The Secret Lair

“What are you doing?” Marc asked.

The angel held up a finger. “One second,” he said, his eyes fixed on the television. “This guy is going to blend an iPod.”

“What are you doing in my house?” Marc asked.

“I’m eating Doritos,” the angel replied. “And drinking Cherry Vanilla Diet Dr. Pepper. And watching infomercials…aaaand the iPod will blend! Of course it will!”

“Look,” Marc said. “I don’t know who the hell you are or what you want, but the cops are on their way and—”

“No they’re not,” the angel said.

“What?”

“The police, the cops, the fuzz; they’re not on their way…well, not here, anyway.” The angel still hadn’t taken his eyes off the television.

“Of course they are,” Marc insisted. “I called 9-1-1.”

The angel took a swig of Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper and set the can back on the end table about two inches from the stack of coasters. “Lying to a messenger from the Almighty isn’t just bad form, it’s impossible,” he said. “You heard the television, assumed Norah had left it on when she came to bed—again—and came down to turn it off. You didn’t wake your wife, you didn’t call the boys in blue, you didn’t even bother to grab the Louisville Slugger you keep behind the bedroom door.”

“How the fu-” Mark started.

“Ah, ah, ah,” the angel interrupted, waving an admonishing finger in Marc’s direction but still watching the television. “Language, please.” On the screen, a man in a lab coat was pouring golf balls into a kitchen blender.

Marc closed his eyes tight, then opened them again. The television was still on, the angel was still sitting on the couch—on his side of the couch. “What—” Mark began, then closed his mouth.

The angel finally looked up, staring at Marc for a moment, his head cocked to one side. He pointed to the bag of chips in his lap. “Doritoes.” He picked up the can of soda—Norah’s soda; Marc never drank diet. “Dr. Pepper.” He picked up the remote with the other hand, waggling it as if it were a bone and Marc a dog, then gestured toward the television. “Infomercials.”

“I don’t understand,” Marc said.

The angel sighed. “You never do. Oh, not ‘you’ you, but…you know, you in the general ‘all of humanity’ sense.” He pressed a button on the remote and darkness was upon the face of the living room.

Marc panicked, reaching for the light switch at the bottom of the stairs, but his hand met cloth instead. “Let’s have a little talk,” the angel said. “How about we go into the kitchen? Maybe get something to drink.”

The kitchen light was on; Marc could see it off to his right. It definitely hadn’t been on before. The angel guided him to the breakfast nook and Marc sat.

“This isn’t a twist-top,” the angel said, standing at the open fridge with a Coke in his hand, “do you have an—ah, never mind, there it is.” He plucked the magnetic bottle opener off the freezer door and a second later there was a soft hiss as he popped the top off the bottle.

Now that the angel wasn’t sitting in the dark living room, Marc could better see the massive, feathered wings and the long, white robes. “You don’t have a halo,” he said.

“What? Oh, no,” the angel said. “Well, sometimes. But never that gold ring or diadem or whatever that you like to put on your little ceramic collectibles. You, as in—”

“Yeah,” Marc interrupted. “‘All of humanity’. I got that.”

“Good,” the angel said, sliding easily into the seat across from Marc. The breakfast nook was small—when Marc and Norah looked at the house four years ago the real estate agent called it “cozy”; Marc just thought it was cramped—but the angel somehow managed to sit without his wings getting in the way.

“Why are you here?” Marc asked. “I mean, I’m an atheist, for crying out loud.”

The angel narrowed his eyes. “Are you? Really?”

Marc nodded. “I am.”

The angel shook his head. “Actually, you’re an agnostic. Or rather, you were.”

Marc opened his mouth to object, but wasn’t quite sure how to go about it. He was talking to an angel, after all. An angel who had just brought him a Coke.

Marc looked at the slender bottle and saw a drop of condensation trickle down the side, carving a path through all the other little droplets that clung to the clear glass. Did cold soda bottles sweat in dreams? He picked up the bottle and took a sip. It was definitely Coca Cola.

Marc took another sip, which turned into a long swallow, and when he put the bottle back on the table half the Coke was gone. He looked at the angel. “You haven’t answered my question: why are you here?”

Were angels supposed to smirk? This one sure did. “Not going to argue the whole atheist/agnostic bit?”

Marc just shook his head.

“Well, that’s another bet lost,” said the angel, “but to answer your question: this is an intervention.”

“A what?”

