Chapter Six - RhyDin Horror Story

[Jonas Drava]

Jonas Drava tossed and turned restlessly in his bed as he sought unsuccessfully to find some peace. With a sigh of frustration his eyes fluttered open and he looked out the nearby window at the sky beyond, and the prominent gibbous moon glaring down at him.

It had been nearly three weeks since the Circus left and Jonas became a formal resident of RhyDin (although he was quickly learning that there wasn't much 'formal' about this world). Things had been otherwise quiet — job search, apartment search, and plenty of time in between spent at The Outback.

This was his third night in his new apartment — actually a (rental) house. Located on the edge of town near an expanse of woods and not far from the waterfront, the house was quite small — just barely larger than the mid-sized apartments he'd looked at. The first floor featured a small kitchen (with a breakfast bar!) and a narrow living room with large bay windows overlooking the street corner and the trees beyond. The second floor included the master bedroom, a smaller guest room and study. Minimal storage was available in the attic and basement. The house was unusually narrow and seemed a bit crooked to the eye, and the lighting inside was generally quite dim. Yet the construction was solid (as a carpenter he'd made sure of that), and the house had character. Onyx said she enjoyed the house's character — it's a good sign when your girlfriend likes coming over.

Girlfriend. Well, he hadn't used the term in public and wouldn't dare say it to her face. Yet his relationship with Onyx, such as it was, was now the longest relationship he'd ever had. The nomadic life didn't lend to long-term romances and most of his experiences had been intense yet short-lived. Things with Onyx were certainly intense, but he wondered if she'd grow bored of him. They began dating when it was assumed he'd leave with the Circus. She made no effort to hide the fact that she was happy to use him for as long as he entertained her. He was relatively confident that he could keep her on the hook for a while, and wasn't losing sleep over things. But it was still a strange situation.

Jonas hadn't yet found a full-time position, but he'd spoken with several furniture stores that agreed to take his work on consignment. Of course that meant he'd need to get to work and start building some furniture. He was hard at work converting the study into a workshop, and he could have multiple projects going at once. But it would be at least a month before he'd have pieces ready for display. In the meantime, he had other ways of supporting himself financially — Onyx had introduced him to a local fence that would help unload some of his more illicit merchandise.

The guest bedroom was already converted into a gym. It was already several orders of magnitude better than the tool shed where he used to practice on a punching bag made of sawdust and burlap. Lately he wasn't doing particularly well at The Outback, which he chalked up to distractions. Still he went several nights a week — even a losing fight was an experience and a thrill. Plus he was starting to make friends there, now that people were becoming more accepting of his gypsy heritage.

Tonight, like most nights, his mind raced out of control. He had been banished by his family and was attempting to settle in a new world and live alone for the first time in his life. And, of course, nagging in the back of his mind was the fact that his psychotic best friend was also living in this town and had some kind of evil plan brewing. He hadn't heard anything from Zoli since the escape, and there weren't any recent stories of unsolved wolf attacks. But Jonas knew that Zoli was still out there, plotting his comeback. He could sense his presence in the air. Perhaps it was a side effect the curse — a common element in their tormented blood that permeated the air around them. Or maybe it was just a feeling with no scientific basis. Either way, Jonas knew he hadn't seen the last of Zoli, and that trouble was ahead.

Jonas kicked off the covers and sat upright, turning to sit on the edge of his bed. He wasn't going to be able to sleep tonight, at least not now. He was alone in bed tonight, and he needed a distraction from the maelstrom in his thoughts. Perhaps a vigorous workout would help — it often did.

Jonas slipped on a t-shirt and some boxers and strode out of his bedroom and across the hall into his gym. It was quite dark, and he made no effort to turn on any lights. The only illumination came from the moonlight streaming in through a small window that overlooked the woods.

Jonas glanced around at the equipment — a weight machine, a punching bag, some barbells. But he didn't go towards any of them, instead approaching the outer wall. Covered in a faded sunflower wallpaper, the wall was damaged by the movers when they were bringing in his equipment. In the process, he'd discovered that there was something behind the wallpaper — something unusual. Pulling away the tattered wallpaper like a curtain revealed a mural painted on the wall. It was a portrait of two people, dressed like royalty. But the painting was so old that the colors had faded and they took on a ghastly, undead appearance. It was a frightening portrait full of vague details that he was still trying to figure out. He'd already decided to pull down the wallpaper and try to restore the mural, but that was low priority right now.

Then there was the problem of the blood.

Jonas pulled away the wallpaper and draped it over a shelf in order to get a look at the mural. Dead-center on the wall was a large blood stain, in the pattern of a gunshot splatter. There was a lot of blood and it seemed to have soaked into the wall itself — probably ruining any hope of ever restoring the artwork. Even though there were signs that someone had tried to clean the blood off the wall, it persisted. In a sense, the blood had become part of the house. Accounting for the likelihood that much of the blood was cleaned off when it happened, the sheer volume of blood left no doubt that someone died here. Someone was murdered against this wall. Or possibly they took their own life.

Jonas' realtor joked that the house was haunted, and it didn't really matter to Jonas either way. He'd seen so many unusual things since coming here — liontaurs, vampires, talking vermin — that it wasn't all that shocking that this house might have a ghost. Plus it added to the house's charm. Yet only now did it occur to Jonas that he already had enough on his plate without having to deal with a haunting. What if there were spirits here and what if they were malevolent?

Jonas stepped back from the mural, still studying its features through the poor light. After a few moments, a sound caught his attention and he spun around. For a fraction of a second he thought he saw someone in the doorway — but there was no one there.

Yet something was rolling towards him on the floor — a small red ball.

Jonas kneeled down on the wooden floor and scooped up the ball in his hand. It smelled musty but also sweet — like the smell of a child. He knew in that moment that this ball belonged to someone, to a little girl.

Jonas stood up and peeked his head out of the room, glancing both directions. No sign of anyone. No further sounds. Glancing down at the ball, he squeezed it gently in his hand to make sure it was real.

Jonas returned to his gym and covered up the mural with the wallpaper before setting the ball down on his weight lifting bench. Perhaps tonight wasn't a good night for a workout. Perhaps tonight was an ice cream night. He trotted downstairs to the kitchen, his thoughts quieting but his senses now hyper-aware.

[Jonas Drava]

Jonas Drava emerged from the woods at a quick pace, crossing the street and rounding the corner onto the property of his rental house. He stopped there, one hand on the front gate, to catch his breath from the vigorous morning jog. The sun was only just now fully risen and birds chirped happily in the background.

As Jonas paused and stretched, he glanced up at the imposing façade of his house. In the window of his master bathroom he saw movement in the shower. Flesh-colored movement. He smiled.

Onyx hadn't spent the evening with him, but it was not unusual for her to come over in the morning for breakfast. Or dessert.

Jonas ran a hand through his mussy hair and stood tall. As his breathing quieted, he walked forward to enter his home. If he moved quickly enough, perhaps he could join her in the shower. That would be a welcome way to start the day.

With a spring in his step, he stopped briefly in the kitchen to grab a towel and dab the sweat from his eyes, before he bounded the stairs two at a time. Upon reaching the second floor, he noticed that he couldn't hear the shower running. He could still surprise her as she emerged, and he darted through the bedroom and into the bathroom with a grin on his face.

Only the bathroom was empty. There were signs of recent use — condensation in the air, a fogged up mirror, and water on the shower door; yet she wasn't there. Jonas couldn't quite imagine how she'd moved so quickly, but he shrugged and wandered back into the bedroom. She wasn't there either — and he'd have passed her if she was. It didn't make sense for her to go from the shower to the gym or workshop, but he checked those two rooms also.

Nothing.

"Onyx?" he called out curiously. "I'm home!"

No response.

Jonas stepped back into the bathroom as he replayed the events of the last few minutes in his head. He saw her from outside barely two minutes ago. No way she could move that fast. Certainly there'd be no reason for her to.

Even stranger, Jonas couldn't detect her scent. He had become fairly attuned to her over the past few months, yet there was no sign that she'd been here so recently. In fact — he couldn't smell anyone. It simply wasn't possible that someone could have used his shower two minutes ago and not left behind any smell. Yet the shower was clearly used.

Jonas checked each of the towels and wash cloths set out in the shower. None showed signs of use. Nothing was out of place, nothing was missing.

He glanced at the window, then into the mirror. A mystery, and it would have to remain so for now.

* * *

Jonas sat at his workbench at Walter's Antiques and worked carefully at restoring an old piano. The instrument's cabinet had become cracked and worn with age, and he was slowly and painstakingly repairing the damage with intricate tools.

Nearby, Walter Racogzy was working on sanding a desk. The two men generally worked in silence, interrupted only when the occasional customer would come in.

Today, however, Jonas' mind was buzzing. He couldn't help but to strike up a conversation.

"Walter, are you familiar with the house I'm renting? It's the one just down the street, on the corner by the woods. With the turret."

Without looking away from his work, Walter clicked his tongue. "Yes, I think I am. I believe I even sold a couple pieces to one of the previous owners."

"Hmm. When I moved in, the furniture was crap. I've mostly replaced everything."

"How are you liking it over there?" Walter asked. He was generally uninterested in Jonas' personal life, but it seemed appropriate given the topic.

"Mostly good. I need to invest in a security system, though. I think someone has been breaking in."

"Really?" Walter asked, concerned. "I know the hat shop two doors over has had a couple of break-ins. Makes me wonder if I need something here."

"Well, they weren't random break-ins," Jonas explained. Twice now he'd discovered the door to the cellar open, and things in the basement moved. Nothing stolen — just moved. "I believe that someone I know is trying to antagonize me."

Walter looked up from his work, concerned. He'd expressed some misgivings when Jonas first applied to work there — possibly concerned that he was some kind of young troublemaker. Jonas went through a lot of effort to convince the old man that he was harmless. The notion that he had enemies no-doubt revived those worries.

"I'm sure it's nothing," Jonas said, looking up from the piano with a pleasant smile. He was convinced that Zoli was messing with him, but he didn't want to alarm the old man or give him reason to be suspicious. "Just a prank."

"Hmm." Walter glanced back down at the desk, not convinced.

"But I also found some things in the house that interest me. An old mural under the wallpaper, for example." He decided not to mention the blood on the wall.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes, I'm just curious about some of the house's history. I know it's very old."

"You should talk to Agnes at the laundromat. Her husband Morty used to be friends with one of the owners. I think they had a poker game together. Morty passed a few years back, but Agnes might know."

Jonas smiled. "Thank you, Walter, I'll try that."

Walter merely grunted.

"I'd tried going to the Recorder's office and looking up past deeds, but they weren't very helpful. I must say, this city seems fairly lawless at times. It's a wonder it's not complete anarchy around here."

"Who says it isn't?" Walter asked gruffly. "We take care of ourselves here."

Jonas chuckled. "So I've noticed."

"Best you keep your head down and stay out of any trouble," Walter admonished. Despite his stern exterior, he likely intended the comment to be sage advice.

"I do my best, Walter. But sometimes, trouble finds me."

[Jonas Drava]

Jonas worked carefully at the lathe, painstakingly crafting posts for a wooden banister. It was a big job — each post needed to be virtually identical, and they needed to match the existing woodwork. The assignment came in several days ago from a nearby historical hotel where a bar fight had gotten out of control and spilled out into the lobby. Two burly men proceeded to beat each other senseless and take out a railing in the process. Walter was hired to perform the repairs and he quickly brought Jonas in on the job. The two men worked diligently on the project, which would net them both a healthy return.

Work at the antique furniture shop was rarely interrupted. In an eight hour day they'd get two or three visits outside of the (slightly) busier lunch rush. Most customers scheduled appointments in advance, which allowed the two men to better structure their time. Walter had a variety of clerks on the payroll to work the front while he and Jonas spent most of their time in the back workshop, but sometimes it was just them.

Such was today, a Tuesday, when a bell jingled — signaling the arrival of a customer. Walter, who was quite busy shaping the bannister itself, asked Jonas to see who it was. Jonas finished up one cycle of the lathe and then stood up, stretched, and walked to the front of the store.

Just inside the front door, a middle-aged man was examining a piano. Jonas smiled — it was the same piano he'd been working to restore the last few weeks. The cabinet was now complete and it just needed to have the strings restored.

"Good afternoon," Jonas greeted, "can I help you?" He tried to be pleasant, but customer service was not his area. He preferred to limit his interaction with tools.

The man gave Jonas a long look. He was in his early-40s, tall and mildly overweight. The last few hairs were clinging to life on his otherwise bald head, and he wore thick-rimmed glasses. He pursed his lips before nodding, forcing a half smile. "Hello, my name is Robert Parsons."

"Can I help you find something?" Jonas asked.

"Perhaps." He paused, and he seemed to be trying to remember details. "When I was a child, my sister and I had an old wooden toy chest. Sadly it was lost when my family moved, but my girlfriend is now pregnant and I want to get something similar for my children."

Jonas smiled. He was a sucker for tradition. "I think that's a wonderful idea. Can you describe the chest?"

"Better than that, I have a picture." Parsons reached into his pocket and produced a faded, back and white photo. If Jonas didn't know better, the photo looked to be over a hundred years old. A boy and a girl seated in front of a fairly intricate wooden chest set in front of a brick wall. Neither child looked happy, and the entire scene seemed overly stoic. Still, the piece itself was quite impressive and Jonas immediately fancied it.

"Quite a chest. Must have fit a lot of toys."

"My parents didn't let us have very many toys," Parsons explained. "My father always said that it was a waste to have more toys than I could play with in an afternoon."

Jonas raised a curious eyebrow. What a waste of a giant toy chest. That said, he was quite certain his own father had made similar pronouncements. Some of Jonas' favorite toys were forcefully donated to other children when he amassed too many.

"Well we don't have anything like this, but we could always build something for you from scratch."

"Hmm, I don't think that's in my budget. Plus I really want something old. Something genuine."

Jonas nodded. "Sure, I can understand that. Well, if you'd like I can call around to some of the other stores and some of the estates where we get things. Might take a few months, but if we can find it we'll definitely get in touch with you."

Parsons produced a business card from his pocket. "Thank you, I'd appreciate that."

"I assume you want to keep the photo. Mind if I make a quick sketch?"

The older man looked askew at Jonas, who laughed. "It'll only take me a minute. I won't keep you long."

"Alright."

Jonas reached over the counter and grabbed a ruled notebook. He quickly sketched the outline of the toy chest and some of the nicer features. Within a minute, he had a very basic — yet fairly descriptive drawing of the chest. He handed back the photo and allowed Parsons to approve the sketch.

"Hmm, you're quite the artist, Mister—"

"Jonas. Call me Jonas. And it's just a hobby. Helps me with my work."

Parsons extended a hand and the two men shook. Parsons seemed to relax a bit, as if realizing that this wouldn't be so bad after all.

"When is she due?" Jonas asked, leading the man back to the door.

"Hmm?"

"Your girlfriend?"

There was a brief pause before Parsons understood the question. "Oh, five more months."

"Well, congratulations. And hopefully we can find you something before then."

"Thank you, Jonas. I hope so too."

* * *

Jonas walked the short distance back home after work that evening. The weather was quite pleasant and he was happy to get out of the shop. It was a long day and hard work and his body ached for exercise. He debated whether to go for a run before or after dinner.

The decision was made for him when he reached the house and saw the lights on in the kitchen. A pleasant smell drifted out to greet him as he opened the front door and he caught sight of Onyx working at the stove.

Jonas smiled. He was always happy to see her, and they hadn't been together in a couple of days since he'd been so busy working on the railing.

"Hey there," he said as he stepped into the house and closed the door behind. "What's for dinner?"

Onyx didn't respond, instead stirring something in a frying pan. Jonas slipped out of the light jacket and hung it on a hook before walking towards her. He rested a hand on her lower back and leaned in to kiss her cheek, but she shied away from him. A chill ran down Jonas' spine and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He shrugged and went for the refrigerator, grabbing a beer.

"Would you like one too?" he asked.

"Where have you been all night?" Onyx asked, practically snapping. She still didn't look at him.

Jonas furrowed his brow. He searched his memories to determine if he forgot to meet her, but nothing came up. As a couple they didn't do very much planning — they spent a lot of time together but it was usually spur-of-the-moment. There was also nothing scheduled at The Outback that he could recall.

"I've been at work. Did I forget something?"

"Work." She laughed, but not a friendly laugh. A cynical, critical laugh.

Jonas crossed the kitchen, trying to get into her peripheral vision. She still hadn't looked at him which was quickly becoming annoying.

"What's wrong, Onyx? Talk to me."

"What's wrong?" She asked, raising her voice. She finally spun towards him. Her expression was a glare, her eyes piercing and her nostrils flaring. "I know you were with her. Don't lie to me."

Jonas felt a fire flare up in his chest. He wasn't accustomed to his kind of behavior from Onyx and he certainly wouldn't stand for it. Yet something didn't ring true and he fought his instincts to react harshly. "I was at work, Onyx, and I resent whatever you're implying."

"Here I am, cooking you dinner," she said, gesturing at the pan on the stove (some kind of sautéed beef strips), "while you're out drinking and whoring with that little tart. What's her name? Valerie?"

Jonas squared his jaw, eyes narrowing. Fury seethed through his veins and it took all of his self control not to lash out. Common sense told him that this wasn't right, that there was some horrible misunderstanding here. Yet he was having increasing difficulty holding down the rage.

"Sixth time this month if my count is correct. You get a corner room at the hotel and spend all day with her. You have food and drinks delivered to your room. And I'm betting you don't tell her that I even exist. Does she think you're single, Jonas? Or does she find excitement in helping you cheat?"

Jonas snapped, sending the mostly-full beer bottle flying just over her shoulder and crashing into the wall behind, shattering into dozens of pieces and sending a splatter of foam into the air.

"Are you out of your mind you wretched harpy!?" Jonas screamed, his skin flushing red. "I've never even looked at another woman since I've been with you. How dare you accuse me like this. How dare you treat me with such disrespect."

Onyx didn't flinch at the bottle or at Jonas' counter-attack. Instead she stepped forward, wagging a finger in his face. "Don't you lie to me you pathetic mope. I know your game. You pretend to be working when you're just boozing and carousing around the town with any two-bit floozie you can find. Do you even still have a job? Your boss called here twice this week looking for you. Said you haven't been there in weeks."

"That's absurd. I just came from there!"

Onyx was now right in Jonas' face, her voice continuing to rise. "When was the last time you even saw your children? You don't wake up from your hangover until they've already left for school, and you come home after they've gone to bed, smelling of booze and women."

"Maybe if you didn't spend every waking hour turning them against me, I might find them to be halfway endearing. Instead, it's always: 'Daddy, buy me this,' or 'Daddy, buy me that,' or 'Daddy, why is mommy such a raging BITCH!?"

Onyx slapped Jonas in the face and he responded by grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her. The two struggled for a moment before they pushed each other apart. For a long time they stood there, panting and glaring at each other.

"And why should I work?" Jonas asked, his tone calmer but still seething with hatred. "You take every cent I earn and spend it on shoes and purses and dresses. This house will never have enough closet space for all of your crap. So if I decide to spend some time away from you — with people who actually understand what it means to be a man, it's only because you've made this house unlivable for me."

Onyx nodded. "I see."

"I won't be staying for dinner," Jonas announced, turning and walking back towards the front door. "I suddenly find myself without an appetite."

"Fine. Go. Be with her. I'll put the children to bed."

Jonas grabbed his jacket off the coat hook and slipped into it. He could see Onyx's reflection in the small window in the front door. She had turned away from him, back towards the stove. Only something didn't ring true. Her hair was blonde.

Jonas turned, but she was gone. He walked back towards where she had been standing, calling her name.

"Onyx? Onyx? Where are you? Let's talk this through."

She didn't respond. He didn't understand how she moved so quickly.

Jonas reached out for the stove and turned off the burner. The steak sizzled in the pan, still filling the house with a pleasant smell.

Jonas suddenly felt ridiculous. He didn't understand what they had been arguing about. None of it made any sense.

"I'm hallucinating," he said to himself. "Or dreaming. Yes, this is a dream. Onyx, where are you?"

Jonas stalked through the house, but it was empty. No sign that Onyx had even been there. All of the doors closed and locked.

Jonas leaned against the kitchen counter, staring at the stove. Trying to put the pieces back together.

* * *

Robert Parsons stood outside on the street, watching the woodworker through the living room window. He seemed agitated, somewhere between anger and panic. It was a sight Robert was well familiar with.

