George stood, staring at the closed up doorway, in anticipation. The patterned paper on the wall started to come together and swirl around into a whirlpool of colours, like a dancing rainbow. It was as if the library knew what George’s intentions were. The colours then began to stretch out into the distance and it was almost as if he could see what was on the other side, but rippled, like looking into a pool of water, gently wafted by the wind. He felt every nerve ending in his body jangling within him, and on the tips of his fingers, as he gripped the Myths and Legends book tightly in his right hand. He had never felt so nervous in all of his life. He had also never felt so alive.

‘So you know what to do,’ Molly repeated.

‘Yes, Molly,’ he shouted back, ‘you’ve told me enough times and I’ve got the book as well if I need to check anything.’

He took several deep breaths and counted to three in his head before declaring;

‘Okay, here goes,’ he yelled.

He ran as hard and fast as he could across the room and, with a loud whumph, disappeared into the portal.

*

George picked himself up and wearily dusted himself off, spitting tiny specks of dirt from between his lips and picking clumps of moss and grass from his jacket with his finger tips.

He’d been catapulted through the doorway, with flailing arms and legs, making him tumble down into a messy heap. He made a mental note not to take such a long run up in future.

He looked over his shoulder. The portal was in between a couple of trees, where two large branches had met to make a huge archway. Apart from a few reasonably large boulders there was nothing else around him, except mist and darkness. He was in the middle of a field and the ground beneath his feet felt soft and squishy. In the distance he could see the outline of a wood and guessed that this must be where he was supposed to head for. He took the reading glasses off, which were askew on is face anyway, and put them, with the book, into his satchel which was slung around his shoulders. He decided it would be best, on this occasion, to leave the bookmark in place, because he had the feeling he would need to make a quick escape, later on.

With carefully placed footsteps he proceeded towards the haggard trees. Upon reaching the woods George didn’t feel any better about the prospect of entering into them. Luckily the moon above was bright, but in the thick canopy of the foliage, this would offer no help. He slipped his hand into the bag and blindly rummaged around until he chanced upon something metallic and cold to the touch. He pulled out a small thin torch about four inches in length. He normally used it to read under the bedcovers when he was supposed to have put the lights out and gone to sleep. It didn’t offer much light, but it would be enough to see the ground in front of him, so he could at least place step after slow step.

George moved forwards, tracing what appeared to be a track worn in the earth by past visitors. As the undergrowth got thicker he could feel wet leaves slapping and clawing at his clothes. Eventually, after several long minutes, he reached a narrow clearing about ten metres in length. At the other end he could just about make out two paths that headed off in different directions.

All of a sudden, as if on cue, he heard a faint voice coming from the direction of the path on the right.

‘This way George,’ it whispered, ‘this is the way to what you seek.’

The voice drifted and swayed in the air, singing to him in a magically enchanted way. He found it impossible to resist and moved off in the direction of the voice, as if hypnotised by its sound.

‘Come on George,’ it sang, majestically, ‘not much longer now, nearly there.’

George’s feet began to move more rapidly, carrying his body along quicker, but not quite jogging. He was now completely oblivious to anything he was stumbling into, determined to reach the source of the voice. Suddenly, as he crashed through the branches of a large bramble, the ground gave way underneath him and he began to fall.

With an instinct he didn’t realise he possessed his left arm shot out to try to grab something, anything, to halt the descent. He got lucky. A tree root was protruding out of the earth on the edge of the ravine, and he managed to hook his wrist into it. Somehow, with one fluid movement, he swung his body around to grab it with the other hand, ramming the torch into his mouth in the process, to leave him dangling over a drop which he could now see was at least a hundred feet deep. As he hung there stones mixed with earth crumbled over his head and body into the darkness below.

He didn’t dare to move, hanging there for what seemed like several minutes, trying to regain his composure and strength. Eventually he slowly, delicately, scrabbled and heaved his way back to the top before collapsing on his back, his chest heaving to regain some of breath back into it, with his ankles still hanging over the edge.

‘How could I have been such a fool,’ he remonstrated with himself. ‘What’s the point in having a survival guide if I don’t even consult it first?’

He pulled himself up onto his haunches before grabbing the torch, which was now on the sodden ground beside him after falling from his clenched teeth, and took the book out. He opened it up at the appropriate page.

When searching for the Leprechauns lair, situated usually in a cave deep in some woods, be wary of the Pixies. These mischievous little creatures are the bane of travellers and like nothing more than to lead them down the wrong path, often into danger.

He continued scanning the paper until;

One way of fooling a Pixie, so as to be sure not to be led off in the wrong direction, is to turn your overcoat inside out. This confuses them long enough for you to reach your destination…………be careful though, Pixies love Leprechaun gold and, once it is dug up from the ground, can smell it from miles around. No amount of treachery on your part will deter them from trying to steal it from you.

George put the book away and proceeded to turn his jacket inside out. He then gathered all his things together, straightened himself out, and headed back in the direction of the clearing. When he reached it he then took the other path. It wasn’t long before George could see, about twenty metres ahead of him, a cave in the side of a rocky outcrop. The trick with his jacket must have worked, because now he was making good time, unhindered.

The mouth of the cave wasn’t very big, only about four feet in diameter, but, brushing aside some of the foliage overhanging the entrance, he could see that it opened up into a much larger chamber inside, of which there was a small fire burning in the centre.

‘H..hello,’ he shouted into the cave, hearing the echo bounce around the walls. ‘Is anyone there?’

He waited a few seconds but there was no reply so he tried again;

‘I don’t mean to harm you, honest….please can I come in.’

Again he waited, without reply.

I suppose I should go in and wait then, he thought to himself but, just as he was about to crawl into the opening, a little, sharp featured, bearded face appeared from out of nowhere and blew fairy dust into his eyes.

*

‘Blisterin’ buff –gumbles,’ grunted the voice.

George fuzzily came to his senses as his vision adjusted to the dim, flickering, light.

Straddled across the top of the fire was now a small cauldron on a metal stand, with some kind of concoction bubbling away inside it, which the Leprechaun was taking sips from with a wooden ladle. He was muttering things in a strange language, while adding pinches of this and that.

‘Oh, so you’re awake then are ye’,’ he exclaimed in a distinct Irish accent. ‘Stormin’ in all uninvited like that, no manners ye’ aven’t, ye’ darned dumbimble.’

‘Sorry,’ George offered, rubbing his head. Now he knew what a hangover must feel like, or so he thought. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude….it’s just that I need to, well…’

‘I know what ye’ be needin’ ye’ great big scruff-guffle.’ He interrupted, flatly. ‘Ye’ don’t think now that you’re the only one to ‘ave been ‘ere wantin’ some of me gold do ye?’

George hadn’t considered it before, but of course he wasn’t.

‘Oh right, er yes well, if I could just have a couple of pieces then I’ll be on my way and I can leave you in peace...’

‘Ye’ don’t just get to come waltzin’ in ‘ere and expectin’ to take away some gold jus’ like that ye’ know,’ the Leprechaun protested, ‘you have to, let’s say, steal it from me, in a manner of speakin’.’

He studied the bemused look on George’s face, before adding;

‘Look in the darned book ye’ great big pile o’ stinkin’ pugmumble.’

George was shocked by the Leprechauns rudeness, which was in contrast to his tidy appearance, dressed neatly in a finely tailored bright red suit with gold edging and shiny, polished, buckles on his shoes and hat.

Again he took out the book and found the relevant paragraph –

Upon finding and meeting the Leprechaun you will find him most accommodating, but at the same time a rambunctious character, owing to his solitary existence. The only way he will allow you to ‘steal’ gold from him is to make him laugh. Warning: do not try to take the gold from him when his back is turned, for all you will end up with is a bag of smelly dirt.

George took a long, slow, gulp. This was going to be an impossible task he thought as he looked back across at the Leprechaun, arms folded, waiting, with a stony face.

‘Come on, bring it on, give it ye’ best,’ he said. ‘An’ I don’t wan’ te be hearin’ the same ones ye’ Ma an’ Pa told me last time either. Good as they were, I be hearin’ ‘em already now.’

George was stumped. All the best jokes he’d ever heard had been told to him by his mum and dad. He delved into the deep recesses of his memory to try and remember a few from the school playground.

‘Okay, here goes,’ he announced, ‘what type of monster really likes to dance?’

There was no reaction from the Leprechaun.

‘A boogie man,’ George said, enthusiastically.

Still no face movement from the diminutive man sitting opposite.

‘Alright, maybe not that one then…erm...how about this one: What do you call a fairy that never has a bath?......Stinkerbell.’

Still nothing, not even the slightest crease of the upper lip.

‘Oh come on,’ George said, ‘surely you found that funny?’

‘Oh, to be sure, it was mildly amusin’, but not enough to make me split me britches.’

He saw the fettered look pasted on George’s face and, almost but not quite, felt sorry for him.

‘Look, I tell ye’ what, ye can have one more try. Think of the best one ye’ can, but then ye’ll have to feddle yer diddle an’ let me have me supper, okay.’

‘Right, it’s a deal,’ George replied, biting his lip in deep consideration. ‘Are you ready for it?’

‘Go on; give it ye’ best shot.’

‘Okay, here goes,’ He shouted.

George jumped up and darted around the fire, pounced on the Leprechaun, and bundled him onto his front, tickling him furiously all over his tiny body. The Leprechaun started letting out high pitched giggles and squeals.

‘Alright, alright,’ he gasped, ‘you win….leave me alone or I’ll wet meself.’

