Undermind

An elf and a dwarf slunk down the narrow path toward the guarded entrance, weapons at the ready. Their eyes flicked from side to side, checking dark corners for unseen dangers.

“You think she’s watching?” asked the dwarf.

“Just assume she’s always watching,” said the elf. “Then there won’t be any unpleasant surprises.”

“I can’t live like that,” said the dwarf. “I have to…you know, relieve tension from time to time. How can I do that when I know she might be watching?”

“Just imagine her sitting on the toilet. It’s the great equaliser.”

“What do you think I’m thinking of when I relieve tension?” said the dwarf.

“Me,” said the elf.

“In your dreams, pal.”

“This entrance is for staff and exhibitors only,” said the bored-looking man at the door. “Please join the queue at the main entrance around the other side of the building.”

“I think you’ve mistaken us for the common rabble, human,” said the dwarf. “We are in fact the mighty—”

“Dude, just show him your damn pass,” said the elf. “If he calls security, I’ll…”

“You’ll what, pointy-ears?”

“I’ll quit and go work for Fungibsoft.”

“You’ll…what? Okay, that’s low, even for you, Dave. Besides, you wouldn’t last five minutes as a corporate drone.”

“Don’t force me to make that choice.”

“Well how about you let me finish, so you won’t have to.” He turned back to the doorman. “As I was saying, we are the mighty…Threadless Studios. And we have exhibitor passes.”

The doorman blinked. “Oh, you do? My apologies. With those costumes, I assumed…”

He inspected each of their passes, stamped with their names: Fergus Buchanan and Dave Winfield. He also took a close look at their foam weapons, before tagging them. Then he nodded, stepped aside, and said, “Welcome to EXP.”

Stepping into the rear entrance of the convention centre, the motley pair emerged into a massive concourse, filled with bright lights and colourful signs. It was mostly deserted at this early hour. The crowds wouldn’t be allowed inside until 10 am.

“Goddammit, Dave,” said Fergus. His wide frame was draped in colourful faux silks, in a pretty good imitation of Nautilum’s fancy pants dwarves. “Way to spoil my entrance. I was just having a bit of fun. They’re not going to boot us out for roleplaying at EXP.”

“If you roleplay an arsehole, then yeah, they probably will,” said Dave, masquerading as a charcoal-smeared wood elf.

“As opposed to being a natural arsehole, like yourself?”

“Oh get a room, you two,” said the troll as she stepped up to meet them, tugging at the straps of her leather vest.

This costume was as inevitable as death. After Saskia’s stint voicing the orcs and trolls of Nautilum, and having told her friends about her trollish adventures on Arbor Mundi, of course they’d asked her to cosplay as one at EXP. She’d put a lot of effort into her outfit, but the result had been worth it, in her estimation. The grey-green body paint, fake moles, green mop wig and fake teeth (currently stashed away so she could talk without spitting all over everything) made a pretty convincing troll, albeit much, much smaller than the real thing.

The vest wasn’t just for show, though. Beneath the leather was genuine body armour, offering some protection from small arms fire. There was nary a boob window in sight on this baby, which was just fine with her.

The third and final reason for cosplaying as a troll was to disguise her real face. People would probably recognise her, regardless. The news about her had spread far and wide, and it was public knowledge that she had worked for Threadless. They hadn’t announced her rehiring, but there was already plenty of speculation out there on the Internet. Still, she didn’t want to make it too easy for them.

“For your information,” she added, “if I do happen to spy on you, I’m outta there the moment those pants come off.”

“I knew it!” said Fergus. “You were watching.”

“Just making sure there weren’t any hitmen lurking in the bushes,” said Saskia. “Can’t be too careful.”

“I thought that was her job,” said Fergus, eyeing the tall woman standing beside Saskia.

Padhra was dressed up as…well, Padhra. Her colourful outfit looked just exotic enough to pass for cosplay. And beneath her clothes, she too wore a layer of body armour. Her only concession for EXP was to carry an oversized foam sword. Saskia wouldn’t be surprised if she could turn it into a lethal weapon.

“Padhra’s job is to fend off any hitmen I see coming,” said Saskia.

In truth, there had only been the one hitman—or whatever he had been. That she knew of, at least. The Lingya woman might have quietly dealt with any number of assassination attempts behind her back.

