courses of my mandolin, plucking the familiar harmonic tones, matching the resonance of the ley line. Like a tuning fork, the two tones come into one. I grasp the connection. Magic surges through me, igniting my blood.

  Pink illusory stuff shapes around us.

  Relief eases through my bones. I could cry. But I’ve gotta focus. I shape the illusion around the length of the sky skiff. At the stern, I project the image of what’s in front of us, skewing it for perspective.

  It forms into reality. From behind, I erase us from view.

  And I collapse.

  I leave Karla to steer while I heal myself with the mandolin. I squeeze out a few more spells to dole healing to the others, but it's not much. Soon, I’m completely, utterly tapped, feeling like cut strings blowing in the breeze. Is this what introverts feel like? I’m exhausted – and too sober for this.

  We soon lose sight of the boats following us. I pull clothes from the cabin closet and sling them at Deach, who puts them on. He’s swimming in them. I’ve got ten minutes left until the charm wears off. I pilot the sky skiff once we hit land, taking us high over the dunes. We pick up speed over the ground. It soon becomes forest.

  I lower us within the trees, out of sight, and halt once I’ve got minutes left.

  I anchor us in place. They look at me questioningly. I rub my face. I need a nap. “Alright. We’ve got things to chat about –”

  “What the fuck.”

  It’s Deach. He blinks, looking around. Something crosses his alien face.

  His white, pupil-less eyes fall on me. It's unsettling. “You son of a bitch. You charmed me.”

  I put my hands up. “In my defense, we can all see the benefit there –”

  “You son of a bitch!”

  “My lovely mothers have got nothing to do –”

  “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

  “You’re gonna kill a holy man?”

  He flies at me.

  He’s obscenely fast. I’ve got a gangly silver creature on top of me. We hit the deck. I roll and push him off, scrambling to my feet. Blindingly fast, he’s there, too. Everyone’s shouting. My ass touches railing. My balance is gone. I scrabble to latch onto him. We careen over the edge of the sky skiff.

  My insides spin. I flail. Tree branches flash past. He grabs at me. I can’t make myself fly in time. We crash to the ground.

  Something cracks. Pain shoots through my left side. I groan. I can’t breathe. My insides are hollow. Then his weird face appears again.

  He’s got a fucking dagger.

  I scramble to grab his hand. Blood wets my palm. He throws his weight into it. It doesn’t move. He’s scrawny. I throw a fist. It blunts into his stomach. He heaves and grunts, buckling. I throw him off. He comes at me again. We lock together, rolling and grunting. Leaves and loam toss. My mandolin's awkward under my back. It clunks discordantly. More shouting comes above. He’s beneath me now. I throw another fist at his eye. He yelps. Something knocks my jaw. His knuckles crack. His dagger appears again.

  I mentally chuck a fistful of magic. A bright, pink flash explodes in his face. He reels, gasping and blinking. I grab his scrawny arms.

  My shoulder throbs. It barely works. His legs lock around my waist, rolling. We’re pressed together, scrabbling and grabbing. I’m sweating. I throw my weight. We roll again. I’m on top.

  I draw a sword, laying it across his neck. A dagger tickles mine.

  We both freeze, heaving. His breath is hot against my face. There’s a faint whiff of pine wood and citrus. The back of my neck prickles.

  “You piece of shit,” he hisses, close enough to kiss. “You charm me when I’m already naked and stuck looking like this?”

  “You’re stuck like that? My deepest condolences,” I say. Gods, I’m in pain. I can hardly hold myself up.

  “Oh, fuck you,” he thrashes beneath me, the dagger getting dangerously close to my skin. I hold his wrist steady.

  “I’m not sure how you would,” I throw back. “Look, I had to make sure you’d come along without hassle. The number of cocks I had to suck to get in there was not zero.”

  “You didn’t even need to charm me!” he spits. “You think I’m stupid enough to say no to someone offering me a way out?”