George pulled away, catching his breath, emitting little ‘he’s’ and ‘ha’s’. He hadn’t had that much fun in a long time. By now the Leprechaun had lifted himself off the cave floor and was releasing little, excited, breathless gasps.

‘Bhago Dhaia, boy, that’s the best of ‘em yet. I’ll gladly give ye’ some o’ me gold. Follow me,’ he said.

The Leprechaun wiggled his finger, directing George to follow him to the back of the cave, picking up a small spade on the way. He plucked a twig out of the ground and started digging on the same spot. Not long after he lifted a miniature treasure chest out of the hole and shook the earth off the top of it.

He then lifted it up to his mouth and whispered something into the lock and the lid clicked open. Inside it there were several tiny leather bags. Leprechaun gold was obviously not very big.

‘Here, take a bag. There’s a few pieces in there, ought te last ye’ a while,’ he said, ‘but ye’’ll need te be quick now mind, the pixies’ll already be smellin’ the scent.’

‘Thank you,’ George said, shaking his hand, before slinging the satchel around his neck and scrambling back outside the cave.

He didn’t want to waste any time as he sprinted back along the track, hurdling over the outline of tree trunks and ducking under branches. The idea of being beaten up and robbed by a gang of marauding pixies wasn’t his idea of a good time.

As he made his way along the path, crashing through branches and brambles, he could hear little yelping sounds to the rear of him and to the side. His heart thumped inside his chest and his legs pumped even harder as the noise got louder and louder.

He finally reached the edge of the wood and exploded into the field, sending leaves and undergrowth flying into the air. He could see the portal in the distance, the mist having now cleared. It was only now, in the bright moonlight, that George could see his pursuers, and then wished he hadn’t looked. Hundreds of tiny blue figures, about a foot in height, all dressed in green costumes swarmed out from every opening at the edge of the trees and closed in on him in a massive semi-circle. Red, silver and purple Pixie dust exuded from every footstep, rising, to create a huge bulging cloud in the air.

Closer and closer he got to the archway, but he was now tiring, his lungs protesting vigorously to every yard of ground he covered. A few of the Pixie front runners had jumped onto him, swinging from his coat tails and pulling at his hair while they clamped their legs to his shoulders.

He flayed his arms around, batting and swatting them away, keeping the leather pouch of gold tightly enclosed in his fist. He only had a few feet to go now so, with a sudden burst of energy and resolve, he took a huge leap head first into the portal, leaving several confused Pixies gliding through the air.

A Statement I Aspire to Declare With Confidence:

I Hope to Be Bold

---

If you gave me a reason to cry, I would.

My soul was easily permeable

To a dreadful comment,

whether disagreeable or plausible.

It permeated deep inside me,

Tearing apart a piece of sanity within me,

Leaving me to overlook what I’ve achieved

And see only instability.

I felt more unworthy

with every sore word of scorn

That tore through the door of my mind

and took over vigour.

Every bit of honesty I shared

was declared uncomforting.

I couldn’t bear to feel that my truth

needed repair

I just wanted to be real somewhere.

I read a dead discussion as something I said avoided.

I felt unheard….

You couldn’t even comprehend

the tears I shed

Over the hands that kept my voice on edge.

Disrespect wrecked me.

The bad overcame the good.

But that was because I let it.

Now, my soul is blocked from any emotional byproduct of a some words that will never encapsulate me

I feel more worthy with every sore word of scorn because the opinion of someone clueless about my goals, dreams, desires,

is irrelevant to my existence

With every bit of honesty I share

I declare

Myself.

because I refuse to waste a day of my life

with someone undeserving

of all that I am, or all that I fight

everyday to be.

A dead discussion could be something I said avoided.

Or...a sign of someone struggling,

or occupied

because I’m finally seeing

that not everyone’s out to get me.

I claim my individuality,

whether you approve or disapprove,

I claim myself.

If you gave me a reason to cry, I would.

If you give me a reason to cry, I wouldn’t.

Father

a Word

I Have

Heard

Many Times

Though

the Meaning

Defies me

Or Perhaps

Has

Defined me

For It

Has

Plagued

my Life

Painting

the Canvas

Green

With Jealousy

For

a Life

Never Meant

To be

a Discarded

Seed

a Weed

#B27321

George shot through the open doorway, fell to his knees, and slid across the slimy wooden deck of the ship.

He lifted his head to catch his bearings and was greeted with the sight of about a dozen, open mouthed, pirates who were stood completely still having immediately stopped whatever task they were in the middle of performing. It was as if he had gate crashed a game of musical statues.

‘Er…hello,’ he said, red faced.

Suddenly the pirates came to their senses and released one conjoined roar into the breezy sea air. They all jumped, to a man, on top of George forming an untidy pile of arms and legs in the middle of the deck.

George managed to find a gap to squirm his way through and crawl from beneath the teeming mass of smelly armpits and greasy limbs. His freedom was short lived though as another pirate, coming to see what all the commotion was about, grabbed him as he took to his feet. The pirate twisted George’s arm around his back and put a cutlass blade to his throat.

‘Going somewhere are we?’ he said, menacingly.

‘Get up you scurvy bag of scum,’ the pirate shouted at the others on the floor. ‘Go and get the Captain.’

One of them, a tall thin man with thick spectacles, peeled himself off the top of the pile and headed up some steps to the side, onto the upper deck, tripping on every third stair.

After several seconds of loud bumps and sounds of ‘Ouch’, ‘Gerrof’ and ‘Who put that there’, the man came back accompanied by the un-mistakable figure of Captain John Ladybird.

‘What have we here then, a stowaway?’ said the Captain.

‘We found him on deck sir, trying to steal our booty he was,’ said the pirate holding George.

His breath stank as he spoke and George tried to pull his face away. He tried to say something but the sharpness of the blade persuaded him otherwise. Luckily the Captain saw through the pirate’s false claims.

‘I hardly think that to be the case,’ he said, calmly, ‘considering we don’t actually have any booty, as you call it, do we?’

All the pirates looked down at the floor together and, in unison, shrugged and grunted.

‘Well I’m sure if we did, he would’ve tried to steal it, sir…..can’t we just get the cat ‘o nine tails out anyway, just to be sure…..please,’ he pleaded.

All of them nodded their heads and a mirage of toothless grins graced the Captain’s eye line.

‘No,’ he shouted with authority. ‘We shall let the boy speak first and see what he has to offer in way of an explanation.’

Captain John looked directly at George. ‘Well, boy. What do you have to say for yourself?’

George desperately wanted to show the gold coin to the Captain.

‘I have something in my pocket that will explain everything, I think,’ he gargled.

George moved his free hand towards his inside pocket but stopped sharply when his other arm was pulled tighter up his back.

‘Aaaaargh,’ he wailed.

The Captain, luckily, sensed he wasn’t a threat and put his hand out to stop any more of the torture.

‘Colin,’ he ordered, ‘see what it is he wants to show us, if you please.’

A gormless looking, short, scruffy haired pirate walked over and reached into the inside of George’s coat. He pulled something out and hoisted it into the air.

‘Look sir, a gold coin,’ exclaimed Colin.

He examined it more closely, fiddling with it between his fingers.

‘Hang on. This isn’t real,’ he said.

He peeled away at the gold with his dirty fingernail to reveal a chocolate coin. George looked up to the sky, exasperated. He couldn’t believe this was happening. That novelty coin had been there since Christmas.

‘The other pocket,’ he shouted desperately. ‘Look in the other pocket.’

‘Oh, right,’ said Colin, taking a bite of the chocolate.

He again slid his hand into the inside of George’s jacket, this time pulling out the Leprechaun gold.

‘Hang on, is this some kind of joke,’ Colin said, trying to scrape the gold away from the coin.

Captain John suddenly grabbed the rail and hurdled over onto the steps and bounded down to the deck below, snatching the coin from Colin’s grasp.

‘Let me see that,’ he said.

He held it up to the light and inspected it more closely. He turned to the pirate holding George.

‘Let him go, immediately,’ he barked.

George twisted and stretched his sore limb, which had now been released.

‘You, come with me,’ he said, pointing at George, before marching into the inner part of the ship.

George picked up the book from the sodden wooden planks and discreetly removed the bookmark, before following the Captain into what was now just a normal doorway.

*

George stood inside the Captain’s quarters, now minus the reading glasses which had been safely put away. In the middle of the room was an old desk set at a strange angle to the walls with various nautical measuring instruments and charts adorning the top of it, and an equally old chair resting to the side. There was also an old pewter tankard, with goodness knows what murkily residing within it, sliding gently back and forth to the rhythm of the swaying ship. In the corner was a bunk, only a foot or so off the ground, with a stained woollen blanket dumped roughly at its base.

Captain John took a swig from the grubby tankard and immediately pulled a face then shook his cheeks from side to side.

‘So, the stories were true then, what my Mother told me when I was young,’ he said, almost to himself, staring blankly out of one of the portholes.

He turned his head towards George. ‘So, what do they call you then….they do still use names in the future, don’t they?’

‘Yes sir, my name is George, sir.’

The captain nodded.

‘Right then, George. I assume you’re here because you need my help in some way,’ he said, coldly. ‘So, while you’re here you can be of help to me too. I need another able seaman to assist with some of the duties on board. One of them went and died on me recently, most rude it was.’

His expression remained serious. It was clear he wasn’t having a joke with George.

‘Yes sir,’ said George, solemnly.

’Right well, go and see the crew and get yourself better attired for the job. Then, when I think you’re on your way to actually being of use to us, I’ll ask you what it is you need my help for, understood.

He looked back out towards the sea.

‘Yes, but I….,’ said George, desperately.

‘Is that understood,’ interrupted the Captain, sternly, without turning back to face him.

