Sunday, September 21. Matt’s House.

“Hah! Eat this!” I crowed, lobbing a sticky grenade at the armored figure darting across my screen. Controllers clacked and TVs flickered, the soft hum of old consoles buried beneath explosions and gunfire. 

“Killing spree!” the announcer barked.

I grinned.

“No! No—nooo!” 

Matt slammed his controller down.

The scoreboard flashed up. I had almost triple the kills of anyone else—a personal best. 

“Nate won again,” groaned Dan. “More beer anyone?”

“None for Halberg. That new brew of yours must be fueling his luck or something,” Josh muttered.

Dan laughed and grabbed more bottles. This week’s brew was an IPA from a small brewery in North Carolina. I was already sick of hearing Dan rave about it. 

I checked my watch. 

8:00.

“None for me. I gotta go. My ride should be here in a few minutes.”

“Good riddance,” Matt said, grabbing a slice of pizza. “Maybe someone else will win for a change.”

I flipped Matt off, then grabbed a slice of pizza for the road. 

“Yeah, yeah, love you guys too. See you next time. Assuming my job doesn’t kill me first.” 

I bit into the slice. It was from my favorite pizzeria downtown—their monster meaty special was to die for.

“Swords?” Josh asked, already setting up the next match. 

“And shotguns,” Dan said, which was met with a groan.

Their bickering faded as I climbed up the stairs from Matt’s basement game room—a luxurious mancave I quietly envied.

Liz, Matt’s wife, was in the kitchen. 

“Bye Liz, thanks for putting up with us again,” I said, heading to the front door. 

“See you, Nate!” 

She sounded cheerful, but Matt had mentioned they were both pulling long hours. She had to be ready for her husband’s school buddies to be out of her hair. 

I stepped outside, breathing in deeply. The unseasonably cool air was welcome. I hummed as I walked the two streets to the entrance to Matt’s subdivision, savoring the relaxation of a pleasant buzz. It helped mask the envy I always felt in Matt’s neighborhood. 

Large houses with perfect lawns. Shiny cars in the driveway. Two-point-five (or whatever the average was these days) kiddos tucked in bed.

Matt, Dan, Josh and I had been close since high school. We’d even gone to university together. Matt was an engineer for a local civil firm and had made project manager a year or so ago. Dan had not one but two startups and somehow made ‘working’ look a lot like networking and beer. Josh was climbing the ladder at Westbridge Medical’s HR department.

And me?

I ran numbers for a financial firm with the lowest employee satisfaction rating in the southeast.

These monthly old school LAN parties were the days I lived for. I could forget that I’d sunk seven years into a firm that didn’t care about me. That my job barely covered my small apartment, my reliable but not fancy car, and the occasional nice date with my long-time girlfriend, Sarah.

I paused at the subdivision sign, an elaborate affair of brick and sweeping metal letters, and waited for my ride. ETA was another ten minutes. 

It looked like the farm land across the street had sold. What was originally acres of cow pasture separated by swaths of forest had been clear-cut. Piles of downed trees and big machinery dotted the bare earth. Amid the usual construction permits and notice boards, a white sign showed an artist’s rendition of a large house similar to those in Matt’s neighborhood. 

It was a massive, idealistic farmhouse: white board and batten siding, rich wood trim accents, sprawling porch complete with rocking chairs. The sign proclaimed they would be move-in ready as early as next spring with homes starting at—

—I choked. 

Blinked. 

Read the number again.

In the low 800s.

One of the curses of my profession was being very good at math. 

I ran the numbers before I meant to. Mortgage, interest, taxes—

Matt had to be spending more than I made in a month just to live here.

I looked away.

Someone screamed. It came from the development—a woman's voice sharp with pain and defiance.

I was across the road and onto the construction site before I realized I'd started moving. I scanned the area for the source of the scream. 

The cry came again, weaker this time. There were words in it, but I couldn't make them out. A flash of warm light caught my eye, and I turned toward it, trying to see in the near dark. 

Something moved against the nearest treeline. I pulled out my phone and turned on the flashlight, holding it low so I wouldn’t end up tripping and jogged toward where I’d seen the light.

Part of my brain screamed that this was stupid. Call the cops. Stay put.

The rest of me—fueled by craft beer and terrible instincts—kept moving.

The weak light of my phone fell on the source of the sound and all those thoughts went up in smoke.

It was a woman. 

My brain caught on that first—woman—and then stalled. Dark hair spilled over her shoulders. Starlight traced the pale planes of her face. Every feature sat exactly where it ought to, as if some absent-minded creator had used up all their attention on her and rushed the rest of us. 

A pair of shadows had her cornered. She crouched, back to a tree, hands buried in the earth. A weak but warm light came from somewhere, spilling across the ground around her.

They looked like teens. Long and lanky as if the rest of their bodies hadn’t caught up with a growth spurt. Their edges were blurred, just out of focus. If I had to describe them to a cop, I couldn’t. Thin. Not quite there. Probably male. Surely I wasn’t that buzzed?

This is a terrible idea, my brain helpfully supplied again.

But teens or not, the lady seemed afraid and they were clearly being aggressive. 

I wasn’t a little guy. I wasn’t an athlete either—years of a desk job and a liking for beer had done their work—but still, I was several inches over six foot and could have played football in high school if I had wanted. 

Me showing up should have been enough to get the teens to at least pause, if not back off. It would’ve been even better if I actually had my gun with me—which I didn’t.

“Ma’am?” I kept my voice loud, confident as I walked closer. “Do you need help?”

The teens ignored me. Whatever the light was, they wanted no part of it. They hovered just beyond its reach, inching closer to the woman. 

She looked up. Met my eyes.

Everything else dropped out of focus.

