Sarah fidgeted, tugging and trying to readjust her blouse.

Sam tried to pay no attention to her obvious discomfort. He told her to wear something comfy, like his jeans and flannel shirt, not formal witch regalia of a long green dress and boots. At least he talked her out of the pointy hat.

He pointed across the dark night, towards the moss-covered woods. "Mr. Witten, the farmer who owns this land, says it was last seen in there."

Sarah said, "Since it was sighted in 1893, we'll be the first to get a picture of a real Hodag."

She was still fidgeting. "What's your problem?"

"It's this new bra," she explained. "I just can't get comfortable."

Sam's look spoke volumes. "Just please stop messing around and focus. We'll need your magic."

"But it keeps pinching me."

"Like I'd want to know that! Why did I have to bring the only witch in the world with boob problems?!"

She glared at him. "Because I'm your sister, and also the only witch who'd believe you. Catching that dragon didn't work, so this might be our only chance to prove to the world magic and lost creatures do exist."

Sam snorted. "Only if people would notice anything beyond their noses. We fought a demon in the library, and the dopes around here thought it was just thunder."

Sarah shrugged. "Maybe this time. Let's start looking."

—————O—————

"Better try a summoning," her brother said.

Sarah nodded.

Sam put his hands on his hips. "What are you doing?"

"Putting down salt for the protective circle. You don't really think I'm going to cast an ancient summoning spell without a protective ward, do you?""

"Salt instead of chalk?" He snorted.

She beckoned him toward her until his head was close. Bending back a finger, she ‘twapped' his nose.

"Ow!" he protested.

She explained, "It was in the New England Journal of Magic five years ago. A spell of protection can use road salt on wet surfaces and be sixty percent as effective overall. This ground is too wet for chalk to work properly."

Anticipation smothered the night air with a tainted haze as Sarah deposited the last handful around their protective circle. Sam stationed himself in the bushes to the left of where Sarah knelt in the damp leaves.

Sarah took a deep, cleansing breath. Closing her eyes, she tried to force everything out of her mind except how to pull in the energy of the world around her. She raised her arms over her head and pointed her palms forward.

She commanded, "Adnabyddiaeth galwadau! Dadlennu Hodag!"

The sounds of the world around Sarah faded, becoming distorted as if she was hearing them through the side of an inner tube. Warmth drained from her toes and fingertips, making them feel like blocks of ice. Her body shuddered, chilled to the bone.

Leaves rustled nearby.

—————O—————

Sam swung his camera up.

The bushes across the small glade began to part.

There it is! Just like they said it would look! A green, seven foot-long lizard with spikes on it's back, horns, and hair all over! We're going to be soo famous!

The silver button moved under his finger and his camera clicked as fast as it could go, flashing the woods like a strobe.

"Hello," said Sarah, waving at it.

It looked right at them, then burning brilliance split the night. Electricity sprang from the creature's horns toward Sarah. Striking the salt ward, some of the power exploded in every direction, sending bolts through the wet ground into both the siblings. The noise was ear-splitting.

Sam fell to his rear, shaking his head to clear it. Looking up, he saw his sister's body spasm uncontrollably as the electricity arced between her and the creature.

"Sarah!" He grabbed a big branch off the ground and ran around to the side of the creature. He swung the wood club, knocking the creature off its feet. The current cut off instantly. Another blow to the head stopped the Hodag's flailing.

Sam looked again. There was a zipper down it's front.

The rest of the world stopped, dead silent.

No! It can't be! This was our chance at fame and fortune! He unzipped it. Inside was Mr. Witten, the farmer who told him the legend.

Sam kicked him. "What the hell were you doing?!"

Groaning, Witten's eyes opened. "Wha—?"

Sam grabbed him by the collar. "Why did you do this?"

Witten fought for breath. "No—No! Just wanted to scare you. Keep secret safe. Only spell I know… Should've been blocked… by the ward."

"Why?!"

"Protect chamber of commerce. Tourism. The Hodag Festival. School mascot. All would be ruined."

Sam felt empty, used. "Was it ever real?"

Witten shook his head. "Just a story to get rich folks up here."

Sam took a deep breath, and punched Witten in the jaw hard enough to knock him out. "Dick."

His mind screamed, Sarah!

Sam dove back to his fallen sister and checked for a pulse. Sarah's whole chest was black, like it was burned, but she was breathing.