‘Yes,’ George agreed meekly. He realised there was no point arguing with the Captain at this stage. He would just have to play ball for the moment and hope that his mood changed for the better, and that he would soon come to terms with the situation unfolding on his ship.

‘Oh,’ said Captain John, with a sly smile creasing up at the corner of his mouth, ‘do leave your bag here for the time being, I will need to do an inventory of its contents, standard ship procedure, I assure you.’

George hesitated for a brief moment. He was obviously very nervous about letting the contents of the satchel from out of his sight, but again the pointlessness of resisting the Captain’s wishes persuaded him it was a risk he would have to take. He pulled it over his head and laid it down onto the table, before excusing himself from the room and going back above decks to go and introduce himself, properly this time, to the crew.

*

The next few days went agonisingly slowly. Every time he was in Captain John’s presence he acted indifferently to George. Most nights he had laid awake on his bunk, staring at the ceiling above, wondering if he should steal his book back and leave the ship, but to his credit he stuck with it.

The crew, on the other hand, had turned out to be fantastic with him and had become very friendly. They taught him all about life on board and the tasks and duties that went with keeping everything ‘ship shape’.

George was now confident when it came to climbing up the rigging to untie ropes and unfurl sails. He had even taken a couple turns up in the crows nest, although after a while this got a bit boring when George sat there for hours with nothing to look at except miles upon miles of rolling ocean.

In return George taught them about the importance of things like hygiene and washing their hands, especially after trips to the toilet and before preparing food. He explained how important it was to keep the drinking water separate and safe from contamination. At first the crew had scoffed at his suggestions, but when he pointed out that these simple steps would prevent them from getting diseases like dysentery, or as they called it ‘the bloody flux’, they were only too eager to adapt his principles.

There were three pirates that George worked with in close proximity on a daily basis, and had become his closest allies on the ship. There was ‘short sighted’ Sid, the scrawny, thick spectacled one who had fetched the Captain when George first appeared on the ship, ‘Clueless’ Colin, the short, scruffy, pirate who had looked for the gold coin in George’s coat and ‘no nickname’ Pete.

Pete was a podgy, but tall, man who owned a pet parrot that often sat on his shoulder while he polished and cleaned his pistols during his free time. Occasionally Pete would offer to do the cooking for the crew, but they often denied him because the last time he did it he accidentally poisoned them all. Pete also had a tendency, when in the face of serious danger, to panic uncontrollably. Despite all of these characteristics, Pete still didn’t have a nickname because the others ‘couldn’t quite think of anything that had a ring to it yet.’

It didn’t come as a shock to George when he found out that the crew had been through a spell of bad luck recently and hadn’t plundered any treasure in over a year. George took it upon himself to work with them, for only about an hour every day, to develop their close combat fighting skills, boarding tactics and pistol shooting.

Despite the massively positive effect he was having with the men, the Captain still continued to look on and say nothing. George decided it was time he had to do something about the situation with the Captain. They had to talk, but not in front of the crew. He would wait until everyone was asleep in their bunks that night and sneak into the Captain’s room to confront him. After all, it should have been his duty to have helped George in the first place, for the sake of the family.

*

Every footstep George gingerly placed in front of the other on the rough wooden timbers appeared to creak even louder than the preceding one. Despite the friendship he’d forged with the crew he knew they still remained steadfastly loyal to the captain, although puzzling to him as it was, and if he was caught sneaking into the Captain’s quarters in the middle of the night they may develop the wrong impression about his intentions.

George was beginning to wonder if this had been such a good idea, but he was nearly at the Captain’s door. It was now easier to go on than risk turning back and getting caught as he tried to get back into his bunk. As he approached, he noticed the door was slightly ajar and a flicker of candlelight was emanating through the gap. He cautiously peeped into the room, holding his breath, and saw Captain John sat in his chair, facing away from the entrance, staring down at the floor.

‘Come in George, I knew you would come, eventually’ he said.

This startled George but nevertheless he pushed aside the door and slowly crept into the room.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he said ‘but I really need to talk with you.’

‘Yes, it’s alright George, I know you do,’ Captain John said, resignedly. ‘I’ve been watching you for several days. The effect you’ve had on the crew is quite exceptional lad, and as for how far you’ve come yourself, well, you would make a very valuable addition to this ship. I suppose I’ve been afraid to talk to you myself because of what it may mean.’

‘Oh…..,’ George mumbled. He was surprised by this. He had thought the Captain was ignoring him because he simply didn’t care about helping him and was only using him for his own ends. He now realised that the Captain actually appreciated what he was doing on board the ship.

George took another step towards the desk, noticing the biography lying in the middle of it.

‘So you’ve looked through the book then I see?’ George hissed. ‘I’m not sure that was the wisest thing to have done, looking into your own future, sir.’

Captain John quickly spun round in the chair, but George could see he wasn’t angry with his comments. On the contrary, he had a sad look in his eyes.

‘I know, you’re right George,’ he said. ‘I realise that now, but looking at the book has helped me to understand some of the many mistakes I’ve made in my life.’

He picked up the book and offered it to George who politely took it from his grasp.

‘Look inside the book George,’ he said, ‘look at the pages from the middle onwards…they’re all blank.’

George flicked through the pages and indeed there was not even the tiniest spot of ink upon them.

‘Of course,’ he proclaimed. ‘From where we are now and onwards none of it has happened yet. The book can’t tell us about events that haven’t occurred because some things may yet change by me being here.’

‘That’s right George. So you see, the book offers me no clues anyway, except to show me how wrong I’ve been in my past.’

They looked straight at each other and for the first time George noticed the anguish and pain etched within the creases of Captain John’s face. He could see the longing for home. The Captain hadn’t chosen to be a pirate; it had been forced upon him, many years previously.

‘Go now, go back to your bed George and get a good nights rest,’ the Captain ordered. ‘In the morning you can tell me all about how we can help you, then we shall hit port and re-supply for the adventure ahead.’

Title: George and the Magic Library – The search for the Phoenix Quill

Genre: Fantasy, Historical Adventure.

Age Range: 11+

Word Count: Excerpt – 2,500, Main Book - 60,000+

Author Name: S J Andrews

Why this is a good fit: Although the book is an adventure story, the research has been meticulous, meaning there will be factual elements, but only on a subtle level so that it does not get in the way of the story. I believe the story will appeal to boys and girls alike as, though the central character is a boy, there are several strong female characters within the story. The story has many twists and turns, with cliff-hangers dotted within the story to keep young readers engaged and wanting to see what happens next. There is also a twist at the end which leads to the possibility and promise of more adventures to come.

The Hook: Characters can magically travel into books and have adventures within them.

Synopsis: George’s parents have been missing for several weeks and now his Grandma has died in mysterious circumstances. Sent to live with his uncle in the country George discovers a family secret at his new home – a magic library which allows the readers to enter into the stories within the books. He must use this magic to put together a series of clues and try to find an ancient artefact known as the Phoenix Quill, which ultimately has the power save his parents.

Target Audience: Boys and Girls between the ages of 11 and 16, particularly fans of fantasy, history and other similar genres, such as Narnia and Harry Potter.

Bio: I am 41 years old and live in Lancaster, England. I am educated to a good standard and run my own digital content and marketing business. I lead a wide ranging and healthy social life and am always attempting to gain new life experiences. I enjoy history and have a keen interest in myths and legends, especially the psychology of how many of the tales come about – I like to then take these two elements and combine them into my storytelling, which is written in a way that children can identify with and understand (I have 4 Children of various ages), but without appearing condescending or insulting to their growing intelligence. I am a firm believer that reading is an important aspect of a child’s education, so the stories they are presented with must be kept exciting and engaging as well as giving them access to new words and information.

wisconsin is so sad in summer …

like a lying lover

she wont believe

he’s true

she cuts off her shorts

& plays water sports

but doesn’t know just

quite what to do?

she wants to believe his promises

hot days & warm nite moons

but deep down inside

she aches & writhes

knowing he’ll be gone

& soon

but fall brings out her very best!

such a handsome man!

