Cannon and rifle smoke hid the battlefield, but drifted off when the survivors from both sides ceased fire and withdrew. Ten thousand men were then revealed, dead or dying on the ground. The bodies lay in windrows, in drifts, movement here and there among them. The living, looking on from behind the lines, heard moans, cries, the sobbing of young men facing death before their lives had got well begun.

The random gunshots of snipers kept the medics, scavengers, and circling vultures at bay. It was not yet time to treat the fallen as scrap, as surplus. Littering the ground, they were not quite litter. The contents of their pockets, and of their eye sockets, would remain their own for a short while longer. Even the flies hadn't arrived.

The streams that crossed the plain trickled under and around the bodies, or were dammed up behind piles of them. Bodies floated in pools of impounded, dark pink water. The wounded soldier who drank the water, desperate with thirst, also drank the blood of his comrades and of the enemy.

On the northern edge of the killing field, two officers stood beside the corpse of the hated Lieutenant Stroud, sprawled motionless, face-down, in the mud, the back of his skull caved in. Fate, evidently, had not provided Lieutenant Stroud with a chance to die in glorious battle. The enemy had not advanced far enough to kill the Lieutenant in this way. Only one of his own men could have done so. That man, most likely, was now no more than compost wrapped snugly in a uniform lying out on in the mud, while his soul, and Stroud's, faced each other in some other place.

My love, she gazed below her
At cold waves that cried, "beware!"
While in her face there faintly
Whispered traces of despair.

She turned to me and nodded,
And all I could do was stare.
I heard her laughing faintly
As she stepped into the air.

I called her name to stop her
But she was no longer there.
And in the breeze there faintly
Shivered echoes of her hair.

Our family has lived in Old Harbor, Nova Scotia, for generations. My father is a cobbler, but many of my ancestors worked as fishermen on the Grand Banks or as whalers. My older brother always talked about going to sea himself. When he graduated from high school, he went down to Halifax and got his SIU ticket. After he left home and sailed away on a cargo ship, a post card would arrive every now and then from ports all over the world. I determined to find a spot on a freighter of my own when I was old enough, and follow in his footsteps.

I would go walking on the shore, along the green line of wrack at the edge of the surf, with salt spume blowing off the water and over my shoes. Looking out past the dark emerald rollers breaking with a roar, I'd imagine my ship disappearing over the horizon on the way to West Africa. I always pictured myself on the deck of a massive iron ship with wind in my hair and the flag of some Central American country cracking like gunshots on the mast reaching into the blue sky above me.

"I'm not asking you to take over my business," my father would say to me. "You don't need to be a shoemaker. But go to college. You're a bright kid. Learn something about the world from books and professors, not from the crew of a rusty scow on its way down to Guyana."

Instead of listening to him, I'd pull out my brother's postcards and study the exotic pictures on them, and their strange stamps from foreign lands.

I attended high school in Black Hill. Old Harbor was too small to support one. My final year, I met a girl named Abbey. This was my first romance and I felt more than a little crazy most of the time.

"Your dad is right, Frank," Abbey would say. "With your grades and test scores, and the hockey, you can go to any school you want to. If we choose the same one, we can stay together next year."

Up until then, I had never had a second thought about my future, never a doubt. I knew what I was going to do. Now, I agonized. Abbey and I had gone farther with each other than with anybody else before. The time we spent together, a closeness more intense than we were equipped to handle, created a bond between us that kept Abbey on my mind every waking minute.

"How could she even like me?" I would ask my father.

"Good question."

"No, I mean it, Dad. I don't know who she thinks I am, but if she ever wises up, she'll drop me like a hot rock."

In spite of my fears, however, she didn't wise up.

"What about college?" she would say instead. "I'm sending in my applications. What about you?"

It reached the point where I couldn't put off a decision any longer.