She sat bolt upright, smacking her head into her brother's. "OW!"

"Are you ok?"

"I've got a headache like you wouldn't believe." She looked down and rubbed her hand across her chest, revealing torn cloth and bright metal. Her hand was covered in soot.

Sam boggled at her. "What's that?"

"What?" Sarah looked confused. "Oh, my Witch's Barrier. Trust me it's not easy to get into it, especially with how cold it gets in winter, but now you understand why witches wear brass bras."

She looked around. "Where is the Hodag?"

"It's a fake," he said. "A tourist trap. Witten's on the ground over there, unconscious, in a suit. My camera's fried, so we don't even have pictures of a fake one."

—————O—————

In the distance, a small, furry set of horns drew back into the bushes as they dragged Witten away.

Quiet, breathy laughter echoed on the faint breeze. Missed me again!

The heat from the calcinary furnace was dissipating and the world was growing dim. Rosamund da Carmo lowered the diopter, a hand-held mask that protected her face, a merry attempt to double her own striking Mediterranean features in ceramic. She stared into the crucible at the golden calx, calcined from the heart of the flying dragon, and sighed.

"Bi Thosimos and craftes wel lerned it is shynynge as gold both good and trewe," she said. A smile crept across her beautiful face. The heat, still potent, drew beads of sweat on her brow. She was exhausted but excited.

She snatched the crucible crab-like with tongs and stole back to her table which was covered with the apparatus of her craft: ceramic pots containing the likes of aqua fortis, vitriol, and sal ammoniac; vessels for digestion: pelicans, jubilans, tripudianters, and double retort columbissanters; flasks; alembics; ampullae; mortars and pestles. The middle of the table was spread with lavish texts, The Secret Book of Artephius and De mineralibus. But resting in the very center of the table, next to a large dripping candle, was the apple-sized, red stone, the heart of the flying dragon, holey with cavities like an Emmentaler cheese and embedded with flecks of gold. Reaching her stool, she rested the crucible on a metal ring, and nearly swooned.

"Ah! The feums and hellesmoc… min heed aken," she said, rubbing her temples.

Then, well cooled, she collected the calx into a Cristallo phial. A panacea for the wealthy Count who would keep her well forever, once his wife was dead. She admired the product of her work in the wasting candlelight.

As she did, across the stone floor, near the chamber door, a shimmer caught her eye. At first she thought it was a trick of tired sight, or shards of stray moonlight, but as she watched, the shimmer became larger and evolved into a smoky swirl first a few inches long, then expanding until it was fully six feet high. Finally it flattened and the smoke solidified into a flat disk, lustrous like the surface of a mirror. And through that mirror a man stepped as if through a door.

He was tall, and thin and dressed all in black: a double breasted paletot, vest, cravat about his neck and a bowler hat on his head. He paused when through the strange portal, stood upright and straightened his coat. In his right hand he held an umbrella, which he then used as a cane. Looking about he noticed Rosamund. She could just make out his face framed by auburn hair: eyes nearly hidden by bushy eyebrows over a prominent nose, ruddy cheeks, a handlebar moustache, a gap-toothed grin. He started towards her.

"Ah, Lady Carmot, you sweet mollisher. Let's have a look at you four hundred years younger." he said, walking with great confidence, his umbrella tapping the stone floor as he went.

If not his means of arrival, then his strange speech set Rosamund on edge. She pillaged through the dishes on her table, finding the two she sought, took them in hand and throwing the contents together into the air towards the approaching man, intoned: "By helle-fir the devel sleeth, but tarie nat to bryngen hym deeth."

A blinding stream of sparks lit the room and engulfed the man but just as he managed to open his umbrella and hold it like a shield. The spray lasted thirty seconds. But when it subsided the man still stood, and then laughed.

"That was quite the penny gaff. You can do better, I'm sure," he said.

Rosamund was shocked. Her spell should have left him nothing but smoldering boots. She quickly grabbed some more components from the table, this time pouring the contents of one flask into another then throwing it to the floor in front of him.

"Brek hym, bothe bak and every boon. Stynge hym from cursed heed to toon," she screamed.

A thick green cloud rose from the remains of the flask. But he simply chuckled while quickly opening and closing his umbrella. The cloud dissipated.