cider & hay rides

letter-sweater pride

& crisp walks

holding hands

her cheeks go ruddy & burn hot red

when she feels his cool caress

his touches thrill; rush & a chill

thru her brightest-colored dress

the players

her yellows begin as tufts & streaks

lone spots, splashes & dots

gold-brushed hedges

& lipstickd edges

climbing trees

to peak tiptops

her yellows take on cadmium hues

shy lemon

& citron canary

neon banana

hot honey

tan mana

& no.2 pencil

blaring

her yellows taste like summer sun

golden delicious & sweet

radiant lit

tart & crisp

cool crunching

sheets

her yellows paint entire lanes

curb to sky, long & deep

& gaudy school busses

spilling out cusses

for once camouflaged

can creep

her yellows twitch

like flame licks

aloft hilltops

like torches

fresh from a match

they dance & catch

in ferocious

forest fire scorches

bold gold pillars

streak to the sky

yellow pyramids

stand on their heads

big pools sprawl deep

heap up & steep

& the ground sleeps

in big yellow beds

yellow clouds

lift from the ground

& hang right there

in the air

yellow rising

a whole horizon

a billion gold pixels

times square’d

showers flash

& heaven’s riches

rain in gold

on down

copper flakes

& coins

spinning wakes

free for all

& piled high

on the ground

…

autumn turns her greens jealous

& reminiscent for summer & spring

greens put on proud airs

selfish to share

yearning & envious

once king

fresh greens flaunt

& wax nonchalant

flourishing

fervid & strong

& resilient greens

& holding on greens

grip tight

in the pines & to lawns

till begrudging greens give & relent

& defeated greens melt away

& somber greens sulk

beneath yellows’ hulk

& only then do greens join the parade

…

her reds explode with violence

hot fresh rips

shreds & slashes

strips drip nigh

& bleed from the sky

in splashing

vermillion

gashes

her reds gleam in choke cherry

& waxy poison apple shine

raw red fire engine

screams unrelenting

syrah spills

& leaves merlot

lines

her reds smolder

to cinnamon rust

paprika & chili

ground coarse

smoky rouge

& rose petal hues

like burgundy

& jugs of port

her maples don

long scarlet gowns

her staghorn

pluck crimson jewels

oaks turn to rubies

elms sparkle moody

& unravel

in red threaded spools

…

her pinks suck sweet life

out of her reds

like vampires

draining the dying

siphoned drops & belts

pulled pale, that melt

to svelte slight pink

light shining

her pinks are perky & pretty

soft salmon blossom

embossing

pert petal bells

peal’d pearls & shells

sweet as cupcake

cream frosting

…

her oranges descend in parachutes

like sweet fruit

accrued & in bloom

skylines preach peach

with apricot leafs

on melon plumed avenue

afternoons

her oranges appear

in oriole feathers

monarch wings

& sharp roadwork cones

her hunter orange blaze

shoots sunset rays

frozen in saffron

toned shows

orange trick-or-treats in jelly beans

candy corn

& fat taffy vats

reese cup wrappers

grinning jackolanterns

& creeping creamscicle cats

no color is prouder

in autumn than orange

it finally has its say!

orange eats acres thru

burns trees carrot hues

& every last pumpkin

gets its day

in the mix

trees that once waded in puddles

of dark-shadow blue & black null

… are now tiled under

in mosaics of color

green orange pink red

& yellow

orange falls & shrivels in rising sheets

like fresh hot-baked pie crust

& beneath

congealing

is a green filling

just awaiting fork holes

to steam gust

green willows cry

yellow streak tears

yellow gets smudged

with green lines

lime, lemon-tipped?

or yellow, green-dipped?

chartreuse is when she

wont make up her mind

yellow forests roll

over green hills

& green trees top

yellow-leaf lacquer

a theme & an ode

great green & gold

& that is why god

made the packers

orange bushes simmer

spiced golden

red vines climb

brown brick links

chimney plumes choke

tufts of lavender smoke

oaks think purple

& sunsets go pink

pinks weathered brittle

melt yellow

red turns translucent

orange-veined

brown greens

& green browns

make purple sounds

& purple

tasting pink

remembers green

blue & white

shine clean & bright

in tree trunks

& clouds that drift by

birch & aspen lines

& slender pines climb

to white moons

in cerulean skies

Deep Color

every last tuft & puff

plume & burst

is color

heaped up in layers

bright puzzle pieces collide

with crisp creases

as color swells

everywhere

color in dabs

& double daubs

dribbles

dropped

& marbled miens

mismatcheds merge

in bold-braided blurs

like the best

of impressionist scenes

patchwork color

is stitched & sewn

into thick quilts

newly delivered

color thrown over trees

with the first freezing breeze

to warm them at night

when they shiver

colorful patches

on branches

in batches

rise round

as hot air balloons

& full trees

still with all their leaves

stand proud

as all their friends swoon

color parasols

snap open & up

color domes

arching, on high

streets grab pompoms

to shake color aplomb

lining avenues

on both sides

all summer’s color

horded stockpiled

in bits & saved up

for months

color spent to amaze

in one dying blaze

fireworks fired days

all at once

& that is why god made the browns

& then it is a brown-scale world

as death makes her first

lively rounds

leaves trickle steady

dry rusty confetti

peanut butter bits bob

orange & brown

golden landscapes

baked like pancakes

& crisp crustd

roast almond scenes

a kiln-toasted haze

of melted beige glaze

murmuring

burnt-umber

praline

then flat dead grey

eats days away

strips shrubs

& leaves

naked trees

grey chews clouds & sky

& sucks landscapes dry

& the whole world

goes white in one freeze

- end –

CHAPTER 1

I fell onto the sofa like a lifeless corpse, I shook my head in hopes that all this was nothing but some delusion or that I had finally gone insane and tried to get insanity’s hands off of me. The living room before me I feel was stretching out, as if everything was becoming small and insignificant, much like the life I led on here if what these people said was true. I could feel the air becoming thicker around me and my dear friend Mallory, who sadly put herself in this abyss of insanity with me.

I looked up at Mallory, her eyes reddened and turned my gaze away from reality’s cold revleation, yet part of me refused every single second of what was happening to be reality. She sat next to me, and found as if her only option was to hug me tight. I don’t think anything I could say would be able to console her, for I cannot even begin as to how to process all these fantasies and delusions.

I wrapped my arms around her, I simply waited for her to say something, anything. I know she isn’t taking this any easier than I am, no sane human being would be able to take the information we got and still be completely sane and unaffected. She buried her head in our embrace, holding on so tight like two pieces of metal now melting together.

“Aki, please tell me what they’re saying isn’t true, please tell me it’s nothing but lies.”

Although she was still glued to me, slowly we went out of our embrace, “I don’t believe a word of it, but at the same time, what would these people gain by making up this weird story about me? I have never seen them before in my whole life, they’re nothing but strangers to me. They can have so much better to do with their time than waste it doing this nonsense to me.”

“On top of that, some of them aren’t even human, some of them don’t even seem to be good people. I could tell just by their constant looking down at everyone else. You aren’t like those people Akire, you are an amazing girl, the best friend I have ever met in my whole life. Please, tell me you’re not going with those people. Please tell me you can stay here and that nothing they say will come to be true.”

“If any single thing they say is true, if I can believe even one thing they tell me, then I really can’t stay here. It would only hurt you more if I were to stay here.”

Mallory simply turned her gaze away from me and toward the door where we know those people are waiting behind it, “But it’s just absurd, it’s complete and utter insanity what they spew! Not even putting a tin foil hat on them would do it justice because people like those, in spite of their crazy and fantastical rambles, would not believe a word they say.”

“I know, I understand all this just as much as you do. Thoughts are all running in my head asking so many questions and just trying to connect everything together,” I groan, and decided to rest my head on her lap, “I just don’t know Mal.”

“Haven’t you thought about what they said though? They—“

I lifted my head up to meet hers once more, “Mal, what they said is the only thing that is my mind right now. There hasn’t been a second so far that a thought has not been about this whole thing. We both heard what will happen to me if I stay, just like we know what will be done if I were to leave.”

“And you know you can’t just leave everything behind. Where will they even take you? What would happen to everyone you have met here? Your family, your friends,” she paused, and forced my eyes to meet hers, “What would happen to me Aki?

My body inside twisted and turned as she said that with her eyes watering up and hearing her voice choke up like that. Mallory looked so vulnerable, so afraid, a Mallory that I have only seen one other time in the years we have known each other.

“Mal, no matter what is it that they want to do, I will never let anyone separate me from you, for any reason. I am not leaving without you, and they must understand that.”

“You can’t, I already heard the conversation you guys had about bringing me along. They just can’t seem to trust me, and even if they did they told you it’s impossible to bring me along.”

I shook my head, “I could care less about what they said to me, I am not leaving until they figure this out. I’m not just going to leave everything behind and simply forget them and all the memories I have. All that just to end up leaving with them, strangers, and demand faith that I cannot have knowing the endless possibilities as to what can happen to me.”

We heard the door open as one of the “Alterations” peeks through the door. She walked in smiling, it was that girl dressed as some circus ringmaster or Alteration Gamma as she was introduced to me, “Mind if I stay and talk with the two of you?”

I simply pointed to the couch across from us, she bowed like a conductor who finished a concert, and sat, “Listen, I was eavesdropping on this little heart to heart conversation that you were having, and I have some comments to make. I may be this grandiose, eccentric girl who appears to do nothing more than to make shows spectacular, but hear me out.”

I looked at Mal, she only looked back shrugging, I respond with a sigh, “Well, I guess we can listen, although we don’t have much choice in the matter.”

“First, I only find it fair to introduce myself properly to the both of you, I apologize they weren’t more personal, Xirena is as old as time when it comes to introductions, and hardly understands the importance of knowing someone’s real name. I’m Ruby Atwell, and it is a pleasure to meet you both,” she shook our hands, and she stood poised before us.

She took off her white top hat and placed it on the coffee table, we looked at her inhuman scarlet red eyes, her current posture and expressionless face was a complete contrast to how she was earlier as a girl who was filled with an excess of energy and emotion.

“Before I begin, I must start by asking one question. For what reason do you two think I could help in this situation, knowing that the few Alterations here all have a role in making this work? What is my role according to you two?” Ruby began sounding like some professor.

We stared at her blankly, I mean what purpose would she serve, if she has any at all?

“I don’t think you really have any particular role, I mean you’re no different than us, and the others seem to have firm grip on what they’re doing and are far from what I could call human,” I told her.

Ruby giggled, “See, even the others thought that, so I had to pester them into bringing me along.”

“Yet, judging by how you speak part of me wants to guess you have your own reasons for coming here that not even these other Alterations know of.”

Ruby snapped her fingers, smirking, “Exactly!” She looked at Mal, “You know, your deductions skills were far better than I thought. You must have been an amazing officer.”

It didn’t shock us that she also knew, considering how they told us our whole lives upon our first meeting, “Well, all I can say about that is the chief of police saw very highly of me and almost wanted me to gain that position if he were to retire to pay for all the cases we solved together.”

