40% Chickpeas

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Democrat. Writing content @chickpeaiswriting.bsky.social Will block scammers, sellers, porn etc.

It was just another lobby. Long, low desk, a bustle of greeters and sorters in professional versions of this world’s street clothes. Banks of sleek, slim laptops, same no-colors as the devices, standing open on two edges. Stamped into the walls behind the smiles and the software, an enormous sign, incorporating the triple wave, restating that Marie was at a Med-Fac-Terr, whatever that was. All this information, telling her nothing. A few details plus or minus, it was the exact vibe of Smith-Westen’s ground floor, dozens of client firms, hundreds of Hyatts. She could be here to buy a home alarm system or rob a bank. She was an alien. This, another world. Welcome to wherever. Clients checked in at the front desk to receive one of the unknown services provided. Their conversation swept over her in word waves she could hardly hear and didn’t understand at all. She was reduced to guessing, which was oddly like begging.
There was a ripple in Marie’s head, light shimmering on lakes. Almost painful, nearly nothing. Artemisia released her, stepped back still smiling. Marie felt shaken, bruised, like somebody beaten half-heartedly with a baseball bat. A vague impression of the chicly pant-suited hostess double-checking Artemisia and Dakkotta’s order. Their names together on the bag in black and white—Dakkotta’s spelled just the way she’d sneered it at Marie. Philip and Dakkotta chatting—a friendly-seeming exchange. Marie caught a gleam of white teeth, so at least half a smile. One L must have won her over. Nothing more natural. Marie shouldn’t be surprised. The sight, sound, smells of people eating, drinking, making merry because of what might happen tomorrow came rushing back. They’d reached the end of every Artemisian encounter; realization that nothing had happened. Contrary feelings were melted snow, evaporating water. Worse, those lines that doubled as skunk stink and heat mirages—never there in the first place. The hostess directed her welcome at Philip and Marie. Philip gave up his coat. She tried for Marie’s; was waved off, not quite politely. ‘No, I’ll hold on to it.’ Marie’s head was crystal clear, beautifully empty. She looked around at things that had never seemed so normal. Before? Just a dream. Unreal. Imagined.
Artemisia stepped toward Marie still smiling her little smile. Small but powerful, it blotted out One L, Dakkotta, the room itself—trapping the two of them in a tight and tiny circle. Darkness, silence all around, except for one last beam, source unknown, turning Artemisia’s red hair to fire. Surely she’d speak, say something significant. ‘You have a button loose.’ ‘What?’ ‘On your coat.’ Prying Marie’s hand away, Artemisia pulled, twisted—a quarter turn left, two sharp rights. Sparklers, in Marie’s chest, doing all the damage; her limbs were lead. ‘That’s better,’ said Artemisia. ‘See for yourself.’ Marie tried to find the button, missed by three inches. Half-laugh cinching the circle closer, Artemisia guided Marie’s finger to the exact spot. ‘There.’ Marie had no idea of the garment’s original condition. And not one of the several hundred sewists she was cursed to grow up with had ever in her sight secured a fastener in any such fashion. But the button was glued on now. She’d need a stick of dynamite to blast it free.
She let him drink first. The wind blew a thousand breaths. Children played under Batya’s loom. The forest fell, flattened by white cities that tumbled like tiles from Marie’s bathroom ceiling. Countless Batyas and Kateyns lifting their hands to ward off disaster, finding them immobilized, made of the same golden threads as goblets and kingdoms. Neatly folded, centuries onto spaces, their universe accordion pleated off Timeweaver. Was threaded through an aperture—a tall, thin slit in reality—into an Un-Place. A Timeless. Two towering walls, tops and bottoms out of sight, with an eternal passage between, lit ghostly green, not bright enough for real revelation. At jump-scare intervals, legs trying to kick free, a hand reaching out. The soundtrack was a high, cold discordance—jagged fingernails scratching at a steel sack. Batya, Kateyn, all of Old Terria, most uninterested in making history.
