Lord of the Manor -- Section 9

[I wanted to give you more--I swear, I really did--but I've run down. Simply too tired, so you only get just a bit over 1600 words, and not the 3000 I wanted.

[Forgive me. They're STILL not safe. Forgive me.]

    Maddie couldn't tell for certain, but it looked like one of the creatures--sitting on the handlebars--waved at her. She skidded to a halt and stared. There was something wrong with that. Sure, it was bad enough to have your only means of escape covered with clawed, crazy men--wait, that one was wearing a dress, so crazy women, too--but to have one wave at you was over the top. Too crazy. These little people needed to learn how to be crazy with some class.
    And now they were calling her name. How insane was that? How did they even KNOW her name? Maddie realized her hands were shaking. She was going to die. There, calling her name again. What was the point of taunting her like that?
    "Maddie! Where ARE you?"
    Hang on. That sounded like Michael's voice. She spun around, taking a swipe with her helmet at a moth-man that had swept in too close. She clipped its wing and it spun away, cursing.
    "Michael?" she shouted back.
    "Maddie!" He charged around the corner, a short knight in a backpack with a broom cradled in one arm like a lance, the other hand holding a large, silver platter over his head. Maddie could think of cooler helmets, but not any that she'd been happier to see. "Let's go!" said Michael, swiping at the air with the broom, not coming close to anything, but with just enough crazy to it that none of the flying things were taking the chance that he might actually connect.
    "THAT'S how to be crazy with class," muttered Maddie, running over to meet Michael.
    "Take this," said the boy, handing her the platter.
    "What? Why?"
    "Hit stuff with it."
    "Sure," she said, "but is there something special about it? Are these flying things scared of silver?"
    Michael looked at her with his eyebrows up and his mouth slightly open. "Are they?" he asked.
    "I'm asking you," she said.
    "How would I know?"
    "But don't you know about these things?"
    "Why would I know about these things? I just got here TODAY."
    "But this is--"
    "My house? Yeah, people keep telling me that. Ow!" One of the creatures had taken advantage of Michael's sudden stillness to sweep in and take a swipe at his bottom. The boy swung around with the broom, taking another wild swing and almost hitting Maddie on the follow-through.
    "You don't play baseball, do you," said the girl, holding the tray up over her shoulder, ready to smack anything that came close--at least she hoped she could smack. She hadn't played baseball in a long time, either.
    "Do computer games count?" asked Michael. "Forget it. Let's GO."
    Maddie decided there was nothing to argue with in that statement, and she followed close behind, her tray behind her head--partly to protect from any attacks from above, and partly in case Michael's enthusiastic sweeping got out of control.
    "I figure," he said, grunting as he swung his broom, "once we get to the corner, we start running and don't look back." His voice was louder, calling over the chatter from the dozens--hundreds?--of creatures, laughing and rustling through the air. Maddie even thought she heard snippets of show tunes, zooming back and forth.
    "Run, don't look," she shouted back. "Works for me."
    They rounded the corner and she almost ran over Michael as he stopped suddenly. She caught the broom handle in the ribs, but she figured it wouldn't leave a bruise--at least not much of one. Then she looked ahead toward the entrance to the building, and she stopped thinking about her ribs at all.
    "You've got to be kidding me," she said.
    "I don't think we can make it through that," said Michael.
    "Let me take a look," said a light, tenor voice from Michael's backpack.
Maddie was torn between looking at the hurricane of creatures that stood--flew, actually--in the way of safety, and the small, vaguely lizard-like man that scurried out of the backpack's main compartment and up onto Michael's shoulder. Some part of her brain decided that just about then was the right time to stop worrying about how weird the entire night was, and simply accept everything.
    "Hi," she said. "You must be Michael's cousin."
    The little man looked back over his shoulder and up at Maddie. "It's hard to shake the family resemblance," he said. "We have the same nose."
    "Are you two NUTS?" said Michael. "We're dead, Sticks. We can't get through that."
    "You have to do it," said Sticks, rocking his head from side to side as if loosening up his neck. "Give me the Right."