One of the first things Saskia had done was enrol them all—herself, her friends and her mum—in some self-defence classes. They weren’t about to become badonk ninja warriors overnight though, so for the foreseeable future, Padhra was their best line of defence. Well, her and the police.

The first few weeks after the attack in the restaurant had been almost as surreal as her experiences on Arbor Mundi. After she’d gotten out of hospital, the police had insisted on placing their own guards outside her home for several days, fearing she might be targetted by an accomplice. They’d identified the guy as one Daryl Conner, a man with no known criminal affiliations and no motive for what he’d done. All too soon, they’d chalked it up to just a random act of insanity. He probably hadn’t even been targetting her specifically, they’d told her.

Saskia, of course, knew better. She and her friends had done their own digging on the man, and learned that he’d recently been to Norway. A fact that she found a little suspicious, given her father’s association with that country.

Could her father be behind this? She knew nothing about the real Calbert Bitterbee. She’d only met his much younger (and dead) dream doppelgänger from Arbor Mundi. As ghost-Calbert had explained, the real Calbert would have evolved considerably over the past five hundred years. More than enough time to go rotten.

Maybe it had been some sort of twisted test. A test that had resulted in a guy dying, and some traumatised friends, bystanders and restaurant staff. And an apologetic Lingya woman, who had arrived late on the scene.

Fortunately, they hadn’t had too much time to dwell on it in the months since then. On top of the self-defence classes, their work had kept them busy and distracted. In recent weeks, everyone at Threadless had been working feverishly to get a new demo ready to unveil at the EXP gaming convention.

Raji had suggested she might want to sit out the event, on the off chance some new psycho picked this venue to have a go at her. Saskia had hated that idea, and told him so. She was going to this convention, even if it killed her. She’d been looking forward to it for weeks.

“Hey guys,” said Raji, wheeling a trolley of PCs into the concourse. Raji was the only one of them dressed as a human, albeit an armour-clad human with a foam broadsword that he’d stashed on the trolley. “Where’s our booth again?”

“Booth 667, in Hall 8.” Saskia started walking. “This way.”

“Neighbour of the beast,” said Fergus. “I like it.”

“You’re doing it again, aren’t you?” said Raji, narrowing his eyes at her.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at the map in your head,” said Raji. “You always have that glazed expression when you do it.”

Saskia held up her phone, on which was displayed a map of the convention centre.

“Oh,” said Raji. “Never mind then.”

Yeah, never mind. Never mind the fact that she’d loaded the map just a second ago, and she hadn’t been looking at her phone until he brought up the subject.

Of course, the guys were in on all of her secrets. Well, most of them. She’d spilled her story to them as soon as she’d gotten out of hospital. The fact that her injuries had healed almost overnight had been ample proof that she hadn’t made everything up, although Dave still had a hard time buying some of her more outlandish claims. She was pretty sure he now thought of her as a crazy person who just happened to be able to heal really quickly and was a bit psychic.

Arriving in the appointed booth, they began to set up their display. Threadless shared this space with three other small studios who had pooled their resources together to cut costs. Two of them were already set up. One of the games on display was a cyberpunk action adventure, while the other looked to be a farming simulator.

There was no booth 666, as far as she could see, but a large swathe of the hall adjacent to their booth was occupied by Fungibsoft. They showed off their usual array of shovelware: shoddy movie adaptations, knockoffs of popular titles, and mobile games with exploitative monetisation schemes. Neighbour of the beast, indeed.

Saskia unfolded the large panel she had created showcasing Threads of Nautilum. She hadn’t had much time to prepare it, given all her other responsibilities, but she thought it had turned out pretty well. A game’s graphics and artwork were usually the first thing that would draw the attention of prospective players. It didn’t matter how good the mechanics or narrative were if no-one actually played the game, so a large part of the responsibility for the success of this demo would rest on her shoulders.

They set up several PCs with large monitors on a table in front of the panel, with which convention attendees could try out a vertical slice of the game. If everything went well, they’d get valuable feedback from players, and generate some positive word-of-mouth. If it went badly…well, at least they got to go to EXP.

They had just finished booting up their computers when a young man with an impressively large beard approached and shook hands with Raji. He looked to be part of the fourth studio sharing their booth, who were setting up in the far corner. “Mind if I give it a try?” he asked.

“Oh, hey Tom,” said Raji. “Sure, go ahead. We busted arse to get our second demo ready in time. Still has a few wrinkles, but it should be playable.”

