In the dancing, the two fairy pixies prodded, pulled, and teased Jeff. He stepped out of the cabin, the crisp mountain air filling his lungs as he brushed past low, tangled shrubs. The earth beneath his feet softened as he approached a sanctuary, a sun-dappled glade, alive with the murmur of the icy stream winding through the property. The air here was thick with the scent of wildflowers and warm earth, a sweetness that clung to every breath. Then, the moment his hands met theirs -- skin against skin -- a shiver rippled through the glade. The leaves trembled. The stream’s song hitched. Even the light seemed to flicker, as if the very land recognized the touch. And now, something had changed. His glade. His domain.

The light at their feet flared, threads of blue and gold weaving through the grass like roots of living magic. Trees leaned inward, their branches creaking softly. The air thickened, not in heaviness, but in presence, as if every particle waited in breathless anticipation.

Zephyr and Spark closed their eyes, and Jeff felt a pulse like a heartbeat not his own, syncing with his. Then another. The three of them were tethered now, not by flesh, but by something far deeper. A resonance.

Zephyr spoke, her voice low, melodic, teaching Jeff. “Convergence begins. Open self, Jeff. Not just us, beneath your skin. To your essence.”

Spark’s fingers gripped his tighter. “No hiding. No walls. Share everything. Merging.”

Jeff nodded, his throat dry. He didn’t fully understand what was happening, but he could feel it. Threads of warmth and coolness, one like sunlight on skin, the other like moonlight on water, moved up his arms. His breath hitched, his heart raced, and then…

He was somewhere else.

Not gone, not unconscious… just… inside. Or maybe between. The Imaginarium!

Visions swirled before his eyes: a glade in springtime, the birth of a star, a child laughing under a twilight sky. He saw Zephyr, dancing over still waters, her feet never touching the surface. He saw Spark, wild and untamed, summoning fireflies with her laughter. He saw himself, alone beneath the stars, yearning for something he couldn’t name.

Then he felt them. Zephyr and Spark. Not just beside him, but within. Their emotions brushed his own: curiosity, sorrow, hope, a shared ache for belonging. There was no barrier between their hearts now. Only flow.

He gasped as a wave of sensation rolled through him, neither painful nor pleasurable, but overwhelming in its raw intimacy. He wasn’t just merging with them. He was becoming part of something entirely new.

Zephyr’s voice echoed in the space between their minds. “Breathe. Fear must leave.”

Spark’s followed. “Desire stay. Fuels the bond. Guide with love.”

Jeff breathed deeply. The swirl of emotion sharpened, clarified. His thoughts aligned not with logic, but with intention. He wanted this. Not just the closeness, but what it meant. The creation. The balance. The hope.

Energy bloomed around them, spinning into a circle. Blue and gold wove together, shimmering brighter, coalescing into a sphere of pure white light above their joined hands.

Zephyr’s hand trembled in his. “Seed forms.”

Spark’s eyes opened, glowing amber. “Hybrid begins. Soul born not of human alone, but of trust. Of unity.”

Jeff’s legs nearly buckled as the energy passed through him, surging like a river made of stars. He cried out, not in pain, but release, as memories, feelings, and essence flowed freely between the three. He could feel Zephyr’s calm strength, Spark’s fierce joy, and his own blend of wonder and fear. All of it was drawn upward into the sphere.

The glade responded.

Flowers opened in silent bloom. Leaves unfurled toward the sky. The wind carried laughter, distant and childlike.

And then, the light condensed. The sphere pulsed once, then twice. And then it breathed.

Jeff opened his eyes. The orb hovered between them, glowing with life. Not metaphorical, not symbolic: life.

Zephyr stared at it in awe. “Behold: soul.”

Spark pressed a hand to Jeff’s chest, her touch tender. “Now must anchor. Only beginning.”

Jeff looked between them. “Next?”

They both smiled, and this time, the light in their eyes was different. Filled with reverence. With hope. And something almost like love.

Zephyr leaned forward, her forehead touching his. She explained in English, “We shall bond fully. Body, mind, and spirit. Not through physical union, but through a second rite. Deeper still.”

Spark cupped his cheek. “Change Jeff. Not entirely human you, Jeff. You carry us. And her.”

Jeff looked again at the glowing orb, his chest aching with something too vast for words. He nodded slowly.

He replied, “Proceed.”

The moment Jeff spoke, the glade responded again.

Vines lifted gently from the ground, curling in slow spirals around the three of them, forming a protective ring. Flowers bloomed in their wake, pulsing softly with golden and silver light. The energy in the air deepened, no longer shimmering and quick, but slow, steady, ancient. Like the beat of the world’s own heart.

Zephyr and Spark moved in unison now, circling Jeff like twin moons orbiting a sun. He stood still, the orb of light pulsing in front of him, already tied to him by threads only spirit could see.

“This older than words,” Zephyr intoned. “Passed through memory. Not done to Jeff. Done with Jeff.”

Spark extended her arms and firelight flickered from her fingertips, forming delicate runes in the air. “You carry hybrid soul. You carry us.”

Jeff’s brow furrowed slightly. “Means?”

Zephyr stepped forward first, her hands raised, palms glowing with cool, blue light. She touched them gently to either side of his face.

“Feel my stillness,” she whispered. “Calm center of storm. Breath between words. Hush of snowfall on stone.”

Her light seeped into him, not invading, but inviting. A deep quiet filled his bones, silencing the buzz of thought. It was as if her presence became a part of his mind, a cool current winding through every dark place, washing it clean.

Then Spark stepped in, her energy wild and flickering, unpredictable. She touched his chest, just above his heart, and he inhaled sharply as heat rushed through him. Not fire, but passion, joy, life.

“Feel my flame,” she whispered. “Thrill of flight. Laugh echoes loud. Spark that dares to burn.”

Her essence flooded into him like sunlight after a storm, filling every place Zephyr had calmed with vitality, color, and movement.

Jeff staggered under the weight, not painful, but immense. They weren’t just merging with him. They were giving him pieces of themselves. Making space in him for something not entirely human, not entirely pixie, but something utterly new.

The orb pulsed brighter, in rhythm with his breathing.

Spark caught him as he swayed. “Careful, Jeff. Hardest part.”

Zephyr’s voice was near, soothing. “Becoming more than you.”

Jeff pressed a hand to his chest. His heart still beat, but it began beating in threes now. One for him. One for Zephyr. One for Spark.

“I feel… everything,” he whispered in English. “Your fears, your joys. Even your memories.”

“You’re meant to,” Zephyr said. “The hybrid must be born from understanding. From complete union.”

Spark’s gaze turned serious. “And from choice.”

Jeff looked up at her.

“You can still step away,” she said. “This is your will. We can’t take your essence. You must give it freely. This last step... you become the vessel. The father. Not in name, not in function, but in being.”

Jeff closed his eyes. Within himself, he felt the soul of the hybrid pulsing, unformed yet alive, waiting. It wasn’t a burden. It was a promise. A possibility.

He nodded. “I choose this.”

The ethereal vines around them tightened gently, forming a sacred enclosure. The orb of light rose, hovering between all three. Jeff stepped forward, and the pixies mirrored him, hands joined once more around the hovering soul.

Then the wind began to sing. Not howl. Not whisper. Sing. It was a haunting melody. No instrument could match it, woven of ancient magic and newborn hope. The forest joined in. The trees swayed. Leaves danced. The light dimmed and flared. And the orb began to descend… slowly… until it touched Jeff’s chest.

It didn’t burn. It didn’t blind. It entered.

Warmth spread through his body, but not like heat. It was recognition. Like a heartbeat syncing with his own. Like laughter from a dream long forgotten. The soul didn’t just settle in. It anchored.

His eyes widened as he felt it grow. Not physically, but spiritually. The energy of the glade, of the pixies, of Jeff himself, began to merge into the soul. A being of potential. A child of three worlds. It had no body yet but its spirit was alive.

Spark and Zephyr gasped, falling to their knees, hands pressed to Jeff’s sides. Jeff reached the pinnacle of human existence at that moment. Pure, unadulterated, unlimited bliss.

“Done,” Zephyr whispered, her voice trembling.

“Hybrid lives,” Spark said. “Not born, but she is. Already.”

Jeff stood very still, his body aglow, his heart no longer his alone.

The glade grew quiet. The wind stilled. The vines released them, and petals rained gently from above.

Jeff breathed in. And the world breathed with him.

Jeff knelt beside Zephyr and Spark in the soft moss of the glade, his breath steady, slow, deep. The air around them was still aglow, but the intensity had faded into something gentler. Like moonlight after a storm. Within him, the soul pulsed: not loud, not intrusive, but ever-present. A heartbeat that echoed his own.

Zephyr rose first, her azure hair drifting in the lingering magic. “She is… beautiful,” she whispered. “She has your strength, Spark’s fire, and… a calm I have never felt before.”

“She’s not just our creation,” Spark added softly, brushing a hand over Jeff’s chest where the orb had vanished. “She’s a convergence. A song that couldn’t have been sung until now.”

Jeff looked at his hands. They glowed faintly still, blue and gold threads woven through his skin like veins of starlight. “So… what happens next? I feel different. Changed. But I don’t know how.”

“You are a vessel,” Zephyr said. “A guardian of a soul still gestating. It will take time -- moons, seasons -- before she can be born into a form. But her presence alone is already shifting the balance.”

“And the Armagnac will feel it,” Spark added, eyes narrowing. “They feed on division. On the broken. But now… we’ve created something whole. Something balanced.”

Jeff frowned. “What will Phinsky do?”

Zephyr stepped to the edge of the glade, her eyes scanning the canopy above. “She will try to destroy you. To unmake what we’ve made. You are the seed of the future, Jeff. If you die, the hybrid dies with you.”

A silence fell between them.

And yet, there was no fear in Jeff’s chest. He felt them, Zephyr and Spark, still with him. Not just standing beside him, but within him. Pieces of them lived in his bones, his breath, his soul.

“Will not hide,” he said quietly.

Spark grinned. “Spark inside Jeff thinking.”

Zephyr turned back, the edges of a rare delicate smile touching her lips. “You were always meant to come here. The glade called to you because you were the key. Not just a man. Not just human. But open. Whole. Willing.”

Jeff stood, his stance steady, centered. “How long until she finds us?”

“I’m sure she already knows,” Spark said. “But she won’t come yet. She’ll wait. Watch. Fear makes her clever.”

“Then we prepare,” Jeff said.

Zephyr tilted her head. “You’re already changing, you know. Not just your energy. Your powers of perception will grow well beyond what it already was. You’ll continue see the world not just with human eyes, but with pixie eyes too. But, the magic you began with will multiply greatly.”

Jeff looked out at the glade. For a moment, everything sharpened. He saw tiny threads of life beneath the moss, glowing strands of energy connecting tree to root to flower. He heard the heartbeat of the glade itself.

“Beautiful existence,” he said, awe in his voice.

“Yours now,” Spark said, her hand finding his. “First of your kind for this day. But not in history. Illegal but required.”

Zephyr’s voice turned solemn again. “Others come. Some help. Some destroy. Our bond we share. Not just hybrid. A beacon. A beginning.”

The wind rose again, this time playful, rustling the leaves with a sound like distant laughter. The glade pulsed once, like a final blessing.

Jeff stepped to the center where the orb had hovered before. He closed his eyes. In the silence, he felt her.

The soul. The child. The hybrid.

She didn’t speak in words, but in impressions. Curiosity. Wonder. Strength.

Hope.

He smiled.

The fight hadn’t even begun yet. But the world had changed.

And he was no longer alone.

 

Chapter 10

A fluttering breeze startled Jeff awake. He rolled over from his afternoon nap just as Spark’s small, glowing form darted in front of his face, her humming motion announced agitation.

"Car approaches," she whispered, her voice like wind through dry leaves.

Jeff groaned, rubbing his eyes. "Color? Distance?"

"Night. Highway connects."

Black, then. And close. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor. The .30-06 laid in the rack where he’d left it, just for such a case. He grabbed it, the stock in his hands, still oily from cleaning, and moved to the front window.

Through the scope, the car came into focus, bouncing as it navigated the rough dirt road. A Mercedes. Karl owned a black Mercedes.

Jeff exhaled, lowering the rifle. "Friend," he muttered to Spark. "Find Zephyr. Explain."

By the time the Mercedes rolled to a stop in front of the cabin, Jeff had already re-racked the gun and was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as Karl stepped out.

The art publisher looked exactly as Jeff remembered: salt-and-pepper stubble, a well-worn flannel, and the perpetually amused expression of a man who found life far more entertaining than it had any right to be. Karl squinted at the dirty windows, then up at Jeff, before breaking into a grin.

"Well, I’ll be damned," Karl called, shaking his head. "Jeff goddamn Gardner."

Jeff smirked. "Took you long enough to notice the electricity bill."

Karl laughed, stepping onto the porch. "Neighbors called, said they saw lights. Figured I had squatters. Or worse, some city idiot who didn’t know how to start a generator."

"I gassed it, cranked it, and smoked the wiring. It’s dead. Sorry." Jeff frowned, stepping aside to let him in. "I did know where you hid the key."

Karl strode past him, glancing around the cabin with an approving nod. "Place looks better than when we left it. You clean?"

Jeff snorted. "No, pixies did."

A dead silence. Karl froze, then turned slowly, his expression unreadable. "You seeing them again?"

Jeff hesitated. "Not them. Just… one,” he lied.

Karl exhaled sharply, then walked to the kitchen counter where a half-empty bottle of whiskey sat. He poured two glasses without asking. "Okay," he said, handing one to Jeff. "Start talking."

Jeff declined the drink, pushing it back towards Karl before answering. "Her name’s Spark."

Karl’s eyebrow lifted. "Her."

"Yeah." Jeff took a sip. "And before you ask, no, I’m not hallucinating."

Karl studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "Last time we were here, you swore you were done with all that. Said the meds helped."

"They did," Jeff admitted. "Until they didn’t."

Karl leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "So where is she now?"

Jeff jerked his chin toward the woods. "Outside. She’s shy."

Karl barked a laugh. "Shy?"

"She likes the afternoon mist here," Jeff said, grinning. "Doesn’t mean she likes people."

Karl shook his head, rubbing his temples. "Jesus. I leave you alone for six months, and you’re back to chasing invisible things."

Jeff’s grin faded. "She’s not invisible. And I’m not chasing her. She’s… helping me."

"With what?"

Jeff looked away. "Stuff I can’t fix alone."

The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken history. Then Karl’s phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and stiffened.

"Shit," he muttered.

Jeff frowned. "What?"

Karl was already moving, grabbing his keys from the counter. "Gotta go."

"That’s your excuse? Gotta go?"

Karl hesitated at the door, his back to Jeff. "Gallery emergency in Asheville. Urgent."

Jeff crossed his arms. "You drove all the way up here just to turn around?"

Karl didn’t answer. Just yanked the door open and strode out into the cool mountain breeze without another word.

Jeff watched from the porch as the Mercedes’ taillights disappeared down the dirt road, kicking up dust in their wake. A flicker of light danced at the edge of the trees, then Spark materialized beside him, her glow casting faint shadows across the wooden planks.

"He lied," she whispered.

Jeff sighed. "Agreed.”

The trees swaying in the winds swallowed the sound of the engine, leaving only the rustle of leaves and the distant call of an owl. Somewhere beyond the trees, something -- or someone -- waited.

And Karl was driving straight toward it. Of course, he couldn’t have known. The figure was in the Imaginarium. Spark could not see, but Jeff could.

“She follows!” he whispered.

“Who?” she whispered back.

“Our Queen.”

***

Karl’s fingers drummed angrily against the steering wheel as the Mercedes ate up the twisted stretch of I-40. The hum of the engine was the only sound in the cabin until his phone buzzed in the cup holder. He glanced at the screen -- Dr. Phinsky -- and tapped the Bluetooth connection.

The line clicked open.

"Your text. You found them?" Phinsky’s voice was sharp, clinical, the way it always was when she was working.

Karl smirked. "I know where he is. I know where they all are."

A pause. Then, "How?"

"I have a cabin in North Carolina. They’re there. Why in hell did you send your damned nuns to follow me?"

Another lapse of silence. Karl could almost hear her turning the information over in her mind, dissecting it.

"You sure they’re there?"

Karl rolled his eyes. "I saw him, didn’t I? Jeff’s there. And if he’s there, so are the others."

"I thought you said he didn’t know you were involved."

"He doesn’t." Karl tightened his grip on the wheel. "He thinks I’m just his dumbass friend who humors his ‘delusions.’"

A soft, static-y exhale on the other end. "And the pixies? Can you tell if they suspect anything?"

Karl hesitated. "No. I don’t have any of the equipment with me. At least, I don’t think they do. Jeff’s still talking to me like everything’s normal."

"Good." Phinsky’s voice dropped, colder now. "Where are you now?"

"Northbound on 40. I’ll pick up 81 and be in Roanoke in a couple hours."

"Don’t get stopped," she warned. "We have time. Drive the limit."

Karl scoffed. "Relax. I’m not an idiot. Your nuns are headed back, too?"

"Yes," Phinsky said, her tone shifting, almost amused. "But you are the one who left a trail straight to your own cabin."

Karl’s jaw clenched. "It’s fine. Jeff won’t figure it out. He trusts me."

"Let’s hope so," she murmured. "Because if they realize you’re hunting them…"

"They won’t." Karl cut her off, his voice firm. "They can’t."

Another pause. Then, quieter: "Just get back here. We’ll talk when you arrive."

The call ended with a soft click.

Karl exhaled, his fingers flexing around the wheel. “Bitch.” The highway stretched ahead, full with traffic, but in his mind, he could still see Jeff’s face, the way his old friend had grinned at him, completely unaware.

Trusting.

Karl’s foot pressed down on the accelerator, just a little.

The Mercedes surged forward, carrying him, and his secrets, back to Roanoke.

***

“Yes, ma’am. He’s being held up in Sylva at the Jackson County Sheriff’s Jail but we’re going to arraign him here in Franklin once they finish with him up there.”

“Has he retained counsel?”

“No, ma’am. He’s got one of our PD’s.”

“Name?”

“Mark Reyes. You want his office’s number?”

“No, thank you. What are his charges?”

“Well, he’s got a whole heap of them, that’s for sure.”

“List them, please.”

“My Lord! Okay, just a sec.” Papers were shuffled. Then, “Resisting Arrest, Felony Assault on a Law Enforcement Officer, Assault inflicting serious bodily injury, Battery on a Government Official, Assault with a Deadly Weapon on a Government Official, Disorderly Conduct, Inciting a Riot, Injury to Personal Property, Communicating Threats, Felony Obstruction of Justice, Failure to Comply with Lawful Order, Criminal Trespass, Theft of property worth more than $5,000, Possession of stolen property, Public Intoxication, and Drunk and Disruptive in Public.”

“Ms. Voss, I want you to push for involuntary commitment instead of criminal prosecution.”

“I can’t do that, ma’am. Our officer has been injured. This man has to sit in prison for a long time.”

“I’m sure you can see that even in the best of scenarios, Gardner will only spend a few years, at most, behind bars. I need him under lock and key permanently. An involuntary commitment does that.”

“But, Doctor, he is not insane. He’s just violent.”

“Ms. Voss, let me speak with the District Attorney for your county, please.”

A stiff pause. “That would be me, Doctor. You could speak with the North Carolina Attorney General, of course. Would you like the number to his office?”

“No, thank you. I have it. You’ve heard of Most Reverend Louis Cortez, the Bishop of Raleigh?”

“Of course. But he has no polit…”

“He has my backing. Financial backing. I would assume Scott Roberts would be interested in…”

“The mayor is Southern Baptist. Don’t know what powers of influence a Catholic would have.”

“Well, I could go higher than the Attorney General.”

“That would be our governor, Dr. Phinsky. You’re terribly close to me wanting to file some charges against you. I think it best you hang up and set a spell to think about your next move.”

***

The old man pressed his face into the bars before him and said, “Hot piss and vinegar, boy. You’re all bloodied up. You put up a good fight?”

Jeff rubbed his face, checking his teeth. “I tried. I got zapped before I could get a good start.”

“Yeah, I been tazered before, too. Make your muscles tick and twitch for hours.”

“Yup.”

“So, you was fightin’ drunk, or just pissed off at someone?”

“Mmm.”

“Well, we’re gonna be here for a while. You want to talk about it or you want me to?”

“You robbed a gas station. No real weapon. They caught you hiding in a dog house somewhere near town.”

“You was there? You seen it?”

“No. The C/Os were discussing you. I overheard.”

