They came in twos and threes, shoving and slouching their way down the streets. One even tried to kick
a feral cat slinking along, cursing as it gave him a long scratch to the shin and ran off. Swearing and
holding his leg, the cliché of a bully followed his companions who laughed at his discomfort. They
formed a menacing group gathered outside the apparently abandoned building known to local fae as
the Toy Box Coffee Shop. An intoxicating feeling of Glamour called to them from the faerie treasure
inside, its potency thrilling through them as they prepared to storm in and take it for themselves.
People seeing them there saw a motley assortment of nasty looking toughs, unwashed, unkempt,
some reeking like garbage or excrement. A gang maybe. People made a wide berth around the
obnoxious crowd to avoid getting involved in whatever they were doing. Many people crossed the street
to put distance between themselves and the unsavory looking types lurking at the door. While none of
the passersby recognized the faerie nature of the group, they certainly felt the potential violence such a
gang posed. Oddly, none pulled out their phones to take pictures or alert the police. Somehow, even
the less imaginative pedestrians sensed something truly “off” and “ugly” about the group.
For their part, the thallain kiths ignored the few mortals passing nearby, intent as they were on
making last minute plans to trash the coffee shop and grab the treasure, whatever it was. Two twisted-
looking ogres anchored the pack, while exaggerated horrors called ghasts loosely patrolled the outer
edges of the pack of boggarts and bogies.
“What do ya think of that, then?” Fiona asked Doyle as they moved down the street toward the
rundown building that called to them with its glow of Glamour. She tossed her head to indicate the
small army of thallain clustered by the door.
“Circus of the Damned?” he queried in return. He could feel the Dreaming pulling him into conflict with
them and knew he couldn’t avoid fighting the ugly brutes. “I guess we’d better get ready to defend the
Oulde Shoppe,” he quipped as he saw Fiona’s face light with joy.
“Oh good, I thought I’d never feel at home here and we’ve been in town almost 10 minutes already,”
she laughed. As one of the ghoulies reached for the door, she waded in, calling to her wiry companion,
“You take two of the smaller ones and I’ll take care of the rest.”
Cameron emerged into the street in time to see the clurichaun girl and young nocker attack the pack of
horrors straight on.Wonderful, he thought,let’s not even try negotiation. Let’s just jump right in and get
killed. Oh well. Same old, same old.Despite knowing they were not only outnumbered, but outclassed in
terms of fighting skills, Cameron pulled together his sidhe Glamour and entered the fray.
Fiona punched a boggart, then slapped him sideways to crash heads with a nearby bogie.
“Hey, asshat! Watch it,” the bogie protested, then shoved the addled boggart aside. The boggart’s pack
turned at his cry of pain and jumped both the bogie and Fiona. The bogie promptly vomited darkness on
all of them and pulled a nasty-looking knife.
Doyle lost sight of Fiona as he was confronted with two rabid seeming beasties, their tongues hanging
out of mouths filled with long, horrid teeth. He manifested something that looked a lot like a flashlight and flicked it out to become a four-foot long baton sparking with electrical energy – his own version of a
taser enhanced with his kith’s talents.
Unnoticed in the shadow of a nearby building, Jack October watched the battle unfold. He wondered
which option he should take: join the group attacking the Toy Box, help the three battling the thallains
or try to sneak past them all, get inside and get the treasure while everyone was otherwise distracted.
Seeing the crowd he’d have to skirt, he decided there were too many to slip past. He’d have a better
chance if he helped the defenders. Besides, he liked the clurichaun’s spirit. She was punching, kicking
and biting ears on at least four opponents. So when the bogie pulled his darkness stunt, Jack took
advantage of the confusion to knife him in the back. He moved forward from there, grinning widely so
his foes could see the teeth they’d soon be facing if they didn’t run.
Georgia steered her cab straight at the riotous fae spilling into the street. While she deliberately missed
the majority of the fighters, she ran over one goblin’s foot and opened her car door to smack one of the
beasties threatening Doyle in it’s tailbone.
Doyle called to her, “Hey, that one was mine!” Georgia laughed as she rolled to a stop. “Plenty for all of
us,” she quipped and winked at her fellow nocker.
Wulf slid from the back seat, calling forth his armor and battleaxe. He could feel the Glamour from
within the building but also felt the sickness engendered by his family’s deadly enemies.