The man raced through the character creation screen, seemingly choosing at random. He spent a few minutes running around exploring the scenery, before triggering a combat encounter. After a few minutes, he turned away from the screen. “Love the art style,” he said. “Game’s coming along nicely, Raji.”

“Thanks Tom,” said Raji. “Coming from you, that’s high praise. Saskia here deserves credit for the art style though.” He motioned at her.

“Yeah?” said Tom, looking at Saskia. “It’s pretty impressive. Or impressively pretty. I hope he pays you enough.”

“Well…” said Saskia.

“Don’t answer that, Sass,” said Raji.

Tom laughed. “We’ve gone through the penniless indie phase. I know what it’s like.”

“We’re not quite so penniless any more,” said Raji.

“Yeah? Crowdfunding? Early access?”

“Big investor,” said Raji.

Ah yes, Sergei Krasnov, the mysterious benefactor who had showed up shortly before Saskia’s return. Because that wasn’t at all suspicious. She’d done her own digging in recent weeks, though she’d had so much going on that she hadn’t been able to devote as much attention to it as she’d have liked. The public records were all squeaky clean, while the private ones…remained private. Still, she remained convinced he had some connection to her father. Maybe he was her father.

“Oh, the old-fashioned route!” said Tom. “How’d you manage to pull that off?”

Raji frowned. “He came to me, actually.”

“Huh,” said Tom. “I didn’t think that happened any more these days. Well good for you!” He turned back to Saskia. “Anyway, if you ever tire of working for these jerks, we’re always on the lookout for talented artists…”

“Get your grubby mitts off her!” said Fergus, glancing up from a screen. “She’s ours, she is! Our precious!” The latter part spoken in the requisite Gollum voice.

“So who are you with, Tom?” asked Saskia, raising her eyebrows.

“Oh alright, introductions,” said Raji. “Sass, this is Tom Ingle, creative director at Ironclass Games, one of our booth partners. Tom, Saskia Wendle, artist extraordinaire.”

“Wait…Ironclass?” said Saskia. “We’re sharing a booth with Ironclass?”

“Oh, so you’ve heard of us?” asked Tom.

“Actually, yeah. I’ve played Walls of Aether.”

“For 730 hours, according to your gamer profile,” pointed out Raji helpfully.

“Dogramit, Raj. There were extenuating circumstances.”

Tom gave another hearty laugh. “You should see how many hours I put into World of Warcraft. Actually, no you shouldn’t. I’ll take that secret to my grave. Anyway, it’s good to see another dev likes our game. You do like it, I hope? You’re not one of those annoying people who play our game for hundreds of hours, then post hate reviews the moment we make a change not to their liking?”

“No, I love the game! I just didn’t want to go all fangirl on you.”

“Well that’s good to hear. We’re actually here promoting the upcoming Aether expansion. As soon as we’re set up, you can take it for a spin if you like.”

“I like!”

Walls of Aether was, in fact, one of her favourite games of all time. She’d been casually following its ongoing development after she got back, although she hadn’t taken the time to actually play it. The next expansion introduced dreadnaught-class airships and immense floating fortress cities to the game, which looked fantabulous.

Once they were set up, they had a bit of time to kill before the hordes arrived. Saskia headed straight for the Ironclass display and dived into Walls of Aether, where she spent her time giggling like a schoolgirl over the glorious mess she made of her floating city. At one point she accidentally-on-purpose sent a contingent of city guards plummeting off the ramparts like lemmings.

She was so absorbed in the game that she didn’t notice the people streaming into the convention centre until Raji tapped her on the shoulder and pointed out that she worked for Threadless, not Ironclass.

The hall was soon teeming with people. Most pundits walked straight past their booth, heading for those run by big-name publishers, but a fair share of them were stopping by to chat, and a queue was building around the PCs running their playable demo. This was quite a bit more attention than she’d expected, although not always of the kind she’d have liked.

“Are you with Threadless or just an…associate?” asked a bespectacled, bearded gamer with dubious hygienic standards.

By associate, he presumably meant booth babe, the slightly frowned-upon practice whereby exhibitors would hire a pair of boobs for the sole purpose of attracting customers to their booth.

“Artist and developer,” she said, pointing at her tag.

“Yeah? Cool. I love your costume. Are you single?”

“Ye—no,” she lied.

“Hey I know who she is,” murmured a voice in the crowd, speaking too softly for any but her oracle-enhanced ears to pick out from this distance. “She’s Saskia Wendle!”