Ruby nodded, then continued, “Now seeing the little time we can waste, there’s no point beating around the bush,” she looked at the both of us with a growing smile, then said in a low voice, “I’m here because I have a plan to fulfill Akire’s request.”

I felt my eyes widen, then looked at Mal, whose eyes began to shimmer in the tears that are too afraid to come out, “How? What is your plan?” I began to ask.

“Also, if you know how to possibly solve this, how come you haven’t told the other Alterations yet? You could have told them from the beginning so they could have brought you along. It just makes no sense why you would hide the solution from a team,” Mal questioned.

“Because as I stated earlier, it’s merely a plan have, though small it is, there is an quite concerning margin of error, and the other Alterations would not have believed my theory if I told them then. Now would be a more optimal time, because once here they will start spewing their ideas and try to connect them, except it will be an organized chaos. You see, each has a specialty in the plan which would be enough to at least get Akire out of this universe, only if all the pieces fall in nicely.”

“In other words, it could be a bit risky?” I asked.

“More than risky, if one piece fails, the whole plan falls apart and the universe would become more unstable due to the tinkering they must do to it.” In spite of her appearance and first impression, Ruby seems to have much knowledge about this situation.

“How do you even know all of this? I’m sorry but you didn’t seem like some person with some sort of PhD to be able to know this much. How come you know this while the others don’t?” Mal retorted.

“Well to be brief, you’re right. Which is why it takes someone who has several PhDs and knowledge about toying with the time and space within multiple universes and the entire dimension to know what I know,” she began staring at Mal, waiting.

Mal simply threw her hands up in the air, “Alright I’m done trying to make sense of all this, but at least it shows you really know what you’re talking about.”

“So tell me, how would this theory of yours work? Because if there is any plan that even has the smallest percent to not lose everything I have here I am willing to risk it. I want to bring those I care about with me.”

“Well, to put it brief, you must be able to awaken into Alteration Delta and find that Awakening to become one, then we simply do what I always do when travelling to different parts of space and be able to live in any universe: you and Mal together elevate into another dimension.

“What does that even mean? I can’t even begin to see how that makes sense,” I said, looking at her with my brows furrowed.

“With the Awakening, you will be able to do the same as me, and to be able to live within my universe, the closest to the Real World, you must elevate from the 4th and become 6th dimensional beings.”

Somehow I knew that whatever it was beyond the door needed my permission to come in.

The question was, how long could I stand the noise?

Admittedly, I was pretty calm, considering the situation. I'd been in this room, with this chair, and this door for a while now. It wasn't dark, despite there being no windows or visible light fixtures. Curious, but not especially alarming, all things considered.

Besides the muffled, hideously distorted screeching, I was pretty comfortable. No injuries, it wasn't too hot or too cold, and I wasn't bound by rope or chain, which was nice.

I frowned. I seemed to remember being bound once.

Oh, did I mention I didn't remember waking up? Or anything else for that matter?

So, it should make sense that I felt relief over any memory, even one hinting at something quite unpleasant. The first detail of my past, however vague, emboldened me.

Suddenly, I came to realize my second absolute:

I had the power in this situation, and I made the decisions. Only I could open that door.

But did I really want to?

The moment I thought that, the wailing rose to thunderous levels. Still, I wasn't afraid. It couldn't touch me. However, I feared for the integrity of the room. It shook, as if the thing had finally started to pound the door in earnest. Finally, a crack appeared in the wall next to me, and I wondered what would happen to me if it collapsed.

Yet, even as that thought occurred to me, I didn't intend to leave.

At the same time, I knew that if I wanted to live - even if I never left - I couldn't let this room be destroyed.

So I screamed back, with a strength I didn't know I had. Together, the cadence built with a horrifying resonance until suddenly, my opposition, with a final, ear-splitting shriek, faded away.

For the first time since I became aware, there was silence.

With the sounds of that almost-war echoing around me, I finally realized my biggest clue had been there all along, and my world narrowed around me until I could hear only the fading of those screams...

Our voices were the same.

Over the thundering of my heartbeat, my mind worked frantically. If it wasn't an it, if I wasn't being tricked, there was someone out there. And judging from the alarmingly warped sounds that had come from them, they were in untold pain.

Who...who was outside?

I thought of everything I had heard since the beginning. The little noises I had missed, lost in thought, only to recall now - the whimpers between roars, the desperate scratching between bangs, the low moans amidst the clamor.

This...this was a person.

And I'd cruelly left them in that state. Alone, suffering, and clearly in dire need of help.

All because I didn't want to leave the relative safety of this place.

I couldn't live with that. Even...even if this was all a sham, I felt as if I'd found my purpose.

I was going to protect them.

Whoever it was beyond the door.

Step by step, I walked forward, and turned the knob.

***

I understood now.

As I opened my eyes, I was real. I felt.

And I took in everything.

I was sitting in a chair.

I was naked.

The room was dim, and the only visible light seemed to leak in from under the walls. My ankles and wrists were terribly chafed from the chains that encircled them. My toes and fingers were numb with pain from pervasive cold.

The rest of me, however, felt like it was on fire. Shifting around, I felt the cracking of dried blood and the screaming pull of slices in my skin. I looked down. Most of me glistened wetly in the light, and I realized I was flayed in more places than I wasn't. As new blood trickled along my limbs, I took stock of what was around me. I couldn't see very well, but judging from the outline of various strings hanging in front of me, there were whips. And as a glint of sliver flashed at their ends, I realized they were barbed.

Wincing at one peculiar throb, I realized there was one embedded in my left thigh, if the inflamed bump meant anything in particular.

I pondered the odds of escape.

I sighed, and yanked my arms free.

My breath left me in a punch, and as blackness threatened to consume me, I wondered if I was too late.

No!

Consciousness was a decision, and I could make it.

I had to. For her.

Suddenly, I heard the distant rumble of what had to be a vehicle, and I struggled to free my legs.

The rendering of flesh sickened me, and my anger grew as I realized the legs of my chair were wrapped with barbed wire. Still, I pulled as my calves gave way to blood, taking comfort in the fact that even though the slickness and strange lightness meant further injury, it aided in slipping my feet free.

I couldn't tell you how I stood, only that I did.

I couldn't describe to you the agony of digging in my thigh for that shard of metal. The trauma of pus and blood spraying from around my fingers. The breaks I took between forcing my body to breathe through the hurt. It was tremendous, the pain.

I couldn't tell you how slowly the time passed as I waited behind that door, my fingers and toes warm now, my left hand pinched tightly around that tiny prong of steel.

I repeated a mantra to myself as I stood by:

Don't die.

She couldn't survive this. I remembered finding her in front of that door in our mind, crumpled, but otherwise unharmed. I remembered gathering her in my arms, and gently placing her in that chair. She couldn't deal with her reality, so unconsciously, she created me.

Multiple personality disorder, they called it.

Characterized by the presence of two or more distinct personality states, typically induced as a buffer by the original in response to extreme circumstances.

I would do what I was created to do.

Protect her. Forever.

But first, I would have to survive.

So when the footsteps in reality came and the physical door was opened, I felt her scream in the room she built to hide in, and for the second time I screamed with her. I felt her understand what I was, and she was grateful. I took my chance and I drove the piece into his eye, so far I felt a give and a splash of blood and thicker things. As he spluttered and both our legs gave, I rode him to the ground and I took his other eye with my right thumb with a pop! and an explosion of fluid.

She showed me how she suffered in panicked flashes - as if I needed motivation to do what I was made for. I felt every second of torment, marked in my skin. I shut her down hard.

No distractions, I thought. I was busy. I took him, passed out now, in my ravaged arms and placed him in that chair.

Needless to say, when I was finished, I locked the door. My work was done.

Suddenly, I heard a knock. She wanted out. I laughed.

You are weak, I told her, and locked that door, too.

Ultimately, I had the power here, and the me who was behind that door, in that room, didn't make the decisions anymore. And somehow she knew that she needed my permission to leave. That's when the screaming started. It didn't bother me.

After all, I was used to the noise.

Officer Cash knew next to nothing about the Bailey case when he pulled up to the tiny house at the end of the gravel road. The social worker was already there, a thirtyish woman almost as tall as he was, with straw-colored hair pulled into a sensible ponytail. Knowing CPS folk were invariably overworked, jaded, and hated to waste time, Cash didn't want to make her repeat herself. He took quick notes on his phone as she gave him a rundown of the case.

Owen Bailey was not quite three years old. His mother, Kara Lee Bailey, was still a teenager. Tansy Bailey, a grandmother at 35, was considered the legal guardian. Both women were known to police, and CPS had been building a file on Owen since he was born in the backseat of a 1989 Corolla out behind Liquor Larry's. Premature, undersized, and showing signs of partial FAS, the infant was destined for assorted developmental delays and disabilities, but Kara Lee, well known in the community as a "party girl", had nonetheless decided she wanted to keep him, and, with her mother's support, nothing could stop her from doing so.

Reports from neighbors and acquaintances suggested that Tansy Bailey was not sufficiently present in the home, and that Kara Lee was not responsible enough to look after a small child, particularly one that might have special needs. There were reports that Owen was left alone with the family dog for hours at a time from the age of two, and that he was often filthy and bruised. Other reports claimed Owen was left to wander the neighborhood with the dog. It seemed a clear case of neglect, and Jill Mullins, the CPS representative, was anxious to intervene before Owen was seriously injured or went missing.

Cash could tell that Mullins was a fearsomely determined lady, and her principal reason for requesting a police presence for today's visit was not for her own protection, but to give her potential legal grounds to take the child out of the home immediately. Normally a court order would be necessary to seize a child, but, according to Mullins, that would take "too damn long", and she trusted Cash would back her up with an exigent circumstances report. She was aware her actions today could put her at risk of a lawsuit from the family, but there was no hesitation in her step as she slogged through the unmown grass toward the front door, stepping over beer cans and dog shit on the way.