Robert glanced up at the second floor and one of the bedroom windows. He pictured two children, huddled to together, crying.

Turning away from the house, he began to work down the street towards home. A tear formed in his eye but he did nothing to brush it away. Instead he shrugged into his coat, fighting off the chill of the night.

[Jonas Drava]

From behind an outcropping of rocks, Mihály Németh waited patiently. He passed the hours by reading passages from an old leather-bound prayerbook that bent easily in his massive hands. Although his people were no longer religious in the traditional sense, they still sought inspiration from the proverbs of their ancestors. Mihály especially found that it was the only thing that could comfort him in this difficult time.

His instincts were soon proven correct. At just past noon, one day after the circus left RhyDin, he watched a tall, handsome young man emerge from the thin cover of trees that bordered the abandoned clearing. The man glanced around to make sure that he was not being watched (which, of course, he was) before walking across the empty lot.

The clan was good about erasing signs of their existance. Little was left behind to show that they had ever been there. Only ruts in the ground and the occasional sign of a garbage dump or fire pit. Soon the land would be reclaimed by nature. The circus, of course, would never return.

Once the younger man was far enough from the tree line to make escape more difficult, Mihály stepped out into the sunlight, slipping the book into the folds of his cloak. He strode quickly forward, using his massive walking stick to practically propel him across the even terrain.

Upon seeing the elder's approach, the younger man briefly recoiled before changing his mind and standing tall. He did not try to flee, instead squaring himself for a possible fight.

"Hello, father," the younger man greeted, his tone wary.

"Hello, son," Mihály responded.

* * *

"Shouldn't you be with the circus?" Zoli asked.

"I stayed behind to fetch you. We can meet them at the next stop."

Zoli walked slowly, circling his father. The two men were both well-built, with Zoli just a bit taller. Mihály was barrel-chested and strong, his weathered face featuring a long, gray beard — despite being only forty-nine years of age. His expression was intense, tempered only mildly by ageless wisdom.

Zoli, at twenty-eight, was a physical specimen — a handsome face topped with flowing blond hair and a boxer's physique. Yet his eyes carried a darkness in them that regarded his own father coldly, almost maliciously. Whether the two men could come back from the darkness that threatened to consume them remained unclear.

"I'm not coming with you, father. I intend to stay here and make this place my home."

"That is not your choice to make, Zoltán," Mihály retorted. "It is not our way."

"You know what I am. What I've become. You understand my potential. Yet you'd rather see me pumped full of drugs, wasting my formative years building and repairing dingy wooden shacks."

"Your potential?" Mihály asked with a sneer. "Talk to me in twenty years when maybe — maybe — you could be trusted to lead our people."

"Become an elder like you?" Zoli asked sarcastically. "Spend all my days coming up with stupid rules and lying about old stories and traditions just to keep the common folk in line? I'll pass."

"Such disrespect you show for your people. For our traditions."

"I've had enough tradition to last a lifetime. I think it's time for something new. To make some traditions of my own."

"This is your last chance, Zoltán. Come with me willingly or I'll drag you by your pretty-boy hair."

Zoli stopped circling his father, holding his arms out to the side as if to show that he was unarmed. "Come and get me, father. Can you take me down before I tear out your throat?"

Mihály narrowed his eyes. He didn't believe his son capable of murdering him. But he also understood the gravity of succumbing to the curse. The prayerbook he'd been reading warned of the dangers of surrendering to evil. And here was his son, who had somehow made a deal with the devil.

Mihály switched his staff to his left hand and brought it down hard on the weathered ground, sending a loud crack into the air. The noise caused Zoli to react — growing substantially in size and sprouting fur from his skin. Claws emerged from his hands and his face elongated into a snarling snout, his mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth.

Mihály seemed frail in comparison to his werewolf son, yet he did not flinch or back down. His eyes showed determination and purpose as he faced down his homicidal offspring.

Zoli took a single step forward, raising up one mighty paw to strike at his father. But Mihály reacted quickly, drawing a heavy pistol from beneath his robes and firing three shots. Darts struck Zoli in the chest, piercing his thick hide and causing him to jerk backwards and let out a powerful howl into the afternoon air.

Mihály took that opportunity and fired a fourth shot into his son's neck as the beast raised up its head. That caused the creature to stumble and fall onto the dirty ground, whimpering as the drugs poisoned his blood and circulatory system.

Mihály threw the dart gun to the ground and clutched his staff. He pulled away a cloth hood covering the top of the staff to reveal a silver figurine of a wolf. The mark of his clan. He raised it up over the beast, who regarded him with fear.

"I'm going to beat the devil out of you, son," Mihály announced simply.

The beast was barely conscious when Mihály began raining blows down on him with the heavy staff. The silver top cut through the beast's skin like a hammer through butter, splattering the elder Németh with blood and fur. The beast was unable to put up a fight, his forearms breaking under the frenzied, vicious attack.

After a minute, Mihály stepped back. The beast seemed to melt away and once again he was faced with his son. Only now Zoli was not so defiant and was instead broken and bleeding, a few inches away from death. His skin torn, bones shattered.

Mihály raised up the staff once more. A single strike to his son's head would end him. But Mihály hesitated.

"Kill me," Zoli hissed, his voice weak. "Do it now."

"Will you submit to the authority of the clan?" Mihály asked in an officious tone.

Zoli's lips curled into a snarl. "I'll find the circus and destroy you. I'll kill every man, woman, and child."

Mihály's shoulders fell as he realized that his son was truly lost to him. Yet he did not finish the job, instead lowering the staff back down to the ground. "You will never find us, Zoltán. Once I leave this place, your collection to your people will be lost forever. You will be alone until the end of your days."

"I can smell you, father. I can smell you across all of the worlds and all time."

Mihály shook his head. "Zoltán Németh, by order of the council of elders you are hereby banished. Your rights and privileges are permanently revoked. You are no longer a member of our clan. You are no longer my son."

"Finish me," Zoli hissed.

Mihály took a step forward, kneeling down next to the broken body of his son. "You wanted to live here, you get your wish. Only I think you'll find that these people will not be so welcoming. This will be your prison, Zoltán, and you are all alone here. I estimate that you'll survive for one month. After that, these people will realize who and what you are and they will put you down. You will die here, son. After one month they will kill you."

Zoli cried out in agony, rolling onto his back. Mihály stood up, collected his pistol, and turned to walk away from his son.

"Don't leave me, father," Zoli asked, his voice trembling.

"It is you who left us," Mihály responded coldly.

* * *

Sitting astride on a massive fallen tree in the woods across the street, Zoli watched his best friend move into a house in this city they both now called home. He didn't dare approach — the two men were not exactly on speaking terms. Plus she was there, helping. Onyx.

Zoli lifted a water bottle to his lips and sucked down several gulps of vodka. It was the only way to dull the pain. Both arms were in casts and his face still bore the bruises and cuts of the beating he'd suffered at his father's hands two weeks before. Despite the enhanced healing properties afforded to him by the curse, he was still barely functional. The silver burned his skin and broke his bones like no other element could. His father knew just how to beat him.

So Zoli used that anger, that hatred, to force himself into recovery. After a week convalescing in bed he finally began to limp around a bit outside. At first his walks were just from the seedy motel where he was staying to the street corner and back. Then he found the strength to go for walks around the block. He got strange looks from people around — mostly sympathy and shock — which only fueled his desire to recover. He didn't want their pity. He wanted fear.

It took him another week to find Jonas, made more complicated by the fact that Jonas was in the process of moving. He'd decided to put down roots in this place and rented a house on the outskirts of town. The location made sense — the house was in an older part of town near a rustic jogging trail in the woods and not far from the water. Certainly Jonas would never live in an apartment building — he wasn't going to trade living in a small community for living in a high-rise. The house was small and a bit crooked-looking, but it had character and Zoli knew well how much Jonas appreciated character.

Despite the rage that burned in his heart — rage that kept him ambulatory when most men would be dead — Zoli felt no hatred for his best friend. True, Jonas rejected his efforts and indirectly led to his banishment and beating. But Jonas was just misguided. He needed to be convinced to take dominion over the curse. He needed his best friend back in his life.

Onyx, on the other hand, was a problem. She never liked Zoli, and she was clearly using her influence and feminine wiles to poison Jonas against him. It was her interference that kept Jonas from cooperating with Zoli's plan to take over this town and rule it as kings.

But Zoli knew that he couldn't just go and kill her. Jonas would never forgive him. Instead, he had to find a way to get through to his best friend. To convince Jonas that she wasn't good enough for him. He had to break them apart if he was going to avoid being alone in this place. If he was going to dodge his father's prediction.

Zoli's broken leg twitched and he gulped down more vodka to compensate. The move-in was nearly complete, and he knew that the young couple would no-doubt want to celebrate. He didn't want to be there for that, so he forced himself off the stump with a grunt and began to walk away. Only something caught his eye — a figure in the upstairs window of the master bedroom. Jonas and Onyx were both outside with some of his exercise equipment, and Zoli hadn't noticed anyone else helping them. Plus this figure — a man — appeared to be wearing a gray business suit. Hardly proper attire for a move-in.

Glancing back up again, the figure was now gone from the window. Zoli shrugged and finished off his vodka. He'd return another time.

* * *

A week later, it was Onyx's turn to find a place to live — apparently moving out of whatever hotel in which she was tramping up. Zoli was pleased that she and Jonas weren't moving in together — proof that there was still hope of breaking them apart. Unfortunately the two houses were in walking distance of each other, which would make visits easy.

Zoli observed this move-in discreetly. His recovery was coming along fairly quickly and he'd removed all of his casts. Much of his body was still wrapped in bandages but he finally could see the light at the end of the tunnel. A few more weeks and he'd be back in fighting condition. A few more weeks and he'd be able to go back on all fours and hunt.

Satisfied that Jonas would be busy helping Onyx move for the remainder of the day (and probably the evening two, knowing them), Zoli made his way down the street and around the corner towards Jonas' house. His pace was still slow and the limp pronounced, but he was able to make the walk in record time. He had no difficulty jimmying the lock to Jonas' back door and he let himself in.

Jonas' house was unusually narrow — it had the dimensions of an apartment stuffed into a two-story house. Zoli immediately saw signs of Jonas' influence — repairs and renovations he'd begun on the interior. No doubt the experienced carpenter would find ways to improve the place.

Zoli skulked around the house for some time, getting to know the layout. He wasn't really sure why he'd come here — he expected to be gone before Jonas returned (likely the following morning). Maybe he just wanted to feel apart of Jonas' life. Maybe he wanted to be familiar with the place in case it came time to put his plan into motion.

Except he didn't have a plan. As he gingerly made his way up the narrow staircase to the second floor, his mind ran through the current situation. He still intended to break Jonas and Onyx apart but he didn't know how. He just knew that his fingerprints couldn't be on it. It had to seem natural.

The second floor hall was quite dark, but he found his way to the master bedroom. Zoli looked on the bed in disgust. It smelled of manipulation. Every day, that banshee was was hooking her claws deeper into his best friend. Soon, Jonas would be unrecoverable. Zoli had to move quickly if he was going to save him from her.

Zoli jerked with surprise as someone emerged from the master bathroom. He didn't think anyone would be here, and he was quite certain that Jonas and Onyx were still at her place.

"I'm sorry, did I startle you?"

* * *

Even stranger, the woman was not at all what Zoli would have expected to find in his best friend's house. She was beautiful — bright red hair framed her pale skin and allowed her blue eyes to sparkle. She was wearing a sheer nightgown that showed off her thin, athletic body. There was no sign of modesty — she had no problem letting Zoli see her like this.

Zoli smiled knowingly. "So Jonas isn't such a saint after all," he deduced. "He's helping his girlfriend move into her place while he keeps his mistress back here. Now that's the man I've been proud to call 'brother' for so many years. Frankly I wasn't sure he had it in him."

The woman tilted her head curiously as she went over to the mirror, checking her hair and eyes in the reflection.

"How long have you been with him?" Zoli asked, moving towards the window to look out on the street. "I hope I didn't ruin the surprise that he has a girlfriend."

The woman turned, her expression mildly annoyed. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Zoli turned, his brow furrowed. "Who are you? Are you in the wrong house?"

"Hardly, this is my house. I live here."

Zoli took a step forward, sniffing the air. "You have no scent."

The woman smirked. "Speaking of scent, you could use a shower. Your pustules are starting to ooze."

Zoli frowned, glancing down at his bandages. Some were moist with blood and puss.

"My name is Veronica," the woman said. "And I don't think you belong here so you should get going."

Zoli tilted his head. "You don't seem all that concerned that a strange man is in your house."

Veronica shrugged, combing her hair with her fingers. "It's a big house, a lot of people come and go."

Zoli blinked. "It's really not a big house."

"You'd be surprised."

Zoli narrowed his eyes. "You're a ghost."

Veronica spun around and pointed aggressively at her visitor. "I am not. You take that back."

"You have no scent. You certainly don't live here. You're a ghost."

"And you're a werewolf, but you don't see me trying to put a leash on you."

Zoli cringed. "Is this conversation even happening?"

"I need a drink," Veronica declared, practically launching herself out of the bedroom.

Zoli followed the spectre as quickly as his injured legs would allow. He found her in the kitchen, picking through the cabinets.

"I'm afraid Jonas is mostly a beer guy, you won't find much there."

"This is intolerable," Veronica said, her tone exasperated.

"Usually I have some vodka with me but not today," Jonas said, leaning forward on the kitchen counter. "I've been trying to reduce my reliance on it."

"Well, come back when you have something to drink," Veronica requested, opening up the fridge. "I can't drink this malted swill."

"Don't let him hear you say that. I'm pretty sure it's a deal-breaker."

Veronica found a bottle of wine in one of the cabinets. "This will have to do. Do you mind doing the honors?"

Zoli took the bottle, found a corkscrew in one of the drawers, and popped the bottle open. "Grab some glasses out of the cabinet."

Veronica scoffed. "I don't need a glass." She tipped the bottle to her lips and took a few healthy gulps out of it.

Zoli chuckled. The image of a beautiful woman, nearly naked, drinking out of a bottle of wine in the kitchen was bizarre to him, yet he found it somewhat appealing.

After drinking down nearly a quarter of the bottle, Veronica offered it over to Zoli. He took a sip to be pleasant, but wine was not his drink.

"So what happened to you?" Veronica asked. "And what does the other guy look like?"

Zoli frowned. "It's a long story."

"As you pointed out, I have plenty of time. Let's start with your name."

Zoli smiled, handing back the bottle of wine. "Zoltán. But my friends call me Zoli."

Veronica leaned back against the sink, raising the bottle up towards Zoli before once again tipping it back against her lips.

"And am I your friend, Zoli?" she asked after swallowing down more of the wine.

Zoli licked his lips, tasting the wine. "Let's find out."

* * *

The full moon shone brightly over RhyDin as Zoli and Veronica sat on the fallen tree across the street from Jonas' home. Again they shared a drink, but this time it was a bottle of premium vodka. Zoli was now completely free of bandages, although bruises and cuts still covered much of his body.

Functionally, he was almost completely healed. A few days before he'd begun a normal exercise regimen, and he hoped to begin sparring in another week. But tonight he wanted to be here with his clansman — at least close close to his clansman.

"So you're not going to turn into a werewolf, are you?" Veronica asked.

Zoli shook his head. "The moon no longer has dominion over me. This is just like any other night to me."

"And to him?" Veronica asked, jerking her head towards the house.

"I found his stash of medicine when I broke in last week. Assuming he injected it and assuming nothing goes wrong, he'll be fine."

Veronica sipped from the vodka before laying her head on Zoli's shoulder. "What do you think they're doing in there?"

Zoli watched the front window for signs of movement but he couldn't see anything other than the flames from the fireplace licking the ceiling. "Assuming he decides to be old-fashioned, which is his personality, they're in there telling stories. Then a nice home-cooked dinner."

"That sounds nice," Veronica said, her voice almost dreamy. "I like a good story, maybe I should be in there with them."

"I'll tell you a story."

"Oh yeah?" Veronica perked up, sitting up a bit straighter. "Go ahead!"

Zoli chuckled, sipping from the vodka. "About twenty years ago, my best friend and I were fishing at a stream near our village. We began to hear a commotion in town and we ran back to see what was going on."

"Was this you and Jonas?"

Zoli nodded. "We've been best friends nearly since birth. I really do consider him my brother. We're closer to each other than we are with any of our actual blood siblings."

Veronica rotated on the log until she was laying across Zoli's lap. "Go on."

"We were almost back to town when we began to hear the screams. When we got to the edge of the first farm, we saw what was happening. Massive beasts killing indiscriminately. I watched my uncle Horvath — my father's brother — die right in front of me. He was torn to shreds by some kind of monster."

Veronica frowned. "I don't like this story."

"If you and I are going to work together, you need to know where I come from."

"Alright, go on."

"I never learned why the first curse only affected some of our people and not all. But it was bedlam. A third of our people died that night. Beasts against men. Beasts against other beasts. The only reason any of us survived that night was that the beasts were so well-fed that they passed out and slept it off."

"When did you realize they were people?"

"We couldn't get to Jonas' house so we went to mine." Zoli paused, taking in a deep breath as the memories unfolded. "There we found my mother. She was dead. Torn apart — what's left of her was laying in a pool of her own blood."

Veronica took Zoli's hand, stroking it gently.

"My father had already changed back. His clothes were in tatters. He was covered in blood. Her blood. When he realized what he'd done, he dropped to his knees next to her and let out a horrible cry. It sent a shiver down my spine. I can still hear it to this day."

There was a long pause before Veronica spoke. "You were so young. It must have been very confusing for you."

Zoli shook his head. "No, I understood immediately what had happened. And I decided there, in that moment, that I would not be a victim. Not like my mother or my father. I would take command of my own destiny."

"And did you?"

"It took twenty years, but yes. Tonight the moon means nothing to me. I am not cursed or damned."

Veronica smiled, squeezing his head. "Good, Zoli. I think you're right."

"I need to find a way to help my best friend, my brother, find that same peace. I need to help him understand that he's not cursed anymore."

Veronica reached for Zoli's shoulder and sat upright on his lap, straddling his legs. Zoli winced at the movement — perhaps his body wasn't quite as sturdy as he'd thought. Despite their flirting, the two hadn't been intimate since meeting each other. He was too weak and he wasn't quite sure how corporeal she was.

"Do you love me?" Veronica asked pointedly.

Zoli furrowed his brow. "I've only known you for a week."

"I've been told I'm pretty spectacular."

"I've only known you for a week," Zoli repeated.

Veronica grinned, placing a tender kiss on Zoli's cheek. "It's not going to take you long to realize that I'm spectacular."

"It's been exactly one month since I lost my best friend. Help me get him back and we'll see."

"Tell me another story, Zoli."

"Jonas and I have had quite a few adventures. We've almost been killed more times than I can count."

Veronica squirmed around a bit, getting comfortable on Zoli's lap. "Oooh, tell me more."

[Jonas Drava]

(( Contains adult themes. ))

Hunched over his dresser, Jonas looked at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were red and his faced ragged. Even his normal 'rugged unshaved' look seemed haphazard this particular evening.

It had been three nights since he first dreamt the fight between himself and Onyx. Each night since then brought a new dream, even more intense than the last. Each argument more vicious, more hurtful. The insults more cutting, the language vulgar. And after each argument, Jonas found that he'd sleepwalked downstairs to the kitchen to carry on an imaginary debate with himself. He'd regain consciousness feeling alone and angry and confused.

The themes were always the same — his purported sloth and infidelity, children poisoned to hate him, seething hatred and judgmentalism from her. It was all so real — yet just dreams. 

The vigorous arguments were taking their toll on Jonas. Despite the darkness of the curse and the need to always be on the run, in total his life had been relatively care-free. He'd learned to live with his father's stoicism and disapproval. There was very little family strife at the circus. The clan stuck together. He considered himself a happy-go-lucky guy. Maybe this meant that they had been together too long. Maybe he wasn't meant to be in a "long-term" relationship.

Jonas knew that he cared for Onyx and was truly happy to be with her. Yet he'd avoided her these past few days because he couldn't face her. Not until he shook off the dreams. Not until he could find a way to wash away the feelings of hatred and inadequacy that burned his blood every time he saw her face.