“Who?”

“Chick who faked her own death. Joined a cult in the Himalayas. Crazy shit. Before that, she worked for Threadless. Didn’t know she was back with them. Who would hire someone like that? Probably polishing the boss’s door handle, if you know what I mean.”

Crap. It had begun. Also, what a donkhole.

The donkhole wasn’t the only one to recognise her. It wasn’t long before the questions started—some lighthearted, some genuine. What really happened? What was it like to be dead? Why Nepal? Was she an alien? A troll?

Saskia decided to just roll with it.

“I could tell you what it’s like to be dead. But then I’d have to eat your brains.”

“You got me. I’m actually a tentacle monster.”

“Yup. This isn’t a costume. I really am a troll.”

“Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet, people,” said Dave.

When some of the guys in the gathering crowd got a bit too close for comfort, Padhra came to her rescue, waving her foam sword at them as she strode forward, her every movement oozing menace. Saskia had sparred with the Lingya woman enough to know she could take down any of these guys with her little finger if she so chose. Perhaps they could sense that too, because they took a hasty step back.

“You okay, Sass?” asked Raji. “If you like, I can tell them all to fuck off. I mean, this is great for publicity, but we’re here to talk about our game, not your fucked up life.”

Saskia glared at him. “Don’t worry, I can handle…” She trailed off as she caught sight of a certain chestnut-coloured mullet, attached to a tall, muscular figure stepping into the hall. “Uh, I’ll be right back.” She hurriedly squeezed through the crowd toward the newcomer. Padhra followed at her heels; as always, a bit too close for comfort, but she couldn’t very well send her bodyguard away.

“Ivan!” she said. “It is you!”

Ivan Storozhenko, her old climbing buddy. The one who had been on the cliff face with her the first time she’d gone all Cthulu, when she’d taken the fall that had nearly ruined her life. She’d been trying to get hold of him ever since she got back, but all his ex-fiancé, Reiko, had been able to tell her was that he was ‘overseas.’ They’d broken up shortly after Saskia’s disappearance.

“Nice costume,” said Ivan, eyeing her up and down.

She felt heat rushing to her cheeks. Hopefully it wouldn’t be visible beneath the face paint. “Where have you been? And what are you doing at EXP? This isn’t your usual crowd.”

“So many geeks. It’s definitely your crowd.” He looked at Padhra. “Who’s your friend?”

“Padhra. Ivan. Ivan. Padhra. So how’d you get a pass, Ivan? They sold out weeks ago.”

He gave a little cough.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You don’t have a pass, do you?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that allegation.”

“Criminal scum!” she said. “I should have you arrested.”

He grinned at her, but then his expression wavered. “Sass, we…need to talk.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Isn’t that what we’re doing right now? Our lips are moving and words are coming out.”

“In private,” said Ivan. He looked pointedly behind her. Glancing backward, she saw that they’d gathered an audience.

“Well you chose the wrong venue for that,” said Saskia. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you as well, but can it wait until after? I’m kinda busy today.”

“It can’t wait.” Leaning closer, he murmured, “You’re in danger.”

A chill crept into her veins. Coming here had been a mistake. If someone attacked her inside this crowded convention centre, it wasn’t just herself who would be at risk.

Saskia couldn’t see anything to suggest imminent threat, though it was hard to tell in such a crowded space. She had to zoom her minimap in quite close to separate the swarms of people-markers. At the same time, her truth sense was adamant that Ivan believed what he was telling her. And despite his suspicious absence, he was her friend, and she trusted him.

Beside her, Padhra stiffened, and stared intently at Ivan. “Who are you? Are you working for him?” She spoke in heavily accented English, which was rare for her. Most of the time, she only used her native language around Saskia.

Ivan blinked at the Lingya woman. “Working for who? Never mind. Come on, Sass.”

Yeah, this was not the place to be talking about this stuff. Not with all these nosey people around, many of whom took an active interest in her. And all their phones, potentially recording everything she said and did.

“Okay,” said Saskia. “Let’s talk outside.”

They followed him out into the convention centre carpark, where he opened the front passenger door of his beat-up old Škoda. She eyed the mouldy seat cover dubiously. “You still have that heap of junk?”

“Get in,” he said.

“Why? I thought we were just gonna talk.”

“Inside, away from prying ears. And cameras and microphones.”

“Fine. I’ll just be a minute, Padhra.”