I might have chosen college if I wasn't living so close to the sea, if I didn't walk so often down a sand path through the beach grasses and saltbush to the shore, if the sound of the surf wasn't in my ears every night when I lay in bed. I might have felt differently then, but the magic of that water, the sheer size of the ocean, spreading wide to the horizon, north, east, and south, deep and restless, infected me. Its color changed, from blue to green to gray to black sparkling with moonlight and phosphorescence. I couldn't let it go.

We kept a small boat in the bay and I'd take it out when I wanted to think. Sitting out in the chop, lying on the oars, with the water clopping the wood of the hull, the ocean's surface alive with sunlight in points and lines on the sharp edges of wind-kicked riffles, I would fix my eyes on the horizon. The boat bobbed under me and then, when the wind passed, it would settle to rest on the swells that passed underneath it.

I finally decided that if I went to college with Abbey, I might begin to resent her for preventing me from following my lifelong dream. On the other hand, after traveling the world, I could always come back to her. If she didn't wait for me, it would prove she didn't love me enough anyway. A thought away from that, though I didn't admit it to myself, was that there would be exotic women in every port. The reasoning of a kid. One of the moments in life when a choice matters and will echo down the years.

Our romance took on a different feel after that, with Abbey applying to her schools and me obtaining a passport and applying to the seaman's union. I had chosen my dream over Abbey and she looked at me in a different way after that. I was tearing us apart. Not some external force. Me.

We said everything that there was to say several times over and then we didn't talk about anything that mattered anymore. We spent the time together. She wept. So did I, a time or two. We didn't talk about why. I had doubts. They grew. I didn't talk to my dad about them.

Abbey lived in Little Lawton and I'd drive my dad's car over there and we'd walk along the cliffs above the water, or make our way down a split in the cliff cut by a creek, and follow the shore, holding hands, talking about life. Mostly, I think, we were just waiting for that final moment.

Just at the end of the school year, my brother Charley came home. He had had his hair cut in Halifax and bought a fresh pair of jeans and a new shirt and he was tanned and bigger than I remembered and looked healthy and happy.

He told us tales full of adventure and met Abbey and later she told me that she could see why I had chosen the life of a sailor over her. I wanted to say that it wasn't so, but of course, it was.

Charley was surprised when he heard about my plans.

"Don't do it, Frank," he said. "I like telling tales but the truth is, I'm not going back to sea. I'm going to go to school like I should have in the first place, and like I thought you were now."

I just stared at him.

"It's a tedious life," he said. "You don't learn much. You don't make many friends. The crews are small. With a girl like Abbey and your life ahead of you, you'd be a fool to go to sea."

I told him that I didn't believe him. He shook his head and shrugged and helped my dad in the shop, and made school arrangements in Quebec. My world turned upsidedown. I realized that, all of a sudden, I wanted to run back to Abbey and tell her the whole thing had been a mistake, but the idea seemed shaming.

I heard nothing about my union application. When I called the SIU, the man I spoke to told me that no application had been filed. When I hung up, I saw Charley watching me.

"I know a couple of the fellows in the Halifax office," he said. "They were the ones who helped me find a boat in the first place. When I told them about you, they were happy to help me out by losing your papers. I've done you a great favor, Frank, believe me."

"What am I going to tell Abbey?" I said. "I chose the sea over her. Now I go back and tell her you screwed it up for me? It's too late for me to go off to college with her anyway."

"Tell her the truth," Charley said.

I drove over to Little Lawton in complete turmoil. I pictured Abbey slapping me in the face. I felt a relief beyond speaking, overlaid with confusion and anxiety that kept me from forming a single cogent thought. I was desperate.

"Abbey," I said. "I was crazy. I was so wrong. I guess you can't forgive me, but I love you and I don't want to leave you."

She took a minute and I saw several expressions cross her face.

"What changed your mind?" she said.

I wanted to tell her that my love overcame all, that I had known all along that I was doing the wrong thing. I wanted to lie through my teeth.

"Charley changed my mind," I said.

She took another minute. She nodded.

"Good," she said.