‘In time,’ said Batya, ‘we’ll make an empire of all these sweaty, silly villages.’ Kateyn’s response is to his everlasting credit. It went down in history. ‘Yes to it all of it, but what will we eat while I’m building and you’re selling everybody everything?’ Batya’s smile was pure, evil love of a bargain—the passion for paying far less than the true price. ‘When you dicker with my Patriman, pretend to love me madly. As a sign of it, ask Ilia only for his worst field, last in his lot, the one too near the sea.’ ‘That’s mostly caves,’ said Kateyn, who’d many times walked Ilia’s land with his eye on gain. Her smile switched to a light going on. ‘And in the biggest, a huge vein of salt. It’s brown, like dirt, until you scrape it with a special tool.’ She showed him hers. ‘Mine is crude. Yours will be better.’ From the depths of her bottomless apron, Batya offered Kateyn a shining vessel. ‘Where did you get so much gold?’ She almost giggled with delight. ‘It’s cloth,’ she said, ‘and guess who dyed and wove it?’ He balanced her gift in his hand. Light, strong, stiff. He had pockets of his own and in one, a flask, fragile by comparison to the cup, which, even filled to the brim, lost him not a drop.
‘In time,’ said Batya, ‘we’ll make an empire of all these sweaty, silly villages.’ Kateyn’s response is to his everlasting credit. It went down in history. ‘Yes to it all of it, but what will we eat while I’m building and you’re selling everybody everything?’ Batya’s smile was pure, evil love of a bargain—the passion for paying far less than the true price. ‘When you dicker with my Patriman, pretend to love me madly. As a sign of it, ask Ilia only for his worst field, last in his lot, the one too near the sea.’ ‘That’s mostly caves,’ said Kateyn, who’d many times walked Ilia’s land, his eye on gain. Her smile switched to a light going on. ‘And in the biggest, a huge vein of salt. It’s brown, like dirt, until you scrape it with a special tool.’ She showed him hers. ‘Mine is crude. Yours will be better.’ From the depths of her bottomless apron, Batya offered Kateyn a shining vessel. ‘Where did you get so much gold?’ She almost giggled with delight. ‘It’s cloth,’ she said, ‘and guess who dyed and wove it?’ He balanced her gift in his hand. Light, strong, stiff. He had pockets of his own and in one, a flask, fragile by comparison to the cup, which, even filled to the brim, lost him nothing.
‘Figure it out later,’ said Agent Ramirez, his urgency increasing. ‘We’ve got to move you now.’ Lucy didn’t move. Abby wrapped a dishcloth around the handle of the skillet, snatched it from the stove, crept out of the kitchen. ‘C’mon,’ said the agent, prowling the room. ‘If your phone’s been hacked, we need to get you out of here, yesterday.’ ‘No,’ said Lucy, looking straight at him. Abby lifted the skillet high above her head. He never knew what hit him. The sudden intensification of delicious poultry smells, a gasp, and down he went down under a rapid rain of chicken, Comté, and fines herbes. Another mere mortal felled by Abby’s killer ravioli.
Joseph could hear Elena’s voice, see the disapproval on her face. ‘This explosion will be small yes, but we need it’ she said, bringing her thumb and forefinger together until there was barely any space between, ‘tiny.’ Closing his eyes, he turned toward her. The crook of her neck, the smell of lime zest. A very lifelike pause, ‘Bring me back and I’ll do it myself.’ He tapped on the tracker and it went grey. Max hit his detonator right on time. What followed was barely a bang. Zero cops killed. No damage to the barrier even. From their separate positions, Max and Joseph exhaled one big breath as la Policia poured into the parking lot to see exactly what the hell.
‘Ms. Stannis, I can assure you there is no truth to your accus…’ Artemisia held up a quelling hand. Better than anyone, she knew Assistant Deputies to be poor, pitiful liars, in constant, sulky rebellion against veracity. She’d come prepared with offshore bank statements, which she fanned like playing cards across his Ethan Allan desk.