“I was too drunk to really think it through, I suppose. I just wasn’t too steady in my head. S’alright, though. Central is better than rolling around in a ditch trying to drink cough medicine enough to get drunk on. You ever do time at Raleigh?”

“Nope. Just some local time up in Roanoke.”

“Ah, you’re a Virginia boy. What you doing down here with us mountain folk?”

“Trying to figure out life, I guess.”

“Ain’t much to it, as far as I can see it. The world is the world and, drunk is the only way I can see any sense to it. So, how much you got figured out now?”

Jeff put his metal tray on the floor next to the cell door and twiddled the plastic spoon he had just eaten with. He laid back, stared at the pencil graffiti on the walls and began, “When I was a little boy learning about the world and the things in it, I went to church to, well, do what people do in churches. Everyone prayed to god and the churches were where people go to do that. And, to a 6 year old boy, god was a mystery but according to everyone more knowledgeable, god was the ultimate thing. Priests were special people who knew god but just were people like us. Altar boys were little guys like me who had been especially good.” He chuckled, “What you’re thinking was not a common thing back then… well, nobody knew about it.”

The old man laughed.

“Anyway, only altar boys could be that close to the priest and, no, it’s still not what you are thinking!”

The old man laughed even harder.

“Once the priests did their thing chanting in strange languages, the altar boys did their thing lighting very tall candles, ringing three-bell chimes and holding special equipment for the priests, the entire god crew would line up and slowly march off the god altar and past some of us only to exit through a wrought iron gate and continue to the back of the church somewhere where god actually was.

“My interests, for the most part, was in climbing rocky hills, catching insects, discovering that some insects could sting quite well, and sitting on the roof of our duplex (don’t ask how I got up there) waiting for my Mom to get home from work. However, one Sunday morning, after all the bells were rung, all the standing, sitting, and kneeling were done, I watched as the god crew went through the wrought iron gate and wondered why we could not go back to visit god. While everyone was slowly standing up and filing out of the church, I went to the wrought iron gate and opened it. It was heavy but it swung open only to bang against its backstop. Wow, god probably heard that! Yeah, but it was the priest who came to investigate.

“I had this burning question in my head so I ask it point blank, ‘Can I come and see god?’

“The priest smiled and explained that god was everywhere, not just in churches.

“So, I learned that, although it was good to ask questions, often what I had thought an answer might be to any of them, reality just as often did not come close to matching. Fine. That was what childhood was for.

“Still, as years dragged on, I learned many subjective as well as objective things. I learned that churches were just buildings, people banded together in clubs to cheer for their own version of god, and I had to be very careful in making assumptions based on what other people did, did not do, thought, or did not think. Just recently, in fact, I discovered how, in actuality, I am often right in my thoughts however contrary to others’ thoughts mine were. The example, a bit mundane in application yet poignant in subjectivity, occurred to me while I was washing dishes.”

The old man had laid back in his own bed shelf and asked, “Dishes?”

“For hundreds of years, silverware – knives, forks, spoons, and various drinking utensils – were actually manufactured out of silver, a very precious metal. Silver was difficult to obtain and, thus, mostly the rich had access to silverware in actual silver. The rest of us struggled along with tin, wood, and pottery. Eventually, man discovered stainless steel, and because of its non-rusting properties, began issuing silverware made with this metal. Compared to silver, stainless steel was very cheap. So we all had it as our forks, knives, and spoons. Well, except the rich, of course. While the rich had to protect themselves from thieves who wanted their silverware, had to polish it weekly (or hire someone to do it for them), and would gloat over their possession of it all, we poor people reached into a drawer, grabbed a handful, and placed them about our red and white checkered table cloth. We never had to polish our silverware because it never got dull. And nobody would go out of their way to steal any of it.”

“Dollar store has ‘em for just a couple bucks now.”

“Certainly not in silver. Stainless. Silver is not a good metal to hold an edge on a knife. Silver is easily workable so home utensils often are quite ornate. It’s easily workable so home utensils often are bent and must be corrected. Silver oxidizes slowly so, after a few weeks, the corrosion must be removed.”

“Corrosion?”

“The tarnish. Of course, stainless must be washed after use, holds an edge so fine we use it today in our disposable razors, can be ornate by manufacture but often in just simplistically formed because it is difficult to get fancy, and is quite difficult to bend out of shape. Oh, and you never polish it. Not needed.”

The old man commented, “I always wondered about that. We never had any kind of silver stuff. Paw had a silver dollar once. But we never did polishing to what we ate off of. Just wash it in the sink and toss it in the drawer.”

“For most of my life, the value I thought was on silverware was incorrect. Stainless was more valuable as eating utensils than silver. For most of my life, god was, well, there were three popular views. Yet each of those views had huge flaws in concepts, definitions, and practicalities. But you could not tell that to society. Yet, there it is.

“Hell,” the old man cackled. “You’re a Jesus Freak.”

“Not hardly. Back then, I was right and they were wrong. I just didn’t know it. Today, often I am right and they are often wrong. But today, I know it.”

“I’m Evangelical but my ol’ lady was Methodist, god rest her soul. And the utensils you get here are plastic.”

Jeff tossed his plastic spoon at the jail cell door and rolled over. “Mmm. Stainless steel is better than silver for eating utensils. Really.”

***

The courtroom was a study in solemn authority: high ceilings, dark wood paneling, and the scent of old paper and lemon polish hanging in the air. The judge’s bench loomed like a pulpit, flanked by the state seal and a flag whose folds seemed starched into stillness, while the jury box sat to the side, its twelve empty chairs waiting like unspoken accusations. At the center, a scarred wooden table bore the weight of elbows and briefcases, its surface reflecting the dull gleam of fluorescent lights, and beyond the bar, the spectators’ benches creaked under the shifting weight of two restless onlookers, their whispers dissolving into silence.

Jeffry Gardner, sat in the witness stand, his posture rigid but his eyes steady. Someone had provided him with a neatly button-up shirt and slacks. Across from him stood Prosecutor Eleanor Voss, a sharp, relentless woman in her 40s with a reputation for dismantling testimonies. Her voice was crisp, her questions deliberate.

The judge, an older man with a stern expression, watched closely. The jury was missing, though Jeff was the only one who had no idea why. He had asked for one. The defense attorney, Mark Reyes, just shook his head and, once the festivities got underway, occasionally found cause to object but mostly let his client speak. Jeff must prove his own sanity to a Mountain Man Judge.

Prosecutor Voss: "Mr. Gardner, you claim you are not schizophrenic, correct?"

Jeffry Gardner: "That’s correct."

Voss: "Yet you’ve been diagnosed by three separate psychiatrists over the past five years. How do you explain that?"

Gardner: "Misinterpretation. Stress, lack of sleep, and a family history of mental illness led doctors to assume the worst. But I’ve never had hallucinations, delusions, or disorganized thinking: the key symptoms of schizophrenia."

Voss: "Really? Then let’s go through your medical records. In 2021, you were hospitalized after telling a coworker you believed your phone was transmitting your thoughts to the government. Was that a misunderstanding?"

Gardner: "It was a joke. Dark humor. I was frustrated with surveillance culture and made an offhand comment. My coworker overreacted."

Voss: "A joke that led to a 72-hour involuntary hold?"

Gardner: "Yes, because once the system flags you, it’s hard to get out. I was calm the whole time, but no one listened."

Voss: "What about the incident in 2022 where you were found shouting at a streetlight, claiming it was ‘recording’ you?"

Gardner: "I was intoxicated. Not psychotic."

Voss: "So your defense is that every documented instance of erratic behavior was either a joke, a misunderstanding, or substance-induced?"

Gardner: "No. My defense is that none of those instances meet the diagnostic criteria for schizophrenia. Paranoia while drunk doesn’t make me schizophrenic. A bad joke doesn’t make me schizophrenic."

Voss: "Then what would?"

Gardner: "Hearing voices that aren’t there. Believing in impossible realities. Losing touch with consensus existence. I don’t have those symptoms."

Voss: "Consensus existence? That’s an unusual phrase. Most people would just say ‘reality.’"

Gardner: "I’m being precise. Schizophrenia involves a break from shared reality. I’ve never experienced that."

Voss: "Yet you’ve written extensively about ‘hidden patterns’ in the world. Here’s an excerpt from your journal: ‘Numbers repeat for a reason. Coincidences are messages.’ Does that sound like someone fully grounded in reality?"

Gardner: "It sounds like someone interested in philosophy. Jung wrote about synchronicity. That doesn’t mean he was schizophrenic."

Voss: "Carl Jung wasn’t involuntarily committed three times."

Defense Attorney Reyes: "Objection. Argumentative."

Judge: "Sustained. Ms. Voss, stick to questions."

Voss: "Very well. Mr. Gardner, do you believe you’re being watched right now?"

Gardner: "By the court, the jury, and the spectators? Yes."

A ripple of quiet laughter sprinkled the air. Voss refused to smile.

Voss: "I mean outside this courtroom. Do you believe unseen forces monitor you?"

Gardner: "No. But I do believe in data collection, surveillance capitalism, and government overreach, which are well-documented realities, not delusions."

Voss: "You seem very sure of yourself. Yet your own sister testified that you once accused her of being replaced by an imposter. That’s a classic sign of Capgras delusion."

Gardner: "You dragged her from her beloved TV shows and went all the way back then? We were kids. It was a stupid fight. She dyed her hair, came home late, and I said, ‘Who are you, my sister’s double?’ It wasn’t clinical. It was sibling nonsense."

Voss: "And when you refused to take antipsychotics?"

Gardner: "Because I’m not psychotic. Taking those drugs would have given me side effects: weight gain, tremors, emotional numbness… for no reason."

Voss: "Many schizophrenics deny their illness. How can we trust your self-assessment?"

Gardner: "Because I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to look at the evidence. No hallucinations. No persistent delusions. No disorganized speech. Just a few incidents taken out of context."

Voss: "Then let’s test your cognitive clarity. Recite the months of the year backward."

Jeff rolled his eyes, sighed, and recited, "December, November, October, September, August, July, June, May, April, March, February, January."

Voss: "Now subtract 7 from 100 and keep going."

Gardner: "People can do that? Here in North Carolina?”

The judge frowned.

“Okay: 93, 86, 79, 72, 65, 58, 51, 44, 37, 30, 23, 16, 9, 2."

Voss: "Define ‘irony.’"

Gardner: "When the intended meaning is opposite to the literal meaning, often with humorous or poignant effect."

Voss: "You’re performing well now. But schizophrenia can be episodic. How do we know you won’t decompensate tomorrow?"

Gardner: "How do we know you won’t? Mental health isn’t about guarantees. It’s about patterns. My pattern is stability."

Voss: "Yet you’ve been fired from multiple jobs for ‘erratic behavior.’"

Gardner: "I was fired for being argumentative, not psychotic. There’s a difference."

Voss: "Is there? You’re here today because you assaulted a police officer during a wellness check."

Gardner: "I defended myself when he grabbed me without explanation. That’s not insanity. It’s instinct."

Voss: "Or it’s paranoia. You broke his arm."

Gardner: "Or it’s human nature. And he didn’t know how to defend himself from a classic combat move."

There was a pause in the exchange but the Judge peered at him, watching closely.

Voss: "I’m confused. If you’re so rational, why do so many people think you’re ill?"

Gardner: "Because it’s easier to call someone crazy than to admit the world is complicated."

Voss moved with the precision of a blade sliding into its sheath: smooth, practiced, lethal. Her heels struck the worn courtroom floor in measured clicks as she approached the prosecution’s table, her gaze skimming the bullet points in her legal pad like a sniper confirming coordinates. She paused, fingertips resting on the edge of the page where her notes pivoted sharply: Military service. A slow exhale through her nose. Time to strip the defendant’s heroics down to bone and see what cracks showed in the shine of his service record.

Voss: "Mr. Gardner, let’s discuss your service in Iraq. You were part of a reconnaissance unit, correct?"

Gardner: "Yes. 1st Armored Division, 2nd Brigade Combat Team, 6th Infantry Regiment, 1st Battalion, Bravo Company. We conducted patrols, surveillance, and direct engagements when necessary."

Voss: "And in 2010, you were involved in an incident where you shot and killed a man later identified as a suspected insurgent. Correct?"

Gardner: "Correct."

Voss: "This man was not in uniform. He was concealed. Yet you engaged. How did you know he was a hostile combatant and not a civilian?"

Gardner: "I didn’t know until after. But I had reasonable certainty based on the situation."

Voss: "Walk us through it. Step by step."

Gardner: "We were moving through a sector near Tikrit, a known insurgent hotspot. Intel said they were using abandoned buildings as sniper nests. My team was on high alert."

Voss: "And what drew your attention to this particular individual?"

Gardner: "Movement. A flicker. The human eye picks up inconsistencies -- even in camouflage."

Voss: "Describe it."

Gardner: "We were passing a ruined storefront. The rubble was gray-brown, same as everything else. But there was a shift, like a shadow that didn’t match the angle of the sun. Then I saw the shape of a rifle barrel, just for a second."

Voss: "An AK-47?"

Gardner: "Distinct silhouette. Curved magazine, wooden stock. Not something a civilian would just be holding in a combat zone."

Voss: "You saw all that in a flicker?"

Gardner: "Training kicks in. You don’t think. You react. The barrel wasn’t slung; it was shouldered. That’s a firing position."

Voss: "Did you issue a warning?"

Gardner: "No time. If I hesitated, my team died."

Voss: "So you fired."

Gardner: "Yes. Two rounds center mass."

Voss: "And when you approached the body?"

Gardner: "He was dressed in civilian clothes, but he had an AK, extra mags, and a makeshift ghillie wrap, fabric strips tied to break up his outline. Classic insurgent tactic."

Voss: "No insignia, no radio, no clear link to a militant group."

Gardner: "Insurgents don’t wear uniforms. That’s the point."

Voss: "Yet the Rules of Engagement required positive identification before engagement."

Gardner: "The ROE also allowed for self-defense and defense of your unit. A hidden rifle is a threat."

Voss: "But you couldn’t see his face, could you?"

Gardner: "No. Just the weapon and his posture."

Voss: "Posture?"

Gardner: "Crouched, angled toward us. Not fleeing, not surrendering. Ready to fire."

Voss: "And you’re certain he saw you first?"

Gardner: "He had us ranged. I would have if I had been him. If I hadn’t fired first, I’d be dead."

The Prosecutor took a breath. The Judge sat quiet but focused.

Voss: "After the shooting, your unit called it in. But there was an investigation. Why?"

Gardner: "Standard procedure for any engagement."

Voss: "Not just procedure. There were questions. No other witnesses saw the insurgent before you fired."

Gardner: "I was point man. It’s my job to see threats first."

Voss: "Or were you hypervigilant. Seeing enemies where none existed."

Gardner: "The rifle was real. The tribunal confirmed it."

Voss referred to her notes again. "The tribunal also noted your reported paranoia during deployment. Night watches where you fired at ‘shadows.’"

Gardner: "False report. I engaged a confirmed muzzle flash. The after-action review backed me."

Voss: "Yet your squad leader testified that you sometimes ‘overreacted’ to movement."

Gardner: "Squad leaders want cautious soldiers. I was careful. Not crazy."

Voss: "Careful enough to kill a man based on a flicker?"

Gardner: "Careful enough to keep my team alive."

Voss: "And after the tribunal cleared you, you were honorably discharged. But not for physical injury. For psychological evaluation."

Gardner: "Mandatory after a very heavy combat engagement. I passed. My time was almost up so when one was offered, I took an early DD-214."

Voss raised her voice. "Your choice? Because six months later, you were hospitalized after accusing your neighbor of ‘signaling’ to someone outside. Sounds like paranoia to me."

Gardner raised his own voice. "My neighbor was flashing his porch light in a pattern. I reported it. Turns out he was part of a drug ring. Police arrested him."

Voss challenged, "Or maybe you imagined a threat, just like in Iraq."

Gardner growled, "Or maybe I pay attention."

Voss calmed down, took another breath, and continued. "Let’s test that. Describe the exact angle of the sun when you saw the insurgent."

Gardner, matching her, "Late afternoon. Sun low in the west, behind us. That’s why the shadow stood out. It was too sharp for ambient light."

Voss: "Wind conditions?"

Gardner: "Light breeze, left to right. Enough to stir dust, not enough to mask sound. Why am I rehashing all this?"

Voss: "Distance to target?"

Gardner: "Approximately 50 meters."

Voss: "And the building’s layout?"

Gardner: "Two-story, collapsed roof. Ground-floor windows blown out. Insurgent was in the northeast corner, using a collapsed support beam as cover."

Voss: "You remember all that vividly."

Gardner: "Combat imprints details. You don’t forget."

Voss: "Or you reconstruct them afterward to justify the shot."

Gardner: "Or I remember because my life depended on it."

Voss raised her voice again, "So. If you were so sure, why did the tribunal debate for three days before clearing you?"

Gardner yelled, "Because war is messy. They had to be certain. Just like I did before I pulled the trigger. But I killed it. I saved my…"

“It?” She paused. “You killed ‘it’?”

Gardner remained frozen. Silent.

Calmly, Voss asked, “Isn’t depersonalization part of PTSD? Do you have PTSD?”

Nobody moved. The judge asked Jeff, “Mr. Gardner, do you need a few moments to settle yourself?”

“I’m fine, Your Honor. This is a bit distressing but I have been handling it for years now. Let us continue and get this over.”

Voss looked at the Judge, waiting for his decision. He nodded to her.

She began again, "Mr. Gardner, after your honorable discharge, you spent nearly three years homeless in Roanoke, Virginia. Is that correct?"

Gardner: "Yes."

Voss: "Why?"

Gardner: "Because I had nowhere else to go."

Voss: "No family? No friends? No VA assistance?"

Gardner: "I had family. But I wasn’t in a state to be around them."

Voss: "What does that mean?"

Gardner: "It means I had lost my wife while I was away. I was not there for her last days. I was angry at the world. But, I was adjusting. Military to civilian life isn’t a flip of a switch. I needed time."

Voss: "Time to do what? Sleep under bridges?"

Defense Attorney Reyes: "Objection. Badgering."

Judge: "Sustained. Rephrase, Ms. Voss."

Voss: "What were you doing during those years, Mr. Gardner?"

Gardner: "Surviving. Working odd jobs when I could. Staying out of trouble."

Voss: "Odd jobs? Like what?"

Gardner: "Day labor. Construction clean-up. Sometimes kitchen work if a diner needed a dishwasher."

Voss: "And yet you couldn’t afford an apartment?"

Gardner: "Roanoke’s not cheap when you’re making eight bucks an hour under the table. I saved where I could. Lived in shelters when they had space. When they didn’t, I slept outside."

Voss: "Where?"

Gardner: "Different places. Under the 10th Street Bridge sometimes. Abandoned houses if I found one with a lock I could pick. A few nights in the woods near Mill Mountain when the weather was decent."

Voss: "You were arrested twice during this period. Once for trespassing, once for public intoxication."

Gardner: "Trespassing was because I was sleeping in a foreclosed house. Intoxication was one bad night. I didn’t fight it. Served my time and moved on."

Voss: "A ‘bad night’? What happened?"

Gardner: "Anniversary of my wife’s death. Drank too much. Cops found me before I did anything stupid."

Voss: "Did you ever seek mental health treatment during this time?"

Gardner: "Tried once. Walked into the VA clinic. They put me on a six-month waiting list. By then, I’d figured things out on my own."

Voss: "Figured what out?"

Gardner: "That I wasn’t broken. Just lost."

Voss: "You didn’t think living on the streets was a sign of instability?"

Gardner: "I think it’s a sign the system fails a lot of people."

Voss: "Yet you never applied for permanent housing assistance. Never reached out to veterans’ charities."

Gardner: "At the time, I didn’t want handouts. I wanted to stand on my own."

Voss: "Even if that meant freezing in winter?"

Gardner: "I managed. Layers. Cardboard under the sleeping bag. Knew which shelters opened when temps dropped below freezing."

Voss: "Sounds like you had a system."

Gardner: "Survival’s a skill. I learned it in Iraq; applied it in Roanoke. I eventually gave in when Dr. Phinsky suggested it. I got assigned to an apartment."

Voss: "Did you ever hear things during this time? Voices? Sounds that weren’t there?"

Gardner: "No."

Voss: "You never told people you saw imaginary things?

Gardner: “Probably when I was on a drunk.”

Voss: “Ever think people were following you?"

Gardner: "Sometimes. Because sometimes they were. Cops did sweeps. Junkies stole from each other. You learn to watch your back."