“You know, an intervention. An orchestrated attempt by one, or often many, people—or angels, in this instance—to get someone to seek professional help.”

“You’re joking,” Marc scoffed.

Now it was the angel’s turn to shake his head.

“You want me to seek ‘professional help’? From whom? For what?”

The angel cast his eyes toward the ceiling.

“Oh, come on,” Marc said. “You’re telling me I’m supposed to seek help from…from God? That’s what you’re—” He paused. “This…this is a divine intervention? Literally?”

“Literally,” said the angel.

“I don’t believe this.”

The angel rose to his feet, his wings unfurling behind him, the great, alabaster-feathered expanse stretching across the entire length of the kitchen. There was light everywhere, a brilliance that seemed to have no single point of origin but washed over everything like a flood, dispelling every last shadow.

“Yes you do,” the angel said, stepping out of the light. Marc saw the blow coming too late to dodge; a right cross that caught him square in the jaw and sent him sprawling across the table. He was acutely aware of the Coke bottle falling, clattering to the floor, the remaining soda spilling out onto the tile, and then the angel’s voice, seeming to emanate from all around him in Dolby ∞.1 Surround Sound: “You don’t have the luxury of not believing anymore.”

The light was gone. Marc heard Norah descending the stairs, felt the cold Coke pooling against his bare foot, saw a single drop of blood from his split lip spatter onto the table next to the ring of condensation where the bottle had stood.

“Marc?” It was Norah’s voice, from the living room. “What are you doing? Why are the lights off?”

A pause, then a wash of incandescence and Norah’s voice again. “Have you been drinking my Dr. Pepper?”

Rick squinted, peering through the grimy windshield at the woman crossing the lot. She was crisp. Professional. Her heels click-clacked on the cement as she passed under one of the parking garage’s florescent lights.

He raised the two-way radio to his lips and pressed the button the side. “I see her. Can you confirm?”

Joan’s voice came back, crackling with static. “Confirmed. She’s the agent.”

“Go?”

“Go.”

Rick started his road-yacht and gunned the engine. He glanced next to him at the two packages wrapped in brown paper. That much dense material could kill. He had to get this just right.

“What are you waiting for?” Joan said, irritated. “Go, dammit.”

Rick ignored her. She was becoming reckless. He knew the plan. He was ready. He eased the car out of the space and drove toward the woman slowly picking up speed. There would be no way for their target to escape what was coming.

He shifted, the engine revving between gears. The tires squealed as he turned the corner, bearing down on his target. His left hand dropped and pressed the switch on his armrest. The driver’s window eased down.

The agent turned. She saw him. She screamed started to run toward a red Audi parked three spaces away.

Rick cursed. He flipped on the brights and muttered, “Not this time,” under his breath. In a move honed by many a night like this, he grabbed the packages by their twine ties, dragged them across the steering wheel, and lobbed them out, over the roof of his car in a practiced hook shot as he sped past the terrified woman.

In his rearview mirror he saw the two packages fly through the air and land flat on the hood of the agent’s car. One of them split open, hundreds of typewritten pages exploding from the brown paper, scattering in the wake of Rick’s enterprise-class vehicle.

“Whose was it?” Joan’s voice hissed in the speaker.

Rick grumbled. “Mine. Goddamn it. Mine.” He floored the accelerator and fairly flew up the exit ramp of the garage. He spun the car around and met his partner on the corner. She opened the door, slid in next to him, and slammed the door shut.

“Some days,” she said, removing the ski mask and green night vision goggles, “I think there must be a better way to get a book published.”

Rick grunted, shifted into gear, and sped off into the night.

(New to the series? Start with Episode 1)

The dead girl was still on the bench when her assassin opened the door. He tucked the pick into a slot in his vest and looked around. A tattered, faded tapestry, the girl, a low wooden bench; these were all the tower presented to an incoming visitor.

The tower lied; it insinuated something which the unobservant might allow to pass, but the assassin was no fool. He’d seen this trick before. And now he was curious about what lay up the stair that hugged the inner wall.  He checked to be sure the girl was actually dead; she was, and he could collect his fee.  Satisfied, he climbed the stairwell.

The study at the top of the stair was a series of wonders. A desk made of a wood that was not native to the Duke’s realm. Books written in a language he had never seen before. Costumes. Shoes made of something that was not leather with soles that were not the hide of any beast he’d ever seen. Cloaks with sleeves and metal fasteners whose teeth would mesh for a secure seal with the pull of a metal tab. Odd. Wonderful. Possibly lucrative.