    "You've got to be kidding," said the boy. "Even with you supercharged, we're not making it across the lawn, let alone through the door." The small man clung to Michael's shoulder as the boy took a swing at one of the braver of the flying creatures. He missed, of course. Didn't his dad ever take him outside?
    "Do you have a better idea?" asked Sticks.
    "Break a window," suggested Michael.
    "And have them pouring in right after us?" said the little man, shaking his head. "Break the Boundary around this place and it's like inviting every nasty thing for miles to come in and join us for lunch. And we're lunch, if you didn't catch that."
    "What about the main entrance?" asked Maddie. Boy and little man both looked at her like she was insane. "What?" she said. "It can't be worse than this."
    "It can be," said Sticks. "Look, young Master, we don't have a choice. Do it and let's go."
    Michael stopped swinging for a second and took a deep breath. "Fine. How do I do it? Anything special I have to say?"
    "Nothing special. Just do it."
    Maddie wondered what, exactly, they were doing, but she found herself distracted by the screaming thing, hurtling down at her from almost straight up. She screamed and ducked thrusting the tray out at the creature with both hands. The metal dented down at her and she felt the jolt through her elbows and into her shoulders. The tray stayed heavy. Long claws curled around the edge of the tray over her head. Maddie screamed again and shook the tray, but the creature stayed firmly attached, his bird wings beating at her hands. Michael looked on, trying to get a good swing with his broom but clearly more worried about hitting Maddie than he was confident in his aim.
    CALM DOWN, Maddie told herself. CALM. Then the creature poked his head over the edge of the tray and winked at her.
    That was too much. Maddie grabbed the tray firmly, planted her feet, and swung at the wall straight from her hips. Whatever else that creature was, it was fast. Before Maddie's swing connected, the little man launched himself into the air, and Maddie's tray smacked into the plaster of the wall with a clang. The little thing twisted in mid air, rebounded off the wall, and lifted away into the night, laughing. He was laughing at her.
    "That's it," said Maddie, her hands shaking with anger. "Whatever it is you two are talking about, just do it, and do it fast, or...or I...RAAAA!" She wasn't sure what she had been about to say, but she knew one thing: feeling angry felt a lot better than being scared, and right at that moment it was one or the other.
    "Sure," said Michael, looking wide-eyed and slightly shell-shocked. "Right away."
    Maddie looked away from him and up into the sky. BRING IT, she thought, glaring at the creatures flying overhead. Maybe being a bit of a valkyrie wasn't such a bad thing. She'd take them all on.
    Michael's voice came from behind her and she felt the anger in her pause. It was still there--she could still feel it, keeping her from crying--but it made a waiting feeling inside her. Something important was happening.
    His voice sounded like he was messing with a karaoke machine, turning on the echo setting--reverb? It sounded like he was calling out in a bathroom, or maybe a concert hall, but his voice was quiet, and it shouldn't have carried over the laughing and singing and screaming that was going on overhead, but it did. She could hear him clearly.
    "Sticks," he said, "I give you the Right and Privilege of Personal Protection and Overwatch for the Lord of the Manor. This manor. By which I mean me." His voice got less steady at the end, and the echo faded away. "Also," he finished weakly, "it would be nice if you could protect Maddie, too."
    Maddie glanced back at the little man on Michael's shoulder. He looked exactly the same. Great. That had been useless. She started to look away, then stopped. Something about Sticks caught her eye. There was an energy to him that hadn't been there before. He scuttled up fully onto Michael's shoulder, standing on his bare feet and leaning against the boy's temple.
    "Wow," he said, then he laughed. "Wow! I'd forgotten how good it feels to have a Right. Let's do this, little Master."
    Michael pulled his head back and looked grumpy. "I'm not little."
    YOU ACTUALLY ARE, thought Maddie, but she was nicer than to say that out loud.
    "I'm sorry," said Sticks, not looking very sorry. He looked confident--not that he hadn't looked confident before. Now he looked ultra-confident. For the first time, Maddie started to think that they could make it through this. "Do you mind if I lead the way, young Master? It's time we went inside."
    Michael looked at the cloud of creatures between them and the door and blew his breath out through puffed-out cheeks. "Why not?" he said. "After all, it is my house."