It had been fewer than thirty-six sleepless hours since Richard’s disappearance and Marie’s last in-office day. Which was thirty-five too many for Forrest. Without a death certificate, she’d be lucky if he didn’t demand a refund of her bonus. ‘Smiling despot,’ and ‘soulless psychopath’ are terms thrown around by people who have never met the managing partners of a K Street major player, and therefore have absolutely no idea of their real meaning. Forrest’s genial heartlessness versus Phillip’s vicious venom—a thrilling debate for the ages. But not for senior associates with an unalterable work commitment of fifty-five cleanly billable hours per week regardless of the number of parents misplaced. For they toil in the realm of Partner Track, a luxurious land, with borders unfortunately but fully outside of time, space, reason, justice, or mercy.
It had been fewer than thirty-six sleepless hours since Richard’s disappearance and Marie’s last in-office day. Which was thirty-five too many for Forrest. Without a death certificate, she’d be lucky if he didn’t demand a refund of her bonus. ‘Soulless psychopath,’ and ‘smiling despot’ are terms thrown around by people who have never met the managing partners of a K Street major player, and therefore have absolutely no idea what they are talking about. Forrest’s smiling heartlessness versus Phillip’s vicious venom—a thrilling debate for the ages. But not for senior associates with an unalterable work commitment of fifty-five cleanly billable hours per week regardless of the number of parents misplaced. For they toiled in the realm of Partner Track, a luxurious land, with borders unfortunately but fully outside of time, space, reason, justice, or mercy.
The air shimmered for a swift before a tall, thin slit appeared in the wall. Hands appeared, pulling reality’s new edges apart, left from right, right from left; a man stepped into the corridor. ‘Arthur De Messina,’ proclaimed the nametag. Hair a bit too long for cheap but neat sports jacket and khakis. Other than the thing on his wrist—definitely not a watch—he was the dictionary definition of a certain type of middle-class lawyer. One who talked fast and charged 10K a case for mediocre results, and, relatedly, was in perpetual and desperate need of a refresher on why not to rape or rob his clients. But just a few small adjustments to clothes and coif and he could pass with equal ease for the outraged commingled client or the bored officer called in to investigate himself. The Arthur De Messinas of whatever world were chameleons, blending into any background. Their nametags said nothing real about them.
They had been at it a long time, filling up Ilyad’s Greatest’s house with their hunters and their smoke and their smells. Shedding actual matted hairs. Beginning to growl at each other—hunters and men alike. Ilias’ women—his bond Lady Dendra, Dearest Filia, Pallen, and Batya, the other one—listened at the door. Kestle wanted fourteen pounds of salt for six hundred pelts, a ridiculous trade. Astle insisted he’d never been so insulted, no one had. Any brief now a Personal Challenge might be flung. Disaster. ‘Shouldn’t we,’ Pallen began and was immediately hushed by Lady Dendra. ‘We wait for a sign from your Patriman,’ Batya whispered, very kindly. She showed kindness to Pallen always because her half-sister would wither without it.
Special Agent in Charge Jeff Warrens passed her in the hallway; she was leaving the Ladies’ Room just as he entered the Men’s. Tall, red-headed, lankily efficient in a way that made his fingers think of twitching in the direction of his gun. ‘No, no,’ he told himself, tending un-speedily to business. Her face was unfamiliar; she wore a Visitors’ Pass. This was the Hoover Building, which meant guards with scanners and metal detectors at the entrance. She was therefore unarmed, and, no matter how skillful hand-to-hand, bullets beat Krav Maga. She’d be an idiot to try anything. A woman who walked like that was anything but.