"Ha ha. That was a jolly. Like a London particular. But enough now." And with that he took two long strides and stood with the tip of his umbrella pointing at her heart. She felt an oppressive force that seemed to surround her and prevent all movement.

"What werk of wicchecraft…" she started, outraged, which made him laugh again with his gap-toothed grin.

"I'm sorry dear. I hardly understand a word you're saying," he said.

"Why fare ye thus with me?" she asked, fear and confusion curdling her beautiful features.

"Oh don't get bloody teary. I can't stand up to that," he said staring into her eyes to try to calm her. "I wouldn't be here at all if not for you… the you of 1850 that is. You gave me this witch's barrier," he said, jiggling the umbrella. "You sent me back, to retrieve something." He looked about the table until he found the Cristallo phial and the elixir of immortality meant for the Count. "There," he said, snatching it up and looking at it. The candle was almost completely burned out, but its dim light still made the powder in the phial sparkle; it matched the glint in the man's eyes. He secreted it in an inner pocket and then searching in another pocket brought out a similar phial.

"For the Count," he said very slowly, enunciating with the hope that she would understand. "The Count will be expecting an elixir. This laudanum will act the snide." He set it on the table.

"The Count doesn't deserve you, and proves so soon. But you meant this elixir for your soul's true mate, and he has it now." And then he leaned in, kissed her hard on the lips and then jogged off toward the shrinking black portal.

"You'll be happy to know," he yelled back as he stepped through, "in four hundred years, you don't age a day."

I'm talking to myself. This is a sure sign I'm not going to have a good time of it. I'm stuck here at the end of the galaxy on a Podunk planet; in a 3rd rate hotel, in a lousy bar drinking very mediocre fermented something or other. This is supposed to be a planet of literary genius. One with a history of art, music, and literature. Did I say that already? Well, SO WHAT! It's a dive. I'm booked here at the Block and Tackle in this college town. They, the "supreme council", directed me to present our best interpretation of one of their art forms, the limerick, to an invited group of young impressionable up and coming writers. After that space trip and the landing, I can't even think how to write my name no less a damned limerick.

I have this rotten headache from breathing the left over pollution that still surrounds this sorry globe. They did away with the industry and warfare when they were admitted to the Galactic Union. They were told they had to clean up their house and then and only then would the Union take down the communication block. The pollution still persists.

Once the people on this planet heard about the entire galactic goings on, they rioted for admission. It's sort of ironic, riots to be admitted to civilization. They demanded the "WITCHES BARRIER" a communications block, be removed so they could partake in the benefits of the Union. Up until then they had no idea why, even with SETI as they called it, no one would or could communicate. Most of these beings were sure "extraterrestrials" existed. Yet there was no communication.

What a bother.

Ah me, I must write and I can't think of a F***kin thing to say, to use their idiomatic phraseology.

Let's try this:

There once was a leader named Xeres
Who thought he could conquer the fairies
With magic and wand
He walked on a pond ,

He what? Damn.
No, that won't work

OK, OK, how about:

Women who walk with a waddle
Have bodies shaped like a bottle.
Don't shake them up
Or…

OR WHAT!?

I'm not allowed to write a good limerick. Limericks ARE supposed to be foul and bawdy. But no! I might affect these young minds. What crap! They see more on the NON-LOCAL news. They can view, uncensored, since censorship's been outlawed, the goings on from one end of the galaxy to the other. And I'm supposed to keep it "clean"?

I don't write clean. That's why they picked me. I write colorful stories of love and lust and not kids poems. Someone is out to get me. Why? Because failure to deliver here means no promotion, no bigger apartment, better food and no love prospects. The dues I must pay.

Limericks, they want limericks…

"Waiter, yes, please bring me a glass of your strongest intoxicants. No, on second thought, make that a whole bottle. My room number? Oh yes, 42."

If they want my opinion they should have kept that Witches Barrier up and ….

Well lookie there. Look what's just came into the bar and heading right for my table. Long legs, red hair, green green eyes, oooh yeah. I can't be this lucky. Got to be a mistake. I'm never this lucky with women at home.

"Aren't you the writer from the home Galaxy Cultural Center?" Green eyes inquires, sitting, not waiting for an answer.

"Why yes I am. How did you know? But, pardon me, I didn't get your name?

"Alice, Dr. Alice Kitsune," she says with a dimpled smile. Those very bright green eyes are beautiful. Right, this woman is incredible looking by any standard, anywhere. It's just work. Get a grip.