"Josie has the same three items on her New Year's Resolution list every year. It isn't that she never finishes them; she does, every single time, but she purposefully made her goals vague enough so she could accomplish all three things in a different way each year."

I reached into the pocket of my jeans and pulled out a well-worn folded piece of paper, which I handed over to Stan. I had just met Stan this morning. He had a friendly face; tan and etched with laugh lines, and was doing me a huge favor, so I had no reservations about sharing the list with him.

Stan smiled at me with his twinkling blue-grey eyes and gingerly unfolded the paper. I noticed that he was careful to hold on to it tight, afraid it might blow away in the wind. As I saw his eyes moving over the piece of paper, I pictured the words he was reading. I'd had the list memorized for months now.

Josie's New Year's Resolutions:
1. Do something nice for a stranger.
2. Do something that scares me.
3. Treat myself to something lavish.

He re-folded it and handed it back to me, to be put back into my pocket.

"Every year?" he asked.

"Every year. I remember one year in December, she took her entire paycheck to the store and used it to buy the Christmas presents of the other people in her checkout aisle. That was her 'something nice for a stranger' that year. She had saved up for months beforehand to be able to live without that paycheck. Then, there was the time she dragged me to every fair in a hundred mile radius one summer before she found a mechanical bull to ride. She was terrified. But she did it. Lasted only 4 seconds, but she did it anyways, and I've never seen her laugh so hard."

Stan smiled and shook his head. "Sounds like quite a young lady. And now?"

I took a deep breath. "And now, her list is my list. Which is the entire reason I'm here today. In a hot air balloon. A million miles above the ground." As I talked, I gripped the basket of the balloon that Stan was piloting. We had started the morning in a grassy field, with his balloon crew of about 5 other people. We weren't the only ones; Stan's balloon was part of the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta that took place every year.

Stan knew I was afraid of heights, which is why he had suggested I might feel more comfortable if I watched and helped out with the setup of the balloon. I was introduced to his flight team this morning, and then watched interestedly as they started setting everything up. I didn't realize how much work went into getting a hot air balloon up in the air until I saw it in action myself. The team worked swiftly but carefully, which was reassuring to me. They unloaded the wicker basket along with some other equipment I didn't recognize, and then the balloon. It was massive. I somehow hadn't expected it to be that big.

I hesitated when they asked me if I wanted to help hold one of the cables when they started inflation, but I decided if I was there, I may as well get the most out of the experience. I gripped tight on the cable as I watched the nylon monster in front of me filling with air. When they started what they called the "hot inflation", I could feel the heat from the fire and almost gasped in surprise as the balloon started gracefully rising. Once it was standing straight up in the air, I heard Stan yell, "WEIGHT ON!" That was everyone's cue to lean on to the basket to help keep it from floating away. I gladly handed my cable over to another crew member and looked around as I helped hold the basket down. The field was dotted with colorful balloons in various stages of setup, and a few of them had already taken to the sky.

Stan's balloon was blue and yellow, with a diagonal black-and-white checkerboard design zig zagging around it. I loved it and was intimidated by it, all at the same time. I steeled myself as I climbed into the basket ("No door on this basket", Stan had said, "It's up and over or down and out."), and watched Stan hop in, making it look like nothing at all. Before I knew it, we had started to slowly float off the ground. I could feel my heart pounding as we slowly rose higher and higher, and I tried to concentrate on Stan. I watched him checking gauges and pulling ropes, and closed my eyes as I heard the fire blast when he pulled that particular cord to send us even higher.

I felt a little dizzy at first, but at one point I took a chance to peek out of the balloon, and the sight of the clear blue sky being filled with colorful dots was so beautiful that it was a little difficult to be terrified anymore. That's when I had started talking with Stan, after I had mostly calmed my nerves and found my voice again. We chatted about ourselves, and I found out he had been attending the Fiesta ever since he was a boy, when his parents had decided to become balloonists on a whim. I told him more about Josie, my best friend since we were 12. He said she sounded like a fascinating person.