Even as he was having the fights in his dreams (or hallucinations, as he'd begun to suspect), he knew they weren't logical. He was happy with Onyx. She made him happy. Was he being warned about his future? A relationship with her means endless fights and hatred perhaps ten years in the future? The very concept made him shudder. It wasn't fair that he should be punished like this. He was a man who relished living in the present.

"Why won't you just let me be?" he asked his reflection, his voice edged with tired frustration.

"Did I come at a bad time?"

Jonas blinked in surprise as Onyx slid up behind him. He was used to her being fairly stealthy, but this was impressive. He'd been so wrapped up in his own anger and despair that he didn't notice her approach. 

She obviously had no idea that he was upset as she gently pressed against his back and traced her fingertips up his bare chest. Her fingers traced along his musculature and he let out a soft sigh. He'd missed her touch.

"I'm sorry I haven't seen you these past few days. I've been, um, busy at the shop," he said. He hoped she wouldn't notice how distressed he looked, but he also knew that she wasn't stupid.

"Is everything okay?"

Jonas sighed. She could see through that B.S. easily. "Been having some bad dreams. I wonder if I'm adjusting okay to this life. To having a job. To living in one place. Maybe it's going to be harder than I thought."

"An animal like you shouldn't be caged," Onyx said almost dreamily.

"I don't want to be some kind of cliche," Jonas grumbled. "I'm a big boy, I can figure this all out. And it's not fair to you."

"Let's work out some of that tension, baby," she teased, leading him over to the bed. Before he knew it, he had been pushed down on top of the covers and she was climbing atop. This was the Onyx he knew and enjoyed.

"Tell me about the dreams," she said as she stripped him.

"Not worth mentioning," he answered. "Just some adjustment stuff." He didn't want her to know the truth. She might get spooked. "Oh Onyx," he said as she undressed him, his tone changing. "I've missed you so."

"You don't have to miss me. I'm always here, baby."

Jonas smiled. He no longer understood why he'd been avoiding her these past few days. Being with her made everything better. He felt foolish and stupid for getting wrapped up in silly dreams. No amount of nightmares could get in the way of the way he came alive for her.

"No bad dreams are going to keep me away from you, Jonas. No screaming shrew is going to strap you into a leash and domesticate you. You deserve to be free. You need to prowl. I understand that, baby. I understand you."

A shiver ran down Jonas' spine at her touch. She was electric to him. It felt impossibly good. "Gods, Onyx, more."

"Use that anger, Jonas," Onyx continued. "Don't ever hold back with me. I need all of you."

"Mmm, yes, Onyx. You've got it."

Onyx seemed unusually athletic (even for her) in her lovemaking, demanding more and more of him. Jonas kept up with near-equal fervor as he felt himself losing control. She was intoxicating to him.

"Tell me you love me, Jonas," she said with surprising clarity.

Jonas' eyes opened wide and he looked up at her. Through the pounding of his heart and the panting to bring air to his lungs, he was barely able to focus. Yet despite the intensity of the lovemaking, Onyx looked down at him with a hungry gaze through half-lidded eyes. 

"What?" he asked simply.

"Ooooh, Jonas," she moaned. "Don't stop. Tell me you love me."

The rush of feelings and emotions was literally overwhelming. Perhaps Jonas did love her — he'd considered the possibility. He wasn't really sure and didn't have anything to compare his feelings with. But this seemed like an odd time to bring it up and was unusually emotionally manipulative for Onyx. 

"Jonas!" she screamed. "Do you love me!?" she again asked.

"I love you, Onyx," he responded loudly. "Gods I love you."

A smile flushed over Onyx's face that seemed to light up the room. It was the last thing he saw before his vision devolved into a sea of colors.

The sensations seemed to Jonas to last forever — a combination of the emotionally fragile state he was in when their lovemaking began, the intensity of what followed, and her forcing him to make an emotional commitment to her in his most vulnerable state. By the time feeling began to return to his extremities he opened his eyes, trying to refocus. He wasn't sure what this meant, only that things would be different now.

As Jonas' vision cleared, he saw her smiling. A big, wide smile that dominated her entire face. Her eyes flashed and her body was still moving over him. 

Yet a cold, dark shudder ran down Jonas' spine as he finally understood that something was wrong.

This wasn't Onyx.

Sitting astride his waist was a complete stranger. Her body was fit and athletic — like Onyx — but she was at least ten years younger and had none of Onyx's distinctive curves. She didn't bear any of the battle scars that Jonas had grown so familiar with and appreciative of.

Her head was topped with curly red hair. A smile continued to obscure her face. She was clearly pleased with herself. Whether she was happy with the lovemaking or with her ability to manipulate circumstances to her own end — or some combination of both — remained to be seen.

A feeling of shame and horror came over Jonas when he realized what he'd done. Was this another dream? A hallucination? What had he done to deserve this? 

"Who the fuck are you?" he demanded.

The strange woman shook her head and tsked with her lips. "Hmm, Jonas, I didn't think you were the type to sleep with a woman before even finding out her name. That's pretty brazen of you."

Shame turned to anger. Perhaps even rage. Jonas pushed himself up off the bed, grabbed the woman by the shoulder, and with a powerful swipe he flung her sideways off of the bed. Quickly he jumped down onto the floor after her, ready to press the attack — convinced she was responsible for manipulating him somehow. 

Only by the time Jonas' feet hit the floor — she was gone. There was no sign of her. No sign that she'd ever been there. He glanced around the bedroom but she was gone without a trace. Not even a scent in the air.

Jonas crumpled down on the bed. His body was sweaty and sticky. Was it just a dream? A wet dream? He hadn't seen Onyx in days — was this some kind of signal that his body was starving for her touch? He could accept that — he'd certainly had dreams in the past and had no shame over his desire for her. But then why invent this other woman? Why make her demand his love? None of it made sense and he was even more confused now than when he was arguing with his own reflection only a few minutes previously.

Jonas glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was almost midnight but his mind and heart were racing dangerously fast. He needed to get out of the house. He needed some fresh air.

He needed to understand. Or forget.

* * *

Just down the street from Jonas' rental house was Harry's — a dingy corner bar with questionable health standards.  Jonas often passed the bar on his way to and from the antique store, but he never went inside. Although he could appreciate a hole-in-the-wall bar as much as anyone, the beer selection was fairly poor and he preferred to drink at The Outback where he could also watch a good fight. 

But tonight, Jonas wasn't interested in quality beer or entertainment. He needed to be drunk. He needed to wash away the guilt, the shame, the anger, and the confusion that were all pulling him in different directions.

Jonas was not the kind of man that looks for answers in a bottle. He was generally pretty good at either working out issues in his own head or in the boxing ring.

Not tonight.

But staring down into the bottom of his third glass of vodka, answers were no closer to Jonas. His tolerance was such that he was barely drunk. Really all the vodka had done was give him a headache. Or perhaps fueled the headache that was already brewing. But since no answers were forthcoming, he merely signaled the bartender for a fourth vodka.

"Can I get that?" came a strange voice.

Jonas was not interested in company. He merely grunted at the bartender, who poured the drink and backed away — not caring who was going to pay for it.

"Sorry, I don't mean to interrupt," the voice added. "But I think no one should look so unhappy."

Jonas glanced over to the side. A slightly heavy-set man in his 40s was standing a few feet away. He appeared awkward and nervous, but not threatening. His face was familiar to Jonas, but he was not sure from where.

"Robert Parsons," the man introduced — sensing the confusion in Jonas' expression. "I came into your antique store the other day. About my toy chest?"

Recognition came to Jonas, but he wasn't particularly interested. "Oh yeah." He turned back to the vodka.

"Mind if I sit here?" Robert asked, gesturing at the stool next to Jonas.

Jonas shrugged. "Whatever, man."

Robert sat down at the bar, hunched over his own drink — something darker, perhaps a rum and coke. "Do you come here often? I've never noticed you here before, although I suppose I might not remember if I had."

Jonas shook his head, raising the vodka up in the air to peer through the glass. "Nah."

"I used to come here a lot when I was younger. Lately not so much. But sometimes when I need to get out of the house I swing by."

Jonas did not react, instead sipping from his vodka.

"I love my girlfriend, but sometimes she gets on me about stuff. Tonight she was relentless and I needed to clear my head. Went outside for some fresh air and it brought me here."

"What do you argue about?" Jonas asked after a pause. He wasn't particularly interested, but it seemed clear he wasn't going to be rid of the guy without an attempt. Plus, perhaps some mindless conversation would take his mind off of the horror that he'd just experienced.

"Oh, I suppose the same stuff every couple argues about. Money. Responsibilities. Chores."

Jonas narrowed his eyes. Onyx and he didn't argue about any of that stuff. In fact, they never really argued. Maybe it was unhealthy. Maybe it led to this madness.

"She's a good girl and I'm lucky to have her. But the pregnancy has her a little on-edge, I think. Sometimes she's just crazy and I need to clear my head. Things are better when I get back home."

"Good," Jonas responded simply.

"How about you? You're hitting that drink pretty hard, if you don't mind me being so nosey."

Jonas took another sip. "Just some bad dreams. Don't want to be alone with myself right now."

Robert nodded. "I used to have some pretty scary dreams myself. My parents used to argue a lot. Not like me and Jennifer — but crazy screaming matches and fights. And my sister and I would listen to them from upstairs and we'd be so frightened. Then I'd go to bed and I'd have the worst dreams. I'd wake up screaming in terror."

Jonas swallowed the last of the vodka and set the glass down hard on the bar. 

"Jennifer and I — we don't fight like that and we always make up. I'm thankful every day that our relationship isn't like my parents'."

"That's good," Jonas observed simply.

"Any ideas what's causing the dreams?" Robert asked.

Jonas merely shrugged.

"Stresses in your life? Work? Relationship stuff? Family?"

Jonas glanced over the man, a bit of annoyance in his face. "Are you a shrink?"

"Who, me? Nah, I'm a cobbler. I repair shoes. I'm just curious, that's all."

Jonas glanced down at the glass and his hands around it. Despite the unwelcome prodding from the strange man, he considered the question of what could be causing his dreams. 

"Well, I just moved here. It's been … complicated."

"Sure, a major change to your living arrangement can cause bad dreams."

Again, Jonas grunted.

"My parents moved around a lot. I think whenever the fights would get really bad — they'd move to try to shake things up. It didn't help, though. In fact, the instability probably made things worse."

"My family moved around a lot too," Jonas said — glossing over the details of his gypsy upbringing. "I got used to it."

"Well, I suppose just the moving without the strife isn't so bad." Robert took a sip of his cocktail, his tone growing more serious. "It was hardest on my sister. I reacted like any pre-teen boy: I acted out and broke things. But she was still at that age where your parents are supposed to be perfect. I think she internalized a lot of the arguments." He paused, a bit of emotion creeping into his voice. "I wish I could go back and tell her that it wasn't her fault."

Jonas glanced over at the man, who was becoming overwhelmed by these memories. Jonas was not one to get involved in peoples' personal issues, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up as this virtual-stranger started to unload on him. 

"Look, buddy," Jonas said, "I just came here for a drink."

Robert's eyes contracted a bit as if he was hurt at the rejection, but he nodded and forced a smile. "I'll leave you be. Just have faith: it'll get better soon. It has to."

Jonas fakes a smile in response and flagged down the bartender. "Another, please. Make it a double."

* * *

Across the street from Harry's, two figures watched from the shadows — seated casually on a stoop of an abandoned house.

"Wow, whatever you did to him it must have been intense," Zoli said. "He's on his fifth glass of vodka in less than thirty minutes."

Veronica mock-buffed her nails on her silk chemise, smiling broadly. "I told you this would be easy. No man can resist me."

Zoli narrowed his eyes. "Just what did you do to him?"

"I gave him a ride he'll never forget," Veronica answered. "He'll never be able to even look at his squeeze again without thinking of me."

Zoli jumped up, folding his arms over his chest. "You slept with him?"

Veronica waived a hand dismissively. "You knew what you were getting when you got in bed with me. Figuratively, of course. Besides, sleeping with him was only half of it. In less than five minutes I was so deep inside of his head that he was lost."

Zoli leaned back against the brick façade of the house, glancing back across the street. "Just remember our deal. You split him up with his girlfriend and I'll help you out with your problem. I don't need you falling for Jonas, that's only going to complicate things.

Veronica rose to her feet and stepped into Zoli, nuzzling against his chest. "Is that jealousy?" she asked, her voice practically singing on the breeze.

Zoli nudged her backwards just a bit. "It's always been a competition between Jonas and I. But I always win."

Veronica grinned slyly. "We'll see. I have to admit, he was breathtaking. I almost forgot my lines."

Zoli grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her back against the railing. 

"Oooh, right here?" she taunted.

"This isn't a game," Zoli continued, wagging a finger in her face. "Keep your focus or you're no use to me."

Veronica rolled her eyes. "You told me you were the fun one. This macho shit is so disappointing."

Zoli muttered, releasing his hold on her.

"I'm very good at this," Veronica pressed. "You leave Mister Perfect to me. I'll have him wrapped around my finger in a week's time."

Zoli glanced back across the street at the bar. Jonas' drinking companion was now gone, and Jonas was ordering another vodka.

"He's going to be in there a while," Zoli observed. "I think I'm going to have another look in his basement. I want to find the medicine that he stole from the circus."

"What makes you think it's in the basement?" Veronica asked.

"Just a hunch."

Veronica shook her head. "Stay out of the basement, Zoli."

Zoli gave Veronica an odd look at her request. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Whatever. I'll see you tomorrow." He turned to start away, but Veronica grabbed him forcefully by the arm. 

"I'm not kidding, Zoli. Do whatever you want to me or him or to the house, but stay out of the basement."

Zoli glanced at his arm and then up at Veronica. He wasn't accustomed to being manhandled by a woman — and certainly not a ghost.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, his voice challenging.

"What we're doing here is all in fun. Ghosts and werewolves and curses. But what's in that basement — it is a power not to be trifled with."

Zoli could sense that Veronica took this very seriously, but he wasn't easily spooked. In fact, her warning only emboldened him.

"Trust me," Veronica added, releasing her hand on his arm.

"I've only known you a couple weeks … but I do trust you," Zoli added. Anything to get her off of his back.

Veronica smiled, arching upwards to plant a kiss on his chin.

Zoli sat back down on the stoop and Veronica sat next to him, leaning into his side. 

"Want to bet on how many drinks before he falls on the floor?" Veronica asked cheerfully.

"He can hold his liquor, but this is different. I give him three more glasses."

"I'll take the under. He's already starting to sway."

"And what's the prize?"

"Whoever loses has to tell another story about themselves."

Zoli nodded. "Deal."

[Onyx]

She arrived at his house sometime in the early afternoon. She let herself in, replacing the keys in her jeans pocket. Jonas was likely at the wood shop and she wanted to replace some of the items in his kitchen that she helped herself to the last time she was there. It wasn't an altruistic gesture, she just didn't want to crave something the next time she was here for a visit and be denied instant gratification. Walking through the kitchen she set the paper bag on the counter when she heard a click behind her. Her head didn't turn but her ears swiveled backwards, her body drawn still. Slowly her head turned, her nostrils flaring to take in a deep breath. There was nothing, no scent. She walked through the hallway and towards the front door where that soft single sound had come from. Her lips formed a firm line at the basement door that was now ajar. The old wood must be warped in a way she couldn't understand. It didn't seem so bent that would cause it to constantly pop open. Jonas was the wood worker, not her.

She was about to kick the door shut yet again but another sound caught her attention. There was a gentle drip of water echoing up the stairs. She winced. She felt slightly guilty in giving her approval to this house of "character" for Jonas. It was a good thing he was just renting. She flipped the switch that illuminated the single lightbulb hanging over the stairs and descended downwards in the hope of discovering just a drip and not a flooded basement. Her boots hit the second to last step when a strong impact cracked against her skull from behind sending her tumbling forward.

...

"Up and at 'em, gorgeous." A mussed and sweaty Jonas greeted her narrowed view as he hovered over her. She blinked her gritty eyes, looking left and right, then upwards. Muted sunlight filtered through canvas tent walls. Birdsong came from all sides and the air was fresh with an early morning chill. Jonas was stripping off his sweat stained shirt and replaced it with another.

"That was some dream you had, babe. You were tossing around, you almost cracked one of my ribs with your elbow." Jonas lifted his clean shirt to show her the bruise on his side. She fell back to the rolled up jacket serving as a pillow. She screwed up her face, rubbing it with her hands. She felt strange, out of place.

"If you ever want my body again, bring me coffee." Yes, coffee would help. Coffee would put everything right. Jonas laughed and gave her forehead a warm kiss. She turned under the blanket onto her side and watched him leave the tent. She smiled softly, his butt was damned near perfect. He had proposed the camping trip a few weeks ago. A relaxing weekend to hunt, hike, and make enough noise under their tent to scare off all the prey in the area so hunting time became more tent shaking time. While he was at the fire outside she dressed then tied her hair up. Not only did she begin to smell coffee, but the smoky scent of bacon started to reach her. She pushed open the flap to join him for breakfast.

...

A burst of pain exploded across her cheek. Heat bloomed as the ache from the slap reverberated throughout her skull. Her eyes watered with welling emotions. You hurt me. I hate you. I wish you didn't have power over me. I don't deserve this. You hurt me. You hurt me.

A woman in a clean and simple dress leaned over her. Everything seemed bigger. The woman, the doorways, the furniture.

"You're pissing away yet another job, Onyx. How do you think you eat at night? How do you think you sleep under a roof? They don't give a shit about servants and they don't want to hear you speak. Neither do I. At least nothing that isn't sellable. You shut that mouth and you watch and listen. That's it. I don't care if the lord feels up your leg or asks you to bring him his wine in bed and asks if you are a good girl. We might get some valuable information if you weren't so willful. Go back tonight and get something for your father, we'll decide if it is worth enough for your dinner. Climb into the masters bed if you have to and listen to his sleep speak. Go!"

...

Another night sitting at the Arenas bar. The wood itself was soaked in years worth of beer, alcohol, and blood. Behind her, metal scraped and combatants grunted when steel hit their marks. She plucked a preserved cherry from the bin of drink garnishes. She eyed the bartender, imagining what he would be like in bed. He would have to take off his sunglasses for her to take a deeper interest, she wanted to see his eyes. Turning on her stool to watch the duels, she waited for her name to be called to a ring. Unfortunately there were two matches in line ahead of hers. One of her hands played with the handle of a tightly coiled steel and leather whip fastened to her hip. Someone "cat-called" her and she praised them for their originality with a sneer. Her booted feet tapped the lowest rung of the stool, she hated waiting. She wanted to give and receive a beating. What happened in the ring was the highlight of her life recently. The high was from defeating her opponent and the adrenaline rush, the low was facing defeat and mockery during a losing streak as well as damage to her clothes. The wards only healed flesh, not wardrobe or spirit. Deciding to stay later than usual in the arena, she didn't want to go back to her room at the weekly hotel just yet. It would just be her and the silence of the room.


...

"Wake up now. You fell asleep again" A male voice gently told her. The voice was gentle but the fist knotted in her hair and pulling her head back was not. Her neck was bent further than she though it could bend. The suddenness of this situation found her without her defenses in place. Her eyes were confused and wide. Hair caught over her left ear, mashing the feline point to her head.

"That's a good girl. Try to bite me again and I will pull out those naughty teeth. Agreed?" Such a pleasant smile, the man continuing without waiting for a response. "Now think back, way...way back. I'd really love for you to tell me the story of the Heron inheritance. There seems to be a disagreement about the line. I've been paid a very generous amount to authenticate one copy over the other. You are the last person to be interviewed, and well frankly, the last person still breathing that worked at the manor."

Her hands flexed under their bonds, the knuckles were split and stinging. Her nails were torn and bleeding, the effect of trying to claw her restraints off. Torso, legs, even ankles were similarly bound. Her jaw ached and there might have been a tooth or two loose. Some of her family had worked at the manor. Heron manor was just one of many, many houses to be harvested for sell-able secrets. After all this time, after she had been thrown out for not toeing the line not to mention her physical transformation, her childhood past had found her. She felt nothing if what the man said was true. So what if some people she was related to by blood had expired. They were assholes. They were STILL assholes. Because of them she was getting beat to shit for information twenty years old.

"Now come on, tell me a story." All this guy needed was a blanket and a cup of cocoa to look right at home.