Voss: "Not paranoia, then?"

Gardner: "Street smarts."

Voss: "You mentioned shelters. Any altercations there?"

Gardner: "A few. Mostly de-escalated. One guy pulled a knife on me over a bunk. I walked away."

Voss: "No police report?"

Gardner: "Shelter didn’t call them. They kicked him out instead."

Voss: "Did you ever feel targeted by other homeless individuals?"

Gardner: "Everyone’s a target if you look weak. I didn’t."

Voss: "How did you eat?"

Gardner: "Soup kitchens. Dollar-menu deals. Sometimes dumpster diving behind grocery stores. They throw out food the day it expires. Perfectly good bread, fruit. You learn the schedules."

Voss: "You seem proud of this."

Gardner: "Not proud. Just stating facts."

Voss: "Ever beg for money?"

Gardner: "No."

Voss: "Ever steal?"

Gardner: "No."

Voss: "Ever consider suicide?"

Jeff paused. The courtroom’s clock could be heard ticking.

Gardner: "Once or twice. Didn’t dwell on it."

Voss: "What stopped you?"

Gardner: "Decided it was a permanent solution to a temporary problem."

Voss: "And when did this ‘temporary problem’ end?"

Gardner: "When I got a steady job. Construction crew picked me up for day labor, kept me on. Saved enough for a deposit on a room."

Voss: "Just like that?"

Gardner: "Took two years of grinding. But yeah. Just like that."

Voss: "No relapses? No nights back on the street?"

Gardner: "No."

Voss: "And now you expect us to believe that a man who lived like that -- who chose to live like that -- is perfectly stable?"

Gardner: "I expect you to believe that a man who survived combat, then survived the streets, knows his own mind."

Voss stepped close to Jeff and smiled, “Mr. Gardner, do you see pixies?”

Gardner: “I would be stupid to say yes to that, now wouldn’t I?”

Voss: “So you do, then? You are under oath, Mr. Gardner.”

Jeff knew she had just trapped him. He knew she had Karl in her pocket.

***

The Judge nodded at Mark Reyes who stood and stepped slowly up to Jeff.

Reyes: “Can we recap here? Yes or no: you were in the military.”

Gardner: “Yes.”

Reyes: “Everything you did was of honorable nature and the military officials confirmed that.”

Gardner: “Yes.”

Reyes: “What were you originally charged with by the…”

Voss: “Objection! The defendant has not been formally charged with any felony. This is a civil…”

Reyes: “My client was peacefully at his residence when…”

Voss: “He was trespassing at someone else’s residence.”

Reyes: “… two county sheriff’s deputies violated said residence’s curtilage without warrant…”

Judge: “Alright. Alright. Counselor, you do know this is a civil commitment trial, right?”

Reyes, “That’s not how this got started. There was a Fourth Amendment violation which snowballed and once the Prosecution realized that, they switched to civil proceedings to get around it.”

Judge: “Irrelevant. This remains, at this time, a civil matter. Objection sustained. The Defense may proceed as such.”

Reyes thought for a moment. Then he asked, “Can you tell the difference between what’s real and what’s imaginary?”

Gardner: “I know that Easter Bunnies don’t lay eggs, reindeer don’t fly, and the Earth is not flat.”

***

Voss: “The Prosecution calls Doctor Hannah Phinsky.”

Dr. Phinsky adjusted her slate-gray turban headband, the silk catching the light and stepped in front of the Court Clerk and raised her right hand.

Court Clerk: “Do you swear or affirm that the testimony you are about to give is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

“I do.”

Voss: “Doctor, you are a registered psychiatrist for the Commonwealth of Virginia?”

Dr. Phinsky: “I am.”

“How many years have you practiced?”

Dr. Phinsky: “I have held the position of Chair of Psychiatry and Behavioral Medicine for Carilion Clinic at Roanoke Memorial Hospital for over 27 years as well as the Medical Director of Psychiatry at Lewis Gale Medical Center in Salem for 15 of those years.”

With the niceties out of the way, Voss addressed Phinsky, “You are familiar with Mr. Gardner, the subject of this hearing?”

Dr. Phinsky: “I have had him as a client for a long time, yes.”

“It is your professional opinion that Mr. Gardner is suffering from mental illness?”

“Jeff is exhibiting symptoms consistent with the list of symptoms of Paranoid Schizophrenia as outlined in the DSM-5 Text Revision.”

“This DSM-5 is what?”

“Clinicians and courts often reference the DSM-5-TR to assess whether a person meets criteria for a mental disorder (e.g., schizophrenia, bipolar disorder) in involuntary commitment cases such as this one.

The courtroom air thickened as the prosecutor approached the witness stand. Dr. Phinsky adjusted her wire-framed glasses, the fluorescent lights glinting off the lenses like a surgical lamp. She’d testified in dozens of commitment hearings, but this one had the air of desperation. Was she biased?

"Doctor," the prosecutor said, "for the record, could you describe the symptoms of schizophrenia?"

As she gathered her breath, Phinsky steepled her fingers, choosing words like a pathologist selecting instruments.

"Imagine your mind turning against you." Her voice was calm, but beneath it ran the undercurrent of someone who’d spent years watching brains betray their owners. "First, the hallucinations, not just voices, but entire orchestras playing in empty rooms. Then the delusions: cockroaches crawling under your skin, the FBI rewriting your thoughts with microwave towers."

The prosecutor leaned in. "And the behavioral signs, please?"

"Disorganized speech, sentences that start coherently but collapse into word salad. Catatonia: patients frozen like statues for hours, or pacing like caged animals. But the cruelest symptoms are the negatives. The erosion of the self. No joy. No motivation. Just… hollowed-out shells making grocery lists while their minds burn."

From the defense table, a pencil snapped. Jeff shook his head slowly.

"And the diagnostic threshold?" the prosecutor pressed.

"Six months of deterioration. Two or more core symptoms. We rule out drugs, tumors, everything before applying the label." Phinsky’s gaze flicked to the Jeff’s twitching hands. "But here’s what the DSM doesn’t say: Sometimes trauma dresses up as psychosis. Sometimes a man hears voices because it’s easier than remembering what military combat did to him."

The judge’s bass voice rumbled as he admonished her. "Doctor, keep to clinical facts."

"Of course, Your Honor." Phinsky smiled thinly. "The facts are these: Schizophrenia isn’t an opinion. It’s a life sentence served inside a collapsing mind."

Voss: “And, in your professional opinion, Jeffry Gardner qualifies as someone suffering from this diagnosis?”

Reyes: “Objection. Asked and answered.”

Judge: “Sustained.”

Voss: “What other mental abnormalities have you diagnosed Mr. Gardner suffering from?”

Doctor Phinsky: “The DSM-5 recognizes Pedophilic Disorder, but with precise, clinical boundaries." She leaned forward slightly, voice low but deliberate. "The diagnosis requires three elements: recurrent sexual attraction to prepubescent children for at least six months and either acting on those urges, consuming illegal material, molestation, or severe distress because of them. It is a life-long condition."

The Judge raised an eyebrow.

Prosecutor: "So if someone admits to urges but hasn’t offended…?"

Phinsky: "Then they may have pedophilia as an orientation, but not the disorder. The DSM draws that line. Many never cross it."

Reyes’ pen hovered. Not the disorder, he wondered.

Voss: "What about offenders who claim they’re ‘not distressed’?"

Phinsky’s gaze flicked to Jeff, then back. "Criterion A3 covers that. If they’ve acted -- contact, images, grooming -- the disorder applies."

Voss: “And, Doctor, Mr. Gardner’s visions include magical little children, correct?”

Reyes: “Objection. Leading the witness.”

Judge: “Overruled. Doctor, you may answer the question.”

Reyes whispered to Jeff, “Bullshit. Your judge just gave me grounds for appeal.”

Doctor Phinsky: “Jeff has been having hallucinations involving fairies and pixies. And they would, indeed, be considered magical little children fantasies.”

Voss: “And that would be just an easy transition to real little children, correct?”

Reyes: “I reiterate my objection. That’s still leading the witness, Your Honor. Overrule me but I’m still going to appeal and you know it.”

Judge: “Sit down Mark. Your objection is overruled. You may appeal as you wish.” He turned to Dr. Phinsky, “You may answer this question, as well, Doctor.”

Reyes tossed his pen onto the table. Jeff patted his hand calmly and whispered, “It’s okay, Counselor. I knew it was going to go this way. I am well prepared for it.”

Doctor Phinsky: “Jeff has never acted upon his fantasies but it would be his next break in self-control.”

Voss: “Your witness, Counselor.”

Reyes stood straight and held an open palm towards Dr. Phinsky. “Doctor, do you believe in the pixies that you say my client sees?”

Voss was about to object but Dr. Phinsky shook her head at Voss. “Counselor, whether pixies and other fantasy creatures exist or not, is actually irrelevant. Either way, it would still be classified as pedophilia in Jeff’s case.”

Reyes stood motionless. He had no further plan. Fantasy or not, he was not prepared for that response. He was simply stuck. He turned a frowned face to Jeff who smiled at him.

Reyes: “No further question for this witness.”

Voss: “Prosecution rests, Your Honor.”

The Judge turned to Reyes, “Your turn, Counselor.”

Reyes again looked at Jeff who nodded. “The defense calls Jeffry Gardner.”

***

At the Defense table, Reyes shrugged at Jeff. The Judge propped face in hand and frowned at Reyes.

Jeff began is testimony, quietly, calmly, as if giving a lecture on some philosophy concepts.

“I’ve been through a lot in my life. I’ve survived it all. I’ve been in hell as well as in heaven. I understand you. This court. This Prosecutor. My poor confused lawyer. I understand Dr. Phinsky very well now. At first, I trusted her. Relied upon her. Then I began slowly relinquishing my obedience to her. I stopped my meds because they were not helping me find… to find… me. Dr. Phinsky allowed it so long as I played nice and didn’t create a mess on the world’s carpet. What I had not known was how she was working behind the blindfold that I had on. One day, a mistake was made and events progressed where someone got hurt. Fear shuddered throughout two worlds that day. A trusted friend began his own journey of betrayal that Dr. Phinsky had already embarked upon, as was her sworn duty to her god, her heritage, her understanding of both worlds.

“Dr. Phinsky knows about the people I am involved with. She knows and actively pursues them. And now, she pursues me. Paranoia? It’s not paranoia if they actually are out to get you. But it’s all moot now.”

Jeff addressed Dr. Phinsky. “Please tell Karl that I forgive him. He knows not what he does. You are fighting, Doctor, in both worlds thinking that, in this one, you have trapped me. I suspect that you have been fighting for centuries. Or not. You have opened a battle front in the other world. What you don’t know is that it will be I who defeats you in both worlds. Do you know who Joan of Arc really was? She is here, now, Doctor. I am giving birth to her. I know you are the only human in this room that understands what I am saying. The rest of them, they are irrelevant. As you are about to see.”

Jeff turned to the Judge. “I apologize, Your Honor, for what is about to happen to you. But, to help you: reality is not what you think.”

He turned to Prosecutor Voss. “Ms. Voss, you sold your honor to her.” He pointed to Dr. Phinsky. “Or, perhaps, she stole it from you. I hope you take the events of this day and ponder it for years to come.”

Jeff took one last look about the courtroom and asked, “Spark? Zephyr? Shall we go now?”

The Judge looked out into the courtroom’s gallery and saw the two puzzled bystanders auditing the hearing. A look of horror grew over Dr. Phinsky’s face. Voss, like the rest of the court personnel searched the courtroom’s gallery.

Jeff smiled at Dr. Phinsky. “You knew she was with me, didn’t you? But you certainly did not expect just how strong I would become. Good bye, Doctor.”

As a fading candle flame would die out, Jeffry Gardner dissolved into nothing.

 

Chapter 11



Spark flitted about nervously. “They come soon.”

“Yes. Rest. Wait. Count clouds.”

“Why wait here? He hides in Imaginarium?”

“Not known. Count!”

“My child?”

“Our child is fine. Feel her?”

“She laughs. Why?”

“Many why’s. Impatient Spark.”

“Worried Spark. Worried Queen.”

“Yes. Trust Jeff.”

The two pixies perched on a gnarled oak branch several hundred feet from the cabin that they had called home for weeks. The air was thick with the scent of pine, the forest humming with the quiet tension before a storm. Jeff’s orders had been clear: Stay near, but not inside. Watch. Wait.

And now, the waiting was over.

A thunderous roar erupted from the direction of the highway; a convoy of black, official-looking vehicles barreled up the dirt driveway like a pack of ravenous wolves. Trucks with tinted windows, armored SUVs, and jeep-like beasts with antennas whipping in the wind kicked up a storm of dust, their engines growling as they closed in on the cabin.

Then the lead vehicle swerved.

Instead of charging toward the cabin, it veered sharply, tires spitting gravel, and aimed straight across the meadow for the pixies’ tree.

"Sense us! Leave now! I lure!" Spark’s voice was a razor-sharp command, her body flashing into violet and sparkling indigo.

Zephyr’s heart hammered. This was Spark’s role: the decoy, the distraction. But the thought of abandoning her sent a hot bolt of defiance through her veins. "I stay. I fight. You fight. Try not kill."

Spark’s emerald eyes flashed. "No weapons. Run or kill. You run. I kill."

"NO!" Zephyr’s protest was cut short by the world exploding around them.

A blinding white shock front erupted from the ground in front of the charging vehicle, a detonation so fierce it split the air with a deafening CRACK, like the sky itself had been torn in half. The lead SUV was annihilated in an instant, its frame twisting like tinfoil before erupting into a fireball. Shrapnel screamed through the air, embedding itself in trees as a vertical geyser of smoke, dirt, and molten metal punched upward.

The rest of the caravan jerked to a halt, tires screeching, doors flinging open as armed figures stumbled out, disoriented. The shockwave hit the pixies like a physical blow, rattling their bones, their tiny forms nearly flung from the branch.

And then… he was there.

Jeff Gardner stood before the burning wreckage, hands on hips, silhouetted against the inferno like some wrathful demigod. His expression was calm, almost bored, as if he’d just swatted a fly rather than obliterated an armored vehicle.

From the remaining trucks, figures emerged, some in tactical gear, others in suits. And then, stepping forward with a face like storm clouds, came Karl Williams, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning with fury.

Jeff didn’t flinch. Slowly, deliberately, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a cellphone, and held it aloft: a challenge, a taunt.

Karl’s phone rang. He answered, his voice a growl of barely contained rage.

"What the fuck, Jeff?"

The forest held its breath. The pixies, still trembling in the tree, exchanged glances.

This was far from over.

The crackling tension in the air was thicker than the smoke still curling from the wreckage. Jeff stood motionless, the phone pressed to his ear, his eyes locked onto Karl’s across the scorched battlefield. The silence between them was deafening until Jeff finally spoke, his voice calm, almost conversational, as if they were discussing the weather rather than standing in the aftermath of an explosion.

"Hi, Karl." A pause. Deliberate. Taunting. "I don’t know yet how you can locate them… and I’m pretty sure you can locate me, as well." His lips curled into a cold, knowing smirk. "But I have something the pixies don’t have. Nor, it seems, do you."

Karl’s grip tightened on his phone. "Explosives?"

Jeff chuckled, low and dark. "Well, there was that, too." His gaze flicked to the smoldering wreck, then back. "I feel for the families of those three running whatever equipment was in that truck. It was armored and I had figured that’s what you would have on your point. But this?" He gestured at the destruction. "This was intended to make a very powerful statement. To Dr. Phinsky. To whoever’s pulling your strings."

Karl’s jaw clenched. "Murder is a very powerful but unnecessary statement, Jeff. Can’t we just talk about this?"

Jeff’s expression hardened. "I’ll talk. You listen." He began walking forward, each step deliberate, crushing the wet grass beneath his shoes. His voice remained steady, but the weight behind his words was tectonic. "We could have avoided this if you had simply gone on to the cabin, seen that we were not there, and returned to Roanoke. You tipped your hand when you showed that you could locate my family. Murder is prohibited by human law. So, too, it is prohibited by pixie law." A breath. A silence. "But I am neither. Or, rather… both, I suppose."

He stopped just short of Karl, close enough to see the sweat beading on the man’s temple. "I am a law unto myself. And I choose this position because of what I’ve learned. About our peoples. Fairy. Human. This clandestine war has gone on for thousands of years." His voice dropped to a near-whisper, laced with something dangerous. "And I suspect I am going to be the one to end it. If not me… then my child will."

Karl’s eyes widened. "You mated with Spark?"

Jeff threw his head back and laughed, a sound both amused and utterly without warmth. "Oh, Karl. How little you know." His grin turned razor-sharp. "Zephyr, Spark, and I joined to produce our child. I’m sure Dr. Phinsky will be thrilled to learn that a hybrid now exists. That she’ll try to hunt me down. Hunt my child down. Hunt everyone in the Feyfold." He leaned in. "Probably through you."

A flicker of unease crossed Karl’s face.

Jeff’s voice turned lethal. "But here’s the thing, Karl. I know too much now. Schizophrenia? It’s not an illness. It’s a power. One I’ve awakened in myself. And one all fairies possess. Pixies have it. I have it. And now?" His eyes gleamed with something otherworldly. "I have more."

He stepped back, spreading his hands. "To be clear: I will burn the world to protect my child. But my true intent?" A slow, chilling smile. "I’m going to broker a peace between the Armagnac and us. Whether they like it… or not."

The air itself seemed to vibrate with the weight of his words. Somewhere in the trees, Spark and Zephyr exchanged glances.

The game had just changed.

***

The dense forests between Roanoke and Smith Mountain Lake village were alive with the whispers of leaves and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures. But the most noticeable effect was from the woods around Smith Mountain Lake that breathed life through scent. Sun-warmed pine needles release their sharp, resinous perfume, mingling with the earthy musk of damp soil after rain. Along shaded trails, Eastern hemlocks whisper a clean, woody aroma, while cedars add a subtle spice to the breeze. Spring awakens the floral chorus: mountain laurel blooms sweetly, like honeyed sugar, while rhododendrons offer a deeper, muskier fragrance. Honeysuckle vines drape over branches, their nectar-rich flowers dripping a tropical sweetness into the air. Near streams, wild mint and pennyroyal freshen the air with cool, menthol notes, and wild bergamot leaves scent the trail with hints of thyme and citrus. Fall brings the nutty spice of crushed hickory leaves and the rich decay of oak litter, a comforting, earthy blanket. By the lake, the wind carries the green tang of waterweed and the mineral freshness of wet stone. Every step here is a walk through nature’s perfume, ever-changing, alive.

Three figures moved quietly along the narrow, winding path. Two petite, ethereal little girls with an otherworldly grace, and a tall, broad-shouldered man whose presence seemed both protective and uncertain.

Zephyr walked with her chin held high, though her fingers occasionally twitched from her sides to persuade an intruding twig or tangle of brush from her path. Spark kept pace a step behind her, her usual mischievous energy subdued. Trailing them, Jeff, human, strong, but burdened with new, untamed powers, glanced at the two with a mixture of awe and guilt.

None of them spoke at first. The weight of the procreation, the individual they had started, and what they were planning to do hung heavily in the air.

Finally, Spark broke the silence. "Niamon will have huge anger."

Zephyr exhaled sharply. "She warned Jeff. She forbade it."

Jeff swatted irritably at a mud dauber as it circled him with relentless curiosity, its iridescent wings catching the sunlight in fleeting flashes. Each persistent buzz near his ear coiled the tension in his shoulders tighter, his jaw clenched until his teeth ached. The insect’s fascination, a distraction. He commented, "Not just forbid. Mate with you starts a war."

"Maybe. If necessary." Zephyr murmured.

Pixies and humans had coexisted for centuries, but always at a distance. The old laws were clear: no mingling of bloodlines, no hybrids. The consequences of breaking that taboo were never specified because no one had been foolish enough to try for centuries. But now? What consequences may arise that he had not considered?

Jeff clenched his fists, feeling the strange energy humming beneath his skin. His new powers -- gifts (or curses) from an ancient source -- had already drawn human attention, as he had intended.

But, then…

Niamon had once been the tribe’s queen, her pride as unyielding as the mountains, her wrath as sharp as a honed blade. Even the mere suggestion of his influence over one of her daughters had been enough to darken her gaze with stormy contempt. But this? The bond between Jeff, Spark, and Zephyr was no fleeting entanglement. It was a claim, sealed in heat and hunger, a triad woven so tightly that not even the pixie gods, if there were pixie gods, could unravel it. And when Niamon learned of it, when she discovered that her daughters had not only broken pixie law, but illegally bound themselves to him and a resulting pixie child now formed inside the three of them, her fury would scorch the earth itself.