  “And yet here you are, trying to kill me –”

  “You - fucking asshole! How did you even – are you supposed to be some kind of bard? What do you mean, you’re a holy man –”

  "And you’re supposed to be some failed elven assassin offering to warm my bed?”

  “Get me a pair of boots first, and we’ll talk.”

  I pause. “Wait, you understood that?”

  He doesn’t answer. His wrist slackens. We stare at each other, inches apart. His white eyes look me over. They falter.

  Footsteps crunch on the forest floor. I glance over. Sven approaches, weapon out. Genk is behind him. Karla’s navigating the rope ladder. She’s wearing heels. Somehow, I have the wherewithal to be impressed.

  “Let’s put weapons down,” Genk rumbles. He peels us apart with all the effort of shucking corn.

  I roll onto the leafy ground, fumbling my blade into its sheath. I glance down, groaning. My shoulder’s not supposed to be at that angle. I clutch it. It’s pulsing and throbbing all down my left side. My hand barely works. Genk picks me up like a doll, then sits me down. He kneels behind me, deftly wrenching my arm outward. It pops back into place, rocking me. My vision tunnels. Seeing as I've got no healing left, I'm sleeping that one off.

  When I look over, Deach is digging in his forearm with his dagger.

  Pearlescent blood pours down his hand. “Oh, fuck me,” I say, turning away. The back of my throat floods. “What in Aenta's fertile tits are you doing?”

  He holds the dagger in his teeth and prods inside the incision, wrenching something out. He tosses it away.

  “It’s a lead implant,” Karla says, approaching. “It keeps him from shifting.”

  “Shift –”

  I stop. It hits me like a crack of thunder from ten feet away.

  Karla wraps a bandage snugly around his forearm. He holds up his other hand, looking at it. He does the straining thing again, sweat beading on his bald head. The smoky patterns in his silvery skin swirl.

  Then, like ink bleeding into water, he begins to change.

  His skin turns mossy green, flecked with dark hair. Muscles and tissues fill out. His body becomes less scrawny and more slender. Features come to life – a broad nose and even lips stretched over small, protruding tusks. A forward chin and brow form. Dark hair sprouts, slicked down his neck. Stubble springs down his flat, masculine cheeks. His eyes form pupils and irises, the color of supple, well-oiled leather.

  A half-orc looks at me. But he’s not a half-orc. He’s a shapeshifter. The Mask.

  “What do you want with me?” he demands. His voice is deep and gruff, no longer tinny.

  I stay sitting. Genk massages my shoulder. It’s exquisite. “I’d like to take down the Guild.”

  Everyone goes quiet, looking at me.

  “Hear me out – you’ve all got reason to hate them. I do, too, and I’m taking the first step. If you’ve ever wanted someone to do something about this, now’s your chance to make a difference. We make a decent team, and I think we’ve got a good shot at it.”

  Deach’s blunt laugh cuts through. “You think five is enough?”

  I’m tired of him already. “You tell me, Chromedome. I hear you’re some sort of expert on the Guild, if not a hero that people like. Forgive me being dubious on that part.”

  He shrugs, wiping his dagger and picking his teeth with it. “That depends. What’s your plan?”

  “Right now, we’re getting the fuck out of here. I can offer you protection on the Byrian Isles.”

  His thick brow scrunches. “How?”

  “He’s our Warchief,” Sven says.

  “Are you serious?” Deach asks. He points at me. “This fool?”

  Sven bristles. I groan as Genk obliterates a knot in my shoulder. “I understand being cranky after waking up from a five-year nap, but that doesn't explain you being a derisive skelm.”

  Deach’s green skin loses color. His tusked lips drop open. “It’s been five years?”

  “Sorry to cut in,” Karla says. Her voice quavers. “But I think I made a huge mistake. At least I have being charmed as an excuse, but –”

  “You said you come from a long line of adventurers. How’d you like doing something close? Wasn’t that thrilling?” I ask. I really don’t want to tie her up as a loose end.

  “I guess, but… I shouldn’t have left things that way. What if they come after me?” She figets.