"They kicked me out around the time the middle son died. Samuel was the youngest I think, John the elder boy. I was far away, stealing my food, when the next kid died. I don't know who was responsible or who is the right heir. I don't care! I was a kid, I didn't know anything about it then. I certainly don't know jack shit about it now. It has nothing to do with me, so all this... is pointless. "

The mans mouth turns downwards. "Not..entirely pointless. You see, another part of my job is to make sure none of the servants that worked at Heron at that time, remained. I was just curious to see if you knew anything or not. Either or, I'm still killing you."

The man held her head back and turned to pick up a razor like knife. She pushed backwards with all her strength, tipping the chair backwards towards him. He was sent off balance and loosened his grip on her hair. Yanking backwards in a frenzy, one wrist lost skin but it was free to snatch up and clutch his shirt. She screamed in rage, pulling him atop of her, his neck within reach of her mouth and her sharp teeth. His fists pounded at her head, her chest, when her teeth sank deep and ripped out a chunk of flesh, severing vital veins. Hot copper flooded her mouth and nearly choked her. He yanked back with a curse, but his hand could not stem the bleeding. He first fell to his knees, then sideways to the floor. She gagged, spitting out the tissue and what blood she could. Her head fell to the floor, her view of the now dying would be assassin was sideways. Her breath was rough and she turned her eyes to the ceiling of the room.

"Fuck."

[Jonas Drava]

Jonas strode quickly through the streets of RhyDin, a head full of steam and the wind at his back. Despite the urgency and somewhat dire nature of the current situation, he felt calm and at peace.

The last forty-eight hours had been troubling, to be sure. Dreams and nightmares evolving into hallucinations and disturbing fantasies.

And that was just the beginning.

When Jonas came back to his home two days previous, he had no idea what he was stepping into. That Onyx was already there — assaulted and unconscious. That they would be pulled into a dream of an idyllic beachfront vacation. First the dream was exciting and thrilling, but then it twisted into something worse. Something violent and obscene.

Thankfully, Jonas knew a thing or two about being 'possessed,' and he recognized the signs when a malicious power was attempting to manipulate him through the visage of Onyx. He shut down the dream and was able to return to consciousness.

But even that wasn't the end of it.

Onyx came to him and again started toying with him. But he saw through it and drugged her. Finally in unconsciousness, the evil released its grip on her.

For now.

They escaped the house and went back to Onyx's place to recover. Despite the feelings of violation and betrayal, they were able to focus their anger. Act out their frustrations. And in that shared experience, they actually grew closer together.

But the feelings of safety couldn't last forever. They had to get back to work. Onyx to the Library, and Jonas—

Jonas resolved to move out of the house. It was not acceptable to be assaulted by ghosts and demons every time he closed his eyes (and increasingly often when he didn't). Worse, the enemy — whatever it was — didn't seem content to just terrorize him. It seemed to want to manipulate emotions. Anger, love, sadness, passion — all thrown into a blender and set on puree. It was abusive and Jonas wanted nothing of it. He'd experienced enough abuse in recent months.

They'd agreed that Jonas would try to find out more about the evil in the house, so they knew what they were dealing with. But there was also no question that he'd move out. Although Onyx invited him to stay at her place in the guest room, Jonas chose a hotel. He needed that distance.

Weeks ago, Walter told Jonas to meet with Agnes at the laundromat. Her deceased husband was friends with someone who lived in the house decades ago. He'd never gotten around to it, but now seemed like a good time. Perhaps she'd know some information that would be useful in extricating himself from this situation.

As Jonas thought about the situation at hand, he forced himself to calm down. The weather was beautiful. The sun was bright and alluring and there wasn't a cloud in sight. He'd gone for his morning jog and then enjoyed breakfast with Onyx. They were as happy as two people could be who were being terrorized by supernatural forces. Perhaps it was a normal state for them. Perhaps they'd be at their best when confronting a challenge together. The thought made him smile.

Jonas turned a corner towards the laundromat. His pace continued to slow, and he was now barely meandering. An old couple walked by in the opposite direction and Jonas returned their friendly smiles and nods.

It had been nearly two months since Jonas decided to move to RhyDin and leave behind his family. It was still a frightening experience, yet thrilling in a way. He enjoyed the unknown. He relished each day bringing new adventures. And Onyx continued to excite him at every turn. He was lucky to find her so early in his time in RhyDin.

Jonas turned one last corner — only he wasn't in front of the laundromat. He was in front of his house. A cloud passed overhead and Jonas felt a chill run down his spine. A breeze sprang up and caused the trees across the street to waive and bow.

Jonas didn't think it particularly odd that he'd come here, even though it was blocks out of the way in the opposite direction from the laundromat. Instead, he walked past the gate and pushed open the front door.

The house was much as he'd left it yesterday afternoon, in a hurry with Onyx. His jacket hanging behind the door, an open bottle of (now warm) beer on the counter.

Jonas heard a sound upstairs and slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor. He walked through the narrow hallway into his gym. As he crouched down, a tiny red ball rolled up to him. He picked it up in his hand and rolled it around a bit between the tips of his fingers. It was dusty and old, yet smelled sweet. He'd seen it before.

Across the room sat a young girl, perhaps five or six years old. She wore an old-fashioned child's dress and a bonnet on her head. She was pale, but her smile was magnetic and seemed to brighten up the dreary room.

Jonas sat down cross-legged, a few feet away from the girl. He set the ball down on the floor and rolled it back towards her. She caught it with her hands and giggled.

"What's your name?" Jonas asked.

"My name is Judith," the girl answered happily. She rolled the ball back towards Jonas.

"That's a very pretty name, Judith," Jonas said. "Reminds me of my sister's name: Julia."

"How old is your sister?" Judith asked. "Does she live here too?"

Jonas shook his head. "She doesn't. She's a couple years older than me and is with my father and younger brother."

"Roll the ball back!" Judith said with a grin.

Jonas chuckled and rolled the ball along the floorboards back towards the young girl.

"I told mommy you'd come back. That you weren't leaving us forever."

Jonas tilted his head curiously. "Mommy?"

Judith merely nodded and rolled the ball back towards Jonas.

"Where is your mother? Does she live here too?"

"She's around somewhere. Daddy too."

"So you know that I live here," Jonas observed.

"Of course I do. I told mommy I like you better than our last roommate. You take the time to make the house look pretty."

"Roommate?" Jonas asked with a chuckle.

"We've had lots of roommates. Some don't stay very long. Others are still here."

A chill ran down Jonas' spine.

"Roll the ball!"

"Can I talk to your mother?" Jonas asked, rolling the ball back towards the girl.

"She's not here right now," Judith answered. "But I'll let her know."

"Where do you sleep? Where is your bedroom?"

Judith merely shrugged, and instead rolled the ball back towards Jonas.

"I might not be staying here much longer," Jonas said. "I need to find a new place."

Judith pouted. "I don't want you to leave."

"We don't always get what we want," Jonas answered dryly.

"You can't leave," said another voice — a man.

Jonas looked up to see a figure standing in the doorway. He recognized the man immediately as Robert Parsons. He was sweating profusely and appeared disoriented.

"You," Jonas observed coldly.

"The house won't let you leave, Jonas," Parsons continued. "Just like it never released me."

Jonas clenched his fist around the red ball and glanced back towards Judith, only she was gone. There was no sign, other than the ball, that she'd ever been there.

"Don't make a mistake you'll regret forever," Parsons continued.

Jonas jumped up to his feet and took an aggressive step towards Parsons. "What are you doing in my house?"

"Same thing you are, Jonas," Parsons answered simply. "I was drawn here. I am often drawn here."

"Why? Why my house?"

"I was raised here, Jonas. I lived here for the first nine years of my life."

Jonas narrowed his eyes. "That first day when you came into the antiques shop. You already knew about me, didn't you?"

"I didn't, I swear. I was drawn there just as I was drawn here. But I soon realized why. When I saw you come out of this house a few weeks ago, all the pieces came together."

Jonas dropped the ball and raised his fist in the air aggressively.

Parsons blanched, recoiling against the door frame. "I mean you no harm! I am innocent!"

"Then explain yourself. What do you know about this house?"

"By now I'm sure you know everything I know. There is a presence here. An evil presence. It captivates everyone who comes to live here, and sometimes others as well."

"Why?"

"I don't know!"

"You're always talking to me about your parents. Your harsh father. He lived here?"

Parsons nodded.

"What happened to him? To them?"

"They fought repeatedly. More and more as the years passed. Until one day, it all erupted. My father strangled my mother to death and then shot himself with his pistol. Here in this room, against that wall."

Jonas turned towards the faded mural and the blood stain behind.

"I watched the whole thing," Parsons continued. "I watched my parents die in this room."

Jonas turned back towards the man and lowered his fist. He seemed more pathetic than threatening.

"My sister and I became orphans — no family. We were sent to a group home together."

"Your sister?"

Parsons nodded. "Judith."

Jonas glanced down at the floor and the ball. "Judith is your sister?"

"Yes. She was an angel. She never really understood what happened to our parents. Not like I did."

"Where is Judith now?"

"Our time in the group home was very difficult, especially for me. I was consumed with rage and anger and I had to be frequently medicated and locked up. But we both felt a pull back to his house. Several times we escaped the home and came back here, only to be caught and sent away again."

"Go on," Jonas bid.

"One night, there was a horrible storm out. I was especially crazy that night, they had to tie me to my bed. Judith came to me and told me she was going to come here, but I was too preoccupied with my own fury to pay attention."

Parsons slid down to the floor, his arms wrapped around his chest.

"The next morning, they came to me looking for her. I told them to look here. Later I learned that she was found here … in the basement. She'd hit her head on the steps…"

Parsons began to cry, burying his face in his arms.

Jonas leaned back against a piece of gym equipment, running a hand through his hair. He wasn't comfortable seeing another man cry, yet it also affected him to hear the tale of a girl he was playing with only moments before.

"That's why you can't leave, Jonas," Parsons continued. "Once this house has a piece of you, it will never let you go. It will keep pulling you back until … until it kills you."

"You've managed to stay alive, I presume," Jonas observed.

"I have my own demons, Jonas," Parsons said through the tears. "I was nine when my parents died. I am now forty-two, yet I've never felt free of this house. I always feel its influence."

"Do you know what's causing it? What's behind the phenomena you describe?"

Parsons shook his head, blowing his nose into a handkerchief produced from his shirt pocket. "No idea. All I know is that I feel it inside of me. Like a voice that's always telling me to do bad things."

Jonas tilted his head. "Do you?"

Parsons looked up at Jonas and their eyes met. Another shiver ran down Jonas' spine.

After a brief pause, Parsons forced himself back up to his feet. "I'll leave you be for now, Jonas. Do as you see fit, but heed my warning. You can't just leave. Not as long as this house holds power over you."

Jonas nodded slowly. "I think I'm starting to see that, Mister Parsons. Thank you."

"Any time you want to talk," Parsons continued, "I believe you have my business card."

Jonas nodded.

"Good luck, Jonas. I'm sorry I couldn't be the bearer of better news."

Parsons turned and walked away. Jonas considered showing the man to the door, but he figured Parsons knew the way. Instead, Jonas sat back down on the floor, needing to be alone with his thoughts.

[Jonas Drava]

Veronica Van Riesling moved effortlessly through the Sus Scrofa Inn, ignoring various scenes of depravity as she passed them by. This hotel, though far from seedy, was infamous among the underworld of RhyDin as being the place to go to get lost — and sometimes found. Everyone here had a secret to hide, and no one cared.

Pass through the door into Zoli's room, Veronica was surprised to find the place a mess. Zoli could party with the best of them, but he was usually quick to get around to straightening things up. But tonight — well past midnight on a foggy summer evening — the room looked like it had been the victim of a tornado. Personal possessions strewn around, furniture broken, and the smell of violence in the air.

Despite the fact that the suite was not particularly large (bedroom, common room, balcony), it took Veronica a few moments to find Zoli. He was in the bedroom, shrouded by darkness, staring out the window. But as she stepped into the room, she realized it wasn't him. Well, it wasn't him as she was accustomed.

"Here I am, as promised," she announced. "Looks like you started without me, though."

The figure turned and straightened, growing as tall as the ceiling. The beast looked at her through homicidal eyes, fur rustling with the breeze from the window and ears twitching. It sniffed the air and bared its massive fangs as if detecting its first meal. 

"Well this is a change, baby," Veronica said, walking a zigzag pattern in his general direction. "I can go rough if you like," she offered seductively.

The beast tilted his head and narrowed its red eyes. It leaned forward, crouching into an offensive stance. Its movements weren't playful or social. 

This was a predator, preparing to strike.

Veronica stopped her approach as concern filled her voice. "Zoli, what is it? Talk to me?"

The beast flailed out its front arms and let out a low, menacing growl that emanated from deep inside its cavernous chest. It then took an aggressive step in Veronica's direction.

Veronica took a step back and her heart skipped a beat — perhaps a phantom sensation but palpable nonetheless. For the first time in decades, she felt something that she didn't even think possible. 

She felt fear.

* * *

Jonas turned the key in his front door and pushed his way inside. The house was dark and seemed foreign to him, and he shook off the foreboding feeling that shrouded the house more intensely than the fog outside. 

At Onyx's insistence, he no longer stayed here for extended periods of time. But he was intent on solving the mysterious of the house, rather than fleeing and surrendering to its possible revenge. As a compromise, they'd agreed that he would stay at a nearby hotel. But he still came here to work in the shop and the gym, and he kept most of his things here.

He passed through the dark kitchen and up the stairs to his workshop. He needed some woodworking tools for work tomorrow. It was late and he was tired, so he quickly gathered the supplies in a cardboard box and then came back downstairs. 

Jonas had grown accustomed to odd experiences at the house. He fully accepted it was haunted and had even grown familiar with some of the sights and sounds. It was generally unsettling, yet also familiar. As a freak of nature himself, he sometimes questioned why it really mattered. In fact, if it hadn't been for the malevolent attacks on him and Onyx, he might even come to accept this strange place.

But no, not as long as there was something evil here.

As Jonas exited the stairwell and turned towards the front door, he stopped upon noticing that the lights were all on in the kitchen. They certainly hadn't been a few minutes before. 

Jonas stepped into the kitchen and set the box of tools down on the counter. There was no other sign of activity, so he reached for the light switch.

But before he could turn off the lights, Onyx slapped away his hand. 

"Don't do that, I'm trying to work here."

Jonas stepped back as Onyx returned to the stove, adding a bowl of green peppers to some kind of stew she was making on the burner. It smelled good and Jonas paused to enjoy the sounds and scents.

"Where have you been all night?" Onyx asked. "With her?"

Jonas frowned. "I was working. You know that."

"Always working," Onyx chided absently as she stirred the massive iron pot. "Never home with your wife or children."

"That's not fair," Jonas protested. "I'm trying to support this family!"

"By whoring and drinking at the brothel with those harlots?" Onyx asked pointedly, glaring at him through flaring eyes. "If that's your idea of 'support,' I'd rather you leave."

Fury welled up inside of Jonas and he clenched his fists, stepping towards her. "Now listen to me. What I do with my time is none of your—"

Jonas stopped, catching himself. He'd played this scene so many times it came to him like second nature.

But it wasn't real. He knew that. This wasn't Onyx and he wasn't her philandering husband. 

Onyx — the image of Onyx — leaned towards the stove and brought a wooden spoon to her lips, tasting the stew. She nodded satisfactorily.

"Stop this," Jonas said calmly, forcing his hands to unclench.

"Stop what?" the ghost asked, almost tauntingly.

Jonas narrowed his eyes. 

"Get out of my kitchen," the woman pressed. "You smell like whores and booze and it's making it hard for me to smell the stew.

Jonas flung into action, grabbing the woman by the arm, hard, and yanking her away from the stove. He pushed her against the counter and shook her.

"Snap out of it!" Jonas commanded.

The woman screamed. "Stop it! You're hurting me!"

"You're not my wife and I'm not your husband. I know it and I'm sure you know it."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" she screamed and began to cry.

Jonas took his hands off of her and took a step back, but he remained confrontational. "Think, woman. How long have you been here playing this out? Are you going to spend the rest of eternity arguing with your husband in the kitchen? Arguing with me? Arguing with whoever comes after me?"

The woman clutched her hands to her face, seeming suddenly disoriented and confused. She no longer looked like Onyx — she was perhaps in her mid-forties, thin and blonde. Her skin was worn and her eyes sunken and tired. 

"Let's start with your name. What is your name?"

The woman's lips parted, but she didn't answer. It was as if she didn't know."

"Focus!" Jonas commanded, snapping his fingers in the air. "Drop the script and have a conversation with me."

"Elizabeth," she finally answered. "Elizabeth Parsons." It seemed like news to her as much as to Jonas.

"That's it!" Jonas said with an excited smile, again moving towards her. "That's good, Elizabeth. My name is Jonas."

Elizabeth tilted her head curiously. She still seemed so confused, as clouded as the rolling fog outside. 

"You have two children, Elizabeth. A son, Robert, and a daughter, Judith. Is that correct?"

"Yes… how did you know?"

Jonas took her hand. This time he was not aggressive, instead warm and friendly. "I've met them both, Elizabeth. I know all about you."

"How did I get here?" she asked.

"I'm afraid you've been here for some time, Elizabeth. Trapped here, in this house, replaying a story."

Horror flooded into Elizabeth's eyes and she recoiled. "Get away from me! You smell of whores and booze!"

"Snap out of it, Elizabeth!" Jonas commanded, rising up before her. "Drop the script! Be a person for once!"

Elizabeth looked at the stove. It was now empty, just as Jonas had left it. She looked down at her own hands, wrinkled and worn.

"I can help you, Elizabeth," Jonas said, practically pleading. "I can give you something to do beside replay old arguments with your husband. But you have to work with me here."

Elizabeth looked up at Jonas. Her eyes were frightened and suspicious. She had spent decades locked in an unending war with the husband that likely murdered her. Her soul was battered and broken and her eyes cried out for relief. 

"What do you want?" she finally asked.

"Let me make you some coffee," Jonas offered warmly. "And you can tell me all about your life before you came to live here. When was the last time you had a real conversation?"

Elizabeth managed a half-smile. "Yes, I'd like that. Thank you."

* * *

The beast pounced atop Veronica, knocking her to the floor with a massive blow. She cried out, terror gripping her. She was in no danger, but she didn't know that. Instinct took over completely.

Putrid breaths washed over her as the beast sniffed at her face, snarling through its massive maw. Another growl rumbled through its body and huffed through its mouth.

"Zoli stop," Veronica begged. "You're scaring me." 

The beast tilted its head, and it then reared back as if in pain. Then, in a swift motion, it shrunk before her until Veronica found herself pinned to the floor by Zoli. The transformation was quick — almost too quick — and it seemed to momentarily suck the air out of the room. 

"What got into you, Zoli?" she asked. "Why did you do that?"

Zoli looked down at Veronica through a tortured expression. He was breathing rapidly and his skin was drenched in sweat. Something was clearly wrong. 

"Talk to me," she demanded.

"It's in my head…" Zoli hissed. "It's trying to control me."

Veronica's eyes grew wide as she understood. "How long?"

"A few hours now. I thought I could resist it as a wolf, but it only urged the thing on. I've been fighting it this whole time. Trying to keep it out."

"Oh Zoli, I'm so sorry," Veronica confessed. "I warned you not to go down in that basement."

"I will not be a slave to this thing, whatever it is," Zoli snapped. "It doesn't frighten me."

Veronica narrowed her eyes. "It should. You're out of your league here."

Zoli grabbed Veronica's throat and squeezed, and her eyes again went wide. 

"Tell me everything you know about this thing. I'll be damned if I'm going to let it own me."

"Let it go, Zoli. Go far away from here and maybe it will forget about you."

Zoli squeezed harder. "I don't run away from my problems. That's Jonas' tact. I face them. And maybe I can use this thing to my advantage once I make it my bitch."

"You can't use it, Zoli. It uses you. You have no idea what you're dealing with here."

"So tell me," Zoli again commanded. "Tell me everything."

"You can't hurt me, Zoli. I'm beyond your reach."

Zoli tilted his head, then smiled sickly. "That may be true, yet I feel you trembling." He lowered his voice to a menacing whisper. "You can still experience terror."

He was right. She'd never known fear like this and she couldn't make it stop. She squirmed to be free but she couldn't break his grip. She was powerless in this moment. 

"Tell me what it is."

"I don't know!" she cried out. But then, as she felt her joints go weak, she added: "But I know who does."

* * *

Robert Parsons sat in near total darkness in his tiny apartment, only the light of a single candle illuminating his work.