What were these two? Wizards?  Priests?  Some odd sort of tinkers?  He could not tell.   He did know that certain nobles would pay well for something novel, something unique. He crossed the room to the desk and opened drawers, looking through for anything that might sell for a decent price.  He found a long silver metal tube which shed light when a button was pressed…that was tucked into his belt, along with four short tubes which wrote like quills but needed no liquid ink.  Walked over to the bookcase and pulled down a good-sized tome and tucked it under an arm. He grimaced, wishing he had more time to explore the room.   He crossed back to the desk and ducked down to look beneath it. He straightened, smiling. Pulled out a small chest with a brass handle, hinged and locked. He spent a moment trying to pull one of the four small drawers open but to no avail. He sighed and, lifting the small chest by the handle, he hurried back downstairs.

It was tricky, but the assassin managed by the end to hoist the dead girl over one shoulder, carry the book under one arm, and hold the chest by the handle. He fled the tower, leaving the front door hanging ajar, already mentally counting the coin he would gain from this single job. It was a good day, a very good day indeed.

(New to the series? Start with Episode 1)

“A brand? Of three fishes? You are sure?” Slick William looked at them from across the counter.

Slick William Baumgarter plied his trade in a humble storefront off the ever-bustling Bondmakers’ Court. The location placed him in a perfect position for two things: drafting official documents, and trafficking in information. To more honest eyes, William was nothing more than careworn scribe. To those who knew how the world really worked, William was the man to talk to when you needed a secret about this noble, an insight into that business’s dealings. His shop was an odd sort of neutral ground: none of the guilds molested him because he did not take sides, and the gentry only came to him out of shame or desperation, which put them in no position to alert the authorities about his racket.

Jack and Paul met William during a job that had gone particularly bad involving the marriage of a local boss’s daughters to a Tagini trader. William had saved their asses by knowing exactly the right words to complete the Ritual of Apology, without which they would have been hauled off across the Gray Sea and put to work in the infamous Tagini salt mines. Since then, Jack and Paul made it a point to be good to William, throw work his way, and William gave them answers when they needed them.

“Yeah,” Jack said, adjusting his vest. He reached over and pointed to his left shoulder. “It was right here.”

“It wasn’t new,” Paul chimed in. “Fresh, that is. It healed as much as a brand ever will.”

William nodded. He limped over behind the counter to one of the many stacks of books and scrolls in the little shop. Jack could never figure out the little man’s system, but whatever it was, it worked. In a handful of seconds William produced a single scroll. He rolled it open on the counter. It looked like a contract, signed by two parties. One bore the seal of the Duke, the other was the three fish.

“Ah…I thought so. It’s the seal of House Rinstaad. The current head of the House is Javin, Baron Rinstaad.” William pointed at the second signature. “Well, he is for now, at least.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. Like so many mannerisms from home, this one did not translate. William just looks at him. He squinted. “How do you…?”

Paul nudged Jack aside. “What do you mean, for now?”

Willam started to trace the lines of text with an inkstained finger. “According to this document, House Rinstaad is being dissolved, its lands going to the Duke who will parcel them out as he sees fit.” He scanned the document in silence then said, “Yes…it’s supposed to happen in two weeks’ time. It seems that Baron Rinstaad is the last of the line and is without an heir. His brothers and their families were slain during the recent unpleasantness with our neighbors to the north. No one can take the lands and title after the Baron dies, so it must revert to the Duke.”

William looked up. “The brand you found is traditionally given to slaves of the House. All the major Houses have a small number of bondslaves, those either captured during a conflict or who owe the House in some fashion. They usually work in areas where the Head of House would not trust one of the Lessers.”

Jack mentally translated “Lessers” to Edies for himself. “Okay. So…like a house slave? Nannies, butlers, things like that?”

William nodded. “Indeed.”

Paul leaned back against the counter. “Why would anyone want to kill a house slave on our doorstep? Why would anyone want to kill the slave of a fading House at all?”

The question hung in the air until William asked, “Was she with child?”

Jack and Paul looked at one another. Jack actually blushed. “Ah…I have no idea how best to check for such a thing.”

William fixed him with a look. “No, dolt. Was she showing at all?”

Paul said, “I did not notice, but then I did not look for it.”