I gave him a small smile. "She is. She's so bubbly and bright, and you just can't help but smile when you're around her."

His eyes crinkled when he smiled. "Well, we're starting to come down now. You'll feel a bump when we hit the ground, but I'll make it as gentle as possible. Then I expect your Josie will want to hear all about your morning."

Later that afternoon, after going home and washing up, I walked into the Albuquerque Medical Arts Building. I'd walked the path a thousand times by now, it was almost automatic. In the front doors, to the elevators, 3rd floor, sixth room on the right. The name outside the door was Josephine Abrams. I greeted her nurses, who waved me in right away. They were familiar with me. Josie was the only one in the room, but the fresh bowl of daisies (her favorite) on the table told me someone (or several someones) from her family had been in to visit today.

I looked at my best friend, hooked up to tubes and monitors, unconscious as usual. She had been in a vehicle accident four months ago and had been in a coma ever since. Even in her state of unconsciousness, she somehow seemed bright. I pulled the visitor's chair up to her bedside, smiled at her, and began chatting about my day. I told her how scared I had been, but how proud of myself I felt when I did it, and what a good time I'd had once I finally relaxed. I talked to her for longer than I realized, and before I knew it, felt my stomach growling to signal dinner time. Before I left, I set a hot air balloon keychain on the table next to her bed. I also took out her resolution list and unfolded it, placing it on her table.

"Well, my Josie Jo, I think it's time I returned your list to you. Doing something scary was the last thing on it for this year, which is good, because I don't know if I would have been as creative as you were about thinking up ways to help strangers. It's finished. I'm returning it and I know you won't mind, because I've got my own New Year's Resolution list now."

I squeezed her hand and said goodbye, but not before pulling out my resolution list and unfolding it. The paper was brand new, unlike her list. I read the words on it again, smiling at my new resolution; the first resolution I had ever made that I knew I would take seriously in years to come:

Be more like Josie.

Navigate your way around ancient crypts and underground caverns in search of hidden treasure and a way to see down Lara's top.

Tinsel (n): Thin strip of shiny foil used as decoration. Most often noticed when a piece is hanging out of the cat's butt.

Strangers at the door
Strangers eating all my food
Related strangers

"I'm a good boy. I promise." He held up three fingers in the classic Boy Scout pledge. "Besides, you work with my sister. And you know Samantha. One bad word from her and I'd be permanently banned from all future family events."

Still, she wavered. "I don't know. I don't want things to be awkward. I'd rather Samantha didn't know, to tell you the truth. I have a policy of not getting involved with co-workers' relatives."

He laughed. "I wouldn't say we're 'involved'. We're just two horror geeks comparing collections. Come on, you know you're dying to see my first edition Dracula."

"Well…" she hesitated, clearly torn.

"What if I promise Samantha won't find out?" he asked. "We'll wait until the lights drop for the annual Monster Mash Costume Parade and then we'll sneak out through the kitchen. Nobody will ever know."

"You just don't take 'no' for an answer, do you?" The smile on her face offset the harsh words.

"There's a reason why I'm the successful one in the family," he replied modestly.

This time she did laugh out loud. "I wouldn't let Samantha hear you say that."

As if on cue, the lights dimmed and the classic Monster Mash blared through the house.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the kitchen. She tried to watch out for Samantha, but he was right; nobody was paying attention. They were too busy lining up for the costume parade.

Seconds later, they were out of the house and safely ensconced in his car.

"Told you, no problem at all. They'll never even miss us." He paused as a thought occurred to him. "Unless they notice they have more cars than guests."

"They won't. I caught the bus over from my apartment."

"Perfect! Fate is obviously smiling on a pair of horror lovers."

She laughed at his enthusiasm. "How could it not? After all, it's Halloween, our equivalent of Valentine's Day."

"On that note, are you a voyeur or an exhibitionist?"

She froze, then reached for the door handle.