She was just lowering herself into the seat when a van with tinted windows came squealing into the carpark, blocking their exit. Okay, that one was a threat. Distracted, she hadn’t seen it coming until the last moment. Her minimap was zoomed all the way in, and vehicles could move so damn fast.

Padhra reacted instantly, drawing her foam sword and rushing for the van. As the door slid open, she flicked out her sword arm.

Something ripped free, hitting the side of the van not with the thwack of padded foam, but with an awful crack of shattering glass and split metal—and flesh. A man cried out and fell back from the half-open door. The blades—the metal blades; and yeah, there were more than one of them—had torn deep channels into the side of the vehicle.

Padhra tore the remainder of the foam free, revealing a trio of thin bendy blades attached to a single handle. The blades coiled in the air as she flicked them, moving almost like whips. Blood splashed across the asphalt.

A moment later, a man spilled out of the back of the van, holding a pistol, aimed at Padhra. A shot rang out, but the woman was already dancing to the side and coming in for another strike.

Her whip-blades tore half his face off.

A second shot sounded, not from inside the van but from Ivan, who had pulled a rifle from the back of his car. Through the smashed glass of the van’s passenger window, she could see its driver slumping forward in his seat.

Padhra emerged from the back of the van a moment later. “Clear,” she said. Shoving the dead man out of the front seat of the van, Ivan drove the vehicle forward, out of the path of his car.

Saskia could only stare at the two of them, gobsmacked. It had all happened so fast, her brain still hadn’t caught up.

“There may be more of them coming,” said Ivan, returning to the wheel of his own car. “Time to vamoose.”

As he started the engine, Padhra hopped into the back seat. While he drove them out of the carpark and onto the street, Saskia quickly dialed the police, though she didn’t stay on the line for long. Soon enough, there would be some really awkward questions to answer, but right now, she needed answers of her own.

“What is up with her?” asked Ivan, glancing back at Padhra. “She has an urumi. A goddamn urumi.”

“What is up with her?” said Saskia, hanging up the phone. “What is up with you? Since when do you keep a gun in your car?” She frowned. “What the frock is an urumi?”

“That’s an urumi,” said Ivan, pointing at the whip blade in Padhra’s lap. “Ancient Indian weapon. Really hard to master, especially a multi-bladed one like that. Why would anyone…?”

“Not so hard, with the right teacher,” said Padhra.

“How about you start by telling me how you knew there’d be more hitmen coming after me today?” asked Saskia.

“More hitmen…?” Now it was his turn to stare.

“Yeah, didn’t you hear? A nutcase came after me with a gun just after I got back in the country.”

“I’ve been…out of town,” he said. “All I know is that I have to get you away from the convention centre. Your life is in danger.”

Just as well I have more than one life, she thought. But what she said was: “And just who told you that?”

“My father,” he said. “He’s…a man with a lot of connections. And through one of those connections, he learned that someone is coming for you.”

“Your…father. How does he even know who I am? Wait, is he some kind of crime boss? I knew it! You are a criminal!”

He shook his head. “Firstly, crime is not hereditary. And second, no. Hell no. He’s a…well let’s just say he’s on the right side of the law. He just has…connections.”

“Oh, so he’s a secret government agent then? Even better.”

“This isn’t a movie, Sass.”

“So people keep saying. Trust me, my life is stranger than any movie. I wish I could…” She trailed off as her phone started buzzing. “It’s Fergus. I’d better answer this.”

The voice that spoke to her was not Fergus’s.

“Listen very carefully, Saskia Wendle,” growled the man on the other end of the phone, amidst background shouting, and what sounded like a sob. His voice sounded distant, as if holding the phone at arm’s length. “We have a gun to your friend’s head. If you don’t show yourself within the next minute, we will blow his brains out.”

“Wait! I can’t possibly get there in—”

The call ended.

She whirled on Ivan. “Turn around!”

“What?”

“Turn around now! Go back!”

“I can’t do that, Sass. It’s not safe—”

Saskia interrupted him with an exasperated grunt. It was pointless, anyhow. They were already too far away.

She flicked her consciousness back across several city blocks, into the head of someone standing in Threadless’s booth at the convention centre. Sure enough, she found herself looking at two men in Master Chief costumes, holding very real weapons. One waved a pistol at Raji and Dave. The other was holding a shotgun to the back of Fergus’s head. Behind him, a bloodstained hole had been torn in the Ironclass display stand, and a body lay on the floor in a spreading pool of crimson.