Abby’s hands flew like hummingbirds, placing perfect mounds of filling on Amanda’s dead-square pasta pieces. Lucy sidled over, hoping for a bite of something. ‘Lucy, quit your hovering, there’s food in the pot. ‘Why would you just stick your fingers in there like that, use a spoon. In the drawer. No. The other one. On the right. The ri…’ The sauce was halfway to Lucy’s lips when a knock shook the room. Lucy’s hand jerked and a half drop of red began an endless descent to the stovetop. ‘It’s Ramiro,’ said a familiar loudmouth. ‘There’s been a breach. Open this door.’
‘Now do me,’ he said. ‘Gladly, you sadist.’ Her fingers prodded every bump, bruise, and soft spot. Weakness kept him from slapping each poke separately. ‘Well how the hell am I?’ he said eventually, trying to make it be over. ‘Like a rotting banana,’ she said. ‘But some sleep, food, water will firm you right back up. How am I?’ Joseph said instead of the thousand things he was thinking, ‘We have to find a Lost and Found in one of those buildings. Don’t touch me for a minute, sixty solid seconds, and I’ll get us situated.’
A female minion, dressed in the building’s drab colors, her bun so tight it put her face in a series of stress positions, walked Elena past a maze of cubicles crammed with employees working away at what could be literally anything. Eventually, they turned a corner that didn’t look like one and there was Michael Black. Lucy’s ex-husband, always a tough read, wore one of his exquisite suits and a smile full of pure, empty charm. ‘Miss Valverre, so good to see you,’ he said, not stopping, not shaking hands, not meaning it at all.
A female minion, dressed in the building’s drab colors, her bun so tight it put her face in a series of stress positions, walked Elena past a maze of cubicles crammed with employees working away at what could be literally anything. Eventually, they turned a corner that didn’t look like one and there was Michael Black. Lucy’s ex-husband, always tough to get a read off of, wore one of his exquisite suits and a smile full of nothing but pure, empty charm. ‘Miss Valverre, so good to see you,’ he said, not stopping, not shaking hands, and not requiring a response.
‘Toilet,’ said Andy, with her made for television grin, ‘Do I need a note?’ ‘There are two bathrooms downstairs,’ said Rachel. Giggle, stare. ‘And a half.’ ‘You’re forcing me to be blunt,’ said Andy, which was false on two fronts. Without a weapon, no person on earth could make Andy anything—that applied infinity to Rachel. ‘I need privacy. Pass me a sheet of that paper, I’ll draw you a picture. And put a number on it.’ Blushing, chagrined, giggles escaping like gas, off scampered Rachel.
‘Toilet,’ said Andy, with her made for television grin, ‘Do I need a note?’ ‘There are two bathrooms downstairs,’ said Rachel. Giggle, stare. ‘And a half.’ ‘You’re forcing me to be blunt,’ said Andy, which was false on two fronts. Without a weapon, no person on earth could make Andy anything—and least of all, Rachel. ‘I need privacy. Pass me a sheet of that paper, I’ll draw you a picture. And put a number on it.’ Blushing, chagrined, giggles escaping like flatulence, off scampered Rachel.
The third of the three-man team came crashing through the front door. Joseph rushed into the impromptu hallway between the study and the safe room carved out by Elena’s bomb. He ran, calling for her. ‘Elena. Elena!’ The doors to the study and the closet inside were both gone. Pages of Elena’s first edition Spies in Exile, shredded from their spines, covered the floor like a carpet. What was left of the room heaved and groaned. Joseph pushed a half-listing bookcase back on its feet, automatically reaching through broken glass for the two unbroken shot glasses that still counted as contents. His bloody fingerprints smeared the cobalt blue Miami skyline of the first but blended right into the red triangles boldly proclaiming ‘Cartagena,’ and ‘Colombia’ on the second. ‘Elena, my god, Lee,’ Joseph cried.