Had any witnesses remained in the vicinity, they might have thought a movie was being filmed as the
tall, blond warrior raised his axe and called out,
“Hold, dark kin, turn and face your destruction. I am Wulf, son of Ragnar, warrior of House Aesin! Stop
this assault and meet your doom!”
Both ogres lumbered forward, intending to flank him and bring him down with sheer strength. Wulf had
wanted a target for his wrath since the death of the elk. Feeling elated that at least some thallain would
find punishment here, he swung his axe in a mighty arc, slamming it into one ogre’s chest. The axe, a
faerie treasure of House Aesin, bit deeply into the creature’s fae essence. The ogre screamed and fell
but pulled Wulf down with it. The other ogre raised a spiked club above the handsome sidhe’s head,
determined to crush him. A crazed scream almost deafened the ogre as a weight landed on his back,
scratching at his face and clawing his arms. The weight resolved into a wild-haired nocker woman who
yelled in his ear,
“Nobody messes with my passengers.”
So saying, she covered his eyes with her hands and dug her fingers in. Blinded, the ogre yelled in pain
and stepped back from the fight. Then he flipped Georgia over his back to land with a bone-jarring
crunch in the street. She groaned and rolled out of reach, but she had bought Wulf the time he needed.
“Face me, cowardly beater of women, and leave her alone.” Wulf stepped forward and swung his axe
again.
Doyle had finished off the beasties, causing them enough pain to send them running from the
neighborhood. He had turned his attention to others of the dark kin and was making his way toward
Fiona when he saw a redcap help her up from a mostly unconscious pile pinning her down.
Looking around Doyle saw an angry-looking sidhe helping one of the remaining boggarts on it way with a
kick to its butt and yelling,
“And don’t come back!”
The sidhe noticed Doyle looking and gave him a slight nod and a smile. “Any of them get inside?” the
sidhe asked.
“Don’t think so,” Doyle answered. “Think we should go in and see or wait for the god of thunder over
there to finish off the ogre?”
Having helped Fiona to her feet, Jack slipped toward the door, saying,
“Do what you want. I know where I’m going.”
Just then the ogre collapsed and Wulf looked up to see them all. He saluted them.
“You are welcome, fae of this freehold. I am happy to have preserved your lives and place of refuge by
this battle. Thanks are not necessary! And now, I will meet your princess for our nuptials.”
***
Note from the authors: The following scene was written several days before the current eruptions on
Hawai’I’s Big Island.
The ancient woman stood atop the rock-strewn hill, her long gray hair, showing signs that it had
once been red, flowing in wisps across her lined face. She watched the slow, painful progress of
the ruined creature as it clawed its way toward the top where she waited. It had taken years to
make it this far. She heard its anguished cries only with her mind. It had no mouth to utter its
screams. No nose, ears or eyes defined a face. Its blackened, blistered body spasmed and shook
as it crawled with truncated arms and legs across the sharp rocks, forcing itself onward despite
pools of blood left in its wake.
She could feel the searing heat which bled from its wounds along with the black-red blood, could
smell the brimstone effluvia of the liquid that had once coated it. She stifled her pity, wondering
if anything was left of the intelligence or personality that had informed this creature it its past.
Was there sanity within it still? She would soon know.
The twisted wreck finally gained the summit and lay at her feet. Its labored movements ceased,
and it lay as if dead. Sighing, she knelt next to the ruined body. “Hush now, and we will see,”
she crooned. Taking its head in her lap she gathered her long hair into one hand, brushing it
gently across the creature’s body.
As she worked, black ash flaked off, and red-black, puckered skin appeared. Slowly, the skin lost
its ruddy appearance and returned to a pale color, not scarred, but healed. Bones that had contracted from the searing fire straightened and elongated, cracking and popping. She knew the
cooked, no, burned internal organs threw off their damage and blood flow resumed.
At last she cleaned the face and skull. Bone and skin returned to their former appearance. Lips
filled out, and the ears returned, as did the nose. Long slightly wavy hair grew in. Sharp, strong
cheekbones emerged, and a determined looking mouth formed. The silent scream, which had
dwindled to moans, was stilled.
The elf-lord, newly restored to youth and wholeness, opened wide eyes and gazed at the beautiful
woman who held him. Her form seemed to waver from an old, old crone to that of a vibrant girl
in the first bloom of womanhood. He immediately knew her.
“Pele?” he asked, though he was sure.
“Indeed, Cyprian Ryder,” she replied, “And it is time for you to arise. Time to help those you
once harmed.”