"Would you like a drink, Dr. Kitsune?" I ask.

"Sure whatever you're having. and it's Alice," comes the quick reply. Alice continues, "You don't know? They didn't give you the intro we sent before you were to arrive? I'm your official guide and The Attache for Intergalactic Cultural Transfer. I requested to be assigned to this project. I will do what I can to make your stay more pleasant. I've read your works. I like them . They have a different slant on a very familiar literary subject that I concentrate in, Shunga."

As I'm thinking, Right make my stay pleasant on this forsaken backwater of a rock, her foot rubs up my leg. I look and there is a slight smerk on her very beautiful face.

"Alice," I say. She stops me, touching my mouth with her slender fingers.

—————O—————

The next morning Alice and I have a very nice breakfast. My headache is gone. I have a lecture to give and still no idea of what to do…and…

Oh…yes… I… do:

There once was a woman named Alice
who had such a way with her talents….

Oh yes, oh yes, It's come to me, I'm flying, writing!

"FIRE!" boomed the voice, clearly audible over the rain and the squelching of the mud. There was a the sound of catapults firing, and then the thud as they hit the invisible wall about the castle and fell to the ground.

And inside the castle, Constance clutched at her head.

"Your - majesty." she said, fighting down the pain that shot through her head. "I don't think you understand. It's not that I don't want to be safe. The problem is that I can't hold up the Witch's Barrier much longer."

"Then strike them down!" squealed the King, petulantly. "Call down fire from the sky. I know you can do that!"

"Not on -" Another catapult volley made her wince. "Not on human targets. That's what knights are for, sire."

"But I don't have any knights!" insisted the King.

"No." said Constance. "Because you sent them out to engage the enemy after a hard day's ride, when they would be tired and exhausted."

"I told them to ride through the night!" said the King, proudly. "And to attack at dawn! Before they had had a chance to have breakfast!"

"To attack fully rested troops after a night of hard riding." Constance sighed. As far as great military generals went, King Rupert was on the wrong end of the scale; possibly on a different one. He had pulled hundreds of defeats from the very jaws of victory, and it was generally considered that when future scholars came to write up the history of these wars, several would ask whose side he had actually been on.

Everyone else had left days ago, before the current besieging army had surrounded the castle; it was just Constance and King Rupert left.

"I have told you before, and now I'll tell you again." Constance insisted. "I am bound to keep you safe, and not to harm any human. The best way to do that -"

"Yes, yes, yes. But you also have to obey me."

"Within limits." I quickly interjected.

"And I am telling you that this is my castle! I'm not letting them get in here! And I'm not leaving. So you have to keep the castle safe." He folded his arms stubbornly.

Constance stared at him for a moment as a thought struck her. It was something she would not have contemplated even a week ago, but now…

"You're wrong." she said, changing the barrier spell. "I have to keep you safe. Not the castle."

The barrier vanished. Re-appeared at about four metres in diameter, centered on me.

The next catapult volley shattered the outer wall (King Rupert had not paid the workmen well, either, and the wall quality was reminiscient of that).

"You don't have a choice." Constance insisted. "I don't have a choice. We must leave, sire! We have to flee! I can make you invisible. We can get through the enemy lines. But we have to go now!"

"I'm not going anywh-"

There was a crunching noise as the furthest wall of the thrown room fell in on itself.

"They have a sorceror!" Constance shouted. "We must flee now, or we will both die!"

"They have a mage?" he asked incredulous. "He'll turn me into a toad!"

"Or worse."

"We have to get out of here!"

Done. I sighed with relief. Now if I could just keep the diminutive King calm enough on the road, perhaps I could yet ensure that he lived to a ripe old age.

I led him out through the wall I had torn down.

Adhelia could see its shimming glow just ahead as she popped her cute little nose over the top of the parapet. The end of the quest she had so long been seeking was in sight. Sure she could not actually see the stone just yet. The Witch's Barrier prevented that. It was after all the final guardian of the ancient device. As she took a moment to breathe she heard the others coming up behind her. Glancing back she saw that the The Wizard Aldemier and The Baker Aldun were closing fast. There was no way she could allow them to be the first to reach the stone. It would crush all the dreams she had built up on this Odyssean voyage.