The third of the three-man team came crashing through the front door. Joseph rushed into an impromptu hallway between the study and the safe room created by Elena’s bomb. He ran, calling for her. ‘Lee. Lee!’ The doors to the study and the closet inside were both gone. Pages of Lee’s first edition Spies in Exile, shredded from their spines, covered the floor like a carpet. What was left of the room heaved and groaned. Joseph pushed a half-listing bookcase back on its feet, automatically reaching through broken glass for the two unbroken shot glasses that still counted as contents. His bloody fingerprints smeared the cobalt blue Miami skyline of the first but blended right into the red triangles boldly proclaiming ‘Cartagena,’ and ‘Colombia’ on the second. ‘Elena, my god, Elena,’ Joseph cried.
Joseph was right beside Elena now. Her head drooped on his shoulder. Automatically, he felt around in it, finding bobby pins, holding her wet, heavy hair out of the water, squeezing it pointlessly damp. She pinned it up herself and exhaled a sound. It might have been a word. Maybe, ‘Try.’
Max versus Computer Geek in Hialeah’s nastiest motel. Nixon and the room were so equally, comically filthy that only Max’s sharp and baleful eye kept one from disappearing into the other. He shook a handful of thumb-drives and jacks under Nixon’s crusty nose. ‘Stop counting for a second and answer me. Will Bankrobber yes or no disable the surveillance on Palm Tree Island? Nixon’s smile was yellow, sprouting fur. ‘Better,’ he said, ‘Plug these babies into the mainframe and they’ll puke the whole system into your laptop, with Rhys never the wiser. And don’t be all analog about getting the back-up drives because you really you don’t need to. Travel light.’ Nixon bent back over a duffle-bag of the oldest, limpest, dirtiest Jacksons Max could get his hands on. He’d asked for them specifically because he hated Nixon so much. ‘Bankrobber is software roofie, man. Wham, bam, wake up ma’am.’ Max shuddered. ‘Nixon, you are straight pollution.’ ‘And you’re a liar, Max. We said fifty K. There’s five here.’ Nixon reached for the gun he wasn’t supposed to be carrying. ‘Ahem,’ said Max, whipping it out from behind his own back and dangling it by the trigger. Nixon groaned. ‘For a genius, you’re an idiot. One day, when I’m not the one behind you, you’re gonna get yourself killed.’
Max versus Computer Geek in Hialeah’s nastiest motel. Nixon and the room were so equally, comically filthy that only Max’s sharp and baleful eye kept one from disappearing into the other. He shook a handful of thumb-drives and jacks under Nixon’s crusty nose. ‘Stop counting for a second and answer me. Will Bankrobber yes or no disable the surveillance on Palm Tree Island? Nixon’s smile was yellow, sprouting fur. ‘Better,’ he said, ‘Plug these babies into the mainframe and they’ll puke the whole system into your laptop, with Rhys never the wiser. And don’t be all analog and get the back-up drives because you really you don’t need to. Travel light.’ Nixon bent back over a duffle-bag of the oldest, limpest, dirtiest Jacksons Max could get his hands on. He’d asked for them specifically because he hated Nixon so much. ‘Bankrobber is software roofie, man. Wham, bam, wake up ma’am.’ Shuddering, Max said, ‘Nixon, you are straight pollution.’ ‘And you’re a liar, Max. We said fifty K. There’s five here.’ Nixon reached for the gun he wasn’t supposed to be carrying. ‘Ahem,’ said Max, whipping it out from behind his own back and dangling it by the trigger. Nixon groaned. ‘For a genius, you’re an idiot. One day, when I’m not the one behind you, you’re gonna get yourself killed.’
She ducked down again. From pockets pulled out Ziplocs full of phones and jacks taken off dead men currently on ice—literally chilling—in a bathtub of her former house. Unzipped, just enough to feel around inside, the computer bag Joseph had placed at her feet like tribute. Attached phones to jacks to ports. Double-checked by feel that she’d done it right. Flipped the computer open, and, with swift, downward glances, pressed the sequence that synched all devices. Although she’d need to get back in there in less than two minutes, re-zipped the bag almost completely. Basic technology was their only hope of completing the mission and getting out alive. Two phones, this computer, one spare, coils of wire, some jacks and drives. That was it—their margin. If dropped or drenched or contaminated by salt-thick air, there were no replacements and the job was over. Starting at this spot, a wave would sweep over their lives, which, even if it failed to drown the three of them at Palm Tree Island, would continue westwards until everyone and everything they loved back in Miami lay submerged beneath it. Lee’s mouth twisted sourly: Rhys and Zack would stay bone dry though.