Before him, a table filled with knives. Dozens of knives. All clean and brutally sharp, eerily reflecting the light of the flame.

Robert picked out one of his favorites and began sharpening it on a leather strap. Back and forth, back and forth, over and over again at an increasingly fevered pitch.

"Shut up!" he suddenly shouted over his shoulder. "I'm trying to work here."

Robert's eyes focused on the knife. It wasn't sharp enough. It needed more work. It had to be perfect. That was the commandment.

"I said shut up!" he again screamed. "Don't make me come in there!"

She didn't understand. Always interrupting him. Always complaining. Just one of the many burdens he had to bear.

But not tonight. God had a task for him. And he needed his tools to be ready.

* * *

Zoli rapped aggressively on the door to Agnes Fairchild's tiny apartment above the laundromat. It was morning, but still early — the sun was only just beginning to rise and burn away the remnants of the fog. It took all of Veronica's influence to keep him from coming over here at two in the morning, but once he saw the first signs of sun he hit the road. She didn't come along — she needed to recuperate from the evening's experiences. 

It took a few minutes, but Agnes finally came to the door. She was elderly — easily in her late eighties — and wore a flimsy silk bathrobe. 

"What do you want?" she asked through the window. 

"Please, I must talk to you," Zoli pleaded. "I'm in danger."

"Who are you?"

"I've come about the house. The one on the corner. I'm in danger."

Agnes' eyes grew wide and, but despite all common sense she opened the door and admitted Zoli inside.

Zoli was seated at the kitchen table and given a mug of tea, which he accepted respectfully. Much of the evening's mania had passed and he no longer felt the presence in its head. Even evil must take breaks, apparently.

"What brought you here?"

"I'm told you were friends with one of the previous owners."

Agnes sat across from Zoli, stirring honey into her tea. "My husband Morty, God rest his soul, participated in a regular card game with Mitchell Parsons. They were good friends."

"How long ago was this?"

Agnes shrugged, glancing up at the calendar on the wall as if it would answer the question. "Maybe forty or fifty years ago."

"You don't seem surprised that I came to you," Zoli said. "Why did you open the door?"

Agnes looked back at Zoli with knowing eyes. "You're not the first, child. And I'm sure you won't be the last. I've kept a close watch on that house for quite a few years."

"The house is haunted, isn't it?"

Agnes took a sip from her mug, peering at the man over the rim.

"I've seen things … felt things."

"What is your name, son?"

"Zoltán."

"You're new to this town, aren't you?"

Zoli nodded.

"The supernatural lives among us openly here. But some things are extreme even for RhyDin."

"It's in the basement, isn't it? It corrupts the house and everyone who lives or visits there."

Agnes nodded slowly.

"So what is it?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure anyone does."

"Someone must know something," Zoli pressed.

Agnes glanced around the room and then leaned closer, as if about to tell a deep, dark secret. "I never visited the house, but Morty did. He told me stories of strange things that happened there. And one time he told me, well, that there was something in the basement. Something evil."

Zoli leaned towards the old woman, the excitement palpable. "Tell me more."

"He only went down there once. And he said it was small and dark and dirty and that he didn't see anything evil."

Zoli tilted his head, disappointed. "Oh."

"He did, however, see a book. A small book on a tiny shelf in the corner next to the furnace."

"A book?"

Agnes nodded simply.

Zoli racked his brain. He'd been down to the basement twice but he didn't remember seeing a book — or a shelf for that matter.

"Six months after telling me about the book, Morty fell off our roof while hanging Christmas lights. For a few days we tended to him and he was delirious from the pain and the drugs."

Zoli lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Agnes' eyes flashed. "With his dying breath he told me that there was a demon in the basement of that house. That it was trying to take him to hell and that he was fighting it off."

Zoli's jaw dropped.

"He told me that the book in the basement told the demon's story and gave its name. He told me to get the book to lay his soul to rest."

"And did you?"

"I asked Mitchell to look for it — I was too afraid. But when Mitchell reported back, he said there was no book. Only an empty shelf."

"Where did it go?"

"I assume the demon hid it to keep us from finding it."

"Why? What power does this book have over it?"

Agnes smiled strangely. "I told you, it has its name." Her voice deepened. "To know a demon's name, is to know its power."

"I have to find this book. I have to stop this demon from hurting anyone else."

Agnes rose to her feet and carried both of their mugs to the sink.

"Please, tell me how to find it."

"I don't know how to find the book, Zoltán," Agnes said, turning back towards him. "But I think I know who does."

* * *

As the first rays of morning light began streaming in through Jonas' kitchen window, he sleepily refilled two mugs of coffee and set them out on the counter. He'd stayed up all night chatting with Elizabeth Parsons — learning about her childhood, her family, and her values and hopes and dreams. The conversation was like any two long-lost friends would have, catching up on a lifetime apart. Elizabeth seemed to find it easy to open up to Jonas, ecstatic to finally have someone other than her husband and children to talk to. 

Elizabeth tilted her head as Jonas choked down a yawn. "I've kept you up all night, haven't I?" she asked sheepishly.

Jonas shrugged, leaning forward on the counter and blinking his eyes awake. "It's been a pleasure to get to know you, really."

"It's easy to lose track of time," she mused sadly. 

Jonas peered closely at the woman. You'd never know by looking at her that she was a ghost, dead for decades. She looked perfectly real. Almost too real. 

"How did this happen to you?" Jonas finally asked. He knew the answer — at least the line that her son had given a few weeks previous.

Elizabeth looked down and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "My marriage was not going well. One day the argument got out of control and my Roger snapped. Don't get me wrong — things between us were … not good. But that day I felt like something was feeding our argument. Making it worse than ever."

Jonas narrowed his eyes. This didn't surprise him. He'd felt it too.

"Next thing I knew … Roger's hands were around my throat. I remember going limp and passing out." Her eyes glazed over as she visualized the experience. "When I woke up … there was blood everywhere. Bobbie was crying. Judith was crying. I began to cry."

Jonas reached out a hand and rested it on hers. 

"It was weeks before I truly understood what had happened. That I … that we were both dead. What's worse, it only made things worse between Roger and I. It was no longer his boozing and philandering and worthlessness. Now I could hate him for killing us."

"But worse than that — worse than the end of my marriage and my death at my husband's hands," she continued, taking a deep breath, "I had to watch them come and get our children and take them away from us. I wailed like a banshee but I couldn't stop them. I hadn't yet learned how to interact with the living."

"I'm sorry, Elizabeth," Jonas said. He felt helpless.

"Judith eventually came back to us, of course. And again I cried for her. All of our hopes and dreams for her future."

"What about Robert? Bobbie?"

Elizabeth frowned. "He has his own demons. You can't watch your parents kill each other and not have problems."

Jonas' hackles raised at her use of the word 'demons.' "Are you aware of the force that's in the basement?"

Elizabeth nodded slowly. 

"I'm not going to let what happened to you, happen to me and my girlfriend. If there's anything you can tell me—"

"Stay out of the basement," Elizabeth snapped. "That's what I can tell you."

Jonas curled his lips into a snarl. "Not enough, Elizabeth. Maybe I can help us all."

Elizabeth sighed, taking a hesitant sip of her coffee. "I doubt I know more than you do. Something evil lives down there, and it manipulates all of us. The arguments, the murder — all of it."

"Have you ever spoken to it?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "But I feel its presence."

"There must be something you can tell me about it," Jonas pressed. "Its' powers. Weaknesses. Something."

Elizabeth glanced up at the ceiling thoughtfully, before looking back down at Jonas. "Not me. But I know someone who might. Roger used to have a regular card game with his friend Morty, and Morty's wife Agnes took an interest in the house and studied the occult. She always creeped me out, but she might have the information you're seeking.

A light bulb went off in Jonas' head. This wasn't the first time he'd heard that name. He'd been meaning to talk to this Agnes for weeks now, but he'd never gotten around to it.

"I should go check on Judith," Elizabeth said, rising from her seat.

"Thank you for talking with me," Jonas offered with a friendly smile.

Elizabeth returned the smile. "Thank you for caring, Jonas."

And with that, she vanished from view.

* * *

Robert Parsons stood outside his old childhood home, fiddling with the key in the lock. Soon it caught and gave way, and the door swung open.

Parsons tightened his grip on the handle of his favorite knife as he strode eagerly into the house. It was morning but the house was not well-lit and had a gloomy appearance. There were signs of recent activity — coffee cups on the sink and a warm kettle on the stove. But as he searched the house, he found no one. 

"Did I come too late?" Parsons asked out loud.

He paused, turned in a circle, and sighed.

"I'm sorry, master. I've failed you."

Robert sank down, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor. With the edge of his knife he traced a line down the wooden slats. A sound caught his ear and he looked up to see the approach of his sister from the stairwell.

"Go home, Bobbie," Judith commanded. She looked angry.

"I am home," Robert insisted.

"You can't be here," Judith pressed. "Just go."

"Don't tell me what to do," Robert sneered.

"I won't let you hurt my new friend," Judith shrieked.

Robert narrowed his eyes. "You can't stop me."

* * *

Jonas climbed the steps to a small apartment above the local laundromat. He was exhausted from having stayed up all night, but he had to try to answer his questions. The laundromat hadn't yet opened for the day, so he knocked gingerly on the door to the apartment.

When there was no answer, Jonas knocked harder. The door swung open eerily.

Hesitantly, Jonas entered the apartment, calling out for Agnes. There was no answer.

As he explored, Jonas found the apartment was trashed. Shelves wrecked, furniture destroyed. 

Making his way into the kitchen, Jonas found a smashed tea kettle on the kitchen table. It was still warm — and half-empty cups suggested that this had all happened recently.

Jonas looked up and saw something that sent a shiver down his spine. A mighty gash in a cabinet just next to the sink. Claw marks. Familiar claw marks. 

He sniffed the air, and the scent came easily to him.

A werewolf had been here.

* * *

Zoltán Németh sat quietly in a local RhyDin coffee shop, peering discreetly at the crowd waiting in line to select various flavored caffeinated drinks. A cup of cold tea sat on the table in front of him, abandoned and ignored. Just a prop.

It had been three days since he visited Agnes. She was ever so helpful in telling him where to go next. But this time he had to be a bit more subtle. It didn't take him long to find his target, but he couldn't be so overt. So he began studying her schedule and quickly learned that she came here to this café twice a day for coffee. 

This time he'd follow her out. He was ready to make his move.

Absently he stirred the tea, watching and waiting as his target reached the counter and ordered her drink. Black coffee, one sugar. A boring order for a boring woman. She was middle-aged, dressed simply and with an unmemorable face and build. It's as if she was designed not to be noticed.

But Zoli noticed. Zoli was watching.

The woman paid the cashier and collected her drink. She then turned and left the shop. She never even noticed that she was being observed.

Zoli stood calmly and moved swiftly but unobtrusively through the crowd. As he was slowly coming into his power he learned all sorts of tricks, including how to move quickly and stealthily in human form. Soon he was on the street, walking a good fifty paces behind the woman, excited and eager to find out where she'd lead him.

After walking several blocks down one street, she turned down another. Zoli kept up with her, keeping her at maximum range so as to avoid being noticed.

Another turn put the woman into a narrow alley between two poorly-constructed brick buildings. It was still early and a dim haze hovered above the tenements. Zoli rounded the corner and kept her in his sights. She must be reaching her destination as there was no way out of the alley they'd entered.

She turned yet another corner and Zoli crept up behind. Peering around a dumpster, he noticed she'd stopped. She was just standing there in front of a series of nondescript metal doors — rear entrances to various shops on the other side. Was one of these her destination?

Zoli struggled to slow his breathing so as not to give away his position. The thrill of the hunt excited him. He couldn't wait to confront her. 

Yet as he felt a silver blade come into contact with his throat, burning at his skin, Zoli realized that he was not the hunter. 

He was the prey.

The woman turned around to face him. They were only perhaps twenty feet apart, but the sword burning into his flesh kept him from moving. He couldn't see the wielder — someone had managed to sneak up on him.

"I mean you no harm," Zoli protested, raising his hands in the air in surrender.

"Then why have you been following me for three days?" she asked sternly.

Zoli narrowed his eyes. He wasn't quite as clever as he'd thought.

"One stroke of my guardsman's sword will take off your head and destroy you, werewolf," the woman continued. "I suggest you speak quickly."

But Zoli couldn't speak. Instead his mouth gaped open.

"Very little happens in this city of which I am not aware, Mister Németh," she explained. "Once I realized you were stalking me, it didn't take long to find out who you were. Of course," she added, taking several defiant steps towards him, "it helps that you're wanted as a suspect in numerous murders."

"You don't know anything about me," Zoli hissed, his eyes narrowed in a brutal scowl.

"I know enough," she responded simply. "Now tell me what you want before I have your head taken as a trophy and placed on my wall. I'm eager to find out if it will be a human head … or revert to a wolf head."

"I'm looking for a book," Zoli blurted out quickly. "A book about a demon that lives here in RhyDin."

The woman stopped her approach, tilting her head curiously. She looked surprised.

"I was told that you either have this book, or would know where to find it."

"Told by whom?" she asked defensively.

"I'd be happy to discuss this matter in greater detail, if you'd take the blade off my throat."

"What are you willing to pay for this book?" the woman asked curiously.

"I am not a wealthy man," Zoli answered. "But I have talents that you might find useful. I'm willing to work off the debt."

"What makes you think I need your 'talents'?" the woman asked. She didn't appear impressed.

Zoli bared his teeth and hissed. "Everyone needs someone like me."

After a long pause, the woman waived away her guardsman. The sword was removed from Zoli's throat, and he reacted with a hacking cough. He glanced back behind him to see a simple man wearing a black suit and tie, armed incongruously with a deadly silver blade. 

"Alright, Mister Németh. I'm willing to arrange a conversation with you about this book. But if you can't meet our price, there may be consequences for your boldness."

Zoli turned back towards the woman and nodded. 

"Shall we meet now?"

"I'd like that," Zoli answered.

"Then come with us," she bid, turning away from him.

"You have me at a disadvantage," Zoli said. "You know my name—"

The woman turned back towards Zoli and flashed a knowing smile. "Yes, Mister Németh. I have you at a disadvantage."

[Jonas Drava]

Stanley Richmond made his way down the back staircase to his kitchen, carefully balancing a too-full mug of piping hot coffee in one hand and the daily newspaper in the other. He usually started his weekdays on the rustic outdoor deck jutting out from the master bedroom before the morning fog lifted enough for him to navigate the stairs down to the controlled chaos that was his family's kitchen.

He greeted Marilyn, his wife, with a brief kiss before setting his coffee down on the breakfast bar and giving hugs to his two eldest children - 16-year-old Andrew and 12-year-old Shanna. He then moved over to the kitchen table and settled in at the head to await his breakfast. He was dressed in a silk robe that matched the color of his coffee and the elegant manner in which he chose to carry himself.

"Good morning, Stan," greeted Marilyn. "I'll have scrambled eggs out in a few minutes."

"Take your time, dear," Stanley responded casually. "I'm still trying to get through all this nonsense about the dockworker union," he added, referring to the local section of the newspaper.

"Oh it's horrible," Marilyn observed. "All those thugs killing each other. Oh," she added, changing the subject, "your lunch is already prepared in the fridge — I made you a turkey sandwich with that new cheese you like."

Stanley smiled appreciatively at his wife. He then took a careful sip from his coffee before glancing around the kitchen.

"Where is my youngest?" Stanley asked.

Marilyn sighed. As Andrew and Shana took seats around the kitchen table, it became clearly evident that the third child was absent. The Richmond family, as mandated by their patriarch, treasured punctuality. It was not acceptable that someone was missing.

"She's probably in hiding," Marilyn confessed. "I saw her a few minutes ago."

"Hiding?" Stanley asked, an eyebrow raised. He set down the newspaper and looked pointedly at his wife for an explanation.

Marilyn began serving up heaps of eggs on each of the plates set on the table from a sizzling skillet. "She got into a fight at school yesterday."

"A fight?" Stanley asked, eyes growing stern.

Marilyn nodded.

"That's enough, I'll hear the rest from her."

Marilyn nodded, retreating back to the stove and gathering condiments.

"Sabrina June Richmond," Stanley bellowed deeply, "show yourself this instant."

The youngest Richmond slunk into the kitchen through the doorway leading to the living room. Her eyes were downcast — she could not find the strength to look her father in the face.

None of the other Richmond children dared touch their breakfast. It was not allowed to eat until everyone was at the table, and — even if it meant their eggs getting cold — there would be no eating until this issue was settled.

"Is there a note?" Stanley asked his youngest daughter.

The 10-year-old nodded slowly, producing a folded piece of paper from behind her back, and sliding it onto the table in front of her father.

Stanley did not bother reaching for the note, but he did pause to take another sip of his coffee. "What does it say?"

Sabrina took in a deep breath and expelled a long sigh. "It says—"

"Look at me when I'm speaking to you," Stanley admonished.

As Marilyn finally walked over to the table, Sabrina looked up at her for help — but none would be forthcoming.

"Look at your father when he is speaking to you," Marilyn chastised.

Sabrina's tiny brown eyes finally centered on her father. They focused and refocused quickly and were damp with tears. She was frightened and pale.

"What does the note say?" Stanley pressed.

"It says I hit Bobby Barnes," Sabrina confessed.

Stanley set down his coffee and leaned ever-so-slightly forward. "And did you?"

"Uh-huh," Sabrina responded, barely audible.

"Speak up, girl, I can't hear you."

"I did hit him," Sabrina said, her voice trembling.

"Why did you hit this boy?"

"He called me a name on the playground."

"What name?"

"He called me a badger."

Stanley raised a brow and looked over at his wife, who shrugged helplessly.

"Why did he call you a badger?" Stanley asked, turning back towards his daughter.

Sabrina began to cry and clutched her hands to her face.

Stanley sighed with frustration.

"It's because of her nose," Andrew offered. "Sometimes I hear the younger kids say she, uh, looks like a badger."

Stanley narrowed his eyes, first at his son and then his wife, before finally turning his attention back to Sabrina.

"I'm sorry, father," Sabrina sputtered through the tears.

Stanley rested a calming hand on his youngest daughter's shoulder and she instantly stopped crying.

"Now listen to me, Sabrina," Stanley said. "You know you cannot go hitting boys who call you names, yes?"

Sabrina nodded with a bit of a snuffle.

"You have to be in control of your emotions. Violence doesn't solve anything. Hitting people doesn't make their words hurt less."

Another nod.

"If that happens again, you just tell them that you are not a badger and they'd better not call you names. And if they say it again, you tell a teacher or you come tell me or your mother. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," Sabrina answered, brushing the tears from her eyes.

"And I don't think you look like a badger. Not even in the slightest."

Stanley's firm, stoic tone caused Sabrina to smile involuntarily, and Shana couldn't help letting out a laugh.

"Now go clean to the bathroom and clean up your face, then get back in here for breakfast. Everyone's food is getting cold."

As he removed his hand from her shoulder, Sabrina scampered hastily out of the room.

Stanley reached into the pocket of his robe and produced an antique pocket watch. He glanced up at his wife and frowned.

"Would you like to take your breakfast to go?" Marilyn asked.

Stanley shook his head. "I'll find the time. I only get to see my family at breakfast and I intend to have this meal."

Marilyn nodded.

"And get me the contact information for this Bobby Barnes," Stanley added. "I want to know what type of boy is calling my daughter names."

"I'll see what I can find out."

Sabrina returned to the kitchen, now looking much less weepy, and climbed into her chair. With that, the family commenced eating breakfast.

* * *

Stanley strode quickly through the lobby at his workplace, dressed in a light-brown three-piece suit that was only slightly above his complexion. The uniformed security guards at the front desk eyed him curiously — Stanley was twenty minutes late to work this day, which was virtually unheard-of. But Stanley didn't allow the surprised looks to throw him any off his schedule. He clutched his briefcase tightly in his right hand while pressing his left hand to the scanner that admitted him to the restricted elevator.

The doors admitted Stanley to sub-level two and he stepped past another guard, who buzzed him into a secure complex deep underground. He passed through two sets of doors and then turned left down a sparse, dimly-lit hallway. Leather shoes clacked loudly on the concrete floor as he walked past row after row of heavy steel doors before reaching the only one that featured a guard sitting on a metal folding chair.

The guard rose to his feet and glanced at his wristwatch — the latest to note Stanley's late arrival.