Spark kicked a pebble, sending it skittering into the underbrush. "Maybe not tell Niamon."

Zephyr shot her a look. "She knows. You know. I know."

Jeff swallowed hard. In English, he wondered, "What happens if she does something before we’re ready?"

The sisters exchanged a glance.

"She’ll try to stop us," Zephyr said quietly matching his English. "By any means necessary."

A cold knot formed in Jeff’s stomach. He had seen Niamon’s power firsthand. She wasn’t just a former ruler; she was a force of nature. And if she saw their child as an abomination, a violation of the natural order…

Jeff’s chest tightened as the reality coiled around him: illegal conception. The words alone were probably a death sentence in Niamon’s eyes. He didn’t want to think about what she might do, but his mind clawed at the possibilities anyway, relentless. What could she do?

Pixie law would be brutal in its precision, especially for those who defied its edicts. Niamon might be retired, but her influence lingered like the scent of smoke after a wildfire. If she demanded the child’s termination, would the girls, Spark and Zephyr, comply? Could a life, their child’s life, be erased with nothing more than a decree from a spiteful former queen?

His mind thrashed in his wrestling with the possibilities. Could it even be terminated? Pixie magic was merciless; if Niamon willed it, could the unborn simply… unravel? A flick of a spell, a whispered curse, and then… nothing? The thought hollowed him out.

How could he prevent it?

Fleeing was futile. Niamon’s reach stretched across the world. The stories of her life had been full of it. Pleading? She’d laugh in his face. No, survival demanded something sharper. He’d need allies, ones with power to rival hers. Maybe the current monarch, Zephyr, herself, would override any threat to their child. Or perhaps… perhaps the child itself was the key. If she could prove her magic was too vital to destroy, even Niamon might hesitate.

But time was a blade at his throat. Every second burned in his mind. He had to prepare for facing Niamon.

The path ahead grew steeper, the trees thinning as they neared the edge of the forest. In the distance, the first lights of Smith Mountain Lake and the villages surrounding it flickered like fireflies. Safe. For now.

Spark sighed. "Need plan. Real.” She switched to English, “If we’re doing this, we can’t just ignore Niamon."

Zephyr nodded. "We’ll need allies. Humans who can protect us. Pixies who might… understand."

Jeff frowned. "Are there any pixies who would side with us over Niamon?"

"Not many," Zephyr admitted. "But a few. The ones who believe the old laws are outdated since the science people can see. Pixies who think our kinds should be allowed to mix."

Jeff let out a slow breath. "And if we can’t convince enough of them?"

"We run," Spark said simply. "Far. Niamon can’t find."

The thought was terrifying. Leaving everything behind, their home, their people, for a future that was anything but certain. But as Jeff looked at Zephyr, at the quiet determination in her eyes, he knew there was no turning back.

They walked in silence again, each lost in their own fears. The village grew closer, its warm lights a stark contrast to the shadows stretching behind them.

Whatever came next, they would face it together.

Even if it meant defying a queen mother.

Even if it meant changing their world forever.

Jeff was about to tell Zephyr and Spark that he could see movement near the trail ahead when he suddenly closed his eyes.

Jeff didn’t understand what had hit him. One moment, he was standing -- maybe speaking, maybe reaching for something -- his body tense with purpose. The next, his muscles melted like wax beneath a flame. His knees struck the earth, but he barely registered the impact. Pain didn’t exist here. Thought didn’t exist here.

There was only this: an all-consuming, white-hot tide of bliss, crashing over him again and again, erasing everything else.

It wasn’t like any human sensation he’d ever known. Sex, drugs, adrenaline… they were dim sparks compared to the supernova now detonating inside him. His nerves screamed in rapture, every synapse firing in perfect, brutal harmony. His back arched, fingers clawing at nothing as the sensation built, higher, sharper, an endless crescendo with no release.

Was he breathing? He couldn’t tell. His lungs might have been still, his heart frozen mid-beat… it didn’t matter. Oxygen was trivial. Survival was trivial. The pleasure rewired his need for it, made biology obsolete.

Some distant, crumbling part of his mind recognized that this wasn’t natural. This wasn’t human. It was too vast, too perfect, too designed, a weapon honed by creatures who understood euphoria not as a fleeting reward, but as a cage.

And oh, what a glorious cage it was.

Time dissolved. There was no past, no future; only the now, an infinite loop of ecstasy that left no room for resistance. He couldn’t even whimper. His voice was gone, his will shattered. If the pixies had wanted him dead, they could have killed him in that moment and he’d have died grateful.

But they didn’t.

They just let him drown.

And Jeff, philosopher, fighter, soon-to-be father, let go completely, lost in the oddest trap of all:

Spiritual orgasm.

***

A sharp pinch at his arm jolted Jeff back to awareness.

"Wake, stupid."

Spark's voice cut through the fading echoes of pleasure still humming in his veins. Jeff blinked, his vision swimming as the world reassembled itself around him. Cool earth pressed against his cheek. He was on the ground, limbs sprawled like a discarded puppet. His body felt both weightless and leaden, as if the weapon had hollowed him out and left only trembling aftermath.

He pushed himself up on unsteady elbows, fingers digging into the soil for balance. Jeff could now see that he had, indeed, fallen to the ground. The realization came sluggishly, his thoughts wading through syrup.

"We wake Queen." Spark's tone brooked no argument, her small fingers gripping his sleeve with surprising strength.

Jeff's gaze dropped to his own body… clothes rumpled, skin tingling with residual electricity… before snapping back to Spark. "Zephyr get hit, too?" The question rasped out, his throat dry.

"Stupid Queen," Spark muttered, though her usual bite was dulled by something almost like worry.

"You got hit?"

"No." Her nose wrinkled, as if offended by the idea.

They moved toward Zephyr, their steps uneven. The air smelled of ozone and crushed grass, the aftermath of magic still prickling against Jeff's skin. A cluster of pixies, at least ten, had formed a tight circle around Zephyr's reclining form, their luminous eyes reflecting the dim light like fireflies in the gloom.

Jeff reached out, his fingers brushing Zephyr's bare foot. Her skin was warm, her breathing steady, but the air around her flickered erratically, as if struggling to remember how to hold her presence.

Spark huffed. "Niamon’s orders. Jeff must speak."

Zephyr's sigh was heavy with exhaustion as she went through the recovery that Jeff had. She asked, "Only Jeff?"

A shadow shifted beside them. One of the pixies -- taller than the others, her grip tight around a black spear that crackled with dormant power -- stepped forward. The weapon hummed faintly, its tip still glittering with whatever unholy energy had felled them. Her gaze ignored Zephyr but flicked from Jeff to Spark and back.

"Jeff," the pixie said, addressing him. Her voice was low but edged with command. "See Niamon."

The order hung in the air, leaving no room for refusal.

***

Niamon hovered effortlessly in the air before Jeff, her body suspended by the unseen currents of magic that pixies commanded. The air itself seemed to bend to her will, holding her aloft with an almost lazy grace. Her feet barely brushed the ground as she settled closer, her ancient eyes, sharp and knowing, fixed upon him with an intensity that made his pulse quicken.

“Many centuries ago,” she began, her voice low and in melodic English, “I lived in what, today, you call Wales. I was…”

Jeff stiffened at the word. Centuries. It struck him like a physical blow. His mind reeled, struggling to reconcile the youthful sharpness of her child-like features with the impossible weight of time she carried.

“Just how old are you?” he blurted.

A flicker of amusement crossed her face, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. “Hush while I teach you.” Her tone brooked no argument.

She told him of her teacher, Myrddin, born of a radiant gwerin -- a human woman of surpassing beauty -- who had loved a fairy known as Ynglinga. Niamon had been young then, part of a proud court that sought to drive Ynglinga from Gwynedd. Mission accomplished, she and her court eventually followed Myrddin across the sea to Picardy, where he wielded powers beyond mortal comprehension, bending the very fabric of the world to his whims. She and her sister, Morganna, had grown strong under his tutelage, their own magic flourishing like wildfire.

But their kin, the fey court of their blood and name, had demanded Myrddin cease his reckless sorcery. He refused.

“Morganna seduced him,” Niamon murmured, her voice edged with something dark. “She sought to lure him back to the Imaginarium, or at least to bind him to our ways. But he would not be swayed.”

A shadow passed over her face. “I could not seduce him. So I battled him.”

Jeff felt the air grow heavier, as if the past itself pressed down upon them. She spoke of how Myrddin had pursued her into the Imaginarium, how their clash had sundered the veils between worlds, how she had -- finally -- ended him.

“It is the greatest guilt I bear,” she whispered, “for I have extinguished a life.”

Jeff’s throat tightened. Myrddin. Morganna. The names echoed in his skull, clicking into place with terrible clarity.

“Merlin,” he breathed. “And Morgan le Fay.”

Niamon inclined her head. “That is how they are known now.”

A cold understanding settled over him. She had killed Merlin. The legends had twisted the truth, as legends do, but the core remained: the Lady of the Lake had not been some mystical enchantress. She had been Niamon.

“You are the Lady of the Lake,” he said, the words tasting strange on his tongue.

She gave a small, weary shrug. “Historians have labelled me that, yes. But my name, then, was Nynyve of Zhilin, if you wish to look it up.”

Jeff exhaled sharply. He wanted to protest, to tell her he would never be like Myrddin, that he had no real power beyond seeing through pixie glamours as well as glimpsing and then diving past the edges of the Imaginarium. But Niamon cut him off before he could speak.

“Soon, you will grow,” she said, her voice hardening. “That, my young Garden friend, is what I fear.”

She told him to leave. To abandon the feyfold, to walk away from Zephyr and Spark, from the fragile, impossible Zhilin family he had stumbled into.

“Your child will soon realize her time to arrive will not begin with you,” she said, “but with her kind. As a Zhilin. As a pixie.”

Jeff’s jaw clenched. He thought of Dr. Phinsky and her nuns, their fanatical hunger to eradicate pixiekind. He thought of Karl Williams, once his friend, now armed with cold, precise machines that could hunt fey even through the Imaginarium’s veil.

“They won’t stop,” he said. “Phinsky’s made it her life’s mission to destroy pixies. And Karl; he can track you. Even when you’re hidden.”

Niamon’s expression did not change. “You did a war thing.”

“Yes. I had no choice. I wanted to stop…”

“You killed.”

Niamon stood before him, her light azure skin speckled with white flashes, her voice was low, dangerous. "Three lives, Jeff."

Jeff didn’t look up. He focused instead on the way a wind-blown pine needle danced across the toes of his boots. "I know."

"Hmmm. You know." Niamon’s skin, translucent and shimmering into a darker shade of blue, even in the dim light, flickered with purple flashes in agitation.

Jeff’s jaw tightened. He knew that pixies expressed exertion as well as emotions via their coloring. But Niamon’s anger was real enough without skin flashes to tell him.

A rustle in the grass. Zephyr approached, her bare feet silent on the moss. Jeff stared at the queen of the meadow’s Zhilin pixies, one of the mothers of his child, her child-sized frame delicate, but there was a quiet strength in the way she carried herself. Her silver-threaded hair caught the moonlight, and her eyes, wide and dark as the lake at midnight, held no judgment. Only sorrow.

"Scientists planned to kill us," she said softly.

Niamon rounded on her. "Still wrong."

"Agreed," Jeff agreed, finally lifting his gaze. "Still wrong.”

"Hunters," Spark said, stepping forward. Her voice was rough, her usual bravado tempered by something darker. "They attacked Luminiary. They attacked two Zhilin tree pixies. Wanted dead Zhilin tree pixies! Me!" She pointed at Zephyr, “Her!”

Niamon’s fists clenched. "Shall we become them?"

Jeff’s laugh was a hollow thing. "Shall we die by them?"

The words hung between them, heavy as smoke could choke morning air.

Zephyr reached out, her fingers brushing Jeff’s arm. "You saved Zhilin pixies."

He wanted to pull away. To tell her he wasn’t worth her gratitude. That he’d done what he’d done not out of nobility, but because he’d been trained to, because the war had carved the instinct into his bones. But her touch was warm, and for the first time since the explosion, he didn’t feel the cold weight of the dynamite in his hand.

Niamon exhaled sharply, her shoulders slumping. "When more come, then what?"

Jeff met her gaze. "We protect Zhilin, our family."

The meadow was silent save for the whisper of the wind through the grass. Somewhere, far out on the lake, a loon called, its cry lonely and mournful.

Jeff closed his eyes. The ghosts would come later -- they always did -- but for now, in the quiet dark, he let himself breathe.

Chapter 12



The mall in Roanoke sprawled under the sterile glow of fluorescent lights, a labyrinth of commerce and idle wanderers. Among the shoppers, two women moved with quiet purpose, their presence unremarkable; just another pair of shoppers killing time. One wore a loose sweater and jeans, her dark hair cropped short; the other had on a nondescript jacket and slacks, her hands tucked into her pockets. No habits, no visible symbols of faith. Only the faintest tension in their posture betrayed their intent.

Sister Margaret and Sister Theresa had spent hours in patient vigil, their eyes scanning the crowd with the precision of hunters. The grocery store, with its bright aisles and bustling carts, was their chosen ground, the place where their quarry might eventually appear.

Time passed in slow increments, marked by the occasional exchange of glances, a tilt of the head, a subtle shift in stance. Margaret thumbed her phone absently, the screen dark, while Theresa pretended to browse a magazine, her gaze never lingering too long in one place. To anyone watching, they were just two women waiting for someone, or perhaps killing time between errands. But beneath their civilian clothing, each carried a concealed Taser, and in Theresa’s pocket rested a pair of handcuffs. Not the dull steel of law enforcement, but gleaming, untarnished gold.

Then, like a shift in the air, Margaret’s fingers stilled. Her eyes locked onto a figure near the produce section, a man of unassuming build, his movement casual, unhurried. Gardner. Jeff Gardner. There was no mistaking him.

A silent glance passed between the two women, an unspoken signal. They moved with practiced coordination, drifting toward the exits as though pulled by some unseen current. The goal was not confrontation here, not in the open where prying eyes might interfere. Instead, they would draw him out, guide him toward the quieter edges of the mall where their trap could be sprung without witnesses.

Jeff, oblivious, pushed his cart toward the checkout. He had no reason to suspect the two women lingering near the exit, no reason to fear the ordinary-looking pair who now fell into step behind him. The automatic doors slid open, and the nuns followed, their footsteps measured, unhurried. The mall’s atrium stretched before them, dotted with benches and potted plants, an ideal place for an ambush.

Theresa reached into her pocket, her fingers brushing the cold metal of the handcuffs. Gold. The one substance that could undo him. The Church had known for centuries, had adorned its altars and chalices in the precious metal not for vanity, but for defense. Gold disrupted magic, unraveled glamour, rendered the supernatural powerless. Fairies could not lie beneath its weight, pixies withered at its touch, and Jeff? Well, Jeff was about to learn just how vulnerable he truly was.

Margaret feigned a stumble near a bench, drawing Jeff’s attention for just a second. It was enough. Theresa moved in, her hand closing around his wrist in a grip that seemed almost casual, until the gold cuff snapped shut.

Jeff’s reaction was immediate. A shudder ran through him, his breath catching as if the air had been punched from his lungs. His face twisted in confusion, then dawning horror as he realized what had happened. He tried to pull away, to twist free, but the second cuff was already closing around his other wrist, the metal clicking into place with finality.

His magic -- whatever tricks of invisibility or illusion he had recently developed -- was gone. The gold saw to that.

Margaret pressed the Taser to his side before he could cry out. The current surged through him, and his body locked, muscles seizing, before he crumpled to the floor. Around them, a few shoppers glanced over, but the sight of a man collapsing was nothing unusual; a medical episode, perhaps. No one intervened.

By the time Jeff came to, he was in the back of a van, his wrists bound in front of him, the gold cuffs gleaming even in the dim light. His head throbbed, his thoughts sluggish, but one thing was clear: he had been caught. And the two women watching him, ordinary in every way except for the quiet intensity in their eyes, were not what they seemed.

He mumbled, “Tasers seem to be popular these days.” His eyes focused on flashes of the gold clamped on his wrists. “Rich girls, eh?”

Theresa leaned forward, her voice low. No threats, no grand speeches. Just a simple truth.

"Gold doesn’t just adorn our churches," she said. "It guards them."

And Jeff, for the first time in his twisted, confusing life, had nothing to say.

***

The stone walls of the Roanoke church echoed with the heavy footsteps of Dr. Phinsky as she paced before Jeff, her ceremonial black habit swishing like the wings of a carrion bird. The golden handcuffs bit into his wrists, their cold weight sapping his control to enter the Imaginarium, leaving him defenseless. But worse than the cuffs was the look in her eyesthe icy resolve of a woman who had just made a terrible decision.

"You've left me no choice, Jeff," she said, her voice eerily calm. "If I can't contain you, then I must eliminate you."

Jeff's breath hitched. Eliminate. A clinical word for murder.

"You can't be serious," he spat. "You’re a doctor, a nun! You don’t get to just kill people!"

Dr. Phinsky’s lips curled into something too bitter to be a smile. "Human law? Pixie law? You think either matters here? You’re an anomaly. A danger."

One of the nuns shifted uncomfortably behind her, but none spoke. The secular dressed nuns were hers, utterly.

Jeff strained against the cuffs, his pulse hammering. "You don’t get to decide who lives or dies!"

"I do when the world is at stake," she snapped. "You vanish, you reappear, you defy every rule. What happens when you stop being containable?"

"Containable?" Jeff barked a laugh. "I’m not something for you to lock up! I didn’t ask for this!"

"No, but you have it. And power without control is a threat." Her fingers tightened around a silver cross at her throat. "Joan of Arc learned that too."

Jeff froze. Joan of Arc. The martyr, the warrior saint. The woman Phinsky had once claimed bore a child in captivity. A story that had never made sense since it contradicted history.

"...What does Joan have to do with this?" he demanded.

Dr. Phinsky’s gaze flickered just for a second before hardening again. "She was a weapon that her enemies eliminated. Just like you should be."

Jeff’s mind raced. The way she spoke about Joan was not only with reverence, but it was something raw. Personal.

"...You said she had a child," he pressed. "Who was it?"

A muscle twitched in Phinsky’s jaw. "Irrelevant."

"Bullshit. You know exactly what happened to her." He leaned forward, the chains clinking. "Why do you care so much?"

The scream ripped throughout the room, “Jehanne fut ma mère!”

The words tore out of her like a confession, sharp and sudden. The nuns gasped. Even Phinsky looked stunned, as if she hadn’t meant to say it.

Silence.

Quietly, she turned to the attending nuns, “Sachez tous que Jehanne la Pucelle fut ma mère, et j'en porte l’honneur.”

Then, Jeff understood.

Joan of Arc, The Maid of Orleans, burned at the stake, wasn’t a true “maiden”. So, the Catholic Church hid the rape to protect the child. Nevertheless, a daughter was left behind, raised in secrecy, taught to fear unchecked power. To control it. To destroy it.

"...That’s why you hunt pixies and their magic," Jeff whispered. "You think the English king killed her because of it."

Phinsky’s composure cracked. "No, damn it! The Catholic Church in Beauvais did! Pierre Cauchon was a powerful Aos Sí or Sidhe, a Celt, a Noble Fae, tall, hateful, and human-hybrid fairy of immense power. He infiltrated the Church. He was pushing for English to align with the Burgundians. My beloved Church was blinded by him and burned her alive!" Her voice was ragged now, decades of grief spilling over. "I won’t let the Church get seduced again. The Church had been mistaken and 1456, an inquisitorial court reinvestigated Joan's trial and overturned the verdict, declaring that it was tainted by deceit and procedural errors. They then knew that the feyfold is, itself, from hell. It should not belong in this world. Not in my world. Not if I have any say at all."

Jeff’s chest burned. Not with magic; with fury.

"You’re wrong," he snarled. "Pixies today didn’t kill her. The world back then did. Pierre Cauchon did. He was like you, people who think they get to decide who’s too dangerous to live!"

The air around him prickled. The cuffs ached, the gold resisting, but his rage was hotter.

Phinsky drew a golden knife from her sleeve. "Then history repeats itself."

She lunged.

And Jeff roared.

A sound ripped out of him, raw and primal. The golden cuffs bent, not from magic, but from sheer, physical force. The tiny metal locking pawl, soft and pure, warped under the pressure of his fury. With a final, wrenching twist, the cuffs snapped and swung wildly away from Jeff’s wrists, clattering on the solid stone floor.