  “Karla, keep it together,” I say. “A fresh start might be the best thing for you. In fact, you mentioned accounting – I need a bookkeeper. How’d you like that? The Isles would love having one more mage around, too.”

  She sniffles, but gives a faint smile. “Okay. Again, you’re right. This is just a lot at once.”

  “Sure, that’s perfectly understandable. But you’ve got no small amount of talent – don’t forget that.”

  “What about me?” Genk says.

  “I can find use for you,” I groan.

  He gives a snort, or maybe a laugh.

  When I glance over at Deach, he’s staring at the ground in front of him.

  “Chromedome, what about you?”

  His wide jaw squares. His eyes fall on me. “I’ll help, but on one condition: I get to kill Vincent.”

  I assume that's the Minister he tried killing. “He’s all yours.” I stand. My blood rushes. I’m exhausted. “Odegaard.”

  Sven appears out of thin air. I fish for his shoulder, steadying myself. I’ve got my word to keep. I grab the back of his shaven, braided head and plant a kiss on his mouth.

  He flounders, then responds. He smells like musky adrenaline with a faint whiff of seawater. There’s the flick of a tongue. It’s a pleasant surprise. He touches my neck. Everyone falls dead quiet. For a moment, it’s just two Vasterholmian fighters kissing sloppy style in bloody chainmail, like the Wildkeeper intended.

  I pull away, and everyone’s gawking at us. “What? It’s cultural.”

  Sven clears his throat and takes a knee, not meeting my eye. “’Till death and glory, Warchief.”

  “If you ever break your word, I'll crack you over my knee.”

  “I’d be honored.”

  I’m sure he would. I catch the faintest twitch of a smile from Deach before he turns away. We all shuffle up the ladder onto the sky skiff.

  He comes close, almost touching me. “If you ever charm me again, I will kill you.”

  “That’s fair,” I say. “Forgive and move on.”

  He shoots me one last glare and starts the sky skiff.

  We continue toward Port Nakanai. Karla and I take turns at the wheel. From the hold below, I bring out some bedrolls, and they bed down on the deck that night. Sven sleeps in front of my cabin door after it nearly came to blows again with Deach once the charm wore off. I’ll be surprised if he ever lets Deach around me unsupervised again.

  We spend a day in the woods, lying low and nursing our wounds. I catch up on sleep. On the second day, we fly over the gates to Port Nakanai. There’s a skyship port here, so it’s not unusual. But we head to the regular port. My throat thickens. We don’t have time to visit Weekes. I scribble a quick letter and drop it in the mail, explaining the situation. He’ll understand.

  We easily find the huge Vasterholmian longship parked at the docks.

  The Black Tide looks better than ever. The Biggest, Blackest Tide is now painted on the side, black sails stitched with bold pink hearts. Erson’s there, balding old half-elf that he is, and he gapes at the pink sky skiff being lashed to the deck.

  I spend the voyage in my heart-shaped bed, bucket within easy reach. The raiders haul ass against the oars, getting us back in two days once I explain to Erson that the Guild might be on our tail. Sven and Genk take oars, and I even send Erson. He’s getting soft.

  Soon, the Byrian Isles come into view.

  I sigh, hunched over the railing. The waters in my head hold calm as ever, thanks to the seal, but I can still feel heavy chains. I had to come back eventually. But it feels like waiting for a hanging.

  We dock at Jor, and things are positively bustling at the announcement that I’m back. I summon Norbert, the supervisor of the gnome artificers I poached from Port Nakanai months ago. They see to my sky skiff, bringing it to the shipyard for a tune-up. I glance around the settlement. It doesn’t discomfit me like it used to. Maybe it’s the seal, or maybe it’s change. Erson’s been hiring people to fill the gaps left by the slaves. He’s tripled wages at my command, and it shows.

  Genk, Sven, Deach, and Karla are brought to accommodations in the long hall. I pull Erson aside. “Get me Kern.”

  He nods. He’s been moving slow after pulling an oar. “Where?”

  My blood’s running hot. “The pole. And I want people to see this.”