Clear from the ocean she had come and they had always been one step behind. Across the empty wastes of grain they had come one of the poor slackers suffocating under the shifting seeds. Through the floating vortex where more perished as they lost their footing and plummeted into its soily depths. She had fallen behind in the lands of fire and hellbeasts but the leaders had been eaten and she regained her position by default. Only her wits and an amulet she had managed to win in a battle of wits with a dragon had saved her own hide. Only these three now remained of the many who had begun the quest. Some together, some alone, and each with a different goal for the power that the stone could provide.

She looked down again at the schematic she had managed to obtain through a series of delicate caving maneuvers. It was a simple task really on the surface of it. One had to dispel the magic barrier following the keying sequence that had been on the schematics tome. These were located upon a series of pillars on narrow walkways traversing across a bubbling cauldron below. She glanced over at the viewing orb that was conspicuously floating well above the pit and once more behind at those two now running up the stairs breathing hard and took the plunge.

As she went over the side onto the first crossbeam/walkway she could already feel the heat rising both inside her gut and all around her from the pit. She experienced a momentary shot of vertigo and reached into her cast a minor spell to help appease her nerves. The first device was just ahead. She began to pull out the key to activate it. He hands were becoming sweaty and it was all she could do to keep her hands on the key. The witch's barrier blazed before her almost mesmerizing. She shook her head trying to keep focus putting one foot in from of the other. She was just a few feet from the first pedestal now. She took her next step and found nothing but empty space to stand on. Falling she grabbed for the pillar and managed to find purchase but her key slipped from her grasp and went plummeting into the cauldron. Taking stock she berated herself. Here she sat the amazing Adhelia who had made it through everything that they could throw at her and a mere stumble at the end would be her undoing? No, there was one option left – she would have to challenge one of the others. Summoning the last of her will she stood up and faced Aldemier who was just coming up to where she had fallen. She faced the young man with a pained grimace and made her demand "Aldemier I know we haven't worked together before but I need your key. We go on together to the end or I take the key from you". Aldemier looked mildly bemused for a second then his face fell flat "No I do not think you could do that and I see no reason I should be sharing the stone with you at the end. Come take if you think that you have the strength." "Very well" was Adhelias only reply as she stepped forward to take up the challenge.

The fight was rather brief in the end. Only lasting a a few dozen seconds. The Wizards final lunge away from Adhelias feint left him unbalanced and with a deft motion she grabbed at the breast pocket and swiped her new passport to victory back even as she swept a foot under his and sent him sprawling on the beam and rolling off into the black oblivion. Things moved quickly after that and she jumped sprang and twirled through the remaining traps until there but one pillar left the stone now visibly taunted her through the thinning barrier. It was going to be a tricky rope to rope swing it seemed as this beam had crumbled and softened. She grabbed the first rope and began the traverse. Steadily hand over hand it went one, two, three, four… nothing. As she fell she hit the back of her head against the remnants of the pillar. As she went unconscious she thought that at least she was glad she wouldn't have to watch the baker win it all. She thought she heard laughter.

When she awoke she was surrounded by all the contestants. Ahh well it was as she had expected. The magical resurrection system made sure that no one really died permanently despite the carnage inflicted during the course of the game. The laughter was of course the audience the most part of whom watched the show specifically for the blood and pain that was exhibited. On this end of the view orb Aldun could be seen standing atop of the final pillar triumphantly holding the stone. He'd be awarded the million Gold Coins and New Castle shortly. The host, a well dressed woman in a green gown came up to her and handed her a small bag of gold. The orb panned on her and she smiled. At least she had something for the headache.

NOTE: as a prize , Mark Edgemon and the Creator and the Catalyst Studios made this story into an audio story.

"Kyr, shhhh, Kyr, wake up."

Kyras sprang instantly to awareness under the soft pressure of hands as, in a rush, she remembered that today she would either become a witch or spend the rest of her worthless life wishing she had.

The air about her was chilled and darkness lay like cold earth inside her parents' one-room cabin. The only light came from a single candle held aloft by her father.

"It's midnight," he whispered.

"Your liminal day," said Momma.

"Now?"

"At dawn," said Dida. "We wanted to speak with you while there was time."

"You know what my test will be?"

"No," whispered Momma. "Every test the Sages give is different, you know that."

Momma, who had been a Gorn before she married Dida, could have been a witch of the Old Lines. Gorn women had been and birthed some of the greatest Sages in history, but their house had lost its prestige over the last eight generations as it produced weaker and fewer witches. Momma had no magic at all.