Phinsky’s eyes widened. "No… !"

Jeff didn’t vanish. He didn’t run.

He slammed into her.

The knife jangled across the flat grey stone as man and woman crashed into a pew. Nuns scrambled back, shrieking. Jeff didn’t fight like a pixie. He fought like a man with nothing left to lose. A punch to Phinsky’s jaw sent her reeling. She grabbed at his shirt, but he twisted free, kicking her back.

"Stop him!" she screamed.

But it was too late.

Jeff bolted for the door, shoulder-checking a nun out of the way. The heavy oak doors groaned as he threw them open, and then…

Freedom. Cold night air hit his face as he sprinted into the dark, his wrists raw, his heart pounding. The Imaginarium called to him, welcomed him. And he left the twisted world that Roanoke insisted on being for him.

Behind him, Phinsky’s scream echoed through the church:

"YOU CAN’T RUN FOREVER!"

He didn’t look back.

***

The radio crackled to life, its whisper thin and strained, as if afraid to be heard.

"Second squad… left flank. Slow. Stay shadowed."

A pause, then the faintest exhale of static before the next order: "Third squad… right side. Soft steps only."

Another beat of silence. The voice dropped lower, almost inaudible, "Fourth and Fifth… hold. Hold. No noise."

A final, breathless command, barely more than a murmur: "First squad… advance. Fingertips on triggers. Not a sound."

The transmission died.

Around them, the night held its breath.

“First squad actual, Third; tally two your twelve, 100 meters, slow, cold. Thermals showing rabbits.”

“Third, First actual, confirm your tally is a lock.”

“Affirm. Locked.”

“Copy.” A pause, then, “Tracker Company, commence as fragged.”

Shadows bled into shadows as the strike teams closed in, a silent flood of stave-rifles, barrels etched with dormant sigils, blackened nylon armor, controlled breath. The church loomed ahead, its marble ribs exposed, stained glass gleaming in shattered moonlight, now the epicenter of their tightening noose. No shouts. No missteps. Just the whisper of boots on gravel, the creak of gear, the high zip of nylon catching on twigs. The unspoken certainty: They were close now.

Then… the radio hissed alive. A voice, razor-edged and low: "First Squad, Second: runner flanking. Extending left. Declare."

A clock tick passed. A held breath. Somewhere in the dark, a rifle stock tightened against a shoulder. The reply barked, “Human?”

“Affirm. Assumed an egress.”

Karl Williams figured it had to be Gardner leaving but how? Two pixies: easy to track. Gardner: a ghost. And yet, he burned for him.

Greed’s a knife in the ribs, he thought. “Disengage the runner,” he snapped. Second Squad would let Gardner go. “Stay on the tally.”

The coordinated and converging attack continued.

Suddenly, an excited voice screamed into the radio, “Pop-up group! Right, 300 meters, hot; pop-up group, left, 600 meters, hot.” Two groups, one to the left, a closer one to the right. Both headed right for them.

Karl barked his orders, “Third squad, hard right hook, rejoin Fifth. Fourth Squad, Second Squad, engage left pop-up group.

Two pixies, Zephyr and Spark, glittering like shards of a purple-black mirror, shot straight upward, their laughter tinkling like broken glass. Karl’s scanner tagged them as "Fae: PIXIE", but his gut screamed distraction.

Then the forest moved.

Where there had been shadows, now a tide of foxes, ravens, and house cats flowed toward the squads. Their eyes glowed faintly violet. Pixies in battle intense glamour.

A black spear materialized somewhere near the Third Squad. It spun once -- a sound like wind chimes -- then launched.

Someone took the bolt square in the chest. His armor sizzled where the sparkling darkness struck, but held. The man behind him wasn’t so lucky. The magic hit his exposed neck…

… And he folded, gasping, as orgasmic surge locked his muscles. Down, he went. Alive. For now.

"Tighten your armor up!" Karl barked. Nylon armor could stop the pixie spears, but only if sealed tight.

Stave-rifles hummed as First Squad took knees, aiming at nothing. Their triggers clicked.

Silent purple bolts streaked into the animal horde. A "fox" exploded in a shower of iridescent dust; a "raven" imploded with a wet pop. No bodies. Just fading sparkles where pixies died.

But the rifles had a fatal delay. Each shot required a 3-second recharge. And the pixies soon figured that out.

Invisible pixies struck. A soldier clutched at a squirrel that had brushed his ankle; its touch left a single glittering fingerprint on his skin. He had time to whisper "Oh god…" before his pupils dilated, and he dropped dead.

"Close ranks! No gaps!" Karl’s voice was raw. “First squad, ready the gold net.” They’d trained for this. But training didn’t show you how fast a man could smile as he died.

The two main groups converged, one from the church’s west side (now a cascade of glittering rats), the other from the east tree line as a stampede of deer.

Spears rained. Half the squad hit the dirt, armor sealed well enough. The rest weren’t fast enough. A woman arched off the ground, a sudden scream abruptly cut off through clenched teeth as pixie magic overloaded her nerves and she dropped to the forest floor in orgasm.

Karl fired his stave-rifle blind into the deer herd. His purple bolt hit a fawn square in the forehead. It burst into silver mist. The real pixie’s death sent a shockwave through the swarm. They screeched, a sound like nails on a piano wire.

"They’re vulnerable mid-attack!" he roared. A mistake.

A house cat leaped onto his shoulder. He felt its paws tap-tap-tapping his collar, seeking skin…

Then a purple bolt vaporized it. Fourth Squad had his back.

The squads were bleeding numbers, but the pixies had a fatal pattern: their spears always formed from the same shadowy patches of trees.

"Mark the spawn points!" Karl ordered. Soldiers tossed UV grenades (useless against pixies, but their light exposed the spears materializing points). Now the rifles picked them off pre-formation.

But the invisible swarm still closed in. A soldier kicked at a "hedgehog". It brushed his pant leg, ripping the cloth open and he died mid-curse.

Karl switched his rifle to overload and slammed it into the church’s steps. The resulting purple explosion shredded every pixie in a 20-meter radius and collapsed the nave’s stone block wall.

In the dust, something gleamed: a pulsing deep violet and black orb embedded in the rubble. Something new.

"All squads," Karl panted, "we have a…"

A child’s whisper cut him off. From the orb, a tiny hand reached out.

***

As Dr. Phinsky and the two nuns emerged from the church's alcove, the gruesome aftermath of the battle unfolded before them. The pixies had vanished, leaving behind a surreal landscape of bodies strewn about the trees surrounding the cathedral. While they lay still and perhaps serene, the air was heavy with the weight of what had transpired.

Dr. Phinsky's gaze swept across the scene, her eyes lingering on the lifeless forms. "Battle of Formigny," she murmured, her voice barely audible. She turned to Sister Margaret, “You see before you why I am willing to take his life.”

Sister Teresa's whispered prayers faltered as she turned solemnly to Dr. Phinsky. "Father Dominic says you were there."

Dr. Phinsky sighed, “Arzhur de Richemont a stourmas dindan urzhioù ma mamm, ha goude, dindan ma hini. Lakaet hon eus un termen d'ar Saozon e Normandi.”

Sister Teresa knew the words were not Latin, and certainly not Old French. She interrupted, “Sister, that is what Old French sounded like?”

Turning introspective in expression, “Not French. Breton.” Dr. Phinsky's translated, "Arthur de Richemont fought under my mother's command, and later, under mine. We brought an end to the English in Normandy." Her gaze refocused on the carnage. "Find Karl Williams," she instructed.

As Sister Margaret approached and touched a fallen soldier, he suddenly jolted awake, his eyes wide with confusion. "What...what the...?" he stuttered.

Dr. Phinsky stood amidst the sea of corpses, her gloved hands trembling, not from exhaustion, but from something far more unsettling. "Wake the others," she commanded, her voice sharp with urgency.

Sister Margaret moved to the next soldier, her fingers pressing against his throat: cold. Unyielding. No pulse. No breath. Nothing.

"This one is deceased, Sister!" she called out, her voice cracking under the weight of the impossible.

Dr. Phinsky's gaze swept over the field, her mind racing. How? How could one man rise as if from a nightmare while the others lay eternally still? Several others stirred, gasping, clawing their way back to consciousness, their terrified moans cutting through the eerie silence of the remaining yet dead bodies.

"This shouldn't be happening," Phinsky breathed, her scientific certainty crumbling. "This defies all reason."

And yet, it was.

***

Jeff ran through Roanoke’s dark and vacant streets, growling to himself how foolish he was to allow himself to get caught as easily as had been. The recall of how the gold handcuffs had prevented him from slipping into the Imaginarium was a surprise but now, he knew. Gold was a block. He knew he needed to talk to Niamon about what else he should know about what was happening to him. He needed to warn Zephyr and Spark about the nuns, Dr. Phinsky, and the block that gold was. Perhaps they knew but he was sure that Niamon did.

He soon slowed his walk and began wondering where his two partners were when a purple blur suggested its presence just a block in front of him. He called to what he knew to be a pixie, “Zephyr? Spark?”

Nothing.

Was it the tribe from the other side of Smith Mountain Lake? The Luminary? The blur was too far away to really tell just who it was so he began a slow walk towards it. It moved. He changed his course towards it. It moved again. Worry crept into Jeff’s mind; neither Zephyr nor Spark would move like that. It had to be the Luminary. He called again as a pixie, “Seeing you. Show,” he commanded. “Friendly.”

She laughed, “Friendly, you? War person, you! Strong Feyfold, you!”

Then he knew. Niamon. Her purple blur solidified into a deep black flash-speckled orb that opened its mouth depositing Niamon standing before him just as it evaporated.

“Not war from me, Gracious Mother. Dr. Phinsky and Armagnac. Attempted kill me.”

Niamon came close to him. “A war person, Jeff. War. Death. Many here see glory war. But, no.” She switched to English, “It’s just hell.”

“Of course,” Jeff protested, “General Sherman, during the Civil War, complained about just that!” His voice filled with anguish, unable to understand why he was being blamed. He had been content simply painting messy, chaotic strokes on canvas before everything changed. Now, forces beyond his control had pulled him into a reality he didn’t fully comprehend.

Niamon responded sharply in English, “You mated with Zephyr.”

Jeff didn’t deny it. But did she know that he had also been with Spark, and together, the three of them had created a child.

As Jeff had surmised, Niamon already knew. She could sense the child’s presence, an existence reverberating in ways that unsettled him so it had to worry Niamon.

“A child is a bad thing?” Was he wrong for bringing her into being? Were Niamon’s own daughters just as tainted?

“Daughters, you, yes,” Niamon confirmed the wrongness without hesitation. Such unions were forbidden, a violation of sacred laws in both their worlds.

Tiny Queen Mother Niamon stood motionless, her luminous skin flashing deep violet with restrained energy as she studied the towering figure of Jeff. He loomed over her, his human frame massive compared to her delicate pixie form, yet his scowl mirrored her own unease. The weight of broken taboos pressed upon Niamon’s thoughts like a storm cloud, dark and inevitable. She had known transgressions before and had known also that it only made sense to ban it. But this? This was different. Jeff had crossed lines that were never meant to be crossed, merging bloodlines that were never meant to meet... with her family. She, a supposedly knowledgeable wise one, was involved now with her own priorities, her own emotions, her own needs to weigh the ramifications of what both their worlds now faced.

Killing him was out of the question. Pixies did not solve problems with crude violence; their ways were subtler, woven with magic and consequence. But she had to neutralize him, to contain the disruption he represented before it unraveled the fragile balance between their worlds. Yet how? Binding pixie techniques? Exile? Or something deeper, something that would reach into the very essence of what he had become?

And Jeff? His mind churned with uncertainty. He could feel Niamon’s piercing gaze, as if she were peeling back layers of his being, searching for something. The child, though. Where was it? Not in his arms, not in any tangible form, but inside him, a presence curled within his soul, pulsing like a second heartbeat. Was it his daughter? His creation? Or something else entirely; a being beyond human or fae, born of forbidden unions? The thought twisted in his gut. He needed guidance, protection, answers. But could he trust Niamon? She was the child’s grandmother, yet she spoke of taboos, of violations. Would she help him shield it, or would she see its existence as a threat to be erased?

The air between them crackled with tension, thick with unspoken questions and the weight of what had been done. The Imaginarium hummed around them, its shifting landscapes reflecting the turmoil in their minds, shadows lengthening, colors bleeding into unnatural hues. Jeff’s human senses struggled to grasp the enormity of it all, while Niamon, ancient and regal, calculated her next move with the precision of a queen who had ruled for centuries.

They remained locked in silence, two beings from different worlds, bound by blood and betrayal, each waiting for the other to act. The child, mysterious, unseen, yet undeniable, was the unspoken force between them. Would it be their destruction? Their salvation? Or something beyond even their understanding?

And so they stood, pixie and human, caught in a moment stretched thin by fate, neither willing to break the stare that held them captive.

But Jeff rejected the separation between worlds. He belonged to both now, existing in a liminal space neither could fully grasp. Somehow, he could perceive Niamon within the Imaginarium, even when Niamon herself could not. This power, this strange duality, left him questioning his own nature.

Desperation edged his voice as he demanded answers. What was he? The question echoed, heavy with fear and confusion.

Niamon’s gaze remained locked on Jeff, her mind racing through ancient histories and half-forgotten prophecies. The more she studied him, the way the Imaginarium light bent around his form, the way his human soul pulsed with something other, the more the impossible thought took root: What if he is Auberon?

Not the true Auberon, of course. The Fairy King had vanished eons ago, leaving only whispers and ruin in his wake. But Jeff… Jeff was something else. A vessel, perhaps. A reflection. A copy.

The idea disconcerted her. Auberon had been wild, untamable, a force of chaos wrapped in regal splendor. If Jeff carried even a fragment of that essence, then what did that make her?

She had been Auberon’s equal once. His rival. His mate in the way of fae, bound not by love, but by power and necessity. If Jeff was to become a new Auberon, would history demand she take her place beside him again? The thought sent a shiver through her body.

Jeff, oblivious to her spiraling thoughts, only felt the weight of her stare. He had no memories of another life, no sense of being anything more than himself… an artist, a man caught between worlds. But Niamon’s silence spoke louder than words.

You are not just Jeff, her eyes seemed to say. You are a shadow of something greater. And I do not know if I should fear you, destroy you, or kneel.

She took a slow step forward, her voice barely a whisper, yet it carried the weight of centuries.

"Do you dream of crowns, Jeff? Of storms and endless revels?"

He frowned. "I dream of paint and silence. And now, of her." His hand pressed to his chest, where the child’s presence curled unseen.

Niamon’s lips thinned. That was not Auberon’s answer. The king had hungered for dominion, for the wild hunt, for the intoxicating rush of magic. Jeff’s desires were quieter, mortal.

A copy, then. But not the original.

Relief and disappointment warred within her. She would not have to be his queen. But that also meant he was something new. Something unpredictable.

And that? That was far more dangerous.

Chapter 13

The first thing she knew was warmth -- a soft, golden glow that cradled her like an unseen embrace. She did not yet understand that this warmth was love, nor that it came from three souls intertwined with her own. She simply was, floating in a quiet, formless existence where time had no meaning.

Then came the voice.

"Hello, little one."

It was deep, gentle, and carried a weight of kindness that stirred something within her. She did not know the word for sound, nor did she recognize the concept of speech, but the vibration of it resonated in her being, pulling her toward awareness.

"Can you hear me?" the voice asked.

Hear? Was that what this was? The sensation of something beyond herself reaching in? She had no answer, but something in her reached back, not with words, but with a flicker of presence.

"Good," the voice – Jeff -- said, though she did not yet know his name. "You’re here. You exist."

I exist.

The thought came unbidden, a spark in the void. It was the first true realization, the first step toward self. She did not know what she was, only that she was. And if she was, then what else was?

Days, or perhaps moments later, new voices joined the first.

"Oh, she’s beautiful," one said, light and musical, like wind chimes dancing in a breeze.

"She’s strong," another added, this one sharper, brighter, like the crackle of lightning in a summer storm.

The warmth around her pulsed, brighter now, as if responding to their presence. She reached for them instinctively, drawn to their energy.

"We’re here, little star," the first voice -- Zephyr -- whispered.

"Always," the second -- Spark -- confirmed.

She did not understand their words, but their emotions wrapped around her like wings. Safety. Belonging. Family.

Time passed in a haze of discovery.

She learned that the deep voice belonged to Jeff, her father, though the word still held no meaning for her. He spoke to her in patient tones, telling her stories of the world beyond their connection, of trees and rivers and laughter. She did not know what these things were, but she liked the way his voice wrapped around her when he spoke of them.

Zephyr’s presence was like the wind; sometimes playful, sometimes soothing. She sang to her in a language of rustling leaves and distant storms, and though the newly-begun spirit could not yet comprehend the melodies, she felt them in her essence.

Spark was different; brighter, fiercer. Her energy crackled with excitement, and when she spoke, it was with the thrill of discovery. "You’re going to be incredible," she told her once, and the words hummed with certainty.

Then came the day she asked her first question.

"What am I?"

The thought formed slowly, pieced together from fragments of awareness. She was something, but she did not yet know what.

Jeff’s answer came wrapped in warmth. "You are ours. And you are yourself."

Zephyr laughed, a sound like silver bells. "You are starlight and magic, little one."

"And power," Spark added. "A kind the world hasn’t seen before."

She absorbed their words, turning them over in her mind. She was theirs. She was starlight. She was power.

But what did that mean?

Her exploration deepened.

She reached beyond the warmth of her family, testing the edges of her existence. There was a world beyond them. She could sense it, a vast and humming thing full of colors and sensations she did not yet have names for.

"Can I see it?" she asked.

"Not yet," Jeff murmured. "But soon."

"When you’re ready," Zephyr added.

"And when you’re strong enough," Spark finished.

She did not like waiting, but she trusted them.

As her understanding grew, so did her questions. "Why am I here?"

Jeff’s answer was slow, thoughtful. "Because you were meant to be."

"Because the world needs you," Zephyr whispered.

"Because you’re going to change everything," Spark said, her voice alight with excitement.

The spirit, still unnamed, considered this. She was here for a reason. She was needed.

The thought filled her with something new: purpose.

One day, she realized she could feel them, not just their voices, but their presence, their emotions. Jeff’s steady love, Zephyr’s gentle pride, Spark’s fierce protectiveness.

They were her family. And she was theirs.

"I feel your names. Do I have a name?" she asked.

There was a pause, then a soft chuckle from Jeff. "Not yet. But you’ll choose one when the time is right."

She liked that idea. She would be someone. She would have a name. And then, she would meet the world. For now, she was content to exist, to learn, to grow.

She was a child of human and pixie, of earth and magic. And her story was only beginning.

***

Her decision was made. “My fadement is here,” she said.

“Your what?” He frowned, then remembered her speaking of her own Queen Mother, who had undergone a fadement into a tree. “You will become a tree now?”

“Soon. Teaching approaches finishing.”

Jeff considered it a private, solemn matter and stayed silent.

“Last teaching now”

“Shall I get Zephyr”

‘This teaching is for Jeff.”

“Me?”

She switched back to English, dry as wind-scattered leaves yet tiny due to her childlike size. “Do you see another Jeff sitting beneath these trees?”

Realizing the moment’s weight, he straightened. “You teach. I learn.”

“You are not going to like what I have to show you.”

He sat, waiting.

She spoke of a great fairy from long ago, one who taught humans to change their lives. She explained that his mate, Merim, had walked with him, yet feared his defiance of two ruling powers. And when they turned on him, they used foreign law to have him killed.

“What year are we talking about?” Jeff had a suspicion.

She told him.

“Good god, you’re talking about…“

“His name was Yeshu’a. After his death, Merim went to Rome, raged against those in power, and…“

“So, that’s what happened to her after.”

“Not quite. She fought the best that she could following Fae laws yet she was repelled relentlessly.”

Niamon paused, caught her breath, and hung her head, “She and her pursuers ended at Mount Vesuvius.”

“She wiped out Pompeii?”

“Of that, she was guilty. Yet it was not her intent.”

Jeff exhaled. “Well, now we know.”

“No. You do not.”

Niamon’s voice grew hushed as she leaned closer to Jeff, her eyes dark with the weight of forgotten tales. She spoke next of a fairy king and a pixie queen’s war, a conflict between two disparate Fae species so intense that even modern historians knew only fragments of its violent truth. These two of the Fae, she explained, were not the delicate, peaceful creatures of children’s stories but beings of immense power, their courts woven from moonlight and shadow. The king, proud and unyielding, had ruled the high glades, while the queen, fierce and cunning, commanded the deep hollows beneath the roots of the world. Their feud had begun over something small, a slight, a stolen trinket, a whispered insult, I don’t think it was ever known. But it had festered until the very earth trembled with their wrath.