William nodded. “I suggest you go back and take the body to one of the Physicks. Go to Vandir on Rose Street. Tell him I sent you.” He smiled a tight smile. “He owes me.”

Paul chuckled. “Doesn’t everyone?”

William’s smile relaxed and he turned away. “Now…out with you. I have business to attend to. Good luck, and try not to get yourselves killed. Pawns never last long, my friends. Never.”

(New to the series? Start with Episode 1)

“Quick. Get her inside.”

Paul bent and grasped the young woman’s ankles while Jack reached under her arms. Lifting together, they maneuvered her over to one of the low benches. After laying her down, Jack shut and locked the front door while Paul checked her for a pulse.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”

The young woman was dressed simply: homespun beige dress, simple white cotton shirt, sandals for her feet. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old. Blond hair, brown eyes…faint blush to her cheeks fading away.

Paul examined the wound. The arrow was crafted from a black wood and had white fletching. He pulled at it tentatively and felt a small amount of give. He winced, shut his eyes and pulled. There was a sickening feeling of the arrowhead catching on something, then a tearing, then it was free. Paul opened his eyes and looked at the arrowhead. It was a dull metal, forged to a razor-sharp edge, broad and flat. The sharp lines of the arrowhead’s edge ended in two wicked barbs.

Jack turned from his watching. He whistled upon seeing the arrow. “That looks vicious.”

Paul nodded. He cleaned it on the dead girl’s dress, then set it aside. He straightened.

“We should search her.”

Jack was silent. Paul glanced at him.

“Feels wrong, Paul,” Jack said. “Feels like…I don’t know…dirty.”

Paul nodded. He ran a hand through his hair. “Well…yeah. It does. But someone killed her on our doorstep. We need to find out why.”

Jack stared at him. “Like hell we do. All we need to do is dispose of the body. No one saw her come here. She might not have been coming for us. Might have just been the closest place to find help.”

Paul said, “Exactly. And we need to help her. We need to at least find her family.”

Jack shook his head. “How the hell are we going to do that?”

Paul pursed his lips. It was a good question. He walked over to the girl and frisked her briskly, as if torn between being thorough and feeling like he was somehow taking advantage of her. It was an odd feeling, and Paul tried to ignore it.

He found a small pendant around the woman’s neck: a tiny rose carved from wood. He handed it to Jack, then rolled the girl on to her side. He pulled down the dirty white shirt and examined her back. He grimaced. There were scars…the woman had been beaten at least once not so long ago. There was a brand on the pale flesh of her left shoulder: three stylized fish in a vertical row.

“What does that mean?” asked Jack.

Paul shook his head. “I’m not sure. Maybe she was a slave.” There were duchies that allowed for slavery, but usually the slaves were not human. Unlike home, more than the human race lived on this planet. They had seen a group of slaves during one of their early jobs, and they were slight, hairy, deeply tanned, and had pointed ears. Jack dubbed them “Edies,” E-D for Elf-Dwarves, but they never found out what they really were. Regardless, this woman was not one of them.

Jack looked at the small pendant. “So, what do you want to do? No one is going to try to find a runaway slave.”

“You’d think not, but then why send someone to kill her?”

Jack sighed. Once Paul had a Noble Quest, there was no stopping him. Jack turned and started to walk back up stairs.

“Where are you going?”

Jack looked down at Paul. “I’m changing into my merchant clothes. We’re need to head into Brandywine to talk to Slick William. He’ll have some idea about that brand, and possibly this pendant.”

Paul nodded. “What should we do with her? Leave her?”

Jack nodded. “Cover her with a sheet. She’s not going anywhere.” He continued up the stairs to ready himself for a trip into town.

* * *

He watched the tower.

They took the girl in, which was too bad. His benefactor would accuse him of not being thorough. He sighed. Employers were so tiresome. So overbearing. They lacked his vision, his ability to see the bigger picture. This one was no different from those he had in the past. He hoped he wouldn’t have to kill this one as well. He was a professional, and as such certain insults could not be allowed to stand.

He waited for several minutes. His patience was rewarded when two men stepped out and walked along the narrow track that led to the Duke’s road. He scratched his beard, committing their description to memory. After they disappeared along the road, he slung the bow on his back and crept toward the tower.