"But I can tell you this, my love," whispered Momma. "No matter what task they set before you, you need only break the Witch's Barrier". "What's that?"

"A spell placed on all potential witches at birth. It separates you from your magic. Puts you at one remove from it the way standing on a stone holds you out of a stream. The Sages use it to keep little ones from wreaking havoc before they are trained. Can you imagine a three-year-old Maggie Cold-Hands blasting the world with lightning every time she had a fit?"

"But how do I break it if I can't use my magic against it?"

"The Sages know you — know your mind and your potential. Whatever they ask of you will be your way of breaking the barrier. Your key. "

"It won't be easy," said Dida. "And there's no shame in failing." "None," whispered Momma.

But Kyras could read the lie in her mother's eyes.

—————O—————

Kyras's knees hurt. Three hours ago the Prior Sage, dressed all in black save for her green habit, had escorted her into the Temple of Ashe, made her to kneel on the cold, hard flagstones before the fire pit in the great hall, and commanded her to, "Make this flame speak."

The flame in question was a small sliver of yellow, dancing merrily upon a pine branch. Kyras could see that it would soon exhaust its fuel and die for it had nearly eaten through the dry wood.

"You may feed it as you wish," said the stern, jowly old woman, gesturing towards three wooden boxes before the hearth each filled with a different type of kindling.

Her spare instructions given, the Sage promptly eased her bulk into a large chair to watch Kyras's progress. Unfortunately, thus far, there had been no progress. She had burned scraps of dried leaves, bark and twigs, but no amount of fuel, nor earnest wishing on Kyras's part, had yet coaxed the little flame to speak.

For the first two hours Kyras had concentrated on the tiny fire with unwavering intensity, searching her mind and heart for some wellspring of magic. She even waved her hands and tried saying some magical-sounding words, but to no avail. All that concentration only gave her a throbbing headache.

But not even that pain had deterred Kyras until these last few minutes when despair began to steal over her. How much time would the Sage give her? Surely she would soon pronounce Kyras a failure and have her escorted from the Temple never to return.

Kyras's eyes fell away from the flame. She wasn't going to let it die, not while any of the kindling remained, but for the moment she could not bare to watch it any longer.

As her gaze shifted about the room Kyras noticed that the gray-stone hearth was quite clean. Lesser witches, apprentices and acolytes, must be made to scrub it. One of them had even placed a Yoter sapling near the kindling boxes. Its red and yellow blossoms smelled fragrant, almost soothing. Whatever woman had planted it must have plenty of time on her hands. Yoters were notorious for needing water. Between that and soaping these stones, the apprentices must spend half their time trucking water basins –

Kyras jerked as if someone had pinched her. She crawled forward on sleep-prickled legs to peer down at the little sapling, her mind racing with a sudden, wild thought.

Could she do this? Would the witches allow it? Kyras stole a glance at the Prior who sat stone-faced, watching her.

Quickly, before she lost her nerve, Kyras fed the little flame a handful of leaves and bark and even fanned it a bit with her tattered brown skirts. Then, her heart pounding, she rent the Yoter from top to bottom, tearing out its roots and exposing its tender, green insides.

She had nothing to cut the living wood so she simply placed it atop the now lively flame roots and all.

"Speak!"

Kyras blew upon the fire as it began to lick at the wet wood. She bent over it, rocking back and forth, reaching inside herself to the magic she knew must exist there – had to exist there. The pain in her head doubled then trebled. She ignored it.

"SPEAK!"

Blood trickled, unfelt, from Kyras's nose. A drop fell upon the Yoter wood, mixing with the water there which had already begun to boil and steam.

Under flame the green wood whistled and whined and popped as Kyras continued to rock, repeating her mantra, "Speak. Speak. Speak."

The great hall grew cold, and colder still. Kyras's breath steamed.

Time passed — Kyras could never say how much — and then the flame's undulations slowed until it moved like ink dropped in water.

From the fire's sibilant, whistling depths arose a sibilant, whistling voice.

"Well done, little witch."

The following entry was removed from contention for an unintentional rules violation.

The rain pounded my beat-up fedora like some demonic fireman was floating right over it with his hose on, full blast. The constant cacophony wasn't helping the whisky headache I'd been sporting all day, but at least the downpour cut the smell way down in the alley I chose for the stakeout. Despite my trenchcoat and hat, I couldn't be any wetter if I was at the bottom of the river.