Michael looked around at the diner, the customers, Rita. He lifted his shoes one after the other off the ground, wincing as they fought back. Hung his jacket on the hook outside the booth. Considered removing the rest of his suit, underwear and skin, maybe mailing them to another state. He looked at Joseph. He said, ‘Is it safe?’ Does Zack know about this place?’ ‘Oh, he knows,’ said Joseph. ‘We’ve met here before, so he’ll never come here again. It’s super safe. Do you want anything?’ Michael perched on the seat opposite. ‘And risk using the bathroom here? Hard no on that one.’
Their voices reached a crescendo of discord. Ode to Agony. ‘…snitches who snitch.’ ‘…favorite pair of jeans.’ ‘Fight me outside. Crows eat the losers.’ Joseph stepped backwards into the metal trashcan. It clattered against the concrete for the approximate length of a Dead drum solo. Impossible to hear Abby hurrying downstairs with a hot spoon, red streaming into its rest, not spilling a drop. ‘What’s all this racket? People are cooking, you need to respect that.’
But TW wasn’t there. Not in the room or Marie’s head. She’d switched herself off, leaving Marie stranded in this nightmare. ‘Coward!’ Marie raged. ‘Smug, craven coward.’ TW refused to save her. Sheer fury fetched Marie’s flesh, collecting it around her consciousness. Tiny fists pounded the back of her eyeballs. ‘Let me out, let me out. Let. Me. OUT.’ They moved to her shoulders, shaking her. No, it was Philip. She’d finally found the secret to waking him up. ‘My God,’ he said taking her into sleepy arms. ‘It’s alright. Everything’s fine. Terrified to ask what that dream was about. Were you fighting a supervillain.’
He longed for her struggles to become an attack, where she might, temporarily, gain something like an upper hand, giving him no choice but to follow his training while betraying his instincts—brutalizing her, leaving bruises. Instead, he said, ‘She’d better be all right. You hear me, Lisa? She just better be.’ ‘Matamé,’ Lisa spat at him. ‘Matamé como un hombre lo haria. Kill me as a man would do. As you did Mona.’ Her words checked him for that crucial extra moment, allowing shame to slide into his belly, twist, snake-like in his gut; in the long run, barely saving her life.
‘”Slow Writing?”’ Amanda, in dog-killing key. ‘At Ransom, I took Advanced Writing and Rhetoric, Advanced Writing and Research, and, of course, Honors Writing. A, A, A plus. I’ve never heard of “Slow Writing.” Any relation to numerology, phrenology…Ancient Astronauts?’ ‘Well, actually,’ Rex began.
The All-Talker at reception greeted Amianos with both hands to the heart, pious eye cast ceilingward, and a raking once-over. ‘I’ve got your calling,’ he said. They touched ‘vices. Amianos’ wrist trembled slightly and he could’ve slapped himself. The A-T, beyond pity after a decander of doing this said, ‘From All. To All. For All.’ The Allian prayer of submission, recited without a trace of irony. Unbelievable. The hallway was endless; carpeted in luxury; hung with Allian religious art dense with symbolism and worth a fortune; punctuated by mirrors that were also eyes. ‘Just this once and never again,’ Amianos told himself, but who was he kidding? The sum on his wrist was exorbitant but not enough. Six mouths were a lot to feed. He paused at the most elaborate door, did a quick double-check of his reflection. He literally couldn’t afford to look as sick as he felt. No, he was pretty, polished. The Coordinator would be pleased. The door swung open as if it knew he was ready. His ‘calling’ was already sitting on the bed. Brown skin, red hair—a dark-bright. Quite young, not more than thirty-five calendars. Rather pretty. Surprise joined self-disgust. To pay his price and for the best suite in the Allery, she must have either respectability to preserve or crimes to conceal. Why would she come here risking reputation or revelation to buy what surely a dozen ordinaries would give her for free? His questions must have been written on his face. Her answer was dark and low. ‘Close your mouth.’ She held out a hand, shaking like his own. Don’t stand there staring. I’m not paying to satisfy your curiosity but my own.’