And then, Niamon whispered, there was the princess.

The fairy king’s daughter, beloved and radiant, had sought to make peace between the courts. She had ventured alone into the pixie queen’s domain, bearing gifts and promises of reconciliation. But the queen, ever suspicious, saw only deception. In a fit of rage, she struck the princess down, and with her dying breath, the princess cursed them all. Her fairy soul seeped into the soil, and the land itself recoiled.

The war that followed was catastrophic. The fairy king, mad with grief, summoned storms to scour the earth. The pixie queen, defiant, called upon the roots of the world to strangle the sky. Their battle raged for years, until at last, a fierce battle came to a place that the earth could bear no more. The island where they fought -- a place of lush forests and towering peaks -- shattered beneath the force of their fury. The sea rushed in, swallowing the ruins whole.

Jeff frowned. "Atlantis."

Niamon smiled, slow and knowing. "No. The entire largest mountain of the island was cataclysmically eliminated, people and all. The humans who lived nearby spoke of a great explosion, a night when the sky turned to fire and the waves rose like mountains. They gave it a name, long after the fairies had faded into legend." She paused, letting the silence stretch. "The missing mountain is called Krakatoa."

Jeff’s breath caught. He knew that name: the disaster of 1883, the volcano that had torn itself apart in one of the deadliest eruptions in history. Scientists had theories, of course: tectonic shifts, magma chambers collapsing. But now, hearing Niamon’s tale, he wondered. Had the land truly been destroyed by natural forces? Or had something older, something far stranger, left its mark upon the world?

Niamon’s gaze was distant, as if she could still see the embers of that ancient conflict smoldering beneath the waves. "Some wars never truly end," she murmured. "They only sleep."

“So this isn’t the Atlantis myth?”

“No.”

Niamon shifted, uneasy. The memories of Merim and Queen Roisin haunted her, their ruthless power, the devastation they had wrought. Now, the Fae rulers had gathered in secret, their voices hushed, their expressions grim. Something dark stirred in their world, something even the ancient ones feared. Niamon had listened as the council debated their next move, their words laced with dread. They spoke of omens, of shadows creeping where light once ruled. Then, as the firelight flickered, the truth slipped out. This meeting, their fear, their desperate search for answers… it was all about him.

“Why me?” Jeff’s voice was rough, edged with defiance. “Because I blew up those scientists?”

Niamon’s eyes gleamed like polished stone. “Yes. And the power growing inside you.”

“Dynamite isn’t magic.” He crossed his arms. “Just physics and a short fuse.”

“It is not the act that frightens us,” she said, stepping closer. “It is how you see the Imaginarium. The way it bends toward you.”

Jeff shrugged. “I don’t get it either.”

“But you are not the one we must restrain.”

Jeff turned to Niamon. “Phinsky?”

“No.” Her voice dropped. Niamon exhaled, as if the words pained her. “My daughters broke our oldest law by taking you as their mate.”

“It’s how we stop Phinsky,” Jeff shot back. “Pixies need protection.”

“Have you watched Zephyr when she moves?” Niamon’s tone sharpened. “Really watched?”

“Yeah. Blues, purples, dark, beautiful flashes.”

“And why do you think that is?”

Jeff hesitated. “She’s always been fast…”

“A sign of her power. And she does not yet know what comes next.”

A cold knife twisted in his gut. “Meaning?”

“What stops her from ripping Star Mountain apart in her grief?”

“Mill Mountain? Zephyr doesn’t get angry. She’s too…”

“What would you do,” Niamon interrupted, “if I hurt her?”

Jeff’s hands curled into fists. “You wouldn’t.”

“If I swore to slit her throat unless you killed me first?” She leaned in. “Would you?”

The air turned to ice. Jeff’s jaw locked. “I don’t like this game.”

“What if it were the child that you three harbor?”

Niamon didn’t blink. “Answer, or do not. I teach. Will you learn?”

***

The meadow opening within the colonnade of towering Eastern White Pines carried the aroma of a breath of damp earth and ancient magic as Zephyr stepped forward. The clearing pulsed around her, its curved walls of a living palisade woven from living roots that throbbed with slow, deliberate power. High above, bioluminescent fungi that Jeff had seen surrounding Zephyr’s village clung to the foliage like scattered stars, their pale blue light dripping down to pool at the feet of the gathered Fae.

Niamon was gone.

Not absent. Not hiding. The great oak at the center of the village bore no trace of her face, no flicker of her eyes in the bark. She had faded fully, her consciousness dissolved into the tree’s core, leaving only the faintest whisper of her presence in the way the roots twitched when tension spiked, or how the leaves shivered when a voice rose too sharp. She would not speak here. Not for this.

Zephyr stood alone before the assembly, her slight frame dwarfed by the towering figures arrayed around her. She appeared wingless, as all pixies did to Jeff, but the air around her shimmered faintly, warping like heat over stone, a sign of the power coiled beneath her skin. Behind her, Jeff shifted, his boots scuffing against the moss. His human scent, warm blood and aftershave, clashed against the petrichor and decay of the Fae. Spark perched on his shoulder, her small fingers knotted in his collar, legs dangling to either side of his neck.

The council watched them in silence. Spark identified each for Jeff’s benefit.

Lord Thalnor loomed tallest, his towering form crowned by a rack of antlers that scraped the meadow edge’s branch ceiling. His wings -- vast, moth-like things -- dripped iridescent dust with every slow breath. Beside him, Lady Sylpha perched on a twisted root, her delicate butterfly wings folded tight, their razor edges glinting. She looked like something that might cut you if you touched her wrong.

Borvath the Troll-kin crouched to Zephyr’s left, his moss-crusted knuckles resting on the earth. His nostrils flared as he scented the air, black eyes unblinking. Higher up, near the ceiling’s curve, the Pooka flickered. One moment a fox, the next a wisp of smoke, never solid, never still.

And then there was the Morrigan.

She stood apart, cloaked in crimson, her presence making the torches gutter. Her wings were not like the others; not delicate or beautiful. They were knife-thin, serrated, the edges catching the light like honed steel. She did not speak. Not yet.

Thalnor broke the silence first.

"Hybrid" he said, the word thick with disdain. "We embrace corruption?"

Zephyr’s fingers curled into fists. "I ask to survive."

Sylpha’s laugh was a brittle thing. "Survival? Centuries of pixies hide. We need half-breed abomination to…?"

"Humans not guessing," Zephyr snapped. "Hunting."

A ripple passed through the council. The roots beneath them trembled, just slightly.

Jeff lifted Spark gently to the short, stippled grass and stepped forward, pulling a small vial from his pocket. The glass was lined with gold, and inside, something faintly luminescent swirled. The Fae recoiled as one, hisses cutting the air.

"Humans capturing magic," he said, voice low. "Humans will copy it. Will Fairies gold block humans’ magic?"

Borvath snarled, his jagged teeth bared. "Then crush humans. Tear their cities."

"Ignite wars Fae cannot win," the Pooka, now a hare, shook its ears and murmured, with eyes like dying embers. "Humans, a flood. We are drops."

Zephyr exhaled sharply. The air around her fingers wavered, reality itself bending at her touch. "Our child, pixie, human, both. Neither. A weapon."

Silence.

Then…

The oak at the center of the meadow groaned. A single branch cracked, falling at Thalnor’s hooved feet.

He stared at it for a long moment. Then, slowly, his compound eyes lifted to Zephyr. "Show us," he said.

She didn’t hesitate. Zephyr closed her eyes… and moved. One heartbeat, she stood beside Jeff. The next, she was across the meadow, her afterimage fracturing into echoes:

… A blue Zephyr with hands outstretched, pleading.

… A purple Zephyr wreathed in wildfire.

… A dark indigo Zephyr weeping silver tears.

The display left the fungi blackened in her wake.

Elder Veyl, an Eastern pixie so old his skin resembled bark, let out a shuddering breath. "Time-walking," he whispered. "The child will be worse."

"Or salvation," Zephyr countered.

The Morrigan laughed, a sound like knives on bone. "Salvation? Birth a storm, call it shelter?" She drifted closer, her cloak brushing Jeff’s arm. In English, she asked, "Tell me, human! If your child must choose between Fae and humankind, which corpse will it weep over?"

Jeff’s jaw tightened. "It won’t come to that."

"It always comes to that."

Silence again. Heavy. Waiting.

Then…

The roots shifted. A slow, deliberate curl around Zephyr’s ankle, not restraining. Testing.

Thalnor exhaled. "Hybrid child lives," he said. "Fettered. Shackled. Leashed. Three oaths. Sworn on the meadow’s roots. Never to spill Fae blood with its gifts. Never to betray the Imaginarium’s secrets. And if it turns against us…”

Thalnor’s gaze locked onto Zephyr. "You will end it," he commanded in English. "Not the council. You."

Her voice did not shake. "I swear it."

The Morrigan smiled, sharp as a blade. "Déanann grá máthar geimhle breátha,"she murmured. “Go dtí nach ndéanann sé." Then she was gone, leaving only the scent of blood behind.

One by one, the Fae dispersed, until only Zephyr, Jeff, and Spark remained.

Spark unclenched her fists. "We won?"

Zephyr stared at the oak where Niamon’s face might have been, had she not chosen silence. "No," she said softly. "We just bought time."

Above them, something rustled in the branches. Too large to be wind. Perhaps it was a future wind foretelling of the difficulties ahead.

Jeff held out his arms, “Come sit. Let the four of us welcome the rest of our family here.”

Zephyr, Spark, Jeff, and a small crowd of the village gathered around the center oak that now was Niamon.

***

She feels the syllables of her parents’ names -- Jeff, Zephyr, Spark -- like stones dropped into the still pool of her mind, each one rippling meaning into her emptiness.

Jeff. A name like packed earth, warm and steadfast, the scent of rain on soil after a long drought. It roots her.

Zephyr. A breath of wild wind, restless and sweet, carrying the tang of distant storms and the whisper of leaves in moonlight. It lifts her.

Spark. Crackling ember-light, playful and sharp, the snap of a fire devouring kindling, the glow that dances in her mother’s eyes when she tells stories. It ignites her.

They are solid, bright, real. But she is something else: neither the grounded warmth of her father nor the crackling wildness of her mothers. She is the space between, the quiet where wind pauses, the dark where light hesitates, the hush before a new note is sung.

Zephyr cradled her essence close, humming a wordless lullaby. The wind carried half-formed names like petals: Aelara, Brysana, Sylphine. Each one unfurled in the air, delicate as dandelion fluff, but they dissolved before they could settle.

Spark laughed, a sound like sparks striking flint, and scattered brighter, fiercer sounds: Vyx, Kestra, Iridys. They shimmered like struck matches, flaring bold and brief, but none catch hold.

Jeff’s voice is a deep river, slow and sure. He offered names rooted in earth: Liora, Elara, Senna. They smelled of cedar and ripe apples, of things that grew and endured. She loves them, but they are not hers.

None fit.

Then…

A pulse. A realization, slow as dawn. She does not need to borrow. She is new.

She reached into the void where language is born, where wind and fire and earth collide, and pulled forth a sound of her own making:

"Liriel."

The moment she shaped it, the world answered.

Zephyr’s winds sighed yes, weaving through the syllables like a breeze through branches. Spark’s light danced, gilding the name in starlight twinkles. Jeff’s voice wraped around it like a vow, steady as an oak’s embrace.

"Liriel," they repeated, and it became true.

Zephyr was the first to speak it aloud. "It curls like a breeze," she murmured, testing the shape of it on her tongue. "Leeeee-riel." The name spiraled up, light and playful, almost laughing.

Jeff rumbled it back, grounding the sound. "Leer-ee-EL," he said, the second syllable firm as a footfall on solid ground.

Spark shouted it, triumphant. "Lir-EE-el!" And the name crackled between them, alive as a spark on dry tinder.

And just like that, she was no longer the space between.

She was Liriel.

The wind knows her. The fire knows her. The earth knows her.

And her parents, her wonderful, impossible parents, love her.

***

The Archbishop’s study smelled of beeswax and betrayal, of polished oak hymnals and the faint iron tang of blood ground into the floorboards by generations of penitent knees. Late afternoon light slanted through stained glass, painting Saint Michael’s spear across the Archbishop’s throat like a guillotine’s shadow. The air clung thick with incense, but beneath it lurked older stenches: moldering parchment, the sour sweat of men who bargain with salvation, and something darker still: the musk of a predator who’d grown too accustomed to prey that doesn’t fight back.

Dr. Hannah Phinsky noted it all. The way his ruby ring caught the light when he gestured, a drop of fresh martyr’s blood. The tremor in his jowls as he pretended not to recognize the silver forget-me-not locket she wore -- the same design Joan’s executioner had described in his ledgers. Most of all, she noted the reliquary cabinet behind him, its lock gleaming gold. Inside, she knew, could lay the Magdalene Cylinder. And like all sacred things, it waited to be stolen.

Dr. Phinsky traced the edge of his mahogany desk with a gloved finger, her nail catching on the groove where centuries of desperate petitioners had clawed at the wood. The Archbishop, a bloated cardinal perched like a vulture in his scarlet armchair, had not offered her a seat.

"The Magdalene Cylinder is not a bargaining chip," he said, swirling port in a glass that cost more than his parishioners’ monthly rent. "It belongs to the Church."

Phinsky’s smile was a scalpel’s edge. "Funny. I’ve read Merim’s own account. She called it ‘the stone’s heart’. She stole it from Rome first. Its presence is, today, very much needed."

A lie, of course. Merim had been called many things: saint, whore, Fae-blooded rebel. But never a thief. The cylinder, a palm-sized obsidian artifact humming with the resonance of Christ’s tomb, had been given to her. But Phinsky intended to take it now.

The Archbishop’s jowls quivered. "You claim to be a historian, yet you speak of magic. The Cylinder is a relic: a symbol."

"Then why," Phinsky whispered, "does it weep in moonlight?"

“It does not matter. And, old witch, I do not keep it here.”

She’d done her research. If he did not have it in his care, then it would be in Washington, D.C. The Smithsonian will be storing it, also in a lead-lined vault, but she had tracked the night janitor’s reports years ago: Black stone. Warm to the touch. Sounds like… singing.

The Archbishop set down his glass. "Leave."

Phinsky unclasped her locket, a silver thing she’d worn since 1431, the year they’d burned Jeanne d’Arc. Inside, a pressed forget-me-not glowed faintly blue. "Do you know what Fae call this? Mémoire-vérité. It doesn’t just preserve flowers… it preserves truth." She snapped it shut. "Shall I show the Vatican your little boys’ choir ledgers? Or the orphanage funds you diverted to…"

"Enough." His hand shook as he scrawled a note. "The Smithsonian will release it to my courier. You and I will then discuss just how it might be very much needed."

Phinsky plucked the paper from his fingers. "How very Old Testament of you."

She slit his throat with the letter opener on his desk. The forgery would be flawless by dawn.

***

The Smithsonian’s vault was colder than a bishop’s heart.

Phinsky watched as the curator, a twitching academic with a security clearance and a morphine addiction, input the codes. "You understand," he mumbled, "this artifact predates…"

"Yes," she said. "Me."

The cylinder lay on velvet, its surface swallowing the light. The curator reached for it.

"Don’t." Phinsky caught his wrist. "It doesn’t like men."

Merim’s last journal had been explicit: Only a woman who has loved and ruined can wake the stone. Phinsky was qualified twice over.

Her fingers closed around the cylinder…

And the vault screamed.

Not sound. Pressure. The air itself convulsed, glass cases shattering as the cylinder pulsed, its resonance peeling back layers of reality like rotting skin. The curator collapsed, blood bubbling from his ears.

Phinsky gasped as visions tore through her:

Merim, kneeling in the tomb, pressing the cylinder to the stone as it rolled away like water…

Joan’s pyre, the cylinder hidden in her own sleeve as the flames licked closer…

And further back, a Fae queen, weeping as she carved the first spell into obsidian…

The cylinder stilled. Obedient.

Phinsky tucked it into her breast pocket, where it nestled against her locket. Two hearts now, she thought. One stone, one silver.

Outside, her nuns waited in a black van. Sister Teresa, barely eighteen and excited to be obedient to her god, handed Dr. Phinsky a ticket. "Flight from Dulles to Roanoke Regional in two hours."

Phinsky stroked the girl’s cheek and handed her a slip of paper. "Tell the others to meet me at these coordinates. And Teresa? Pack the Purgatory vestments. We will all be needing their protection."

***

The pixie village smelled of honeysuckle and hubris.

Phinsky stood at the tree line, her nuns fanned out behind her like a murder of crows. The cylinder burned against her ribs. Above, the sky deepened to bruise-purple.

"Jeff," she murmured. "You should’ve stayed human."

She raised the cylinder…

… And the world bent.

Wind ripped through the clearing, not as chaos but as a weapon, the cylinder morphing into a form that mimicked what it knew its agent wanted, and thus shaped the gale into a spiraling maw. Trees snapped like kindling. Pixie lanterns became fireflies in a hurricane.

Somewhere in the maelstrom, she saw Jeff. His human eyes met hers across the devastation, wide with understanding.

The cylinder’s song reached crescendo. A gust from the gale tore the slate-gray turban from Phinsky’s head, whipping her hair free of its pins… and there they were: her true Fae ears, withered and tapered, dark as a priest’s cassock.

"Now," she whispered, though none could hear, "we are on equal grounds."

As the last pixie fled into the forest, Phinsky let the storm die. The cylinder cooled and untwisted in her hand.

Sister Teresa approached, eyes alight. "What now, Mother?"

Phinsky tucked the artifact away. "Now we wait. For Jeff to beg. For the stump-sprite half-light vermin to break." She smiled. “For their Armageddon.”

***

The obsidian cylinder burned against Dr. Hannah Phinsky’s ribs like a brand.

It had been humming since the massacre at the pixie village: a low, insistent vibration that resonated with her pulse. At first, she’d mistaken it for triumph. Now, as she stood alone in the dim back room of the Roanoke’s cathedral, she recognized it for what it was: hunger.

The artifact was awake. And it wanted more.

Phinsky pressed a hand to her sternum, her breath shallow. The cylinder’s heat seeped through her blouse, her skin, down into the marrow of her bones. It wasn’t pain. It was presence.

"Enough," she hissed.

But the cylinder answered with a pulse -- a single, seismic throb that sent her staggering back against the wall. Visions erupted behind her eyes:

Merim’s hands, slick with tomb-damp, clutching the cylinder as the stone rolled away.

Joan’s pyre, flames licking the cylinder where it lay hidden in the straw.

Older still… a Fae queen with eyes like eclipses, weeping as she carved the first spell into the obsidian.

"No," Phinsky snarled, clawing at her chest. The locket at her throat -- her silver forget-me-not -- flared blue in protest.

The cylinder squeezed.

Her ribs creaked. Her heartbeat stuttered. The room tilted, the walls breathing in and out like a living thing.

"You are not my master," she spat, though her voice wavered.

The artifact replied by flooding her veins with fire.

Phinsky collapsed to her knees, her fingers scrabbling at her buttons. She needed air. Needed to see the damned thing.

The cylinder tumbled into her palm, its surface now alive with swirling veins of gold, like lightning trapped in stone. It thrummed, the vibration traveling up her arm, into her teeth, her skull.

"What do you want?" she demanded.

The answer came not in words, but in urge.

Kill.

Not just enemies. Not just pixies. Everything. The nuns outside the door. The stray cat slinking through the graveyard. The sleeping infants in the nearby village.

The cylinder craved annihilation.

Phinsky’s hand trembled. Her fingers tightened.

Then stopped.

Testimony, centuries before, from a jail guard, an ur gward toull-bac'h, surfaced, unbidden: Jeanne d’Arc in chains, whispering to God the night before the pyre. "Ur stêr eo ar galloud. Redek a ra drezon. Met n'on ket perc'henn warnon."

Phinsky bared her teeth, shrieking, "I am not your vessel." She hurled the cylinder across the room. It struck the far wall with a crack, rolling to a stop near a rusted garbage bin. Between stone and Fairy, a golden white bolt silently connected. Three heartbeats struggled on until the gold veins dimmed. The hum faded.

Silence remained.

Phinsky slumped forward, sweat dripping from her brow. Her lungs ached. Her locket’s glow flickered out.