I didn't have much choice, though. It was the only possible vantage point to watch the entrance to The Oakheart Tavern, where all the high quality Dust for all of Nightshade was imported. Natural magic. In this case, the Tree Network.

€èmostè, the owner of this joint, was a Hamadryad. At the center of the building was her massive oak tree. Everybody knows that any sacrifice to any tree grown from one of that tree's acorns would end up inside. She'd been seeding them little buggers in both Realms for centuries. Which is why she's the most successful Dust distributer ever. Any oak in either Realm could be a two-way conduit to her main tree. No magic in the world could interfere with it, either.

It was also one of those No Magical Humans Allowed joints, which meant I'd been in there more times than I could count. The Wizard Wards and Witch's Barriers were the best in the business, but they wouldn't so much as flicker if I walked through those inviting double doors. I'm about as nonmagical as you can get. Strictly Human has its advantages in the city between the Realms.

It started with a Dame. Don't they all?

She'd made an online appointment for nine but showed up at eight. The hideaway bed had just been stowed inside the couch and the only reason I was dressed in anything but faded boxers was because I'd slept in my clothes. Again.

Apparently, I had also forgotten to lock the door. I was barely upright and my coffeemaker had just started its lugubrious morning routine of whining, groaning and hissing out my first shot of the elixir of life. Hadn't even brushed my teeth yet, when she came bursting into the office.

"You Ruel?" she asked. I didn't need a skyre to tell what she thought of my appearance. It was written all over her pinched and overmade face. She was about as touchable as the miniature cactus, which was the only living thing in her office. That's something I saw later, of course. "Reliable sources tell me you can find things out, and keep your mouth closed about it."

All I had for her was a shrug. You don't talk to me before my first coffee.

"I also understand that you aren't much for paperwork of any kind, and that you work for cash." She opened her enormous purse, pulled-out a large manila envelope and dropped it on my desk.

There it was. The one real magic word I know. Cash. I could tell from the thump it made on the scarred, dented wood, that no matter what, I was going to take the case.

Two hours later, at the crack of ten, shit-showered-and-shaved, I found myself standing outside the imposing adamantium gates of Hemmingwaite Academy. My client was the Principal of the most prestigious and expensive private school in either Realm. More elite than Harvard or the Collegium Magius, it educated only the crème de la crème of Society.

No kidding. I thought I knew how to get to everywhere in Nightshade, but I had to googleN the damn place for directions.

What followed was a comprehensive tour of their security precautions. And I gotta tell you, they were tight. They had everything there from ogre ground patrols with chained hellhounds to the latest in hi-tech scanners, motion detectors, infrared and ultraviolet cameras and, of course, the best magical wards money could buy. There is no way anyone could smuggle Dust into that place.

But someone had.

And I'd been hired to find out who, or at least how it was done. I wasn't sure I could do it, but all I had to do was think about that thump.

Now you know what Fairy Dust is like. It makes the Fey kind of goofy, but not much worse than a shot of good tequila. Humans, on the other hand, whether magical or not, get some really strange results.

Turns out they'd had an Elf and two of the human kids to OD on some very fine Dust. Almost pure. More expensive per gram than anything but plutonium. The cops…well, let's put it this way…they hadn't been called. Not officially, anyway. And they were stumped. The kids weren't talking. As a matter of fact, one hadn't been caught yet. Dust has a tendency to make some humans take wing…literally.

So here I was in an alley in the rain, waiting to see who went to see the only true importer of Cadillac-grade Dust in the City.

I perked-up. Someone was leaving the Tavern. There was something funny about the way she walked. She didn't seem to mind the rain at all. As a matter of fact, though she was instantly soaked, she absolutely pranced down the dingy sidewalk, head back, mouth open to catch as much as she could.

Then it struck me! This must be a rare, cactus nymph. Nobody loves the rain more than one of those folks. And cactus nymphs could use the same natural magic as a dryad. Now that I knew how, who would be a piece of cake.

After I made the call, I didn't think I'd hear anything else. But I did. About a week later the pinch-faced principal called me up and said it was one of the custodians, the very one who'd given her the cactus in the first place.

And then she spoke a truly magical incantation:

"You'll receive the second half of your payment by courier, tomorrow."