"Good morning, Mister Richmond," the guard greeted professionally.

Stanley nodded. "Good morning, Gene."

"Everything is exactly as you requested, sir."

Stanley peered through the tiny window into the small room at the figure inside. "Please open the door."

Gene produced a key ring from his belt and fumbled through the keys until he found the correct one, which he slid into the lock and turned for a satisfying click. He then pulled the heavy door open so that Stanley could step inside.

"Why is this man hung from the ceiling like a slab of beef?" Stanley asked, looking over the room's sole occupant.

"Uh, those were the madam's orders," Gene responded. "They were working on him pretty late at night."

"Release him at once," Stanley commanded. He took a seat at a folding chair that had already been set up in the room, just inside from the door, which sat before a small flimsy card table.

Gene walked over to the prisoner (as he could only be described as such), who was naked from the waist up and chained by the wrists to the ceiling. His wrists were sickly discolored and swollen as if he was suffering an allergic reaction to the manacles (which appeared, to Stanley's observation, to be silver-plated). Gene used another key to release each cuff until the man collapsed listlessly to the floor.

"When was the last time he was fed?"

Gene shrugged, collecting the chains in a milk crate. "Not sure, not since I came on duty."

"Bring in your chair and then go and see if you can find something to eat and drink for this man," Stanley commanded.

"Uh, the madam said I'm not allowed to leave here."

Stanley raised a brow at the guard's impertinence. "The 'madam' is not here right now — I am. This man is beaten and battered and does not represent a threat to me. Now go get him a chair and then find him some food. That is an order."

Gene gulped and nodded. "Yes, sir." With a scrape, he dragged in his chair from the hallway and set it up across the table from Stanley before closing the door behind and disappearing beyond.

Stanley set his briefcase on top of the card table and flipped open each lock in turn before opening the briefcase — temporarily obscuring his view of the prisoner. From inside the briefcase he produced a manila file folder, a blank yellow note pad, and a pen, before closing the briefcase and setting it carefully down on the concrete floor.

"Now, Mister Németh, let's get to work."

* * *

Zoli's nose flared as he expelled shallow breaths against the dusty floor. Everything hurt — especially his face and chest from the savage beatings he'd endured — but excluding his arms that were numb. His shoulders had been nearly dislocated from hours of hanging by his wrists from silver handcuffs that'd seared the flesh from his wrists. Whatever mercy had finally let him down would be repaid with the appropriate level of homicidal vengeance, but for now he needed to rest a moment.

"Take your time, but I will need you to join me over here," the strange man said.

After a period that seemed to Zoli like hours — but was probably only a minute or two, he tested his arms and found with some relief that the blood was rushing back into them. He pushed upwards just enough to get a look at the man sitting down at the table. He was a simple, almost bookish looking man wearing a highly-inappropriate three-piece tweed suit. He looked more like an accountant than an interrogator and stuck out brazenly in this stone and metal prison.

Zoli rose awkwardly to his feet. He found his shirt, crumbled in a ball in the corner of the room, and delicately slipped it back over his head. The shirt was soaked in sweat and blood but he felt just a bit more human being fully clothed. There'd be plenty of time for inhumanity soon. He just needed to regain his strength.

"Please have a seat," the man offered, gesturing towards the metal folding chair sitting across the table from him. "And we can begin."

"Who are you?" Zoli demanded.

The man tilted his head curiously. "Did they not tell you to expect me?"

Zoli shook his head.

"My most sincere apologies. It appears that our standard procedures have not been followed to the letter. I will see that this is addressed."

"Bully for you," Zoli practically spat into the air.

"My name is Stanley Richmond. I've been assigned to speak with you this morning."

"Speak with me?" Zoli glanced around the room. "The last person who came into speak with me beat me with a metal pipe for about twenty minutes."

Richmond raised a curious brow. "That was Angus, and his job was to soften you up. Perhaps you misunderstood what he told you."

Zoli merely gaped.

Richmond reached into his vest pocket and produced an antique time piece, which he flipped open to observe the time. "I'm afraid we're a bit behind schedule, so I must insist that you take your seat so that we can begin. I understand you've had a most trying couple of days, but it is very important that we stay on track."

"You know I could tear you apart in seconds," Zoli warned. "Before you could even scream."

Richmond slipped the pocket watch back into his jacket and looked up at Zoli. "I've been briefed on your particular talents, yes. Killing me will do little to benefit you, however."

"Awfully pragmatic, aren't we?" Zoli sneered.

"I take pride in my work, Mister Németh," Richmond answered. "Need I remind you that you came to us?"

Zoli licked his lips and paused to stretch out his sore arms. He then took several steps towards the table and sat down easily in the chair.

"Excellent," Richmond observed with a hint of satisfaction.

"So exactly what am I being softened up for?" Zoli asked.

Richmond flipped open the file folder on the table and reviewed the first page. "According to your file, the subject — that's you — approached one of our senior librarians in search of a book."

Zoli leaned back casually in the chair, attempting to exude some amount of confidence. "Something like that."

"A book that we apparently…" he flipped a page "…don't have."

Zoli muttered. "Could have saved me a lot of pain if someone would have mentioned that sooner."

"Somewhere during the contract negotiations, you expressed an interest in us finding it for you."

"'Contract negotiations'?" Zoli asked. "Would that be when I was being beaten with the metal pipe or menaced with the red-hot metal poker?"

Richmond did not look up from his paperwork. "A determination was made internally that you would need to be tested to see if you were a suitable candidate."

"Suitable candidate for what, exactly?" Zoli asked, exasperated. "Is this how you treat all of your customers?"

Richmond looked up at Zoli with a stern expression. "You're not an uneducated man, Mister Németh. You stalked and ambushed a senior librarian. You had every intention of using us to meet your selfish ends. We are also well aware that you are responsible for several recent murders and attempted murders here in the city. You are not a 'customer,' you are a loose canon trying to drag us into your melodrama."

Zoli narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. "Watch your tone. If you know who I am, you know what I am capable of."

Richmond turned a page in his file, glancing down briefly at the text on the page before looking up. "Mayhem and destruction with little planning or common sense," Richmond answered matter-of-factly. "The only reason your head is not mounted on Sir Patrick Gould's wall is someone else got to him first."

Zoli pounded his fist onto the rickety card table, causing it to falter. The pen and yellow note pad slid down to the floor but Richmond was able to rescue the file folder. He did not otherwise flinch.

"There's no need for that, Mister Németh, Richmond said, retrieving the fallen items. "I understand and accept that you are not satisfied with our treatment of you. Frankly, neither am I, but I don't make those kinds of decisions. What I can tell you is that you've been deemed both a threat and an asset to this Library, and we must evaluate you before making a determination on how to proceed."

"And how might you proceed?"

"There are a number of options," Richmond observed as he began writing notes on the yellow pad. "And those decisions are not made by me."

"Humor me," Zoli demanded. "What are we talking about here?"

"We could decide that you are not worth our time and release you. We could determine that we have an interest in this book and help you find it."

Richmond discovered with some annoyance that the pen was broken and leaking ink and set it down with a sigh.

"Go on," Zoli pressed.

"Or we could decide that you are a threat — and that you already know too much about us."

"And if that happens?"

"You will never leave this room, Mister Németh."

Zoli's eyes flashed. "So what's the next step?"

Richmond hoisted his briefcase back onto the top of the table and opened it up, presumably searching for a new pen.

"Now that you've been softened up, I can test you."

"Test me?"

Richmond found a pen and set it down on the table. He then glanced back at the door. "Where is that fool guard?"

Zoli followed the gaze at the door. He remembered the command to produce food and his stomach growled. He estimated he'd been in this place for two days since first being captured, and he'd been fed only scraps of bread and water on an irregular schedule.

Richmond sighed and produced a simple paper bag from his briefcase, which he returned to the floor. He eyed Zoli up and down before sliding the paper bag towards him.

"What's this?"

"My lunch," Richmond answered. "Turkey on rye with provolone. Take it."

Zoli narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He was so hungry, but this seemed like just the kind of psychological manipulation they'd try.

"It's not poisoned or drugged, Mister Németh," Richmond reassured. "And my wife will be most unhappy if she finds out that I gave it away, so just eat it and let's move on."

Zoli carefully opened the bag and produced a large home-made sandwich wrapped in wax paper. He gave Richmond one last look before tearing into it, consuming it rapidly and messily.

"I'm here to test you, Mister Németh. To determine various aspects of your character and fortitude. And based on the results of my tests, a decision will be made by the senior librarians as to how you will be handled."

"Are you going to torture me?" Zoli asked, his mouth full of sandwich.

Richmond smirked, either at the question or the crude eating. "I'm just here to test you, Mister Németh. You may find some of the tests to be uncomfortable, but I they are not designed to intentionally cause pain or even unease."

"So you're saying I've already been through the worst of it."

Richmond reached into his vest pocket and again checked the time before looking up. "No, I wouldn't say that. Depending on how you react to the tests, you may find this experience to me much more taxing than what you've already been through."

Zoli stopped eating mid-bite, his eyes locked on the man across the table from him.

"Now I'm rapidly approaching the hour of my next appointment," Richmond continued, "so we really need to get to work. Shall we commence the tests?"

[Jonas Drava]

Zoli felt the side of his face scrape bloody against the concrete floor of his cell, yet there was nothing he could do about it. He lacked the strength to lift his head — let alone his body — so all he could do was take some comfort in the cold, lifeless stone.

His breathing was short and labored, and each painful exhale sent a visible puff of dust into the air. The only object in view was the metal leg of the table, beyond that only darkness.

He no longer trusted his senses. His eyes and ears frequently betrayed him. Desire for escape. Hope for release. Neither came. Only the daily visits from his interrogator, and sometimes others.

Zoli told himself that he hadn't given up. That he could endure. But somewhere inside, deep down in the depths of his heart, he prayed that he wouldn't be given that choice. The only thing he could rely on less than his senses was his good judgment.

Somewhere beyond the table the door opened, and a sliver of light shone into the cell. Zoli was quite certain it was just the light of a dim bulb in the hallway outside, yet it was enough to cause him to close his eyes to avoid the searing pain. Instead he listened to the familiar sounds of his interrogator's wingtip shoes scuff against the floor as he entered, then the metal-on-stone of his chair sliding back before he settled into it. Finally the opening of the latches of his briefcase and some papers being shuffled.

"Good morning, Mister Németh," came Richmond's familiar voice.

Zoli said nothing. He wasn't sure he even could.

"I can see you breathing," Richmond continued. "Should I have the guards lift you and place you in the chair?"

Zoli gulped. He tried to find some moisture in his throat to form words. The pain his body had endured was nothing compared to the fragments left of his mind. He could no longer think in terms of the whole.

He heard Richmond sigh. "Very well. Guards!"

"No," Zoli muttered. "No."

The door opened, but no one entered. After a few seconds, the door closed again.

The blood in Zoli's veins burned like fire, but he pushed it through to his limbs. After a few seconds he began to twitch and flinch as he regained control of his body. After perhaps a minute, he felt like he could manage to press his palms against the floor and push upwards.

The moment his head reached a vertical position, Zoli was overwhelmed with dizziness and he faltered. But he refused to let himself fall, instead pausing a moment to let the nausea pass.

Once his head began to clear, Zoli pushed himself the rest of the way up and reached a standing position. His blinked his eyes until his vision cleared and he could see his interrogator in the poor light.

Richmond nodded, his expression showing satisfaction and perhaps a bit of surprise. "Please, take your seat," he said, gesturing to the chair opposite him.

Zoli stumbled forward, reaching for the folding chair and collapsing into it. His body simply didn't work anymore — not like it once did. But his body could be healed.

Richmond wrote some notes in his folder before looking up through a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. "Please state your name for the record."

Zoli furrowed his brow. "You know my name."

"Ah, yes, but I need to make sure that you know it."

Zoli just stared.

"It is part of my job to document what effects this process have had on you — both physically and mentally."

"You want to know if days of torture have made me forget my own name?" Zoli asked dryly.

"After a fashion."

Zoli couldn't help but to smile. Above all, the Library seemed to take pride in efficiency.

Richmond sighed, removing his glasses from his face and tilting his head. "I hope you understand that I take no pleasure from what was done to you. I am merely doing my job."

"So you keep saying."

"You are just a file number to me. A few pieces of paper with numbers and heuristics. I derive no more pleasure from seeing you hurt than from seeing the number three divided by the number two."

"Numbers don't have souls, Mister Richmond."

Richmond paused before putting his glasses back on over his face. "I am a man of science, sir. I've yet to see a test or an theorem that proves the existence of a soul."

"My name is Zoltán Németh. Son of Mihály. I was born in Emberstone Village in the shadow of the great wall. I am outcast. The blood of the wolf burns through my veins — and in my soul."

"And do you hear the call of the wolf, Mister Németh?" Richmond asked.

"I do."

"And what does it tell you?"

"To leap over this table and tear out your throat."

Richmond nodded, making notes in his file.

"Do I frighten you?"

Richmond glanced up. "I've seen many terrible things in my time, Mister Németh. You're not the first person to threaten me, and you won't be the last."

"You've broken my body. You've tried to break my mind. But the wolf endures."

"And you will heal in time," Richmond responded. "I have no wish to die, but I do not fear death. It is merely the punctuation at the end of a sentence. The answer at the end of an equation."

"How long have you held me here?"

"You and I first met nineteen days ago."

Zoli's lips parted. He hadn't realized it had been so long.

"I have good news, Mister Németh. You've passed the tests."

"Passed? What does that mean?"

Richmond removed a thick stack of papers from his briefcase and set them on the table, turned towards Zoli. "The Library is prepared to offer you a three month contract for employment."

"Employment?"

Richmond nodded. "For the next three months you will work for us, under the supervision of an Associate Librarian, until the end of the three month period."

"And then what?"

"In return for your service you will be compensated with a salary plus bonuses on a per-assignment basis. In addition, at the conclusion of the contract term we will assist you in locating a particular book that you first contacted us about."

Zoli glanced over the first page of the contract but his vision was too blurry to pick out the words.

"I suggest you take some time to read the contract before signing. The 'out' clause is not something you're going to want to experience. You should assume that you will spend the next three months at our disposal."

Zoli bared his teeth. "I hunt alone. I don't work for a boss and I don't punch a time-clock."

Richmond chuckled. "You make those things sound terrible. I assure you, Mister Németh, we have many in our employ that would consider themselves independent. What that means to you is something you will have to decide for yourself."

"And if I say no?"

"Well, for one thing, we won't help you find the book you're after."

"The book." Zoli tried to chuckle but it came out a wheeze. "I barely remember why I even wanted that anymore."

"For another," Richmond added, removing his glasses and leaning back in his chair, "you've been deemed a threat to our institution. If you're not willing to work with us, a decision has already been made to neutralize the threat you pose."

Zoli nodded. "So you'll kill me if I don't work for you."

Richmond shook his head. "You over-value your importance to us, Mister Németh. Frankly, my superiors have decided you're not worth killing. I hope you don't take offense to that."

Zoli licked his dry lips. "So what does it mean to 'neutralize' me?"

"You'll be purged of the gypsy curse that makes you special and banished from this world. You'll revert to being a simple carpenter with an attitude problem."

Zoli felt rage well up in his spine and he clenched his fists.

Richmond slipped his glasses back onto his face. "My superiors have determined that you are a threat because of your special ability. Without that, you are no longer a threat. So you can either use it in our employ, or you can lose it and go back to being 'normal.'"

"Your superiors underestimate me, Mister Richmond."

"I think not, Mister Németh. Thanks to the last nineteen days, we now know more about you than you know about yourself."

Zoli sighed, glancing down at the thick contract.

Richmond pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. "I understand you'll need some time to think about it, the terms of the contract are quite lengthy and get into some arcane legal territory — literally."

Zoli traced a finger down the page — the words were still a blur.

"Just have the guards fetch me when you've made your decision."

Zoli reached for Richmond's pen. He glanced up momentarily, considering using it as a weapon to bleed the man dry. But instead, he flipped the contract to the last page and signed at the bottom. His hands shook almost violently and his signature looked like a child's.

"Are you sure you don't want to read that?" Richmond asked.

"What's the point?" Zoli answered, setting down the pen.

Richmond shrugged. "Fair point, Mister Németh."

"So now what?"

Richmond smiled. "You're going to need some time to heal. But first, you have your new employee orientation."

[Jonas Drava]

Jonas Drava returned home from his routine morning jog, a hefty bag of bagels in one hand. He ran his free hand through his hair, which had grown unruly with sweat from a vigorous run. He was still a bit out of breath, but he felt alive. Mornings like these were what he lived for.

He set the bag of bagels down on the kitchen counter and started the small toaster oven pre-heating. He then stripped off his white sleeveless t-shirt, using it to mop the moisture from his face as he mounted the stairs to the second floor, pausing briefly to pry off his tennis shoes on the landing.

Onyx's was still sleeping, her back to the door and a wild mane of hair flared out behind her. Jonas leaned against the door frame and smiled. Every day he cherished waking up next to her. Sunlight was only just beginning to fill the bedroom, and soon the house would smell of breakfast. She'd wake grumpily, but would cheer up when he brought her food in bed. They had a good thing going.

Jonas tossed the sweaty t-shirt in the hamper and replaced it with a clean shirt, making his way back down the stairs. As he flipped down the door to the toaster oven, he thought he heard a noise at the front door. Glancing over, he didn't see any movement through the front-facing windows. Still, after popping a few bagels into the oven and sealing them in, he padded over to the door.

The sun shone brightly onto Jonas' face as he stepped through the doorway, and he paused again to enjoy the morning. He then glanced left and right and didn't see anything unusual, so he turned to re-enter the house. That's when he caught sight of something — a slip of paper taped to the door.

Jonas carefully removed the paper and again glanced around, his brow furrowed. But there was no one in sight — the street was as quiet as you'd expect for just after dawn on a weekday morning.

Jonas made his way back inside and was careful to lock and then double lock the door. He trudged back into the kitchen, holding the folded piece of paper in his hands as if it were a bomb about to explode. He set the paper down on the kitchen counter and quickly checked the bagels in the oven before pouring himself a glass of orange juice. Only then did he sit down at the counter and pick up the paper.

Slipping a finger through the seam he broke the tape holding the note closed, and flipped it open. The four lines were hand-written in pencil using a blocky, generic style.

JONAS DRAVA:

10 AM
BEHIND HARRY'S
WE HAVE YOUR HORSE

Jonas raised a brow. None of this made sense. Pookie the horse had been missing for almost a week now, and Jonas had come to accept that he either got away or was stolen. He'd only known the horse for a few days after acquiring it during a previous excursion into the dessert. The animal's sudden disappearance was disturbing, but he was not particularly attached to the animal.

But this letter changed everything. Had Pookie been kidnapped? For them to have traced the horse back to Jonas meant that it was no random theft. He was being targeted for ransom. But why now, after so many days? Was it an inside job? Did the people at the stables finger him?

Jonas ran his fingers over the text as if expecting to divine some insight from the scrawl. He valued his privacy and keeping a low key. He worked a simple job and generally avoided big crowds. Why would anyone even think him capable of a ransom? This was bad. Beyond the fact that his horse was being held prisoner — the only horse he'd ever met that accepted him despite the curse — he'd also suffered a blow to his anonymity.

This was bad.

At the sound of footfalls padding down the stairs, Jonas quickly folded up the note and shoved it it in the pocket of his sweatpants. He turned to look at the staircase and forced a smile. Onyx was still bleary-eyed, dressed casually in one of his t-shirts and a pair of his silk boxers. Her hair shot out in every direction almost to the point of being comical. She was beautiful and he wanted desperately to tell her about the note.

But he didn't. It was his name on the note and he needed to figure out what was going on before involving her. Even though he knew he'd end up regretting the decision, and even though he trusted her impliclty, he wanted to start this journey alone.

"Breakfast time?" she asked, her voice still faint with sleep.

Jonas smiled. "Good morning, lovely. Yes, have a seat."

* * *

Jonas peered at Harry's Bar from across the street, looking for any signs of a trap. It was only a few minutes before ten and, not surprisingly, there were not many people about. He'd made arrangements with Walter to leave work early, supposedly on an errand.

It had been months since he'd been here. Although it was not far from the antique shop, ever since he'd move out of his haunted house and moved in with Onyx, he didn't linger too much in this part of town. He glanced left down the road towards his house, and he could just barely see the top of the bedroom turret past the other roofs. A shiver ran down his spine. That was a problem he still needed to solve. But not today.