  He nods. “I’ll get on it.”

  Fifteen minutes later, a ragged Kern is brought to the middle of the settlement and lashed to a pole. He’s a half-giant, tall and packed with muscle. He looks like his brother, Torm, although that’s no compliment. His eyes are hard, flicking across the crowd gathered. They fall on me as I approach.

  “I’ll be sending you to your brother the slow way,” I say quietly.

  His face scrunches, and he spits on the ground. “You’re no Warchief of mine.”

  “Then you should’ve kindly made your exit.”

  Erson tears Kern’s shirt off, exposing his back.

  I’m starting to shake. I shrug off my chain jacket and mandolin, stuffing them in my magical bag. I take my shirt off, too. The cold hits me. I toss it all at Sven.

  “Kern here didn’t listen to me,” I say. I harness the afterimage of the ley lines, flickering light formed into a funnel. My voice magically projects outward. “I made it clear that every slave goes home unharmed. Instead, he opened fire on the slaves he dropped near Iwakotan. Some of them didn’t make it. Others were badly wounded. That sort of cruelty against helpless people is not welcome anymore. He can taste his brother’s whip for it.”

  Murmurs ripple. I hold out a hand. Sven deposits my whip. I line up, heave, and snap it at Kern.

  He winces. A pink lash welts across his back. Something old jolts me at the sound. A ripple stirs across the surface of the pool. I pause, clenching my teeth. I do it again. He grunts. I do it again. He clenches his hands around his bonds, stifling a cry. The next one, he screams. The sound splits me. I swallow whatever’s bubbling up.

  I switch to my other hand. This is gonna be exhausting.

  I keep going. I’m slicked with sweat, gasping and throbbing within minutes. His back is lashed open, a mess of swollen meat. I think he passes out at some point. Blood seeps into the dirt.

  Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I’m holding together by a thread. I’ve stood here too many times already. He’s whimpering and in a mess of his own soil. I toss the whip aside. I hold out a hand again. Sven puts a shortsword in it.

  With a quick slash, I finish the job. Kern gurgles and collapses, then doesn’t move.

  I push through the crowd to the long hall, Sven hovering. I don’t want to go there. I don’t want to be here. But I have to. I pause just outside, my feet not agreeable. My ankle itches something fierce. Sven doesn't say anything. I step inside, and it’s the same as ever, the center chair at the high table empty. No blank-faced slaves are lurking around.

  Ingrid appears. She’s a yellow-striped lizardfolk wearing a flour-dusted apron. She seems to be doing well enough, despite no longer overseeing slaves. She was always hard on us. For her, maybe the alternative hurt worse. “Warchief, we prepared your quarters.”

  “That’s dearly kind of you. Thank you,” I say. I shrug my shirt back on. I’m shivering. I’m also starving, but I can’t stand the idea of them pulling together a meal on my account.

  She blinks like she’s never heard thank you in her life. “Please, this way.”

  I follow. Sven falls in, a silent shadow of aquamarine. He’s had reunions with at least a dozen raiders already.

  Ingrid brings me into Irminric’s quarters.

  I freeze, setting foot just past the doorway. Something in me locks up. A ripple stirs across the surface of the calm pool.

  It’s the same as ever. The large bed is neatly made, piled high with downy pillows and furs. The desk is clean, set with only an ink pot and fresh sheets of paper. Paned windows peer over the crashing, roaring drone of the ocean against the rocky shore below. There’s a small collection of couches in the corner, lustrous wood frames in hard, knotted patterns with stuffed cushions. There’s a small dining table and chairs, too. The door to the washroom is open, a steaming bath ready and waiting.

  To anyone else, it might look nice. But I can only see the acid burns on the floor, the clawmarks on the desk, the chips in the walls from thrown objects. Sven guards just outside the door.

  I’m breathless. I can’t sleep here. Gods help me, I can’t sleep here.

  Ingrid clasps her claw-hands. “Is there anything I can get you?”

  I swallow dryly. My throat rasps. “A bottle of whiskey.”