"Wait. I was talking about the collections. You know, tying it into the Valentine's Day conversation. Do you want to see my collection or show off yours?"

Relaxing, she pulled her hand back. "In that case, I'm definitely a voyeur. I've been practically drooling over the thought of seeing your books, not to mention the life-sized coffin."

He clutched at his chest. "Ah, music to my heart. A woman who can appreciate a well-made coffin. I may be in love."

It only took a few minutes to get to his house. She looked anxious as they pulled into the garage and the door closed behind them.

"Nothing to worry about. I like vampires, I don't emulate them."

She laughed nervously. "It's just that this is out of character for me. I don't usually go home with men I just met."

"You obviously just don't hang out in the right places," he said with a boyish grin. "Come on, I can't wait to see your face when you check out the interior of that coffin."

An hour later, she flopped onto his sofa with a contented sigh. "You're right. I need to get out more. You have the most amazing stuff!"

He sat down next to her and threw his feet up on the coffee table. "I like to think so. Samantha thinks I'm crazy to spend so much money on it, but I tell her she shouldn't complain. It's my only vice. I don't drink, I don't smoke, I exercise every day. I could do worse things than collect vampire ephemera."

"Ephemera. I like that. Makes it sound classy instead of cheesy."

He stood up with feigned offense. "Cheesy? You dare suggest it might be called cheesy?"

She grabbed his hand and pulled him down beside her.

"I would never do that. In fact, I have nothing but total admiration for the mind that could assemble such an impressive collection." She leaned closer. "It makes me wonder what else that mind could do, if it tried."

He looked deep into her eyes. "I really am a good guy, you know." She moved a little closer.

Reigning in his impulses, he leaned back and closed his eyes.

"So, tell me about your passion. You mentioned all things horror. Do you have a favorite area?"

"I love it all, but my favorite has to be zombies."

His eyes flew open. "Wow. I wouldn't have guessed that one. Most women hate zombies. I always figured it was because of their looks."

"That's an unfair stereotype," she whispered in his ear.

"Of women or of zombies?" he asked.

"Of zombies, of course. Women are always shallow. Zombies, on the other hand, are misunderstood." He shuddered as she traced his jawline with her finger.

"And you know the truth, is that what you're saying?"

"I've made it my mission to learn all about zombies." One of her hands drifted into his hair, gently caressing. He tried to focus on the conversation.

"What are some zombie myths that need busted?" he asked.

"First, they don't have body parts falling off them. It's really ridiculous, if you think about it." She pressed her body closer to his. "What good would a zombie be if they fell apart with every step? You might as well throw a scarecrow at somebody."

He laughed softly. "Good point. What else has your research uncovered?"

"Next, I'd bust the myth that they are brainless. Zombies are, by definition, the walking dead. Their bodies are dead, not their brains. Otherwise they'd never be able to walk or obey commands. An undead can be just as intelligent as a living person. Maybe more so, since their undying minds have had decades and sometimes centuries longer to accumulate knowledge."

"Interesting theory. Anything else?" he asked.

Her hands moved again, caressing him in ways that almost made him forget his Boy Scout pledge. He thought of Samantha and her reaction if he let his body carry out what his mind was thinking.

"Well, there's the stereotype that zombies can't be sexy. If you assume that my first two points are true, then by default you have to acknowledge that an undead person with a perfectly preserved body and keen mind could be attractive. They could definitely have hidden talents that would blow the minds of the average warm-blooded person. It has the potential to be one of the greatest weapons in their arsenal."

She nibbled gently on his ear. He gave the Boy Scout thing one last try.

"Are there any of the zombie myths that you do believe?" he asked.

"Only one," she replied.

"Which is?"

"That zombies can only feed on warm human flesh."

"If zombies are as clever and resourceful as you say, couldn't they find a substitute?"

He wasn't sure how she did it, but suddenly she was straddling him, pressing her body to his. Wrapping her hands in his hair, she leaned forward and teased his lips. His body responded automatically. Samantha would just have to deal with the consequences.

