For Therrus, another day began with total irritation.
He was already like a volcano, ready to explode even from the smallest microscopic provocation. Such permanent irritation had long become habitual for him, because the Earth Initiative demanded he send weekly reports.
He hated preparing these reports, so he did not do so.
“Agent Therrus, are you insinuating your cover has been compromised?”
I opened my mouth but swiftly shut it again. Is that what I’m trying to say?
The hologram of my Earthan Initiative contact lifted an impatient brow. Intergalactic calls were tricky as well as costly. When initiated, it was better to keep them “short and sweet” as humans said.
The wooden attic floorboards cradled the dying body of Mr. Evergreen.
“What happened, sir?” I set down my candle and wicker basket, palms sweating. Long shadows raced across the floorboards, the light illuminating a knife. The smell of moth balls and old cedar flooded my senses as I knelt. This was not an accident.
Dorius swaggered into the arena as the crowd roared.
The Praeco shouted, “The fourth gladiator in this final combat of our games is the Emperor’s champion! Visiting us in Hispania from distant Rome, victor of sixty battles against men and beasts, I give you Dorius Gratius!”
Dorius raised his short sword in salute.
Dorian staggered as he dropped unceremoniously from the portal. With one hand, he clutched at the strap of the leather portrait tube slung on his back, ensuring that its precious cargo survived the trip. With his other, he gripped the scroll containing the spell that brought him to this place.
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No one in New York paid attention. He liked that.
He also particularly relished this post-rain sunshine.
Taking a deep breath, Dorian started toward the waterfront. This was his ideal way to start the day. It had been for a century.
Immigrating to New York had been his best move.
The museum director faced the crowd. “Everyone, raise a glass for this evening’s brilliant artist. To Helen!”
“Helen!” Voices thundered in unison as afficionados lifted their wine goblets, then sipped the crimson nectar.
Helen drank in the praise, her gaze focused on the lone glass that remained lifted. The vessel lowered, revealing the frank blue eyes of its beholder.
Richard Mohr stood outside his sister’s room for a full minute, eyes shut tight, not wanting to enter. Then, taking a deep breath, he plunged in.
“You’re late, you little stink.”
Kimberly-Anne’s eyes were somehow sharper than her words: a scowling blue, like chips cleaved off a glacier.
“Five minutes.”
At first, Dorian Gray found it intoxicating, being the eternally youthful, dashingly handsome hockey star. Fans mobbed him after games, eager for his autograph.
Competitors who slammed him into the boards, only to see him jump up unscathed, didn’t understand how he did it.
“Oh, good, I caught up to you! I was afraid I’d be too late. No, please don’t go—that door is always locked anyway, so you can’t get out that way unless you find someone with the right tune key. And there was something I wanted to talk to you about.”
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Harmony often found her name ironic.
Peaceful moments spent strumming her ukelele or holding a fluffy, sleeping animal formed only a fraction of her days. The rest was a hodge-podge of chaotic attempts to keep up with her ever-forgotten to-do list, budget for food and rent, and chase down magical varmints that would rather
Eric pushed through the underbrush, cursing the strange echo effect in the valley. He could hear the faint strains of the ukulele, but locating the sound was nearly impossible. “I’m probably going in circles,” he groused.
As he stepped over a spindly creek, a large shadow blocked out the filtered sunlight.
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