A disheveled young man in rumpled boxers opened the door a few inches, squinting at the late morning sun.

"What's this about?" he demanded in a weak, hoarse voice. "We're not making noise, and we're not doing drugs."

"Sir, I need to speak with Tansy or Kara Lee. Are either of them home?"

The man glanced over the woman who addressed him. "You're not a cop," he realized.

"No, I'm with Child Protective Services," Mullins replied.

The man's guarded expression weakened. He glanced back over his shoulder before dropping his head and slinking out onto the front stoop to join them. "This is about Owen," he mumbled. His eyes flicked up, cutting between the social worker and the cop. "Look, Kara's not going to win any Mom of the Year awards, but she's not a monster. I know you're probably gonna take him away from her, and please don't tell her I said this, but it's for the best. Just don't arrest her, okay? She's got her problems, but that kid... there's something seriously freaky about that kid."

"Sorry, who are you?" Mullins demanded. "The boyfriend?"

Rubbing the back of his neck, the young man once more dropped his head, avoiding their gazes. "Well, sort... uh, yeah, I've been seeing Kara. I'm not Owen's dad, if you were wondering. It's not real serious. We argue a lot. About Owen. I'm James. James Rucker."

As Cash continued to record information, Mullins scrutinized the young man. "Did you call in a report to CPS, Mr. Rucker? I have a record of an anonymous tip from a male caller making claims of some pretty worrisome circumstances within this household. This individual would have had to be in the home observe these circumstances."

Rucker's face and neck flushed nearly crimson. "Fuck. If Kara knew..."

"She doesn't have to know," Mullins assured him.

"Thank you!" Rucker exhaled, and raised his eyes once more. "They're not abusive, Kara and her mom. Yeah, they're not watching him 24/7, but what parent can even manage that? I swear, there's something seriously wrong with this kid. I said when I called that he eats and drinks out of the dog dishes, but don't take that to mean he doesn't get fed or whatever. He goes around with the dog and does what he wants to do. You can talk to him, and he hears, but it's like he refuses to acknowledge people exist. He's just off in his own world. Dog world. But not just dogs, either. He brings all these critters inside."

Mullins paused to glance over some paperwork, and then narrowed her eyes at the young man. "There's mention in the report of a coyote having been in the house at some point. Are you sure it wasn't just one of the neighborhood dogs?"

"Lady, I know it sounds like bullshit, but I used to work for Animal Control. I know the difference between a dog and a coyote. It doesn't make any sense according to coyote behavior, but I got up one morning and there they were--Owen, the dog, and this fucking coyote, running around the living room like three puppies. This coyote looks up at me for a sec, and dashes out the backdoor. It wasn't crazed, or rabid. It was just... playing. I told Kara, but she acted like it was nothing weirder than a raccoon passing through the backyard."

The front door swung open to reveal a teenage girl with mussed, bleach blonde hair and dark hollows around her sleepy, bloodshot eyes. She wore nothing but an oversized tee-shirt, and had obviously been wearing makeup yesterday that hadn't been washed off. "What's in the yard...?" she slurred, the final word transitioning into a loud yawn. When she noticed the visitors, and specifically Jill Mullins, her eyes widened with recognition. Much more alert now, she took a step back from the doorway and turned to go back into the house, yelling, "Owen! Bucky!"

Rucker hurried in after her, followed by Mullins and Cash. They converged in the living room, where no one was watching a nature program playing on the television. Kara Lee turned it off and once more screamed for Owen and for Bucky, who Cash assumed was the family dog.

"The fucking backdoor is open," Rucker pointed out, flopping down onto the sofa with a sigh. "They've wandered off again."

The girl wrung her hands and looked up at the social worker and the cop, her mouth working to form syllables. "I swear to God, he was just here!" she exclaimed, breaking off with a sob.

"Kara, look at me," Mullins said in a clear, authoritative voice, standing directly in front of the crying teenager and attempting to make eye contact. "Are you under the influence of anything right now?"

"No, I swear!" the girl burst out between heaving sobs. "We had a few drinks last night, and I'm hung over, that's all. Why do you always think I'm a fucking crack whore or something?"

"I don't think that," Mullins replied, keeping her tone calm and steady. "We have spoken several times about the necessity of keeping a close eye on your son, but your mother is his legal guardian. Where is she now? Working?"

"Yeah," Kara Lee said in a thick, husky voice as she wiped her eyes, smearing yesterday's makeup. "She gives him his cereal in the morning, and puts on Animal Planet for him. Then she wakes me up and I watch him while she's at work. I must've fallen back asleep."

"And how long ago would that have been?"

"Like, just before eight."

Cash winced and glanced at his watch. "That's more than three hours ago. I'm gonna go look for the kid while you guys talk."

Mullins nodded her approval, and Rucker offered to help once he was dressed. Cash walked a circuit around the small house, and then poked around the backyard until the young man emerged fully dressed.

"Do you have any idea where he's likely to go?" Cash asked him.

"Sometimes he goes to neighbors' houses, and sometimes he goes a little ways into the woods."

Cash studied the remains of a fence that was mostly blown down, and looked like it had been that way for years. The kid could have gone in any number of directions, and he was considering going to visit the neighbors and sending Rucker to check the wooded area behind the house, but as he gazed out toward the trees, he spotted a flash of white.

"What's that?" he wondered, hopping over a tangle of fallen fence posts and jogging over to the object.

It was a recently discarded diaper.

"Goddamn," Rucker sighed. "Kid hates to say dressed."

The pair split up, taking different routes through the woods and staying within earshot of one another as they called for Owen and whistled for Bucky.

Cash was analyzing the situation in his mind, trying to work out how much ground a naked toddler could cover in three hours, when he heard Rucker's call:

"Over here! I think I see him! There's Bucky, and...."

Cash broke into a sprint, leaping over roots and fallen branches. Rucker's abrupt, mid-sentence silence had unsettled him, causing his heart to quicken. "Is he okay? Where are you?"

"Here!" Rucker called, and, a moment later added, "Holy shit!"

The hysterical tone of the exclamation tightened Cash's innards into painful knots. He increased his pace until he'd burst through a knot of ferns and into a clearing, where Rucker was standing frozen. Cash slid to a halt, nearly losing his balance and grabbing hold of the other man's shoulder for purchase.

"What...?" he gasped, and stopped when he pointed his eyes in the direction Rucker was staring. As he caught his breath, the steady humming noise reached his ears.

At first, all he saw was bees. They swarmed around a half rotted stump that was lined inside with honeycomb. The dog, some sort of spaniel mutt, appeared from behind the stump and romped in cheerful circles, chasing the bees and showing no sign of acknowledging the men's presence. Cash blinked several times, studying a shape next to the hive, something that looked like a small shadow at first. When it moved, the shape became clearer. It was a naked baby, covered head to toe in honey bees.

"Holy shit," Cash whispered. The words trembled as they came out. He felt as if he'd just had a bucket of ice water poured over his head.

"Yup," Rucker agreed.

Deciding he had no option, Cash took a step forward.

"Are you crazy?" Rucker hissed. "That many bees could kill you!"

"I'm a little more concerned about the kid right now," Cash muttered. He moved forward with slow, cautious steps. "Owen? Can you hear me? I'm a policeman, and I'm here to keep you safe. Owen... move very slowly, and come this way."

"He's not gonna listen to you," Rucker objected.

Cash ignored him, and continued approaching the boy. The humming of the bees set his nerves on edge, and he felt phantom tickles all over his body, imagining the tiny, sticky legs of honey bees crawling across his skin, but not a single one had touched him. As he approached the hive, Cash saw the boy more clearly. He was small for an almost-three-year-old. His head was crowned with a mess of auburn curls that had never been cut. One chubby hand was reaching into the hive with a careful delicacy unusual in a toddler. Instead of grabbing at the golden comb, Owen gathered a droplet of honey on a tiny fingertip, and licked it.

"Owen," Cash exhaled. Shivers crept across his body in all directions as a few bees landed on him. He stopped moving. "Owen... it's very dangerous here and you need to come with me."

Silent and tranquil, ignoring the police officer, the toddler reached for more honey. The hundreds of bees crawling across his vulnerable baby flesh seemed likewise untroubled. Bucky, meanwhile, had come over to flop out at Owen's bare feet.

Cash stood paralyzed with disbelief as the boy squatted down to pat the dog's head. As he did so, the bees, in near perfect synchronicity, rose into the air and swarmed back to the hive. Moments later, it was as if they had never been there at all.

Taking his opportunity, Cash dropped to one knee next to the boy, looking him over. He didn't appear to have a single sting on him, although he had a few minor scratches and was in need of a bath. He reached out to take the toddler's arm and tried to turn the boy to face him. "Owen, look at me," he whispered. "Are you okay?"

The toddler's hazel eyes were bright, yet did not appear entirely focused. He looked off into the distance, avoiding Cash's gaze as he tugged feebly to free his arm from the man's grasp.

"I'm a policeman," Cash reiterated, though it was obvious that Rucker had been correct about the boy not listening. "I just want to make sure you're safe. I'm going to pick you up now."

Owen uttered a tiny grunt of protest, but did not cry out when he was gathered into the officer's arms. The dog leaped up and circled around Cash's feet, whining. Cash struggled not to trip over him as he walked over to where Rucker still stood, and together, they returned to the house.