(Continue to Episode 3)

Lonnigyn staggered as the invisible blow struck him. He gasped, barely catching his balance. His gnarled hand gripped his staff. Planting it in the dirt, he steadied himself while muttering an incantation. He thrust his right hand forward and fanned his fingers in the direction of the other. Flames leaped from his bony fingertips. For a moment, his opponent was engulfed, but after a second the flames parted like a curtain. His nemesis stepped forward, smiling.

“It is of no use, old friend. Your time of ruling this province is over.” The figure in the white cloak spoke a word and the flames died.

Lonnigyn hissed, “You’ll never take it from me, Gondorff. You didn’t have the power in the time of the Thirsting Moon, and you do not have it now.”

The people of the small town watched from windows, doorways, and from behind wagons and other cover. A duel between wizards was nothing to get involved with. They avoided the middle of the dusty street where the two faced off, all the while hoping that the white wizard would free them.

Lonnigyn snarled and chanted in the ancient tongue of mages, hurling lightning at his nemesis. Again, the figure in white shook his head and the lightning evaporated into an ozone-scented mist.

“Your days of cruel tyranny are at an end, Lonnigyn!” Gondorff advanced and his staff blazed with white light. Lonnigyn shielded his eyes.  A ray of light shot forth and struck the staff of the evil mage. Lonnigyn shrieked as his arm burst into silver flames.

“No, damn you!” The white-robed guardian stepped back, and Lonnigyn crumpled to the earth. Flames licked at the black robes as Lonnigyn writhed. In moments, the evil sorcerer was gone, nothing more than a pile of ash on the scorched ground.

There were few seconds of silence, then the townspeople began to cheer.

* * *

The white-robed figure materialized inside his tower. He stood still, taking in the moment. Once upon a time, having a room like this had been a dream. Large stone fireplace, stone floor, heavy oak bookshelves, massive desk. Now, it was getting old. He was starting to feel restless, perhaps even a little bored. While helping the villagers was enriching, it always seemed to end the same way. There was no thrill to it anymore, no fulfillment. It was too easy. He set his staff in a corner of his study and slumped into an overstuffed chair next to the fireplace, letting the heavy bag he carried hit the floor with a loud clank.

“Cruel tyranny?” A familiar voice sounded from the jacuzzi. “That was overdoing it a bit, don’t you think, Jack?”

Jack, shrugging out of his white cloak, grunted. “It did the job. We have to give the audience what it wants, don’t we?”

He touched a spot at the base of his neck and the tingling started. He caught his reflection in one of the mirrors along the opposing wall. The visage of the elderly wizard was gradually being eaten away. His hair shifted from white to its natural auburn, his forehead smoothed, his eyes shifted from blue to hazel, the deep crow’s feet faded away. The long white beard was replaced by his reddish sideburns, his nose lost its hawkish bent and became snub and slightly upturned. His lips regained their perpetual smirk. He never grew tired of watching the change happen. In under a minute the wizard was gone and Jack was left there looking like he was dressed for Halloween.

“Where’s the tackle box?” he called into the next room.  There came the sound of splashing and Paul, once known as the evil necromancer Lonnigyn, replied, “Under the desk. Hang on, I’ll be out in a minute.”

Jack stood and tossed the rest of his costume onto the chair as he removed it, leaving him shirtless in black breeches. He reached up to the back of his neck and peeled away a small disc with his fingernails. The disc was about an inch and a half in diameter, flexible, and made from a nearly transparent material. He placed the disc into his palm and tapped it twice with his fingernail. A small display appeared and showed what they knew to be a power reading, even though the icons on the display were unintelligible. The device was nearly out of power.

He chuckled. Paul walked out into the main room, bare feet slapping against the stone floor. He tightened the belt on his robe and pushed the desk’s chair out of the way. “What’s so funny?” he asked, feeling under the desk for the box.

“We almost had another Baroness Incident.” The moniker referred to an event about a year ago during a job in Ysperia. Paul’s disc ran out of power while he was flirting with Baroness Ilchatka. She was none too pleased to discover her pretty young maid was actually a dark-haired bloke in a dress. The vision of Paul streaking down the main hall while trying to shed the troublesome dress was probably still talked about to this day.

Paul shook his head. “We need to be more careful about that. We still don’t understand much about the tech.”  He rested a hand on the top of the wooden box, next to the heavy brass handle. “It’ll get us killed if we’re not careful.”

“Or it will expose our crossdressing fetish.” Jack smirked at his partner but Paul didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he undid the brass clasps of the box and opened the lid.

