Zai kicked his door shut behind him, tossing the latest stack of wanted posters onto his already overflowing table. A small package caught his eye, and he groaned, flicking aside a note bearing his father’s handwriting. But the box was void of the
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Transfiguration Church’s Pasta Night was the same every year: an all-you-can-eat Italian buffet, two hundred parishioners cramming the American Legion Hall, old folks doing “YMCA,” and the 50-50 raffle.
My sister Cecily and I always spent every minute in the bar.
Not for the booze.
I had no problem leaving Spark Spaulding stuck in Albanue’s prison sewers. He was responsible for this mess, so I figured Spark could rely on advice he’d given before: “The worst prison is the one in your head.”
I didn’t count on his
“Look! It’s Spark Spaulding!”
Lachlan looked instead at his little sister, since one of his life goals was to avoid a repeat of last year’s “look, a flying corgi” humiliation. Angelica’s face beamed “ga-ga fangirl,” so he scanned Marine’s crowded open-air market.
“Lord Paraguin.” My advisor hurried after me. “We must do something about the land Lord Egerton seized.”
I quickened my pace with a huff. Think! That was never my strong suit, but I was thrust into this role after barely reaching adulthood
So many promises. So little time.
I raced over the mossy ground.
We’re counting on you, Spark.
My sister, Quietus’s words rang through my mind like bells in the village square. She was right. No one else could do this. I just had to
Colors flickered along the ad wall beside me as a female voice extolled the benefits of a visit to the Olympus Mons spa. You can’t be talking to me.
“Kytt Windthorn!” The AI must have sensed my disinterest, swapping its sultry tone for a knife-edge. “Don’t you want to go to Mars?”
My Uncle Joe is an overachiever. He’s fulfilled legendary quests for the Queen, survived the krakens of the southern oceans, and is the only merchant who hasn’t been robbed by pirates—if you believe his hours-long tales.
Uncle Joe’s exploits nearly always took place out on the high seas, inaccessible to anyone but
Katherine Smyth needed a miracle.
The anti-matter induction chamber was history. Instead of a silvery sphere nestled in the heart of the Fortunato’s engine, a metal flower blossomed, as if opening toward weak sunlight. Her toolkit slipped from numb fingers, thudding onto the deck. Without the chamber, the Fortunato had no engines.
“You’re making enough noise to wake the dead,” Dad said from over my shoulder as I upended every bit of stainless-steel-ware in the kitchen drawer, trying to find my giant soup spoon.
“Well, you’d know,” I quipped, “considering you’ve been dead three years.” Then I turned to ask, “What brings you back this time?”
Wan December sunlight shone down on Fairyland, softening the edges of nearby buildings. The clear blue sky boded well for the first day of business at Frank’s Detective Agency.
My detective agency.
I turned toward my desk, clapping my fore-hooves in anticipation. Perhaps my first case would be a big one, like those portrayed
Ice battered the door as Newt flipped his farm sign to “Closed” and released a happy sigh. Another year of cutting and baling noble firs seven times his height and trying not to get squashed by troll customers was complete.
He’d survived.
He pressed his body against the door, fighting the wind
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