Cash hadn't had the opportunity to hold many children, and therefore could not have identified "normal" behavior with any surety. Nonetheless, he immediately sensed there was something not right about this one. Owen did not relax in his arms, nor did he exactly struggle. Not once did the boy try to look at who was holding him. He was preoccupied with his surroundings, sometimes looking at the trees above, but otherwise looking down, reaching out for Bucky, who loped along at the officer's side, watching the child.

Mullins hurried out into the yard as they arrived, and took Owen from Cash, giving him a lookover. "Well done. Where was he?"

"Out in the woods, raiding a beehive," Cash explained, pulling out his phone and stylus with trembling hands to take more notes. "Covered in bees, and not one sting."

Mullins quirked an eyebrow, concerned, though not quite surprised.

Inside, Rucker comforted his girlfriend as she sat weeping on the sofa.

"Please don't judge me!" she wailed. "You don't know how hard it is! I tried. I fucking tried. My own kid hates me. Maybe it's my fault? I didn't even know I was knocked up until seven months! Oh god, I'm so sorry! I thought I wanted to be a mom, but it's been a nightmare. I try to love him, but he doesn't love me back. He doesn't love anyone but the fucking dog! He won't even look at me!"

Mullins and Cash made no response, allowing her to say her piece while they cleaned the worst of the dirt off of Owen and got him dressed. The silent, detached child was now putting Cash in mind of a windup toy. He didn't make a struggle, yet was ready to crawl away the moment they let go of him, as if on autopilot. For a minute, Mullins let him go, and they watched him hurry over to the dog. The child had an unusual, loping gait, not walking perfectly upright but partially on all fours, chimplike.

"What do you think is wrong with him?" Cash wondered.

"If I were to guess, some severe form of autism," Mullins suggested. "Possibly reactive attachment disorder. So, are you agreed we've got a case for immediate removal?"

Cash sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Well, 'exigent circumstances' would have to involve imminent danger of serious bodily injury to the child, and based on what I saw out in those woods, especially with the foreknowledge that this sort of thing has been a regular occurrence... yeah. Absolutely. This kid's been damn lucky, and I wouldn't risk the time it'd take to get a court order."

"That's all I need to know."

The boy's mother had calmed by the time they were ready to leave. She stood by, tears still streaming down her flushed, makeup-smeared cheeks, but she looked resigned. Cash watched Mullins cradle the boy and try unsuccessfully to make eye contact.

When Bucky tried to follow them out the front door, Rucker grabbed him by the collar to hold him back. It was only then that Owen made any noise. He stiffened in Mullins's arms and released a piercing scream, reaching out both of his little arms for his pet. Rucker wrestled with Bucky, who had begun to cry like Cash had never heard a dog cry before. It was an eerie, high-pitched noise that gave him the same cold dread he'd felt at the sight of the boy with bees crawling all over him. Rucker's earlier words echoed in his head.

There's something seriously freaky about that kid.

"You have to let him take Bucky!" Kara Lee screamed, sobbing again as she wrestled the dog away from her boyfriend. "He'll be fine without me, but he needs the dog! Can't you see he needs him?"

Released, the dog streaked after Mullins and leaped at the shrieking boy, trying to lick him between urgent yelps. Mullins appeared uncertain, but did not protest. She strapped Owen into a carseat in the back of her vehicle, and as soon as Bucky was allowed to leap in and settle beside him, both were quiet. The toddler's arms wrapped around the dog's neck, and in moments, both looked ready for a peaceful nap.

* * *

Jeff Goring hated his foster brother. They were the same age, fifteen, and he knew mom and dad expected him to be kind and helpful, but the guy was mentally challenged, and even more than that, he was freaky. It had been nearly six months, and Jeff still got teased at school over the "creepy retard" his parents had taken in. Owen had come from some kind of institution, and he didn't do regular school. He got some tutoring, but mostly worked with dad at the vet clinic. Dad said Owen was "gifted", and while Jeff could admit the guy was good with animals--freakishly good--"gifted" seemed overly generous considering he was totally vacant and didn't even talk to people.

It was Jeff's friend Carl who came up with the idea of making good use of the weirdo. Carl had aspirations of becoming a great trophy hunter, and what he wanted more than anything was to bag a bobcat. Bobcats were known to inhabit the wilderness on the outskirts of town, though they were rarely seen anywhere near civilization.

On a warm Saturday morning, Jeff and Carl packed up a few things and trailed Owen up into the hills where he spent a lot of his time when he wasn't working with Dr. Goring. He wore only an old pair of shorts, and his auburn hair was long and trailed wildly down his back.

"Who does he think he is, Tarzan?" Carl whispered.

Jeff shrugged. "Hey, Owen! Wait up!"

The two boys jogged to catch up with Owen, who paused his steps but did not look at them.

"We need you to help us, Owen," Jeff said slowly. "Like you help dad. This is my friend Carl. We're doing a project for school. A photography project, and it's for, like, wildlife conservation. You understand what that means?"

Owen's eyes shifted to the bundle of equipment Carl had slung over his shoulder.

"This is my photography equipment," Carl said, smirking. "We want to take pictures. Of a bobcat. Do you know bobcats around here?"

"Yeah," Jeff added, "we want to photograph the biggest, most beautiful bobcat, so everyone in town will see what cool wildlife we have, and want to help them. You want to help, right, bro? Can you bring us to one?"

Owen paused a while, as if thinking, but Jeff wasn't sure "thinking" was something the freak did much of. Abruptly, Owen took off into the trees. Excited, the two other boys hurried after him.

After a couple of hours of brisk hiking, Owen stopped and stood still. Jeff and Carl froze behind him, panting. Unlike the two boys, Owen didn't seem at all winded. He was lean and rangy, as any young man might be who spent as much time running, swimming, and climbing as Owen did.

"Oh my god," Jeff whispered.

Ahead of them, there was shadowy movement between the trees. A shape became distinct as the shadow emerged, padding toward them in perfect silence on large, furry paws. Owen squatted, holding out a hand to the cat, which was about half the size of a mountain lion, but to the other two boys, accustomed to house cats, it was enormous. Golden in color with dark spots, russet highlights, and a pale underbelly, the cat was striking, and looked upon them curiously with wide amber eyes. It struck a stately pose several paces ahead of them, as if inviting appreciation of its beauty. Consumed with need to possess it, Carl was already unpacking his rifle.

Jeff cut his eyes between the bobcat and Owen, praying the boy wouldn't turn around. He pushed his fingers into his ears in anticipation of the gunshot. It did little to dampen the noise, and when Carl pulled the trigger, Jeff was nearly as startled as Owen was.

From there everything happened so quickly, and with so much screaming, that Jeff could not even put together what exactly had occurred until later, in the hospital, after he'd had some time to think things over.

Carl was in surgery. They said he had lost an eye. Jeff was heavily bandaged and had needed plenty of stitches, but wasn't nearly as badly wounded as Carl was. He told the story as best he could to his parents and the police officer who had showed up at his bedside.

"The first shot didn't kill it," he whispered, and was ashamed to find that he was crying. Tears soaked into the bandages wrapped around half of his face. "Owen just went... berserk. As if he was the one who got shot. I thought I'd go deaf with the way he was screaming, and I just told Carl 'shoot again, you have to kill it, you have to kill it!' So he shot the cat dead... and everything was quiet for a second... and then like, out of nowhere, there was the bird."

"Bird?" the police officer repeated, leaning closer to the boy in the hospital bed. "You're sure it was a bird that attacked you?"

"I think it was a hawk," Jeff said hoarsely. "A fucking huge one. Huge talons. Like razors. It grabbed onto Carl's face, and he was just screaming, and there was so much blood. Then it came at me, and...." He broke off with a sob, and a hiccup. His mother squeezed his shaking hand.

"It sounds crazy, but I know he did it," Jeff sobbed. "Owen. He made it happen."

* * *

Sergeant Cash had never forgotten Owen Bailey, though it had been over a decade since the day he'd helped remove the toddler from his mother's home. He'd seen pieces in the news about Owen now and then. There were pictures on the Internet of the boy at various ages, covered with birds, surrounded by deer, and even one of him playing with a pair of black bear cubs while mama bear looked placidly on. Most people who saw and shared those pictures cried "bullshit", but Cash remembered the bees, and knew better.

He was visiting the Goring house now, where Owen had been locked in his bedroom by his foster father. Cash had a long talk with Dr. Goring, who was torn in the wake of the incident. He'd cared deeply about Owen even though the boy had never shown any sign of attachment to other human beings. He had tried to understand Owen's special needs, and to nurture his gifts. Although there was very little Goring could honestly say he understood after six months of trying to parent the boy, he'd at least been sure that Owen wouldn't hurt a fly. Now he wasn't so sure that Owen wouldn't hurt a person.

When Cash entered the bedroom, he found Owen curled into a fetal ball on his bed. The boy's bare back was to him, every knob of his spine visible.

"Hello, Owen," Cash whispered. "I'm Sergeant Cash. I remember you, from a long time ago. I'm going to sit down next to you now."

He sat. Owen made no movements.

"I remember the bees. Do you remember that? You weren't even three years old. You were all by yourself with your dog, Bucky." Cash winced inwardly, regretting mentioning Bucky at all. Certainly enough time had passed that the dog had to have passed on.

Cash noticed a book, something like a small photograph album, lying on Owen's bedside table. Dr. Goring had told him about a "communication book" Owen had, of the sort used by people with speech impairments and other disorders that affected their ability to vocalize. Supposedly Owen wasn't nearly as "retarded" as people assumed, but he only communicated when and how he chose. Cash flipped open the front cover of the book. It was a small binder packed with laminated pages. The first proclaimed, "MY NAME IS OWEN BAILEY. I HAVE A DISABILITY."