Satisfied that there weren't a dozen ruffians waiting in ambush for him, Jonas crossed the street and entered Harry's. The bartender didn't even bother to look up from a racing form, and Jonas crossed the room and slipped out the back door largely unnoticed. He found himself in a small courtyard used primarily for storage, with dumpsters on one end and unneded tables stacked in the other.

Seated on a pile of old beer kegs sat a short-but-stocky man — perhaps a dwarf — with a full gray beard and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles obscuring much of his face. He appeared to be playing a video game on his phone, but he paused the game upon spotting Jonas' entry and looked up with a wide smile.

"You're right on time!" the man greeted with a high-pitched voice. "Welcome!"

Jonas started to respond but stopped when he heard something behind him. Half-turning, he saw a large brute of a man emerge from the bar. Partially balding and wearing a suit-coat over a dirty t-shirt, he looked both menacing and dim-witted.

"Put your hands out to the side," the large man commanded.

"Excuse me?" Jonas asked incredulously.

"You'll have to excuse Boris," the small man said almost apologetically. "He assumes the worst in all people. He just wants to make sure you're not armed."

"I'm not armed," Jonas insisted.

"Raise your arms," Boris repeated.

"I suggest you do as he says," the small man said. "Otherwise we just won't be able to have our meeting."

Jonas sighed, but did as commanded. Boris patted him down thoroughly, and of course did not find anything of interest.

"Have a seat," the small man continued. "Let's chat."

"I'm not here for a chat," Jonas answered bluntly. "Where's my horse?"

The small man set down his phone and produced a tiny cigar from his pocket. He paused to light the cigar, taking several puffs. Boris, meanwhile, took a step back and leaned against one of the dumpsters with muscled arms crossed over his barrel chest.

"You can call me Mimms," the small man said. "Not my real name, but it's what people around these parts say."

"I don't care what your name is," Jonas retorted. "I came for my horse."

"And you'll get your horse once I receive payment."

Jonas narrowed his eyes. "How much?"

"Ten thousand credits," Mimms answered quickly.

Jonas fumed. It wasn't an impossible sum of money, but it would sting. Easily three or four times what the horse was actually worth.

"And also this," Mimms added, producing a small scrap of paper from his pocket and extending it towards Jonas.

Jonas took a hesitant step forward, taking the paper. Boris watched closely, ready to spring into action if a fight should break out.

The paper was actually a page ripped out of a magazine. Featured on the page was a pair of emerald earings with gold hardware. Very expensive, very valuable. Possibly one-of-a kind.

"What is this?" Jonas asked, confused.

"I need them for … a friend," Mimms explained. "And I understand you're the man to get them for me."

Jonas clenched his fists, a growl emanating from deep within his chest. Not only did they have his horse, they knew about his special talents. This just went from bad to worse.

"So do we have a deal?" Mimms asked, grinning past the cigar.

"How do I know Poo— my horse is even still alive?"

Mimms jerked his head towards Boris, who produced a polaroid from inside his jacket pocket. Jonas took the photo from the thug and glanced down at it. It was a picture of Pookie, smiling obliviously with full rows of brilliant horse teeth. A copy of today's RhyDin Journal was held in front of him.

Boris then produced a second photo of the same subject, only this time Pookie was now chewing on the newspaper and seemed to be having a ball.

"Your horse is fine," Mimms concluded. "But he won't be if you can't produce the creds and the earings. You have forty-eight hours."

"And if I can't?"

Boris smiled sickly. "You'll never see your horse again."

Jonas slipped the photos and the magazine page into his pocket. "And what's to stop me from just beating the information out of you now?"

Boris took a menacing step towards Jonas. Quite frankly he wasn't sure he could take the lout.

"Oh Boris would like that very much," Mimms said with a laugh, hopping down from his perch atop the barrels. "But frankly that horse of yours is eating us out of house and home, so we're as eager to get rid of it as you are to get it back. So let's just call this a fair business transaction and leave the violence out of it, shall we?"

Boris punctuated the warning by crackling the knuckles on his massive fists.

"Forty-eight hours?" Jonas asked.

Mimms nodded. "We'll meet you here at exactly ten o'clock on Thursday. Yes?"

Jonas merely nodded. Time to get Onyx involved.

[Jonas Drava]

Jonas Drava stood outside of Harry's Bar at exactly 9:58 on Thursday morning. The air was cool and brisk, but he was numb to the outside.

The previous day had been a thrill and an adventure. He'd divised a perfect heist in which he and Onyx both went into the jewelry store to liberate the emerald earrings. Both went undercover, he as the distraction and she — as a different kind of distraction. She'd make the exchange, while he was prepared to make a scene and take the fall if anything went wrong.

Something did go wrong, but not something they'd planned for. Zoli's unexpected presence as an employee at the store was a complication neither could have possibly anticipated. Yet he acted as shocked to see them as they were to see him — perhaps a coincidence. Jonas wasn't sure if he believed in coincidences, and Onyx definitely didn't. Still, Zoli's presence did nothing to foil the robberty, and they came away with the expensive earrings. They'd have to deal with Zoli another day.

But now, two days after being given the assignment, there wasn't time for anything but resolving the kidnapping of his horse. As before, Jonas came alone and unarmed, with a small cloth satchel under his arm. He made his way into the bar, through the main room, and into the courtyard beyond.

Mimms was pacing impatiently across the concrete patio, puffing at a cigar between his small lips. Smoke seemed to llnger in his gray beard, giving his face an almost otherworldly haze. Boris, meanwhile, was sitting on a pile of empty beer kegs, blowing his nose into a disgustingly-discolored handkerchief.

At Jonas' entry, Mimms glanced at his wrist watch and sneered. "Right on time," he observed. "Good." His tiny, beedy eyes looked over Jonas' figure and took note of the satchel.

Boris, meanwhile, muttered at the arrival and jumped down from the barrels, causing just a bit of a tremble in the ground. The massive man lumbered over to Jonas and began patting him down.

"I'm not armed," Jonas grumbled.

"He's just doing his job," Mimms explained.

"He's wasting his time," Jonas answered.

"Because you don't need a weapon to take us both out?" Mimms asked with a sarcastic grin.

"I have no intention of taking anyone out. I'm just here to make the trade."

Satisfied that Jonas was not strapped, Boris nodded to his master and then stepped back. He then shuddered and sneezed powerfully, sending a shower of rainbow-colored mucus into the air. Jonas did his best to dodge the explusion, although he took some of the blast in his shoulder.

"Sorry about that," Mimms offered with a sigh. "Boris doesn't react well to changes in temperature."

Jonas scowled at the two men. This whole affair was an insult to his professionalism.

"Let's get this over with," Jonas growled. "I have things to do."

"Did you have any trouble coming up with payment?" Mimms asked.

"Of course not," Jonas answered curtly. He held up the cloth satchel in plain view.

Mimms took a step forward and reached out his hand, but Jonas backed away.

"My horse," Jonas asked, glancing around. "Where is he?"

"You didn't think we'd bring him here, did you?" Mimms asked with a chuckle. "Nothing calls attention to an illicit exchange like walking a horse down the city streets."

Jonas furrowed his brow. As a newcomer to this place he sometimes felt like he wasn't part of a running joke. "This is RhyDIn, there are horses all over the place."

Boris glanced curiously at Mimms, who shrugged. The dwarf reached into his pocket and produced a disposable mobile phone and held it up. "Show me the money and I'll tell you where to find the horse."

Jonas sighed. He opened up the satched and showed the contents to Mimms. Ten thousand credits and a pair of unique emerald earrings with gold hardware.

Mimms nodded, offering over the phone. "Your horse is right back where it came from, at the stables. Call your guy and confirm."

Jonas snatched the phone from the tiny man and dialed the number of the stables. One of the owner's sons, a stable hand named Larry answered the phone. After Jonas identified himself and before he could even ask the question, Larry confirmed that Pookie appeared suddenly in his stall about twenty minutes earlier. He was happy and healthy and didn't seem to be in any distress.

As Jonas hung up the phone, Mimms again extended his hand for the satchel. "Let's finish this, Mister Drava."

Jonas narrowed his eyes, handing over the phone and the satchel. Mimms briefly passed his fat fingers over the money, making sure it was all there. He then handed the earrings over to Boris, who peered at them through a professional quality jeweler's monocle. He nodded to Mimms, confirming the earrings were genuine.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Mister Drava," Mimms said. "Thank you for making this so smooth."

"I'll double the money if you tell me who hired you,"Jonas said, taking a step towards the dwarf.

Mimms stood his ground, and Boris moved in as well.

"What makes you think anyone hired me?" Mimms asked.

"Just a hunch," Jonas answered. "You had the advantage on me after our first meeting, but since then I've done my research on you. From what I hear, kidnapping a horse for ransom doesn't seem like your style."

Mimms shrugged. "Even if that were true, I hope you'd respect me as a professional that's not going to roll for a mere ten thousand credits."

Boris snuffled aggressively from off to the side.

"Ten thousand credits. You give me a name and walk away. I'm deadly serious and that is my final offer."

Mimms narrowed his eyes, examining Jonas closely.

"Well?"

"Go see your horse, Mister Drava," Mimms answered coldly. "And hope our paths don't ever cross again."

"We don't rat," Boris added with a growl. "Beat it."

Jonas shrugged. "Your choice, then." He took several steps backwards, opening up distance between he and the two kidnappers.

"Better keep an eye over your shoulder, Mister Drava," Mimms added. "This city is alive, and your presence here is an affront."

Jonas narrowed his eyes at the man's pronouncement. As nothing more was said, he turned and departed.

* * *

Mimms and Boris made their way down a narrow alley, their footfalls slow across the gravel road.

"I'm hungry," Boris muttered through the handkerchief he was using to wipe his nose.

"How about tacos? We haven't been to that corner stand in weeks."

"Yeah, tacos," Boris answered with a grin. "With extra chili peppers."

Mimms chuckled. "Hoping to clear out those sinuses of yours?"

"Yeah," Boris admitted, stuffing the handkerchief into his shirt pocket. "/Extra/ chili peppers," he repeated.

"Done," Mimms answered.

The two men paused briefly, before Boris turned around. "We're bein' watched," he pronounced sombrely.

Mimms nodded, taking the cigar out of his mouth and grinding it against his wing tipped shoe. "Come out, pussy cat. Show yourself."

Boris brought his massive hands togehter, cracking his swollen knuckles. "Gonna make me a fur coat."

A figure dropped down off a nearby roof, landing effortlessly in the alleyway in front of them. Rising to her feet, she settled into a fighting stance, razor-sharp claws extending from her hands. Boris stepped in front of Mimms, instinctively acting as the protector.

"Step aside, little lady," Mimms suggested. "Or this is going to be a bad day for you."

The young woman was physically fit, her face and eyes all business. "Actually it's all looking up," she answered. "You, on the other hand, have a choice to make."

"What's that?" Mimms asked.

"Who hired you to steal the horse?" she asked.

Mimms chuckled. "Ah, it's the girlfriend."

"She pretty," Boris observed.

"Frankly we expected to meet you before now," Mimms said, lighting a fresh cigar and taking a few puffs. "We were warned that you'd be involved."

"Well here I am," the woman answered.

Boris took several steps towards the woman. He was easily twice as tall and three times as heavy. His muscules had muscles, and his fists could be easily mistaken as cinder blocks.

"I think perhaps you've overestimated your chances here," Mimms suggested. "Step aside and we'll forget this ever happened."

"Tell me what I want to know and I'll forget that you stole my horse."

"Guess she wants to do it the hard way, Boris," Mimms observed.

Boris grinned, smiling sickly through yellowed teeth. "Good."

* * *

As the massive bruiser barrelled towards her, Onyx had no-trouble sidestepping the attack. She spun around and snap-kicked Boris to the side, landing two hits directly into his abdomen.

Only the counter-attack didn't go quite as planned — kicking him felt like kicking a brick wall. She felt her knee twist and her toes crunch, and she had to grit her teeth to avoid letting out a yelp.

Boris' grin only widened. He reached out and grabbed her with short but massive arms, flinging her into a nearby wall. She crashed against it and dropped to the ground, momentarily stunned.

"Stay down," Mimms suggested from behind. "It's safer that way."

Onyx regained her senses and rolled out of the way before Boris could stomp on her. She rose back up to her feet, testing her injured leg to make sure nothing was broken — merely strained. Boris turned and again lurched towards her, but she was able to dodge the attack and respond with several savage punches to the face and upper-chest.

Boris barely reacted to being struck, beyond a bit of bloody snot traiking down his face. He seemed annoyed at Onyx's quick moves, yet his movements towards her continued unabated.

Onyx decided to focus instead on his legs, and she dropped to the ground and rolled past him. She then spun about and tried to sweep his legs out from under him, only to be stopped cold. His legs, like massive tree trunks, refused to budge. Instead, he grabbed her by her own leg and hoisted her into the air, tossing her against a stone fence — which partially exploded into a cloud of dust and morter.

"Give it up, sweetie," Mimms said. "You don't have a chance here."

"That was a bad idea," Jonas said, grabbing Mimms from behind. "She doesn't like pet names."

Mimms struggled as Jonas lifted the dward into the air, an arm wrapped tightly arouns his throat. Arms and legs flailed helplessly, but he couldn't move.

"Oh, sure, nice of you to finally show up," Onyx grumbled breathlessly.

"Sorry, I wanted to make another call to make sure Pookie really is safe. I couldn't believe they'd just bring him back."

"We ain't monsters," Mimms protested, still struggling helplessly against the much larger and stronger Jonas.

"Speak for yourself," Onyx grumbled as Boris again lumbered towards her.

"We kill them both?" Boris asked his master.

"Seems a shame, but they leave us with no choice," Mimms answered.

"Good," Boris answered with a grin. He reached for Onyx, but she easily dodged inside the reach of his arms and slashed at his barrel chest with her claws. The gambit was risky, however, as he closed his arms on her and clutched her to him in a massive, deadly hug.

"That's what I like to see, you two getting along," Jonas laughed.

Ony struggled helplessly against the huge man's arms as he began to squeeze the life out of her. Her arms were pinned against her side, claws dangling helplessly. She tried to gain leverage in order to flip him, but it was pointless — she couldn't move.

"I don't hear any bones breaking," Mimms yelled. "Crush her and we'll make glue from her marrow."

"Need help?" Jonas asked.

Onyx was quickly turning red, her lungs having trouble getting air. Yet she wasn't ready to admit defeat.

"Stop struggling, you're just tiring yourself out," Jonas suggested helpfully.

Onyx muttered. If she were to stop struggling, he'd fold her down to wallet size. But she did her best to achieve a moment of calm, refill her lungs, and search for options.

"Why won't she play with me?" Boris asked, his tone disappointed.

"Play with this," Onyx responded threateningly. She began to use all her weight and strength to kick at his kneecaps. At first the attacks were a minor annoyance, but as she hit him harder and harder, Boris began to wobble uneasily.

"Don't let him fall on you," Jonas warned.

With a satisfying crack, Onyx got in one perfect hit and Boris released his hold on her, dropping her to the ground. He doubled over in pain, clutching his knees with his massive hands.

Ony wasted no time, jumping on the bruiser's back and wrapping her arms around his throat. She began to squeeze, trying to cut off his breathing.

"Hey, that's not fair!" Mimms protested. He began to flail again, but Jonas kept him immobile.

"Leggo!" Boris yelled. He began to stagger about the alleyway wildly, trying to shake Onyx off of his back.

"Go…down…" Onyx commanded breathlessly.

Boris tried slamming both of them into the walls of the nearby buildings, leaving Boris-shaped dents in the masonry. But despite the hits Onyx held on, squeezing harder and harder on his trachea. After a minute or two of this Boris began to get light-headed, and he dropped to his injured knees.

"Oh that's not good," Mimms observed helplessly.

Boris reached for Onyx, but his arms were just too short and stubby. Finally he fell foward on his face, unsonscious. Onyx kept her arms wrapped around him for a few moments more, just to be sure, before releasing her deathly grip and rising awkwardly to her feet.

"Game over, buddy," Jonas pronounced. "Who hired you?"

Onyx made her way towards Mimms, claws extended dangerously. Boris' blood ran ominously down the razor-sharp edges as she threatened to gut the tiny kidnapper.

Mimms gritted his teeth, his own life passing before his eyes. But his eyes were still defiant, uncompromising.

"Are you willing to die for this?" Onyx asked coldly. She clearly had no problem with disembowling the man right then and there.

"I swear I don't know!" Mimms blurted out. "I got a call from a guy who gave me the instructions. I never even met him."

"How did he pay you?" Onyx demanded.

"He didn't. The deal was that I got to keep the credits and he got the earrings."

"And you did it with no down payment?" Jonas asked warily.

Mimms nodded. "Let's just say he knew things about me. Things that no one knows. So I did the job without a down payment, on his promise."

"Okay, this is easy enough," Jonas said. "Tell me where you're going to drop the earrings and we'll be there to catch the guy."

Mimms grimaced. "Earrings never left the bar, man. We hid them in the courtyard in a barrel of Badsider.

Jonas glanced up at Onyx, who returned the look with a helpless shrug. Jonas dropped Mimms to the ground and searched him, turning up the cloth satchel. Sure enough, all that was inside was the credits. The earrings were gone.

Onyx kneeled down over Mimms, her claws to his throat. "Who hired you?" she demanded.

"I swear I don't know. Just a voice on the phone."

"Give me one reason I shouldn't let her kill you right here," Jonas asked.

Mimms cringed. "We're just businessmen, doing a job. Do as you see fit."

Jonas and Onyx exchanged glances.

* * *

Returning to Harry's Bar, Jonas and Onyx easily found the marked barrel indicated by Mimms. It had been opened and was lying in the middle of the concrete courtyard, empty.

"We can try questioning the people inside the bar. Maybe one of them saw something, or maybe there's a camera."

Jonas sighed, sitting down cross-legged on the patio next to the empty barrel. "Whoever this guy is, he thought of everything. Made me look like a chump."

Onyx sat down next to him, a hand on his shoulder. "I still say it was Zoli. He knows about us — about you — and it's in his nature to try messing with you by kidnapping your horse. In this city there's no way he just happens to be working at the jewelry store where the exact earrings are being sold."

"But why go through all this? Why not just come at me? Or you?"

"Because he's a psycho, Jonas. He's playing some kind of game."

Jonas narrowed his eyes, running his fingers over the empty metal barrel. "The games stop now. We take the fight to him."

"Good," Onyx answered with a smile. "It's about damn time."

"Let's go home and lick our wounds."

Onyx raised a brow, touching a hand to the massive bruise developing on the back of her head. "Do you mean that literally? Because frankly I'd rather have some gauze pads and tiger balm."

Jonas chuckled. "I'll see what I can come up with."

* * *

Larry Russelstein finished hosing down an empty stall at his father's stables, and he closed and locked the gate. He then stepped over to Pookie's stall, making sure that the horse had an ample supply of hay and water. He reached into his pocket and produced a salt treat, passing it over to the horse — who ate it eagerly.

There would be questions about how a horse was kidnapped and then returned a week later with no signs of a break-in. But that was a problem for another day. He was happy to see that everything worked out.

Larry gave Pookie a pat on the head and a scratch behind the ear and then left the barn, closing and locking the door safely behind. An armed guard stood outside the door and the two men exchanged nods. Thered be no horsenapping this night.

Pookie, meanwhile, took a sip of cool water from the small trough, and raised his head — letting some of the water run down his long, muscular neck. He then glanced around a bit to make sure none of his neighbors were looking, before turing and nosing aside his bridle. Behind it there was a small nook in the wall, almost completely hidden in the dark. Something hidden in the nook reflected the light of the nearly-full moon above. Pookie drew his lips into a smile, his eyes scanning over the emerald gem and gold fittings.

One of his neighbors stirred, and Pooke quickly nudged the bridle back into place, hiding the nook behind. He then lowered himself to the floor, ready for dreams of adventure and sparklies.

[Onyx]

In one of the rare times she utilized the mirror in her bathroom, she slowly drew up her shirt to inspect her ribs. Sucking in her breath and wincing, not only at the pain the motion caused but also at the blooming riot of color. Gingerly dropping the shirt and lowering her arms she turned at Jonas' low whistle.

"That looks like it hurts," Jonas squinted in sympathy.