Across the room, the cylinder lay inert with a single hairline fracture appearing along its surface. Just a piece of carved obsidian again. She left the cylinder where it lay.

 

Chapter 14

The tornado had carved a scar through the pixie village, leaving behind a skeletal landscape of uprooted trees and shattered mushroom smears. The air smelled of wet earth and bruised greenery, the tang of broken pine branches sharp in the back of Jeff's throat. He rolled a fallen log aside with his boot, revealing a cluster of dazed fireflies blinking weakly in the sudden light.

Nearby, Zephyr knelt in the debris, carefully extracting a cracked acorn cluster from the wreckage of what had been the village's gathering space. Her little fingers traced the fractures in each nut’s surface. "We'll need new resin to seal these," she murmured in English, more to herself than anyone else.

Spark appeared beside her, arms full of salvaged river stones. "Much to need," she said, dumping the stones with a clatter. Her usual sharpness was dulled by exhaustion, the glittering dust that normally shimmered around her shoulders now muted and grayish-white.

Jeff wiped his palms on his jeans, leaving streaks of dirt and tree sap. He studied the two pixies, their familiar bickering absent for once, and felt the weight of Karl's death settle between them like another piece of debris to clear away.

"You remember that weird whiskey Karl kept in his cabin?" Jeff asked suddenly, hefting a branch onto the growing burn pile. "The one that tasted like smoked cherries?"

Zephyr's mouth quirked. "You mean the one you nearly spit out when you realized fire?"

"That's the one." Jeff grinned, then sobered. "Place is probably still stocked. Could use some of that right about now."

Spark flicked a bit of bark off her arm. "Abandon cleanup? Drunk Jeff snore in dead human’s house?"

"Advise," Jeff said, bending to lift a splintered section of a toadstool table, "finish here, go where zero hunting for us. Wait."

Around them, the village slowly came back to life. Pixies mended homes with spider silk and moonlight, others sang soft rebuilding spells as they worked. The scent of crushed mint and damp moss rose from where feet disturbed the ground cover.

Zephyr stood up from next to the single oak left standing. Niamon’s Oak. Brushing dirt from her knees, she lightly ran her fingers over the tree’s bark. "Take back roads. Jeff cannot fly," she said quietly. "Phinsky watches."

Spark sighed dramatically, but there was relief in her eyes. "Agreed. But smelly cabin? Pixie spot is trees. Dance with stars. Jeff sleeps."

As the sun dipped behind the mountains, painting the wreckage in gold and shadow, the three of them worked with the rest of the home village pixies, everyone with renewed purpose, each fallen branch cleared, each salvaged treasure tucked away, bringing them closer to the moment they could leave the destruction behind.

Still thick with the scent of torn leaves and earthworms frantically searching for passage back underneath the wreckage, the forest air shifted as their neighbor, a Luminary pixie, arrived. She came like an approaching storm, her glow a dark purple against the muted greens and browns of the ravaged village. The village’s pixies stilled, their chatter dying mid-breath. Even the wind seemed to hush.

She was tall for a pixie, her limbs elongated, her eyes slightly angled yet burning with an otherworldly light that made Jeff’s skin prickle. Behind her trailed a cluster of lesser Luminary attendants, their forms (delicate, translucent pastel blues) trembling with restrained energy. Zephyr, showing soft white sparkles here and there around her eyes and nose, stepped forward and bowed deeply.

"Bright One," she murmured, voice rough with reverence.

The Luminary ignored the greeting. Her gaze locked onto Jeff.

"You."

The word was a blade.

Jeff stiffened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He knew that tone. Knew what was coming.

A small pixie girl, no taller than his knee darted forward before anyone could stop her. Her tiny fingers clutched at Jeff’s pant leg, her silver hair fluttering in frantic, jerky bursts.

"My mate! Human kill!" the girl wailed. Tears like liquid starlight streaked down her cheeks. "Why run? Just a drone. No idea!"

Zephyr moved to intervene, but the Luminary’s voice cut through the air like a whip crack.

"Enough."

The little pixie flinched but didn’t let go of Jeff. Her sobs were ragged, her tiny body shaking.

Spark exhaled sharply through her nose. "Correct," she muttered, though the words seemed to pain her. She continued, directing her words at Jeff. "Phinsky won’t stop. Next time, it won’t be a drone. It’ll be a child. A mother. A…"

"We have our own to protect," Zephyr snapped, her hand drifting unconsciously to Jeff where the fragile, unborn spark of their triad’s child flickered between their three spirits.

The Luminary’s eyes narrowed. "No reply? Your pain greater?"

Jeff’s jaw tightened. He could feel it: the weight of the village’s stares, the little girl’s tears soaking through his jeans, the Luminary’s fury like a brand against his skin.

And then, he recalled the gold handcuffs, the ones he’d broken in Phinsky’s church. He remembered how they had burned against his wrists. A reminder. A problem.

"Resolved!” he growled.

The word hung in the air, heavy as a death sentence.

Zephyr whirled on him. "Jeff…"

"I go," he said, quieter now. "Not vengeance. I end it."

The little pixie girl’s grip loosened, her sobs quieting. The Luminary said nothing, but her purple glow dimmed, just slightly, in something like approval.

And as the village held its breath, Jeff met Zephyr and Spark’s eyes, his own resolve hardening.

“Niamon told me nothing of the blocking effect of gold. I must plan. I’ll go, but not today.” He turned to the tearful little pixie girl, “I promise. Stop her, I will."

***

The fire in Karl’s cabin spat embers onto the hearth, its light guttering against the walls like a dying thing. Jeff stared into the flames, his reflection warping in the brass kettle left boiling too long. Zephyr perched on the back of the moth-eaten armchair, her fingers and arms twitching with every gust of wind that rattled the windowpanes. Spark wasn’t pacing anymore. She’d taken to hovering near the door, her glow so dim she was little more than a will-o’-wisp in the gloom.

Gold. The word hung between them, heavier than the silence.

“Humans come at dawn,” Spark said finally. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Here pixies. If nets…”

“We can’t fight not touching,” Zephyr cut in, her English wavering. Her fingers tightened around the armrest, her fingers digging into the fabric. “One brush of gold against me and I’m useless. Dead. What will happen to Rielle?”

Jeff exhaled slowly, flexing his hands. The Imaginarium hummed at the edges of his vision, a door only he could step through. But what good was vanishing if they could just wait for him to return? Or prevent it completely like they did before? If they shackled him the moment he blinked back into the world?

“There has to be a way,” he muttered.

“None.” Spark’s glow flared, sudden and sharp. “Gold. No loophole. No exception. Even you…” She gestured at him, frustration sparking in her voice as she complained in English. “You’re half in their world, half in ours, but gold? It doesn’t care.”

A log collapsed in the fireplace. The embers hissed.

Then Jeff straightened. “What if we make it care?”

The pixies went still.

He stood, crossing to Karl’s workbench, cluttered with tools, half-carved figurines, and a tarnished pocket watch. “Gold disrupts magic. But it doesn’t destroy it.” He picked up a chisel, turning it over in his hands. “What if we control the disruption?”

Zephyr’s eyes widened open. “You’re talking about weaponizing it.”

“I’m talking about surviving it.”

Spark zipped to her favorite place straddling him on his shoulders, her tiny hands gripping his collar. “Explain. Fast.”

Jeff grinned. It felt strange on his face, like he’d forgotten how. “We take the thinnest layer of gold we can manage -- foil, wire, something -- and we shape it into a barrier. Not to block magic, but to redirect it. Like a mirror.”

“A mirror,” Zephyr repeated slowly.

“If we can angle the effect outward instead of inward, their own weapons become useless.” He tapped the chisel against the watch. “We don’t avoid the gold. We use it.”

Spark’s glow brightened. “Crazy Jeff. Crazy idea.”

“But?”

“But it might work.”

The next hours blurred. Zephyr melted down a locket with a candle flame, her hands steady despite the rest of her body shaking with tremors of being so close to gold. Jeff wove the molten gold into a mesh finer than spider silk, his steel and wood tools stretching it thinner, thinner, until it was nearly translucent. Next, he carved the frame: oak, lightweight, shaped like a buckler small enough to strap to his forearm.

By the time the first hints of dawn bled through the trees, they were ready.

Jeff fastened the golden mesh across the wood, his fingers tingling where the metal brushed his skin. The magic in him recoiled, then…

Held.

Zephyr let out a breath. “It’s not rejecting you.”

“No,” Jeff said, lifting the shield. The gold shimmered, its disruption humming against his palm, but the mesh diffused it, scattered it. Like light through a prism.

Spark darted forward, pressing her tiny hands to the surface. She recoiled as Jeff fastened the golden mesh to the shield. Her jaws clamped shut. She winced and her glow guttering like a candle in a storm. “Nails scrape bone,” she whispered.

Zephyr hovered farther back, coughing and choking, her fingers dug into the rafters. “You don’t understand, Jeff. It’s not just pain. It’s… wrong. Like the metal’s alive and hungry.” Her voice frayed at the edges.

Jeff hesitated, the shield suddenly heavier in his hands. The gold shimmered innocently, beautifully. But now he noticed how the firelight bent around it, how the air smelled faintly of burnt sugar.

“Can you still fight?” he asked quietly.

Spark’s jaw tightened. “Must. Required.”

Zephyr dropped to the floor, her hands trembling. “But if that thing touches us…”

“It won’t.” Jeff slid the shield onto his arm, the mesh humming against his skin. A human advantage, he realized with a chill. Gold hurts them. For me, it just sings.

Outside, a branch snapped.

They froze.

Then, distant but unmistakable, the creak of leather, the rustle of bodies moving through underbrush.

Zephyr bared her teeth. “Early.”

Jeff tightened his grip on the shield. “Good.”

The door burst open.

The door splintered inward with a crash.

Three nuns filled the doorway, their silhouettes backlit by the predawn gloom. The leader, a broad-shouldered woman with a scarred lip, held a glinting net woven with gold filaments. Her eyes locked onto Jeff.

"There you are."

Jeff didn’t move. The shield on his arm hummed, a quiet vibration against his skin.

Zephyr hissed. Spark’s glow flared like a struck match.

The nun grinned. "Toss the gold over them. They can’t run."

The net flew.

Jeff moved.

He pivoted, raising the shield, not to block, but to reflect. The net struck the floor, its rays from its golden mesh bending… and stalled. The distorting magic in the strands writhed, tangling against itself, the disruption reflecting back like light hitting a mirror at the wrong angle.

The nun’s grin vanished. "What the…?"

Jeff shoved. The net’s blurring waves bounced away from him in a shimmering swath. The lead nun yelped as Jeff grasped her wrist, her fingers spasmed, nerveless, and the tazer she’d been holding clattered to the floor.

Zephyr launched herself from the chair, a whirlwind of purples and blacks. She raked her fingers across the second nun’s face, sending her crumbling to the floor, lifeless. Spark zipped past in a streak of light, snatching the fallen tazer -- too heavy for her, but she didn’t need to wield it. She dropped it straight into the fire.

The third nun lunged for Jeff, a gold-tipped spear in hand. Jeff twisted, letting the thrust glance past him while his shield reflected its blurring suppressive waves. A fringe of the blur sent a jolt up his arm, but the spear’s magic fizzled, its waving edges dissipating uselessly. The nun’s eyes widened.

"How…?"

Jeff didn’t answer. He stepped into the Imaginarium, just for a heartbeat, just long enough to reappear behind the woman. A sharp elbow to the kidney sent her crashing into the wall.

The leader scrambled back, clutching her numb hand. "This isn’t over, Mother Hannah comes!" she spat.

Zephyr landed on the table, fingers flared. "Oh, I think it is."

The two remaining nuns fled, their boots thudding against the gravel and dirt outside.

Silence.

Then…

Spark exhaled. "Done!"

Jeff looked down at the shield. The gold mesh gleamed, unbroken. He looked at the dead body sprawled on the floor.

Zephyr’s grin was all teeth. "Let them tell the others."

Jeff murmured, “You took her life.”

Her grin vanished. She looked at Spark who returned her gaze.

Jeff stared at the body, then at his hands still humming with the shield’s borrowed power. When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow:

"We don’t get to call it war when it’s just murder."

Outside, the sun finally crested the trees that witnessed the line that Zephyr knew she had crossed.

But, it now gave them a chance.

***

The forest near Karl’s cabin was quiet. Too quiet. The usual hum of insects, the rustle of leaves under unseen feet, even the distant murmur of the river had gone still. Spark hovered near the treeline, her tiny form flickering like a candle flame in the breeze. She was supposed to be watching the cabin while Jeff was gone. But something was wrong.

The fight with the nuns had left the air thick with the scent of ozone and death. The black-robed nun that Zephyr had killed lay sprawled in the dirt where Jeff had dragged her out of the cabin and covered her body with an old blanket. The other two had fled, but Spark knew better than to think they were truly gone. Jeff had warned her and they had said that Dr. Phinsky would be there.

Then she heard it.

A gasp. A choked, familiar voice.

"Spark! Help!"

Her movements stilled. That was Jeff’s voice and he had called her name. But Jeff wasn’t here. He’d left for town, hadn’t he? Unless…

"Please! They got me! The nuns!"

The voice came from deeper in the woods, toward the old withered pine where the ground dipped into a shadowy hollow. Spark darted forward before she could think, her glow pulsing dark blue flashes with alarm. If Jeff was hurt, if he’d come back early and run into more of Phinsky’s followers…

A twig snapped.

She froze.

There was no Jeff. No crumpled form in the underbrush. Just the faintest shimmer of something gold woven between the branches ahead.

A net.

Her instincts screamed. Wretched gold. The one thing that could smother the Fae-fold.

She banked hard to the left -- only for a nun to stand blindly in her path, lips curled in a cold smile. She couldn’t see Spark, but she obviously knew that a pixie was near.

Another nun emerged from the trees, her hands gripping a strange, box-like device with a glass nozzle aimed straight at Spark.

Too late, she realized the voice had been a trick.

The machine whirred.

A blast of icy, mist-like waves erupted through the Fae-fold from the nozzle. Spark twisted midair, but the edge of the waves caught her back. Instantly, her indigo glow dimmed to white. Her body locked up, her form hardening like frost on glass. She could feel herself becoming visible, her form solidifying, her body slowing.

The first nun lunged, swinging the golden net.

Spark dropped like a stone, barely avoiding the glinting threads. She hit the dirt, her body useless. The nuns advanced, their robes whispering against the undergrowth.

A shriek broke the silence, "Cover it, quickly!”

Another nun arrived at the disturbance. “This is the first time I’ve actually seen one," she murmured.

Spark tried to bare her teeth. She was small, but she wasn’t helpless.

She still had one trick left.

As the gold net descended, she focused every spark of strength left in her and screamed.

Not in fear.

Not in pain.

"ZEPHYR!"

Nothing.

The shock of becoming visible for the first time in her life had begun to set in and Spark felt the darkness of unconsciousness surround her. Life, existence, Spark herself, became irrelevant.

In the distant miles and timeless years from her, Spark could just make out a voice.

“Come. Quickly. To the Church.”

***

Jeff’s fingers tightened around the Home Depot bag as a soundless wail tore through his skull.

"Spark is gone!"

Liriel’s voice -- no, not a voice, a presence, a ripple in the space between his ribs -- sent his heart lurching. The bag hit the ground, tools scattering across the asphalt parking lot. He didn’t stop to pick them up.

The town blurred around him as he drove insanely through the streets towards the remote cabin.

Zephyr felt it too.

She had been inside the cabin, pacing the wooden floorboards, her small, fidgety body taut with restless energy. The fight with the nuns had left her edgy, and Jeff’s absence made it worse. Then…

"Spark is gone!"

Liriel’s cry wasn’t heard; it was felt, a shiver down the spine of the world.

Zephyr was out the door before the echo faded.

The forest air was thick with the scent of skunk and something sharper: fear. Her own fear. She couldn’t feel Spark’s essence, something she had never experienced before. Zephyr’s bare feet barely touched the earth as she darted between the trees, her body a streak of purple-blue light.

"Spark!" She sent the call spiraling through their bond, the way pixies spoke without sound.

No answer.

The clearing near the old withered pine tree was too quiet. Too empty. But the ground told a story: scuffed dirt, a snapped branch, and there, half-buried in the leaves, a glint of gold.

Zephyr’s breath hitched.

Fae-touched poison!

She knew what that meant.

A snarl ripped from her throat as she spun, scanning the trees. If the nuns had taken Spark…

"JEFF!"

Her scream wasn’t a sound. It was a force, a shockwave through the unseen threads that tied them together. Somewhere, not too far off, she felt him flinch.

Jeff’s lungs burned as he crested the hill towards where he felt Zephyr. He had left the car’s door still open, engine running, tires just inches from the cabin’s porch.

A tiny but horrified thought crossed the Fae-fold, "Zephyr is in distress."

Liriel’s warning was a knife between his shoulders. He skidded to a halt just as Zephyr burst from the tree line, her usually sleek azure skin bristling with indigo and pure blacks, eyes wild.

"Where is she?" Jeff demanded, though he already knew.

Zephyr’s hands clenched. "Gone. The nuns… the gold…"

Jeff didn’t need to hear more.

He was moving before she finished, Zephyr at his heels. The forest shuddered as man and pixie rushed past, shadows stretching like grasping fingers. Somewhere ahead, Spark was slipping further away.

And Jeff would tear the world apart to bring her back. But he knew where she was being taken. He called behind to Zephyr, “The church in Roanoke. If you get there before I do, wait for me to catch up.”

He heard a hollow pop and turned to see Zephyr dive into a pixie sized black crystal sphere. Then, like turning out a light, the sphere soundlessly closed and simply disappeared.

***

The Basilica of St. Andrew loomed over the hill like a sentinel of stone and faith, its buff brick façade weathered by time but unyielding in its Gothic grandeur. Twin towers clawed at the sky, their lancet windows framing spectral figures, white-robed nuns, motionless as statues, their eyes tracking the lone man ascending the slope. Jeff Gardner moved with purpose, his boots crushing dew-laden grass beneath him, his jaw set. The air smelled of car exhaust from the nearby highway and old incense, the kind that clung to holy places like a ghost of devotion.

Then, something shifted.

To his left, in the periphery of his vision where the Imaginarium bled into reality, a darkness swirled. Not a shadow, not a void, but a fuzz, a dense, impenetrable sphere of black, three feet wide, hovering just above the ground like a hole torn in the fabric of the world. Jeff had seen many impossible things since bonding with Zephyr, but this was new. His pulse quickened.

Before he could react, the sphere rippled, then split like a seam unraveling. From its depths emerged Zephyr, her tiny form radiant even in the gloom, her emerald eyes sharp with urgency. She carried herself with the regal bearing of a queen, her silver-threaded hair catching the faint light.

She raised a hand, her voice a whisper only he could hear, yet it carried the weight of command. "This," she said, gesturing to the black sphere, "old magic. Nothing pierces. Not fire, not Fairy-bane, not mortal metal hornets." Her lips curled slightly at the sharp, angry things spat from iron beasts.

Jeff exhaled, his breath fogging in the chill. "You go alone?"

"I find Spark," she said, her voice steel wrapped in silk. "And Phinsky. Then I return. We plan. We act."

A protest rose in his throat, “Too dangerous!” But the pain in his chest stifled it. Spark was gone, ripped from them, and with her, part of Liriel, their unborn spirit-child, a presence that had woven itself into the very fabric of their souls. Their mate’s absence, one of Liriel’s parents, was a wound, raw and throbbing, a phantom limb that screamed into the silence.

"Do it," he growled.

Zephyr nodded once, then stepped back into the sphere. The blackness sealed around her like liquid night, and to Jeff’s eyes, it dissolved back into that strange, unfocused fuzz, a blind spot in reality itself.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of candle wax and something sharper: ozone, the tang of machinery. Zephyr moved like a shadow, her sphere silently drifting above the cold stone of the main floor of the church. She descended into the basilica’s undercroft, a maze of archways and alcoves, the walls lined with relics and gold-wrapped cables snaking across the floor. Human magic, she thought bitterly. Not the kind that sang in the blood, but the kind that stole.

Then: voices.

Dr. Phinsky’s, crisp and triumphant. "… almost ready. The extraction will begin at midnight."

Zephyr’s heart clenched. She followed the sound, peeking ever so briefly enough to see and then slip past a row of iron-barred cells, empty, save for one.

There.

Spark lay curled on a slab of polished obsidian, her tiny body trapped beneath a lattice of gold wire, her skin pale as moonlit milk. A machine hummed beside her, its glass needle poised like a talon.