Other pages detailed where he lived, and who to contact in an emergency. There were pages of common phrases, and one that was just letters and numbers. Most pages were covered with pictograms paired with words.

Cash was startled when Owen grabbed the book out of his hands. He hadn't noticed the boy sitting up. Owen's overgrown hair formed a screen around his face, obscuring Cash's view of his expression, but he saw a few clear droplets spatter across the laminated pages of the book, and knew Owen was crying

"Can we talk about what happened in the woods?" Cash whispered.

Owen flipped pages, and tapped the word "YES" with one knuckle.

"Did those boys lie to you?"

Again Owen tapped, "YES", and then flipped to the pictograms until he'd found a picture of a camera.

"That's right. They told you they wanted to take pictures of the bobcat, yeah? But that wasn't really what they wanted to do."

Owen rocked back and forth a few times, tense with anxiety. He flipped more pages, and tapped his knuckle against a pictogram showing various weapons.

"Yeah," Cash sighed. "Owen, tell me something. Did you want to hurt those boys?"

Owen rocked, and more tears dripped onto his book. At last, he indicated, "YES", and then, even more vehemently, "I'M SORRY", which he rapped several times. Cash was unsure what to make of this situation. No court would implicate a handicapped kid in a bird attack. He wasn't even sure why he was here, but, as when the kid was being removed from his mother's home, he knew he had some responsibility to intervene, to do what might be best for the boy as well as the family.

Owen was flipping pages again. He gestured to the phrase, "I DON'T UNDERSTAND", followed by the pictogram for "people".

"Me neither, buddy," Cash admitted.

After a brief phone chat with CPS, Cash once more found himself removing Owen Bailey from his home. He was to be returned to the institution where he'd spent most of his childhood. Cash had gleaned enough from his time with Owen to know that being locked up in an institution was the last thing the boy wanted. He felt like a monster, shutting the silently crying boy in the back of his cruiser.

After a few minutes of driving, Cash pulled over to the side of a deserted road, alongside the woods where Owen preferred to spend time. He turned around to look at the anxiously rocking boy in the backseat.

"Owen," he said, "I always wondered whether I'd done the right thing, taking you away from your mom. Maybe I did, but I think I did it for the wrong reasons. When I saw you with those bees, I saw you as a child in imminent danger. Now, I think you might have been the only one of us who wasn't in any danger."

Cash sat in silence for a few minutes, thinking about doing something he knew was likely to get him into some very big trouble.

Making his decision, he got out of the car, glanced up and down the road, and pulled open the rear door, gesturing Owen to exit. Owen scrambled out, still dressed in nothing but his shorts. He looked up into the hills, and then down at the officer's boots, hesitating.

"Go," Cash whispered. "Be where you belong. I'm going to have to report you missing, but I'll give you as much of a head start as I can. Run fast, and run far."

Owen raised his head. The messy strings of auburn hair fell back, and for the first time, two brilliantly alive hazel eyes locked on the man's. The contact only lasted a moment before Owen streaked off, quick as a rabbit, and disappeared. It was all the thanks Cash could have wished for.

Bryden hadn't had a note passed to her since she was in seventh grade, and that note had simply been from a friend asking for yesterday's notes. This note however was different, it was from Carinne and provided a location and only stated she needed help. Bryden reassured herself, reminding herself that Carinne was not a threat and if she was one then she was one she would handle. Her jaw clenched as she walked down the warm streets of New York City, dipping and ducking, turning into empty alcoves until she found the rundown coffee shop.

She did feel eyes on her though, not on her way there, but as soon as she arrived she could feel them. Being watched felt like being a wet swatch under the microscope, someone was watching from some place close and all too far away as well. It wouldn't do well to look around, they could just be a stalker, or worse, a sniper. The bell above the door chimed as she stepped inside, the bell alerted the barista at the door who flashed a smile and waved her over. He was a well tattooed man with a handlebar mustache like every other douchebag in the United States of America.

"She's in the back." He said and nodded his head to the dimly lit corner near the back of the cafe.

"Coffee and Ginseng tea, I'll pay extra if you bring it back."

"Cash is still King." The Barista said and Bryden headed back walking slowly towards the booth. She calmed herself, this wasn't a trap which is what she kept telling herself. If Carinne was meeting her under such secretive means, it could mean anything.

"Hey." Carinne said, no longer bubbly energy and smiles. She drained the rest of her tea and sat it down on the table with shaky hands.

"So, what do you need me to do?"

"What makes you think I want anything?"

"If that's the case then I can go back to the dorms and sleep." Bryden said, "But I don't feel like this was a friendly chat or time for girl talk, it's my job to know what people want, so what is it that you want?"

"What exactly is your job?" Carinne said.

"Sometimes I'm a student, and other times.... I'm what I need to be for others."

"That's very vague, but I'm used to that, Devin is the same way." Carinne said and nibbled on her bottom lip and looked towards the Barista walking towards them. They remained silent until he placed down the tea and Bryden pulled down a wad of hundred dollar bills and handed him two before shoving the wad back in his pocket.

"There's more where that comes from, let me know who comes through that door asking about us." Bryden said and the Barista nodded his head. Carinne looked up at her with a bitter smile.

"I see your game, you use money to make problems go away." Carinne said, "Just like Devin."

"You didn't come here to compare me to your brother, I hope." Bryden said, "And money is no problem for me, and I don't charge money, if that's the issue."

"A part of it." Carinne admitted and raised the warm cup of tea to her lips. "What will you charge me?"

"A favor."

"That's it?" Carinne asked, some of her worry faded from her voice and eyes.

"A favor is a steep price to pay."

"Not compared to what the issue is."

"Enlighten me then." Bryden said, "Who is it?"

"My friend, Iosenika, she's a model like me and she's missing." Carinne said and her hands began to shake again, Bryden could see that she was struggling to hold it together.

"And is she a Senator's daughter?" Bryden asked, Carinne nodded her head and turned her head when the tears began to fall. Bryden handed her a napkin and she dabbed her eyes. "How long has she been missing?"

"About two days."

"Know where she was last?"

"Her apartment, at least that's what she told me."

"Any drug problems, outstanding debts, gambling, what's her vice?" Bryden asked.

"Coke, but all the models do it."

"She have a dealer nearby?"

"His name is Randall, they're technically dating. I hope he doesn't have anything to do with this." She said and her hands stopped shaking and balled into fists.

"Anyone she could trust in the city? Parents,perhaps?"

"No, we're a lot alike. Our parents try to use us for who we are, the connections we have. We wanted to make it on our own." Carinne said and then more tears came. "She does have an agent."

"Name?"

"Mary Ellen Swan."

"Been to see her?" Bryden asked.

"No, I'm too afraid. I haven't been here, I even came to this out of the way place because I can feel someone following me too. What if Yo is..." Carinne's voice trailed off and more tears came, Bryden knew the feeling all too well. What if they were dead, somewhere face down in a ditch, in a ravine, cut up into tiny pieces and scattered about the nation. There were so many options, so many ways to die these days, and it was so easy to lose your loved ones and Bryden could see just how dear Iosenika was to Carinne. 

"I'm going to find out what happened, have a key to her place?" Bryden asked. Carinne scribbled down an address and slid the key off the keyring and handed it to her. "One more thing."

"Yeah?"

"How long have you and Iosenika been intimate?" Bryden asked.

"What makes you think Iosenika and I did anything?"

"The fact you can't look me in the face is just a clue, you talk about this Randall guy like a jealous girlfriend, and you speak as if you guys are building a life together, like you love her more than a friend." Bryden said and Carinne looked up slowly, "So how long have you been seeing each other?"

"It started our freshmen year in High School."

"Anyone else know?" Bryden asked.

"No." She said and shook her head.

"Good."

"You have a problem with me being..a...bisexual?" Carinne asked.

"No, I'd hate for a search to turn into black mail, and your father wouldn't react kindly to someone blackmailing his daughter."

"My Dad's an asshole." Carinne admitted and blew her nose in the napkin a final time before shoving it in her pocket. "But you're right, he'd only see it as me messing up everything he worked so hard for."

"Don't worry about it, I'll handle it."

"And I'll owe you one." Carinne said and smirked.

"I'll hold you to that, are you safe to get home or would you like me to walk you back?"

"I'll be fine." Carinne said, "What about you?"

"I'll be fine, I've made it this long." Bryden said and stood up and stretched. Carinne stared at her for a long time before finishing her tea and starting to speak.

"My brother is interested in you."

"I know."

"I mean, who you really are, whatever that means."

"I know." Bryden said, there was no need to provide anymore information.If he dug deep enough he'd find what he was looking for and who she was looking for, and the last thing she needed was to be stuffed in Devin Micholo's pocket and his father's pocket by proxy. She'd rather be indebted to Ashanti Morozov, head of the Russian mob, himself.

"I... Before I left I got rid of it."

"Thank you." Bryden said.

"You're not going to hurt him, are you?"

"Devin?"

"Yeah."

"No, I have no plans on hurting him, why? Should I?"

"No... He can be an asshole but deep down he does the right thing." Carinne said, "But then again I'm just his little sister, I have too much faith in him sometimes. What about you? Don't you have a sister?"

"Yeah, a twin." Bryden admitted.

"So you understand? You grow up with them, you only see the good in them or the good things they do and it's hard to take the blinders off."

"I could see how someone could think that." Bryden said half answering her question, there was no doubt in her mind about Kayden and just how good or bad her sister was. They were equal on the scales of life and justice and she had no room to judge or blame her for anything. "I'll see you soon."