Her eyes were dark. I searched for a color and came up empty.

She spoke, voice soft but firm. “The land cries. Will you ward me?”

That was…not how people asked for help.

“Uh—“

Beneath the careful poise and calm voice, she looked desperate. Tired. Frightened.

It was the fear that decided it.

I cast about, spotting a pile of rebar next to a staked foundation footprint. Grabbed one of the bars.

“Sure. I’ll help.”

“Your oath is accepted.”

“What—“

Moonlight left her, draining what little color there was from her skin. It streamed toward me, striking me square in the chest.

The world lurched.

Heat flooded through me—not on my skin, but beneath it. Through muscle. Bone. Every nerve I possessed lit up at once.

I managed to keep my feet. Keeping my improvised weapon out of my torso proved a closer thing.

As if the light had been a signal, the teens turned toward me. Their attention landed like a physical weight.

Come on. 

They had to be just kids. High school at best. 

Their features were blurred, like smeared clay. Shadow clung to their edges. 

No more North Carolina IPA for me. That stuff was clearly messing with my head.

I shifted my grip on the bar and kept it low. I didn’t want to have to explain to a cop why I’d hit a teenager with a piece of rebar. 

“Back away from the lady, kids.” My voice sounded steadier than I felt. “No means no.”

Their only response was to snarl.

The sound hit some ancient part of my brain and every alarm bell went off at once.

The one to my right lunged.

I swung the bar.

It connected—

—and folded.

I stared at the warped metal. 

No way. No freaking way did a wisp of a kid have enough mass to bend rebar.

By some miracle, my attacker fell back, head cocked at an odd angle.

The second dashed in from the other side. The movement was erratic. 

I jumped backwards, swiping awkwardly with the bent bar.

They skittered. There was no other word for it. They moved in sharp, disjointed bursts, as though they had to stop and download instructions between each step.

And yet they were fast.

Wrong. I couldn't wrap my brain around what I was seeing.

Drugs. They had to be hopped up on some kind of drugs.

The first blurred into motion again. I tracked it a fraction too long and almost missed the second closing in. 

I twisted aside and swung.

His fist grazed my arm and my skin screamed as cold fire spread from his touch.

The rebar struck home.

Instead of the crack of bone, there was a wet squelch.

He crumpled.

For a heartbeat, I just stared.

Then I turned to face the other. He spun, racing for the woman.

“No you don’t,” I snarled, lumbering after. 

Downside to being a tall, big dude: willowy punks are much faster. He was going to reach her first. 

I watched his hands, trying to guess his next move. Knife? Gun? Why was I only thinking about that now?

He spread his fingers.

Something dark stretched from the tips.

I stared.

No. Not stretched. Grew.

Thin black talons flickered in and out of existence, barely visible against the woman's light.

Cursing Dan’s IPA again, I lunged.

Warmth flooded my limbs.

One moment I was running. The next I was slamming into the kid's back.

The rebar flew from my hands.

I drove a fist into his gut.

He clawed at me, icy fire tearing through my skin. I roared and threw my weight on top of him.

He bucked beneath me.

“Sorry,” I growled, hauling him up by the shoulders. I had no idea why I said that.

I slammed his head into the ground.

Cold flame raked across my arm.

I slammed him down again.

This time he stayed still.

I got to my feet, breathing hard, and looked around.

The first kid was still in a heap. He looked even fuzzier now, smoke trailing from his edges.

“Are you okay?” I asked the lady.

“Yes. Thank you,” she said, rising. She was dressed oddly. It was some kind of flowing garment decorated with carved beads. It looked like it belonged to a meticulous mage cosplay.

Fantastic. Another weird thing to an already weird night.

She studied me, a long slow look as if sizing me up and weighing things that shouldn’t be visible. 

I looked away. Pulled out my phone. 

“What are you doing?” Her voice was pleasant, a bit aloof, as if she hadn’t just been attacked.

“Calling the cops.”

“The cops?” She said cops as if trying out a new word.

“The police? Someone needs to lock these kids up until they come to their senses.”

“Do not trouble yourself. I will contact the appropriate authorities.”

“Oh-kaaaay—” Should I at least tie them up for her? With what? Was there rope somewhere—

“You should clean that,” she said.

I glanced down, following her gaze. My tee had been shredded. My jacket wasn’t much better off. The skin beneath, now that I was paying attention, burned. 

“Da—“ I caught myself. Cleared my throat. “Darn it. This is my favorite shirt.”

A ghost of a smile crossed her face before that calm composure settled back in place. 

My phone rang. I checked the number. 

My ride. Why was he calling? I still had time—

No, I didn’t.

I answered. “I’m coming. Almost there.”

The driver said a few irritated words, then hung up.

“My ride is here—I gotta go.” I turned to leave, paused, then asked, “Do you need a lift? I could drop you off on the way.”

Ride fare for two wasn’t exactly in this month’s budget, but I’d manage.

She didn’t answer, but her quizzical expression told me she hadn’t understood.

“How far is home?” I tried again.

“Not far.”

“Do you need a lift?”

“A lift—ah, do I require you to convey me?” 

“Yes.”

She smiled. I could feel the warmth of that expression, which was not creepy at all. I took a slow step back.

“No, dear Warden. I am safe enough for now.”

Okay. So not only had I knocked out two drugged-up kids, clearly this lady also wasn’t firing on all cylinders. 

“I gotta go,” I managed, turning to leave.

“I will see you on the morrow, Nathaniel.”

I stopped. Spun to face her.

I hadn’t told her my name. And no one—no one—called me Nathaniel that wasn’t either my mother or some member of government.

She smiled.

On the street, the driver impatiently honked his horn.

What was the saying about good deeds?