She pulled back a little and looked into his eyes.

"They could find a substitute. But nothing tastes as good as hot, juicy human flesh. It's one of the most erotic things you can ever imagine."

Pain tore across his senses as her teeth sunk into his neck.

Othioto made sure to lock the door after he let Sestl in. The room was a cluttered mess, with papers, notebooks, broadsides and drawings set up everywhere. Sestl smiled when he looked around. Or at least he seemed to smile, but with the Low People, Othioto could never be sure. He still wasn’t very good at reading their expressions. “Wow, Cantur. Writing a book?”

The use of his assumed name sent a twinge of anxiety through Othioto’s chest. It mixed with the hope that today would be the last day he had to answer to it.

“Let me straighten up,” Othioto said. “It’ll only be a minute.”

While he picked up papers and tried to put them into some kind of order, Sestl moved over to the window and looked down at the street below. “Huh,” he said. “Would you look at that. A bunch of Blues in this part of the city.”

For a moment, Othioto wanted to panic. He glanced in the mirror just to reassure himself that his disguise held, and it did ”“ a flat, grey-skinned, mottled face looked back at him. He was covered in sores and warts, cracks in the skin that opened and bled. His teeth were broken and stained, his eyes were dull and flat. He twisted the opal ring on his index finger and sighed with relief.

Like the Low People he was pretending to be, he was hideous, yet he was adorned with jewels and gold and clothes of the finest fabric and cut. He wore dozens of gold hoops in his ears, pulling the lobes down nearly to his shoulders. He had a ring on every finger, and they were set with gems that sparkled in even the dimmest light. Silver thread ran through his woolen cloak and fine linen shirt, and he wore a choker of rare shells and stones. The Low People prized their finery, and for good reason.

Othioto joined Sestl at the window and watched the small group of Necoli pass by.

Strictly speaking, no Low Person was supposed to lay eyes on the Necoli. Centuries of tradition demanded that they avert their gaze, but it was hard not to look. They were tall and slender, with skin the blue of a radiant autumn sky. Bright and iridescent scales were scattered about their bodies and caught the sun, throwing off glimmering colors, and their hair shone like polished silver. Necoli wore no garments to cover their beauty, and they possessed no jewelry ”“ they never saw a need for either. They called themselves the Children of the Sky and claimed descent from the gods that oversaw their world.

“Damned Blues,” Sestl growled, and Othioto started at the disgust in his voice. “Think they’re so damned perfect.” He turned away from the window. “You ever actually meet one of ”˜em, Cantur?”

“I… Actually…”

“I did,” Sestl said. “Once. One of ”˜em came down here ”“ in person, no less - to buy some cookware, of all things.” He chuckled. “Some woman with a whole troupe of bodyguards around her. Poor thing looked terrified. Like she was going to turn ugly just by being outside the Walls.”

Othioto put down a bundle of papers. “Maybe she just… didn’t know better,” he said.

“What does she have to know?” Sestl asked. “Believe me, if she could’ve gotten her pots and pans any other way, she would have. All those Blues would be happier if we just went away, you ask me.” He shrugged. “But then where would they get their pots and pans?”

“I don’t know,” Othioto said. He pulled a chair around and Sestl settled into it with a sigh. “Maybe… Maybe if the Necoli knew more about… us, they wouldn’t be so afraid to come out here.”

Sestl’s eyebrows shot up. “You kidding, Cantur?”

“No,” Othioto said quietly. “I really think so.”

The unavoidable moment was twisting Othioto’s guts. He licked his lips. “Sestl… We’ve known each other for a while, haven’t we?”

“Sure,” Sestl said. “Since I saved you from getting the soul beat out of you at the summer festival.” He laughed. “I still can’t believe you wandered out there without any pants on.”

Othioto cleared his throat. “Yes, well -”

“You know, I still tell that story, too. I think you get drunker every time I tell it.”

“Sestl, please.”