‘But I can shop…’ ‘Hah!’ Marie waved a weary hand. Everyone thought they could shop. And also that their children were beautiful, dogs well-behaved, driving non-lethal. ‘Just finding the stores would be a miracle. I don’t have time to answer your ”questions.” “Can I substitute chicken thighs? Is savoy cabbage alright? Will you accept no-name cherry tomatoes, does it have to be Sugar Bombs.”’ She shook her head, dismissive, decisive. ‘It’s impossible. You don’t know the territory.’ Not using her words at all, Artemisia snagged the pen. Ignoring Marie’s clear ‘Hey. Hey!’ she flipped over the list. Drew an accurate to scale map of Georgetown, marked the markets, divided the items on the shopping list between them. ‘Chicken here. Sausages here,’ Artemisia said, flagging the two best butchers for those things. ‘Vegetables at Safeway. Artisanal vegan ice-cream and et ceteras from Dean & Deluca.’ ‘How did you…? Do not tell me…’ ‘Research,’ said Artemisia calmly. ‘I’ll be back by five.’ ‘Four places in forty-five minutes! Do you even hear yourself? ‘Keep an eye on your mother and put that crisp in the oven.’ She headed for the door. ‘Wait just a minute,’ Marie protested. ‘I haven’t said yes.’ Artemisia didn’t stop or turn around. ‘Think it over, take your time. I’ll be out buying things.’ Marie folded the map into a tidy airplane, sent it flying at the back of Artemisia’s head. The other woman raised two fingers, neatly catching the projectile. ‘Hey,’ she said mildly. ‘Hey?’ Marie’s smile was a wolf’s at the sight of sheep. ‘Sorry,’ she said, so clearly the opposite, ‘You forgot your research.’
Everett dropped the staff. It puffed a last few tendrils of magical smoke before becoming an ordinary piece of wood. Quick if messy work had been made of Chermien’s drudges who lay in a sloppy circle. Eyes half-open, mouths slack, they looked drunk, but at least a couple of them would be entering a more permanently altered state of consciousness if not returned to their lord’s lands within the hour. Lillian was impressed. ‘So,’ air-quoting, ‘your “allergies” are just cover. You’re a caster.’ Everett wore a characteristic look of weary patience. Ugh. She was doing her best and there was no law against helping. ‘I am a caster who is very much so allergic to the ragweed here and in my homeplace and…and. In addition. Fun fact. I’m also lactose intolerant, but…but…’ He fished a small round white something from his jean pocket and flipped it with the tip of his tongue to the back of his throat. ‘I take pills so I can enjoy the taste of milk.’ ‘Head lice, toe fungus, hemorrhoids,’ muttered Lillian. ‘Oh my god, do you have all of those things?’ ‘Hopefully. Someday. For now, I’m just listing all the fun facts I know.’ A suitable pause. ‘So tell me everything about your HP I couldn’t already guess…just from meeting you.’ Everett squinted up at the sun. ‘I’m banished…so I guess, the most relevant difference is here I live, there I die.’ They both heard the rustle of brown grass. Everett’s staff flared back to life, jumped into his hand. Moving less than a muscle, he sent it to Lillian. Without turning, she blasted the last bit of fight out of a drudge poised, behind her back, to spring. ‘Anyway,’ said Lillian, ‘I ran away from my people, and,’ she gestured at the ring of unconscious drudges, before returning Everett’s stick, ‘you can see just how much they want me back.’