Zephyr’s vision burned red.

She moved, the black sphere around her parting just enough to let her peer fully into the room…

… And the world exploded in light.

Golden-white, searing, a net of radiance flung from the ceiling. The sphere slammed shut around her an instant before the light could touch her, but the force of it rattled her bones.

"Gotcha, you evil little thing!" Phinsky crowed, yanking a cord.

A cage of gold bars crashed down, encasing the sphere in a glittering prison. The doctor lunged, a crucifix in hand, stabbing at the blackness like a dagger. The metal skidded harmlessly aside, leaving no mark.

Phinsky’s smile didn’t waver. "Fine. We’ll peel you open later." She turned, calling over her shoulder: "Sisters! We have another!"

Outside the basilica, the world went silent.

Jeff’s breath hitched, a jagged, involuntary gasp, as the bond between them twisted. One moment, Zephyr was there, a shimmering thread of warmth braided into his soul, her presence as familiar as his own heartbeat. The next?

Nothing.

A void. A scream in reverse.

His knees nearly buckled. It wasn’t just Zephyr’s absence; it was the way the bond had been cut, not frayed or faded but severed, like an axe through a living root. His skin prickled with the wrongness of it. He clutched at his chest, fingers digging into his sternum as if he could claw his way back to her through flesh and bone.

Then… movement. A flutter, faint but desperate, deep in the hollow of his ribs.

Liriel.

Their unborn spirit-child, still tethered to him, pulsed like a dying ember. Alone. Terrified. Jeff could feel her confusion. “Where is she? Where is Mother?” Her fear was a jagged ripple through the bond they now shared alone. No Zephyr. No Spark. Just this fragile, flickering thread between them, stretched too thin.

His fists clenched hard enough to crack his knuckles. The pain was a distant thing, swallowed by the howling in his skull.

“They took them. They took them both.”

The basilica’s shadow loomed over him, its stained-glass eyes leering. Somewhere inside, Phinsky was laughing. Somewhere inside, gold nets slithered like serpents, and machines whirred, hungry for magic.

And Jeff?

Jeff was going to burn it all down.

A whimper, not in his ears, but in his bones, as Liriel’s voice splintered through the bond, thin as cracked ice:

"Father…" A shuddering pause. Then, so small it gutted him: "Do we next die, too?"

 

Chapter 15

The church loomed ahead, its stone walls stained with dark, menacing shadows, the stained-glass windows glistening in the moon and starlight. The night air smelled of smoke and cut grass, the only sounds the distant creak of swaying trees and the muffled sobs of Liriel in Jeff’s mind.

They’re in there. And I’m getting them out.

Jeff clenched his fists, feeling the weight of his helplessness. He had no weapons left, no dynamite, no blades, just his invisibility and the desperate need to save Zephyr and Spark before Phinsky did something irreversible.

He took a slow breath and let his body fade from sight.

The front doors were too risky, likely guarded. Instead, Jeff moved along the side of the church, his boots silent on the wet grass. A broken basement window, its jagged edges still clinging to the frame, offered entry. He eased himself through, careful not to disturb the glass. But, to be unpredictable, he eased up a set of stairs to the cathedral’s transept.

Inside, the air was thick with incense. There were banks of votive prayer candles lining the chapel’s alcoves, sputtering in pools of melted wax drooling atop the Altar of Repose. Cheap wax teardrops wrapped in gilded deceit, each one stamped with frail gold foil that peeled at the edges like old paint. Their wiring, though, was the real trap: thin gold filaments threaded through the wicks, a hidden net of fairy-killing metal disguised as devotion.

Up close, the candles reeked of tallow and greed, their gold lettering, "Sanctus, Sanctus", flaking under the flickering candle light as if even scripture couldn’t survive Phinsky’s corruption.

The nave stretched before him, pews waiting patiently for their congregation, shadows clung to the corners, shifting like living things.

Where are they?

Then he heard it: the low murmur of voices near the altar.

Three white-clad figures stood in a half-circle, their backs to him. Nuns, or whatever they truly were. Phinsky’s loyalists. One clutched a silver censer, swinging it in slow arcs, the smoke coiling like a serpent. Another held a glass pointed box humming faintly. The third was whispering something in a language that made Jeff’s skin crawl.

He couldn’t fight them head-on. Not without a weapon.

Then won’t know he was there. Move past them.

He edged along the wall, keeping low. A carpet edge caught his food and flapped noisily against the stone floor beneath it. The nun with the glass pointed box stiffened.

“Did you hear that?”

Jeff froze.

The second nun tilted her head. “Rats. Or the wind.”

The third hissed. “Or the pixie’s human.”

A beat of silence. Then the glass box swung in Jeff’s direction.

Shit.

He needed to act fast.

A silver candelabra lay nearby, its twisted metal spikes gleaming. Still invisible, he grabbed it, hefting its weight. The armed nun took a step toward him, her finger resting on the metal and glass trigger.

Jeff swung.

The candelabra cracked against her temple. She dropped without a sound. The other nuns whirled, eyes wide.

“What…?”

Jeff didn’t give them time to react. He snatched the fallen glass box and slammed the edge of it into the second nun’s throat. She gagged, collapsing. The third lunged, fingers hooked like claws, but he sidestepped, driving his elbow into her spine. She hit the ground hard.

He didn’t wait to see if they stayed down.

Beyond the nave, a smaller chamber lay behind the altar, a sacristy maybe, or a private chapel. The door was slightly ajar, golden light spilling out rising up from a set of narrow stairs back down into the basement.

Jeff crept forward, stilling his breathing to listen.

“… won’t last much longer,” came Phinsky’s voice, smooth and amused. “The gold is already working. Soon, their magic will be gone, and then… well. Dissection is such a delicate process.”

Rage burned in Jeff’s chest. He eased quietly down the narrow stairs and stopped. He had been in this basement area before. As a friend and patient of Dr. Phinsky’s. But now, as someone dedicated to ending her existence.

Inside, Phinsky stood over Spark’s motionless form, the gold netting glinting cruelly from banks of votive candles light. Zephyr’s black sphere pulsed weakly in the corner, the trellis still weighing it down.

And there, in the center of the room, another glass pointed box, a grotesque device of brass and wires, and, like the one he had smashed, it was humming softly.

Jeff couldn’t rush in. Phinsky was too dangerous, too prepared. He needed to disable the glass pointed box, get the gold off Spark and Zephyr, and then kill Phinsky.

But how?

His eyes landed on a heavy crucifix hanging above the door -- iron, not gold. He reached up, fingers brushing the cold metal.

A pebble tic, tic, ticked as it almost soundlessly bounced down the narrow stairs behind him.

Jeff spun, forgetting that he was invisible to them.

The nun he’d thought unconscious stood there, blood dripping from her lips, a knife in one hand and a glass-pointed box in the other, its open end locked onto him with unnatural precision.

“Found you,” she whispered.

A chill shot down Jeff’s spine. Found? But I’m still invisible…

Then he saw it: the box’s interior swirled with faint, silvery light, tracking him like a hound on a scent. Magic detection.

She fired.

A pulse of frosted, shimmering waves erupted from the device. Jeff threw himself sideways, but the focused beam clipped his shoulder. Agony ripped through him, not from impact, but from the horrible, hollow sensation of his invisibility shredding away, his body forced into visibility like a corpse dredged from deep water. And Liriel grew distant. She screamed in his heart, “Father!”

The nun grinned, adjusting her aim. “No tricks left, Gardner.”

A noise cut through the chapel, a shuddering, discordant hum, like a bell smothered under wet wool. The nun’s head jerked toward the source: Spark, her small body trembling under the gold netting.

The net should have silenced her completely. But dull, grayish Spark, with teeth gritted and veins alight with pain, had done the impossible. She’d forced a spark of something from the Fae-fold through the gold’s grip. Not enough to break free, but enough to make the wires vibrate at a frequency that prickled the air. The sound wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even musical. It was wrong, a noise that slithered into the ears and gnawed at the mind.

The nun gasped, dropped the knife in one hand to steady the glass box pointing at Jeff. It stuttered, its frostwave beam wavering like a candle in wind as the nun’s aim faltered. For the first time, fear flashed in her eyes.

Gold suppresses magic. So why was the net singing?

Jeff didn’t wait for an answer. He moved.

Spark’s eyes locked onto his, dimming to almost pure white under the gold’s suppression. Her message was clear: Move. Now. The netting wasn’t just noise; it was a calculated diversion. Every rattle sent vibrations through the nun’s aim, the silvery detection beam flickering erratically as it tried to reacquire its target. Jeff lunged, not at the nun, but at coat rack standing meaningless beside her. He kicked it with everything he had, sending it crashing into her legs. The nun shrieked as the glass box tumbled from her grasp, hitting the ground with a crack that spiderwebbed its casing.

Time bled away. The nun swayed, dazed by the net’s shrieking hum, but her fingers were already reaching for the knife she had dropped.

Jeff didn’t hesitate.

He brought his boot down on her temple, a crunch of bone meeting sole. The nun’s skull cracked under his boot, a sickening, wet pop of cartilage giving way. Her body crumpled, boneless, the knife spinning from her grip like a silver coin tossed into the dark. No hesitation. No remorse. Just the raw calculus of survival: Zephyr trapped, Spark suffocating under gold, Liriel’s voice fraying at the edges of his mind like a dying radio signal.

Jeff was already moving.

The distance between the stairs and Phinsky yawned like a canyon.

Three strides.

His boot slipped on blood-smeared stone -- the nun’s or his own, he didn’t know.

Two strides.

Phinsky’s head snapped up, her fingers dancing toward the cellphone on the table. Too late.

One stride.

Jeff leaped, his body a missile of sweat and rage. His shoulder plowed into her ribs with a thud that knocked the air from both of them. They hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, Phinsky’s phone skittering like a live thing toward the altar steps.

She twisted beneath him, not like a human, but like something liquid, her nails raking for his eyes, her knee driving toward his groin. Jeff barely caught her wrist in time, slamming it down against the floor hard enough to bruise bone.

Her free hand clawed at his face.

He bit down on her free wrist, tasting cloth and something beneath it -- salt and ozone, wrong and electric.

Phinsky hissed. Not in pain.

In recognition.

Then he saw it: the slate-gray turban headband, her ever-present accessory, had slipped. Just an inch. Just enough.

A sliver of dark, almost black, pointed flesh peeked out from beneath the fabric.

Fairy ears.

Jeff’s grip faltered. That was all she needed.

Phinsky bucked, throwing him off with unnatural strength. She scrambled back, her turban hastily adjusted, but the truth was seared into Jeff’s mind.

"You’re one of them," he rasped.

She stood, smoothing her robe with deliberate calm. Then she laughed, a soft, psychiatric chuckle, the kind she’d used when he’d confessed his nightmares in her office.

"Jeffrey," she sighed, retrieving her phone with a bloodied hand. "Stress-induced psychosis is tragic, but predictable. You’re seeing things. Again."

Her thumb hovered over the screen.

"Shall I call the hospital? Or should we discuss your paranoia first?"

Phinsky’s thumb continued to float over the screen, then tapped once. A soft chime echoed through the chapel.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then the gold netting around Spark shivered.

Jeff saw it before he heard it, the wires tightening like a noose, the mesh digging into Spark’s pearl white skin as she arched in silent agony. A thin, keening whine escaped her clenched teeth.

"Stop!" Jeff lurched forward.

Phinsky raised a single, wrinkled finger. "Ah-ah. One more step, and it crushes her wings." A lie: pixies had no wings, but the intent was clear. Permanent damage.

She tilted her head, her turban now perfectly in place, her voice a velvet scalpel. "You’ve always been so... reactive, Jeffrey. Let’s negotiate like adults, shall we?"

The netting pulsed tighter. Spark’s fingers scrabbled against the stone floor, her magic flaring in desperate, guttering bursts, gold poisoning her with every movement.

Phinsky’s hand was still clamped around her phone, her thumb poised over the screen’s remote switch for Spark’s netting, when Jeff stopped fighting her.

Instead, he yanked her toward the one thing she’d been avoiding.

The tray’s edge of the bank of votive candles with gold piping and lettering.

Her eyes flared wide. She twisted, but Jeff was faster. He slammed her bare wrist down onto the tray’s gilded edge.

Skin met gold.

A choked gasp escaped her lips. Her body locked up, muscles seizing as the gold’s nullifying effect raced through her veins like ice. Jeff knew well that feeling. The phone tumbled from her grip, screen flashing:

[COMMAND ABORTED]

Her glamour dissolved. The turban slipped, revealing ears too sharp, too old for her human face. Her pupils shrank to pinpricks, her breath coming in shallow rasps.

"You’re right," Jeff panted, leaning down as she trembled beneath him. "I was hallucinating. I thought you were a monster."

He pressed her wrist deeper into the gold, her skin sizzling like wet paper on a flame.

"Turns out, you’re just weak."

Moments later, Jeff’s hands began the labor of releasing Liriel’s two mothers. A makeshift rope torn from the cassocks of fallen priests burned against his palms as he strained against the gold lattice pinning Zephyr’s black sphere. Every muscle in his body screamed. Gold wasn’t just heavy; it was alive in its malice, resisting him like a living thing.

Just a little more…

With a final heave, the lattice screeched sideways, its gilded bars tearing grooves into the stone floor. The moment it cleared the sphere, Jeff collapsed, his lungs heaving. The ropes slipped from his grasp, fibers snapping like over-tuned guitar strings.

The sphere shuddered. A hairline fracture split its obsidian surface, then another, until the entire structure unfolded like a cursed flower.

Zephyr spilled out, gasping, her skin flickering with dying embers of purples, violets, and blacks. She looked at Jeff, her eyes wide with disorientation -- then terror.

“Jeff! Behind you!”

The nuns descended the stairs not as individuals, but as a single entity, their white habits whispering against the stone. Ten of them. Ten gold crucifixes clutched in ten steady hands.

Jeff moved on instinct.

The first nun died with his elbow in her throat, her crucifix clattering to the ground. The second, he kicked backward into the third, their bodies tangling like broken marionettes. The fourth swung her cross. Jeff caught her wrist and twisted until bone snapped.

But gold was merciless.

A crucifix grazed his shoulder, and his body locked up, nerves shrieking as the nullifying effect tore through him. He crashed to his knees, vision swimming.

Zephyr’s voice cut through the haze:

“STOP!”

Liriel cried, “Mother!”

The word wasn’t a plea. It was a detonation.

Time fractured.

First, sound vanished. The nuns’ screams, the creak of the church… gone. Replaced by a pressure so immense that Jeff felt his eardrums pop.

Then, light.

A single, searing point erupted above Zephyr, swelling faster than thought. Jeff’s mind scrambled to process it: Was this her? Was this Liriel? But there was no time.

The world unmade itself. The air split. Not like thunder. Not like anything natural. This was the sound of a seam in creation tearing, a scream from the throat of the universe itself.

Light came first, not light as brightness, but light as annihilation. It swallowed the church whole, etching the shadows of the nuns into the walls for a single, grotesque second before they too were erased from existence. The stained-glass saints melted mid-prayer, their colors bleeding together like wet oil paint.

Then… the silence.

Not the absence of sound, but the murder of it. Jeff’s eardrums collapsed inward, his breath stolen mid-gasp. He could see Zephyr’s mouth open in a scream, but the world had lost the privilege of noise.

The ground folded. The parking lot’s asphalt rippled upward in a wave, then crystallized mid-air, becoming a jagged monument of glass and steel. Cars compressed into cubes, their alarms dying unborn. The grass didn’t burn; it transmuted, blades twisting into shards of obsidian that sang as they cooled.

And the trees…

God, the trees. Trees a hundred yards away burst like overripe fruit, their trunks sheared into jagged spears. They then exploded backward, roots spinning, clawing at the sky as if trying to escape the earth. It wasn’t like the trunks snapped; they unraveled, splintering into a million toothpicks that hung suspended, caught in the last gasp of gravity before turning to dust.

Somewhere in the maelstrom, Jeff thought he saw Phinsky’s shadow. Not her body, but the impression of her, mouth open in a final, silent curse, before the light licked her away like a flame taking parchment.

Then, as suddenly as it began… stillness.

The basement stood.

Above it, nothing.

No church. No sky. Just a yawning, inverted void, as if God had pressed a thumb into the earth and left it there.

And from the heart of it, a child’s giggle.

Zephyr stood frozen, her hands outstretched as if she could claw back what she’d seen unleashed. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

The nuns were gone.

Not dead. Erased.

Their habits lay in crumpled piles, the gold crucifixes melted into their chest cavities, as if the metal had sought to fuse with their hearts in a final act of devotion.

Spark stirred weakly under her netting, her fingers twitching. She’d seen it all: the blast, the dissolution, but the gold still pinned her, its weight relentless.

Jeff crawled toward Zephyr, his voice raw:

“Did you… mean to do that?”

She turned to him, her eyes wide with something worse than fear: recognition.

“No,” she whispered. “Not me.”

A pause. Then, softer:

“That was Liriel.”

The rubble near the altar shifted.

Phinsky’s body, what was left of it, lay half-buried under shattered stone, her turban askew, her hybrid ears finally, irrevocably exposed. Her lips were parted, as if in mid-sentence. A silver and black rosary at her side had fused to her skin, the metal seared black.

Jeff stared at her, then at the destruction beyond.

The lawn was molten glass. The trees, toothpicks in a furnace. The sky, empty.

And Liriel -- unborn, unseen, unstoppable -- had done it all with a cry of Mother.

Zephyr sank to her knees.

“What have we made?”

Jeff knelt beside Zephyr, his hand hovering over the glassed earth. The heat had faded, but the ground thrummed, like a heartbeat under his palm. “Your mother foretold of this.”

Then, a whisper, not in his ears, but in his bones:

“Father? Did I do bad?”

Zephyr jerked back, but Jeff held still.

“No, firefly,” he murmured. “You saved us.”

The glow in the sky pulsed once, warm as a held breath.

Spark, finally free of the netting, let out a shaky laugh in clear English. “Oh, we are so fucked.”

Jeff frowned, “Too much TV, Spark.”

 

EPILOGUE: FIRST SESSION

The leather chair sighed as the patient settled into it, fingers digging into its arms like he expected it to swallow him whole. Across the desk, the psychiatrist's face remained politely neutral, a mask honed by years of practice. The nameplate on the desk simply read:

DR. GARDNER

Clinical Psychiatry

"You mentioned on your intake form that you've been experiencing... visual disturbances." Dr. Gardner's voice was smooth, genderless, the kind of carefully modulated tone that could belong to anyone. "Can you describe them for me?"

The patient, a gaunt man with bitten-down nails, leaned forward. "They're not hallucinations," he said, too quickly. "I know how that sounds. But these things... they're real. Just not…" He made a frustrated gesture. "Not here real."

A pen scratched across paper. The office hummed with the sound of the air conditioner, the occasional rustle of fabric as Dr. Gardner shifted.

"Give me an example."

"The crows," the man blurted. "They watch me. Not from trees; from the edges of things. From where the sidewalk cracks. From the space between floorboards." His throat worked. "Last Tuesday, one crawled out of my bathroom mirror and…"

A soft click as Dr. Gardner set down the pen.

"And what did it do?"

The question hung in the air, weighted. The patient blinked, suddenly uncertain. There was something about the way Dr. Gardner had asked. Not clinical curiosity, but something closer to recognition.

"It spoke," he whispered.

The air conditioner cycled off. In the sudden silence, the patient realized he couldn't hear Dr. Gardner breathing.

"What did it say?"

The words slithered between them, too intent, too hungry to be professional. The patient's palms slicked with sweat.

"It said…" His voice broke. "It said 'She remembers you.'"

A heartbeat. Two.

Then Dr. Gardner leaned forward, just enough for the light to catch attentive eyes -- eyes that swallowed the light like pits of liquid obsidian.

"Good."

The patient recoiled. That voice. That word. It hadn't been human. Not quite.

Dr. Gardner stood in one fluid motion, the chair rolling back soundlessly. She circled the desk with predatory grace, stopping just outside the patient's personal space.

"You're not crazy, Mr. Alvarez," Dr. Gardner said, except the voice was different now, layered with something ancient and chiming. "You're gifted."

A hand extended toward him, pale and perfect. The overhead lights winked off something metallic on a wrist, a slender chain, gold gone green with age.

"Shall we begin your real treatment?"

The nameplate on the desk rattled. Then, with a sound like cracking ice, the letters separated themselves with six more resolving into:

DR. LIRIEL GARDNER

Specialist, Unseen Phenomena