“And I have to confess something, Cantur.” He was able to hold a serious look on his face for a few seconds before he cracked up. “I nearly didn’t even step in. I was just laughing too hard.” He started cackling, rocking back in the chair.

“Sestl!”

The other man slowly regained his composure. “I’m sorry, Cantur. It’s just…” He reached out and poked Othioto in the shoulder. “It really was funny.”

“Yes,” Othioto said. “I guess it was.” He started twisting the opal ring on his finger. Sestl’s eyes flickered down to it and back up. “Sestl, there’s a reason why I did that. And it wasn’t because I was drunk.”

He took a deep breath and looked Sestl in the eyes. “I can trust you, Sestl, can’t I?” he asked.

Sestl seemed surprised by the question. Surprised enough that he took a moment to think, and answered without a hint of sarcasm. “Yeah, Cantur,” he said. “Of course. You know you can.”

“Okay.” Othioto stood up and straightened his shirt. “Sestl,” he said, a little louder than he meant to, “I am not who you think I am.” Sestl was looking at him with a carefully blank expression. “My name is not Cantur,” he said. “It’s Othioto.”

Sestl’s eyes went wide at the name and how it had been said. Low People didn’t have names like that.

“Sestl,” Othioto said. “This is who I am.” With a swift motion, he pulled the opal ring off his finger. In a few heartbeats, his body shifted and changed, revealing his true Necoli form. It felt strange to be wearing clothes, looking like this. He tried not to scratch.

Sestl shot out of his seat and tried to open the door. He pulled at the handle, whimpering under his breath.

“No! No, Sestl, please! Don’t do that!” Othioto reached out and took Sestl by the arm. “Look at me, Sestl,” he said. He grabbed the man’s chin and turned his face towards him. “Look at me!”

It took a moment before Sestl cracked his eyes open, and then he clenched them shut again. A moment later, and he was looking again. This time, he kept his eyes on Othioto’s face. The Necoli smiled, and Sestl flinched. “My name is Othioto,” he said again. “I’m from the university in the Inner City, and I’ve been living among the Low People for the last year, learning your ways.” He held up the ring. “This allows me to disguise myself.”

Sestl looked from the ring to Othioto and back again.

“I’ve been putting together a book,” Othioto said, smiling. “All about the Low People and how you live. It’s really fascinating, and it’ll be the first book of its kind ever published.”

Sestl just stared at him.

“You… you might say something,” Othioto said after a moment. He slid the ring back onto his finger and felt the familiar shift as he changed. “There,” he said. “That might be easier.”

“Take it off,” Sestl growled. He wasn’t looking at Othioto anymore.

“What?” He started to reach out when Sestl wheeled around and punched him. Othioto dropped to the floor, whimpering in pain. His jaw throbbed and tears came to his eyes. When he looked up, Sestl was standing above him, his fists clenched and his face red.

“You come here,” Sestl said. “You come here with your fancy ring, and you think you can be one of us?” He delivered a swift kick, and Othioto doubled over. “You think this is fun, Blue?” He kicked again. “Are you having fun writing your book about us?” He moved to kick again, but Othioto held up a hand.

“Please, Sestl!” he croaked. “Please, stop. Stop, Sestl, please…”

Sestl put his foot down and watched the disguised Necoli writhe on the floor. He crouched, his knees popping. “You have until sunset,” he whispered. “Then I tell everyone.” His hand flashed out and he grabbed Othioto’s hand. He twisted the ring from his finger and watched as Othioto changed back. Sestl stood up and put the ring in his pocket. Then he turned around to the door.

“Wait, Sestl!” He stopped, but didn’t turn around. “Sestl,” Othioto said. “I don’t… I don’t understand.” He got his hands under him and tried to get up. He dropped back to the floor.

“No,” Sestl said, not looking back. “No. You don’t.”

He left Othioto there, on the floor amidst his notes and papers. Sunset was a few hours away, but for now, Othioto didn’t feel like moving.