They called it the “tackle box” because that’s what it reminded them of most. It was made of rosewood and was about the size of a middling toolbox. Unclasping the brass fixtures allowed a thin veneer of wood, joined at a right angle to cover the top and front, to slide upward and fold back. This revealed a panel with four knobs, three brass toggle switches and a set of three lights: red, amber, and green. At present, the amber light was illuminated.

The front of the tackle box had small handles. Paul pulled the first of the four and a drawer, empty save for four slots along the front, was revealed. Three of the slots had discs in them already. Jack placed his into the empty slot, and Paul closed the drawer. There was a small click, and the amber light went out. The red came on.

Jack said, “That’s never happened before.”

Paul looked down at the box. “Mmmhmm.”

They both stood there for a long moment, looking at the dials with their obscure symbols, at the seemingly useless toggles. For a month after the Baroness Incident they studied the device. The second drawer was empty, the third and fourth were either locked or jammed. The dials didn’t seem to function, and so far only one of the switches did anything at all, and that was to make an ear-splitting high-pitched noise when it was flipped. Other than the discs, the box was useless. Which was a drag, because for a long time they thought they might be able to use it to get back home.

Home. Jack sighed. “Three years.”

Paul nodded. “Yeah.”

Jack waited a beat. “You know what I miss most?”

Paul shook his head. “What?”

Jack grinned. “Porn.”

Paul’s look of exasperation as pulled the lid over the box closed was not unusual. The clasps were snapped shut with a little more force than was necessary. After placing the box back under the desk, Paul straightened, shook his shoulders as if loosening up, then clapped his hands together. “So,” he asked, “how did we do?”

Jack moved the pile of costuming to the floor and untied the knots of the sack. He pulled the pieces of his reward for slaying the evil wizard Lonnigyn from the bag and placed them on the coffee table. A handful of silver fell from a brass cup and skittered across the stone floor. There were necklaces, some amulets, a couple of rings, a bundle of silverware wrapped in an old cloth.  The final piece emerged, a longsword with an ornate hilt. “We’ve got enough for rent this month, if this heirloom sword is what I think it is.”

“And that would be?”

Jack’s eyes twinkled. “Well, magic, of course.”

Paul shook his head. “No. Really. *They* might believe in magic. We know better. What is it?”

Jack looked pained. “You take the fun out of everything, you know that?”  He unsheathed the weapon. The blade was exquisite. It was silvered, highly polished, and looked to have a razor-sharp edge.

“It’s definitely higher quality than what we usually take in,” Paul said. He peered at the shape of the blade. “Wait…that looks…”

Jack nodded. “Yeah…like a katana blade from back home. I’ve never seen a weapon like this in the Middle Kingdoms. It’s sharper than anything I’ve come across to date. I’m thinking we could give it a fancy name and sell it to one of the nobles in Heronwell. Convince him it’s an ancient dragonslayer from the Milm dynasty or somesuch. We should be able to bag enough to set us up for a few months.”

Paul mused, “We could call it ‘The Blade of Sundance.’”

Jack turned the sword over in his hands. “We could.” He sheathed the weapon and set it on the table with the other goodies. “But what are we going to do when we run out of Newman-Redford movie references?”

Outside, the bell at the front door of their tower sounded. Paul chuckled, “We’ll move on to Reynolds-DeLuise.” He nodded toward the stairs. “You’d better get that, Bandit.”

Jack reached over and pulled a brown shirt over his head. He walked down the stone stairs to the first floor of the tower. There was little down here…it was more like a sparse waiting room than living quarters. They didn’t want anyone to know what they were up to. People here had never seen a jacuzzi before. They might not know how to handle it.

The bell rang again, then a soft thump against the door. Jack opened it and looked down.

“Paul?” Jack called upstairs. “You’d better come down here.”

“Why?” Paul called back.

“There’s a dead girl on our doorstep.”

At his feet, blood soaked the young woman’s dress where the arrow pierced her breast.

(to be continued….)

Due to an issue with the temporal warp units, the Overlords are unable to converse with you.  Instead, BECKY, the AI which keeps order within the Lair, presents some original fiction: the fruit of the Overlords’ daily writing meetups at the café.

• In our first piece, The Monologue,  Kris orates grandly before one of the many who have attempted to penetrate the Lair…and failed.
• Our second piece, entitled Serial,  Chris tells a tale of boy meets girl…meets knife. NOTE: Not really for the kiddies, this one.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 11:32 — 21.6MB)