"Was that guy even human? Or some ogres bastard? Nothing's broken, but some ribs might be cracked. I'll be on the disabled list for at least a few days," she turned her back to the mirror and faced him. "Help me with my boots."

Jonas sat on the toilet and patted his knee. She rested a hand on his shoulder for balance since her head was still ringing. He pulled the right one off, then the left.

"Swollen, but nothing broken." He smiled, tweaking one of her toes. She bared her fangs at him.

"What's next? No gold, no earrings, no reliable information. I hate wasting my time. We should have killed them," she growls.

"Even if you are beautiful when you're bitching, killing them wouldn't have helped." Jonas-the voice of reason. "We have our horse back, why borrow more trouble?"

"Are you implying I am overly bloodthirsty?" She gives him a look. "I'm not the only one with a 'time of the month'."

She rattles through the contents of a bathroom drawer until she finds a jar of salve. Jonas rolls his eyes at her and takes the jar from her hands. He applies a thick smear carefully over her bruised ribs.

"You're perfectly bloodthirsty. Just the right amount of bloodthirsty. Any less bloodthirsty and I would have to dump your ass in the street." He stares at her solemnly until...finally she cracks a smile and begins laughing.

"Ha ha ha ahhhh dammit, that hurts!"

Jonas cleans off his hands on a towel, takes her hand and leads her to the kitchen. "Come on, I'll buy you a beer."

[Jonas Drava]

Zoltán Németh lazily poured over the inventory log at Hinckley's Jewelry Store, comparing the contents of a nearby glass display case with the heavy ledger to ensure that no merchandise had gone missing. As usual he did a half-assed job, and Gerhardt Hinckley was generally too self-absorbed to notice. Gerald, as Zoli was known, was a competent employee who stayed out of the way — and that's all anyone knew about him.

Today was no different. Gerhardt had been pacing the store with giddy anticipation that Zoli found quite annoying. Few things were more more offensive to him that inconsequential people acting as if they were important. He counted each day in this place as if it were a hash mark on a prison sentence — one with no clear end in sight.

Gerhardt practically leapt out of his shoes when the local delivery driver finally arrived with the day's deliveries. It was not unusual for them to get packages with new merchandise — in fact it was a near-daily occurrence. But today there was only one small parcel — a small bundle wrapped in brown paper. Gerhardt signed for the package with barely a scribble, and accepted it in his eager hands.

"What did we get today, Gerhardt"? Helen asked.

Gerhardt glanced up, as if noticing for the first time that he had a store full of employees. "Uh, we're closing early today. Everyone go home."

Zoli narrowed his eyes as he felt a flutter in his chest. This was it.

"But- but my commission?" Helen sputtered.

"You heard the man," Winston Sperling barked, setting down the newspaper he'd been reading and straightening his rent-a-cop uniform. "Let's clear out."

Helen and Zoli exchanged puzzled looks. But as commanded, the two salespeople filed out of the store. Winston locked the door behind and turned the Open sign to Closed.

"Wonder what that was about," Helen mused.

Zoli shrugged. "No idea. Glad to have an afternoon off, I guess."

"Yeah, well, I didn't make any money today," Helen grumbled.

"Day ain't over yet," Zoli observed grimly.

As Helen wandered off, Zoli crossed the street and took a seat on a small bench. He watched the store patiently, planning his next move.

* * *

"So is this it?" Veronica asked calmly from her perch atop the back of the bench.

"I believe this is what I've been waiting for," Zoli answered.

"The name?" she pressed.

"No," Zoli shook his head. "Not yet."

Veronica huffed. "How much longer am I to wait? It's been months."

Zoli stood up from the bench and reached behind his back for the sheath hidden there. "Patience. This is a step forward. A big step."

"Don't forget your promise to me, Zoli."

"I haven't," he grumbled. "You remind me of it every morning, and again every night."

"That's for your good as well as mine," Veronica insisted. "Best you remember that you're with me, not them."

"They might not agree."

"That's a problem for another day. Now get to it."

* * *

Even though the heavy secure door to the jewelry store was locked, Zoli had no trouble channeling his strength and pulling it open. He strode purposefully into the store, his arm still hidden behind his back.

Gerhardt was no longer in the showroom, presumably having taken his special package into the back office. Winston was still there and he turned around, eyes wide with surprise at Zoli's re-entry. He'd been gathering his personal possessions for his own departure, but set them back down on a table and moved to intercept.

"What are you doing in here?" Winston demanded. "Boss said we're closed."

"I'm not done here," Zoli said simply.

"Like hell you're not," Winston insisted, planting his feet.

From behind his back, Zoli produced a sinister dagger. With a powerful slash, he cut through Winston's throat, instantly severing his vocal chords. The towering security guard clutched his hands to his throat with a pathetic gurgle, dropping to his knees. He was dead before his body had time to collapse to the floor.

Zoli didn't lose any momentum, stepping over to the body to continue towards the back office.

* * *

Gerhardt sat on a simple wooden stool in front of his workbench. He'd opened the brown paper to reveal a book. The book appeared to be quite old and the cover was faded beyond recognition. Delicately he opened the book, about a third of the way down, to reveal a hole cut through most of the pages. Inside the hole was nestled a large diamond. The gem immediately reflected the simple lamp inside the back office, sending shafts of brilliant light around the room.

Gerhardt's lips parted in awe and, using a soft cloth, he carefully lifted the diamond out of its hiding place. The gem was flawless, intricately cut. It would fetch a substantial price. He'd been waiting for the back-channel delivery for weeks.

"I'll take that," Zoli said in a menacing voice.

Gerhardt spun around on his chair, eyes wide with surprise. He saw his newest employee, Gerald, clutching a bloody dagger.

"I— I don't understand," Gerhardt stammered.

"You don't have to," Gerald responded plainly.

"After all these weeks — four weeks working for me — you're just going to rob me?"

Gerald did not respond. He took a step forward, brandishing the blade plainly in the diamond's refracted light.

Gerhardt began to tremble with fear, but he did as ordered. Remaining on the stool, he extended his arm to offer the diamond over. But to his surprise, Gerald knocked the diamond from his hand with a powerful blow, sending it crashing against the wall.

"Not that," Gerald practically hissed. "The book."

"What?"

Gerald nodded his head towards the book on the workbench. It had been hollowed out to hide the diamond, most of its pages carved into oblivion. What could anyone possibly want with it?

Panic flushed Gerhardt's veins and he called out for help. "Winston!" he shouted. "Somebody help me!"

* * *

Zoli grabbed his faux employer by the face and plunged the dagger into his chest — directly piercing his heart. The cries stopped immediately, and blood splattered across both him and the workbench.

Yet strangely, as Gerhardt's blood hit the pages of the open book, they reacted instantly. Zoli watched with awe as a puff of smoke issued from the diamond-shaped hole in the center of the tome. Then — slowly at first — the pages began to reconstitute themselves. With steadily increasing speed, each page reappeared and the careful hand-written text faded in. Within a couple of minutes, the hole that had decimated the book was nowhere to be seen, and the final page repaired itself.

Zoli didn't recognize the language in which the book was written, but he felt its presence and power. This was a very ancient book that reacted favorably to having been avenged. It was whole again.

Gerhardt did not live long enough to see text appear on the final page. His eyes were glassy, frozen in a look of shock and despair. Zoli braced against the man's face and pulled the dagger out of his heart, allowing his body to slump lifelessly to the floor. He then wiped the dagger on the man's corpse and replaced it in his hidden sheath.

Collecting the book delicately in his hands, Zoli paused to admire the perfection of the Library's plan. They knew the book would arrive here, it was just a matter of when. He'd done the job as ordered. One step closer to his ultimate goal — and their promise to him.

He turned towards the front of the store but then reconsidered. Instead, he clutched the book to his chest and slipped out the back — never to return.

[Jonas Drava]

A warm summer breeze drifted through RhyDin's famed Violet Market, carrying with it the sweet scent of incense mixed with a savory aroma of roasted peanuts. It was a busy day here, the pleasant weather and unique cosmic alignment bringing mages and sorcerers from around the lands to pick up their trinkets and fetishes.

Jonas Drava limped among the motley assortment of gypsy vendors with a mirthful amusement in his eyes. Most of the tables featured junk — vials of powder guaranteed to turn your enemy blind, and there seemed to be a run on bubbling and gurgling love potions today. Yet a few of the merchants — and you had to know where to look — featured genuine magical artifacts and reagents.

Onyx had sent Jonas here with a list of a few things to pick up for a project she was working on. He was certain that at least some of the items were only there to mess with him — eye of newt for example. Yet he dutifully worked his way down the bullet points, trying to be a good boyfriend and helpful partner.

Something about the marketplace felt like home. The merchants looked warily at him — he was a bit too neatly shaven and his casual t-shirt and jeans were clean and smooth. Yet these were his kind of people — living on the fringes of society and trusting only in each other. Whole families worked the booths, loudly and sometimes flamboyantly hawking magic elixirs and evil totems.

Jonas came across one table staffed only by an elderly woman in a tattered robe. She observed him with a greedy smile, but her eyes were kind. She gestured a twisted hand across her table of wares — mostly inert — and invited him to peruse.

"I'm looking for some shadeleaf," Jonas said, glancing over a series of jars of mysterious powders. "I understand you're the woman I'm to see."

"Aaaah," the woman practically screeched in a crane's voice. "You have an eye for the finer things."

Jonas shrugged. "Just working the list," he said helplessly, showing his shopping note.

The woman chuckled. "Shadeleaf is not in season this time of year," she explained, her tone a shrill song. "Can only be found in one cave, deep under the suicide cliffs. And only if the morning sun hits it the right way after an evening rain."

"That's the one. Do you have any?" he asked hopefully.

The old woman leaned forward and lowered her voice, although it continued to sound more like an incantation than conversation. "Down to my last bag. Most of the people here seek things to make them bigger or stronger or smarter, and they will leave here with none of those. But for you, I give all that I have."

"Give, or sell?" Jonas asked, eyes twinkling.

The woman produced a leathery bag from beneath her table and slid it across the folding table towards Jonas. "Fifty, please. A bargain to be sure."

Jonas took the bag and peered inside. The shadeleaf powder looked and smelled authentic, just as Onyx described. "You have a deal."

"Aaaiiiiiee, good!" she screeched inappropriately. "I take gold coins or credit card."

"Cash?"

She merely nodded, and soon the deal was done. Jonas stuffed the bag into his backpack and crossed the powder off his list.

Jonas continued through the market, looking for the next item — a small stone carving. He took it slow — his stride awkward and his breathing labored from the beating he'd taken a week earlier. But he was healing quickly and pushed for any excuse to get out of the house. Today was the first extended trip he'd taken away from home, and he was eager to be productive.

The wind changed, and Jonas stopped short. A different scent came to him which sent a shiver down his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and his shoulders tensed. Something seemed … familiar, and strangely alarming.

Eyes scanned the crowd around him. A pack of gypsy children ran past him, chasing each other and laughing. Yet Jonas was now fully on alarm, trying to figure out why a sense of dread had come over him. The smell was so familiar, yet he couldn't quite place it.

Then he saw her.

The redhead woman moved easily through the thick crowd, perhaps only twenty yards ahead. Her gate was quick and steady and she appeared almost to be floating above the ground. Jonas couldn't quite see her face from this angle, but her lithe and athletic body was unmistakeable.

As was her scent. He knew it well.

Jonas' jaw squared and his eyes narrowed. It had been almost three months since he was sexually assaulted in a dream by this woman. He still carried that contrition — the guilt of cheating on Onyx — with him everywhere he went. He'd done his best to convince himself that it wasn't real — that she never existed and was just a horrible nightmare caused by his haunted house. Yet a small part of him knew that couldn't be true. She was real — no dream could be that vivid. He remembered that day like it was yesterday, and her smell had been permanently etched into his brain.

Jonas realized that his breathing was rapid and he struggled to gain control of his senses. His ears twitched and his fingers flexed. He switched into stalker mode and began to follow her. Despite his size, his footfalls made no sound as he approached. Finally he would have his vengeance. She wouldn't get away with it after all.

The redhead appeared to be shopping just like everyone else. She passed from table to table, looking briefly over each merchant's wares before moving onto the next. Jonas hung back, observing every detail and burning an image of her into his mind. She was clothed in a simple, colorless dress, and her skin was pale. Even her red hair seemed muted, despite the bright sun and drab surroundings. At times she almost seemed to fade away in front of him, as if she was not quite corporeal. Yet the vendors clearly saw her, reacted to her, and occasionally exchanged words. She was real, and she was really there, if not entirely.

Jonas wasn't the only one to detect something odd about his prey. He began to notice that some of the gypsy merchants — perhaps those who were the real deal — seemed to shrink away at her approach. One stout man ordered his children back into their cart when he saw her, and a middle-aged woman crossed herself as the redhead passed by. She didn't seem to notice or care about the reactions to her as she zig-zagged quickly from one table to the next.

As she approached a large dead tree on the edge of the Market, Jonas decided it was time to make his move. He could grab her by the arm and drag her into the woods beyond. If he did it quickly enough, few would notice — and it was probably not unusual for someone to be kidnapped in this sketchy place. He increased his speed and darted rapidly towards her.

The woman stopped in front of the gnarled, dead tree and looked up at it. At first it looked like she was communing with the tree, perhaps finding some sort of common ground. Yet as Jonas rapidly closed the distance, something else occurred to him.

She was waiting.

He came to this realization too late. He stopped suddenly and reached out for her, yet his hands passed through her body as if it wasn't there at all. She noticed him, however, and turned towards him. At first she feigned shock, but her lips curled into a sick smile. The familiar scent vanished as quickly as it had first touched his nostrils.

"Hey, baby," she greeted. Her tone was both teasing and malicious as she licked her lips lasciviously. "Good to see you again."

Anger flashed over Jonas' face, but he couldn't react further. A masculine body hurled itself out of the crowd and crashed into him, throwing him to the ground and knocking the wind out of him.

Both men jumped up to face each other, and Jonas scowled.

"Hello, brother," Zoli sneered. "It's been too long."

Jonas clenched his fists. "Nice of you to finally show yourself. Run out of flowery note paper?"

"It's important that you remember that I am always with you, János. I am part of you."

"You are nothing to me," Jonas retorted. "I've moved on, and it's time you did as well."

"Oh I'm just getting started, old friend."

"Quite the contrary, we're finished," Jonas responded, charging forward. He swung his right fist and connected with Zoli's jaw, following up with a left to the man's stomach. Zoli responded with an elbow across Jonas' face, knocking him away.

A crowd began to gather, and the redheaded specter stood front and center. Her eyes glinted with amusement at the fist fight and she seemed to find pleasure in their grunts.

Jonas and Zoli traded a flurry of fists, some striking but most being blocked. Jonas ducked down below one swing and barreled into Zoli's chest, knocking him back into the large dead tree. Old branches shook and debris rained down on top of them. Jonas reached for the collar of Zoli's loose shirt, but Zoli knocked his arms away and struck him hard in the face with a head-but. Jonas staggered back, lost his footing, and fell to the dirty ground.

Zoli leapt on top of his opponent and pinned him down, striking Jonas repeatedly in the face with his fists. Jonas' early rush of adrenaline quickly faded and his body, still sore from its recent injuries, seemed to deflate under the aggressive attack. Even Zoli seemed surprised at how quickly Jonas fell apart and pulled his last few punches.

"Finish him!" the redhead shouted. "We have work to do."

Zoli leaned forward to peer into his friend's glassy eyes. "You haven't been taking care of yourself, old friend. Perhaps you miss having me as a sparring partner. You've grown weak and pathetic. Letting that girlfriend beat up on you?"

Jonas gasped for breath, and Zoli leaned in even closer.

"I'll take you to hell with me," Jonas spat.

"There is no hell," the redhead interjected. "Only damnation."

Zoli laughed, lifting up off Jonas' chest just enough. Jonas squirmed and twisted, pushing Zoli off his balance and forcing him to the side. In a blink of an eye their positions were reversed, and Jonas was now beating Zoli in the face and arms with bloody fists.

The two men rolled about on the dirty ground for several long moments, striking and wrestling with each other. Zoli grabbed at Jonas throat and began to squeeze, while Jonas began kneeing him hard in the ribs. Despite his weakened state, fury carried Jonas to an advantage and he broke the grip, bringing several powerful crushing blows down on Zoli's face and chest.

Zoli managed to get a leg between them and forced Jonas backwards. Both men rose to their feet, covered in blood and dirt and sweat. They circled each other for a moment, occasionally lunging and feinting to seek an advantage.

The redhead glanced around nervously as the crowd of vendors and shoppers continued to surround the combatants. Some even exchanged a few coins, wagering on the outcome.

"If this was some kind of trap," Jonas wheezed, pausing to spit blood on the ground, "this was your only chance. I'll not be so easily lured in the future."

"I already have what I need," Zoli responded with a sick grin, his face and teeth soaked in blood. "The rest is just fun."

Jonas stepped into his opponent, dodged a fist, and responded with a deft jab to Zoli's sore ribs. Zoli doubled over in pain, giving Jonas an opening to knee his opponent hard in the face — breaking his nose.

Zoli flew backwards, blood cascading in every direction. He landed on an old wooden bench beneath the dead tree, crashing through the rotten timbers and landing hard on the ground beneath.

The redhead woman took a step back, realizing her position was suddenly tenuous.

Jonas stepped forward, pressing the attack. He pressed his left hand to Zoli's sternum, holding him down, while he struck his old friend repeatedly in the face. Zoli's face was now soaked in blood, almost unrecognizable.

Once satisfied that Zoli was no longer a threat, Jonas grabbed him by the collars of his tattered shirt and lifted him up. "You're coming with me," Jonas grunted. "I'm going to get you some help and save your life."

Despite his defeat, Zoli only chucked. He bared his lips to show blood-soaked teeth. His eyes sparkled cruelly through the grime. "I'm not going anywhere with you, brother. Quite the contrary, you're going to help me up, brush me off, and walk away."

Jonas raised an eye. "Clearly I've beaten you senseless."

"Look at all these people," Zoli continued, gesturing around them. "Like pigs to the slaughter. When the wolf comes, how many do you think I can mow down with my first swipe?" He lowered his voice to a menacing growl that only Jonas could hear. "How many of these children's throats can I tear out before their parents even realize what's happening?"

Jonas shook his opponent, but it was no use. He couldn't stop Zoli from transforming. Even beaten nearly to unconsciousness, he knew from his clan's long experience that Zoli would still have the ability to shift. Once the lycan blood flowed through him, it would revitalize and heal his body almost fully. Looking around, there were dozens of innocent people around them. No silver weapons in sight. No way to stop the rampage.

Zoli was right.

"So once again," Zoli continued, "you will help me up, brush me off, and walk away. Or I will kill every man, woman, and child in this marketplace and you will be powerless to stop me."

Jonas tried to call upon Onyx's wisdom. He knew she wouldn't let this threat stop her. She wouldn't let a homicidal maniac, and a threat to their lives and love, escape just to save a bunch of strangers.

Jonas didn't know these people. He didn't care if they lived or died — at least he didn't think he did.

Yet he felt responsible for Zoli. He was his charge, his burden to bear. And Jonas couldn't stand to let all these people die because of him.

It was a weakness, and Zoli knew it going in. That was always the plan.

So Jonas did as commanded. He stood up and offered a hand.

Zoli rose to his feet, wavering a bit. He leaned in to embrace Jonas in a powerful bear hug that caused both men to wince in pain.

"My father tried to beat me to death," Zoli whispered into Jonas' ear. "You can do no worse than he. We will always be brothers."

"If you come near me again, or near to Onyx," Jonas responded with a hiss, "I will kill you. I don't care who dies in the crossfire. This won't happen again."

"It doesn't need to," Zoli responded. "I have everything I needed this day. You gave me exactly what I wanted."

The two men separated, and the redhead moved in. She looked at Zoli with concern, and Jonas caught an understanding that they were a couple. The crowd began to break up as they realized there would be no victor in this battle, and wagers were returned. The people had no idea how close they came to being victims of a massacre.

"See you soon, baby," the redhead taunted Jonas. "Can't wait for round two."

With that, Zoli and his associate disappeared into the crowd, leaving only a trail of blood behind.

Jonas turned the opposite direction and began to hobble away. He hoped he could get home before his body gave out. But physical injuries didn't matter anymore. He had to beat Zoli at his own game. Jonas would never be able to beat his old friend as long as he had free reign over the curse. It was time to remove that advantage.