Tom.

Saskia shoved down a knot of horror and despair, and gritted her teeth. He wanted her to show herself. Well, he was about to get a lot more than he bargained for.

“Pull over, Ivan,” she said. “And both of you, try not to freak out at what you’re about to see.”

As the car came to a halt, she closed her eyes, and shifted. The world around her cracked open, and she felt herself spilling outward—and in another direction that had no name. Ivan let out a startled yelp.

For an instant—or an eternity—she floated in the between, silently communing with the undermind, telling it where she needed to be, and what she needed to happen when she got there. It made no reply, but somehow she could tell it was listening and understanding.

Then she was back on Earth, once again expanding beyond the limits of her human form, unfurling tendrils through higher dimensions; reaching, grasping. She snatched up the man with the shotgun, and pulled him away, sending his weapon clattering to the floor, even as another tendril ensnared his accomplice. He screamed; an awful wet, gurgling sound.

Saskia opened her eyes. Just two soft balls of jelly. So fragile. So squishy. Gone was the troll costume, the armour, the wig and body paint. A faint glow radiated from beneath her skin, fading with each passing moment.

What was left of one of the assailants protruded from the floor at her feet. Just the upper part of a Master Chief helmet, and a gloved hand. Beneath the visor, his eyes stared sightlessly. Blood seeped into the floor around the helmet.

Of the other gunman, there was no sign at all.

Silence filled the hall. All around her, mouths gaped open in astonishment—and horror. Some of the onlookers had their phones out, still recording. She crouched on the floor as a violent tremor took hold.

“Holy shite,” said Fergus, breaking the silence. “I need to change my pants.”

“You’re not the only one,” said Dave.

Raji knelt by Tom’s body, and slowly shook his head. A hollow feeling spread in her gut. She barely knew the guy, but he was a kindred spirit. And now he was gone because of her.

Fergus handed her his dwarven silk jacket. Gratefully, she wrapped it around herself, though it barely covered her lower parts. Until that moment, it hadn’t even occurred to her to be embarrassed about her nudity—despite the fact that she was being filmed. Compared to everything else, it just didn’t matter.

She’d been exposed to the world, in every sense of the word. And this was no accident. Whoever had sent the killers after her had intended this to happen. Ivan, too, had likely been a piece in the game, played to perfection.

Within minutes, the videos would go viral. Saskia had no idea what would happen next. But one thing was clear.

Her old life was over.

The convention centre security staff, already on the scene before she’d arrived, seemed to have regathered their wits. Burly guys in blue uniforms shouted at her to get down on the ground.

She could try to run, but she doubted she’d get far, with the police no doubt on their way, if they hadn’t arrived already. And she was pretty sure she couldn’t just duck back into the between at the drop of a hat. That tentacular trick had a long cooldown.

Suddenly, the shouting turned to cries of alarm and the sound of a scuffle. Saskia’s heart leapt into her throat. More attackers? She’d already used up her one big trick. She had nothing—oh.

It was Padhra, laying into the security guards with one of their own batons. In moments, they were on the floor, unmoving.

“Come, Old One,” said the Lingya woman, speaking in her native tongue. “This land is no place for you now. We must find our way to safer shores.”

“Where’s Ivan?” she asked.

“Your friend waits for us outside in the, ah, getaway vehicle.”

Saskia looked from her to Raji and Fergus and Dave. She didn’t know what to do. If she stayed, she’d lose her freedom and privacy, one way or another—whether hounded by the media and general public, or held as a lab rat, or targetted by foreign powers. She’d be playing into her enemy’s hands.

Unlike her, the guys still had a chance to live their lives. Staying would put them at risk, but so would leaving. And if they followed her to who-knew-where, they might never be able to return. They’d probably all be branded as fugitives.

It was Fergus who helped her come to a decision. “Go,” he said. “We’ll man the fort here. And when the time is right, we’ll sort something out. Go kick some cans, Tentacle Girl.”

“I swear, if everyone starts calling me that, I’ll hunt you down and shove a tentacle up your—okay, I’m going, I’m going!” She shot an angry glance at Padhra, who was tugging at her arm.

Exchanging one last clumsy, awkward hug with Fergus, Saskia turned tail and fled. She ran from her friends and family and her old life—so very soon after finding them again—and toward a new and unknowable future.