Lord of the Manor -- Section 8

[I hate to say this, but I think the rewrite is better than the 2,000 words I lost. Which totally sucks, because that has all kinds of implications for my writing--things about rewriting, and reworking, and improving--and I think I'll just fail to notice all of those important life lessons. Moving on.

[I'm hoping that finally getting to this writing has helped overcome my inertia. No, you STILL don't get to see Maddie safe and sound, but you DO get some nice musings about the ethics of hitting things with a bike helmet.

[Personally, I'm for it.]

    Maddie propped her bike against one of the bizarre bushes, grown even more bizarre in the general neglect of the manor grounds. Everything seemed to have gone wild. She detached the red tail-light from her bike and clicked the button until it gave a steady glow--enough to see a bit of the ground in front of her, but not enough to knock out her night vision or be particularly noticeable to anyone glancing out the window. At least, she hoped it wouldn't be too noticeable. She made sure it was aimed down at the ground, just in case, and not up at any of the windows.
    She shivered slightly as she walked around the corner of the manor house to the north face of the building. The shiver was from the cold, or at least that's what she told herself. Okay, so it wasn't just from cold. The creepy feeling from the gate had found a nice jittery feeling, settled down, and started popping out a whole family of jittery and creepy feelings, and they were all hanging out around Maddie, telling her that the world was full of scary things that waited in the dark to do scary things.
    Maddie shook her head and pushed forward. There was nothing scary around, but her imagination was certainly getting some exercise. Just the same, she unclipped her helmet and pulled it off her head, giving her a slightly better view of the night around her. Not MUCH of a better view, but some, and that was enough to make at least some of the jittery feelings shut up for a minute.
    The windows of the North Wing were almost entirely empty of lights, at least on the ground floor. There were some flickers of light from the second story, which made Maddie think concerned thoughts about fire safety, but the manor hadn't burned down yet, so she had to assume that someone knew what they were doing. Unfortunately, all that the shifting light in the second story showed her was glimpses of painted ceilings, some fancy murals, and an extremely elaborate chandelier. Pretty to look at, but not the same as a short man with bat wings, which was what Maddie had REALLY come to see. Well, that, or something equally cool.
    She glanced up as shadows flickered between her and the quarter moon. She was surprised at the number of bats out, though, truthfully, she wasn't sure if they were bats or swallows or whatever other birds came out for some early evening bug snacking. Whatever they were, there were a lot, and she'd noticed them in the woods, too. Maybe there was a cave somewhere nearby, and they all came around the manor to snack. Though, honestly, Maddie had always assumed that bats would go hunting closer to the city. Bugs like light, bats follow bugs, though she supposed she really didn't know much about bats. Or whatever these things were.
    Keeping her light aimed downward, Maddie leaned in closer to try to get a look in one of the first story windows. There was enough moonlight filtering in through the bats--there really were a lot of them--to let her make out a room that showed every sign of never being used. White sheets covered everything--wow, did people actually DO that?--and the cloth made the furniture anonymous and boring. Maddie couldn't even tell if that was a piano or a harpsichord. One, boring, she had at home. The other, not so boring. Sure, she was out of practice a bit, but she'd get practicing again if she had a harpsichord to mess around on, and that thing under the sheet looked a little to small to be a piano.
    Her hopes got up a little, then settled back down to realistic levels. When would she come out here to play a harpsichord? It wasn't like Michael Arches had suddenly become her best buddy or anything, and her parents weren't likely to be very cool with her hanging out, alone with a guy, in a huge, empty mansion. Especially if they found out that the butler had bat wings.
    Speaking of which, she moved onto the next window and peered in, leaning close against the glass. It was hard to see anything, let alone some kind of midget demon person. Why were there so many bats? Maddie glanced up in time to jump back, startled, as one bat chased a bug right in front of her face. She felt a tug at her cheek as it swept by, and then it was gone, flittering back up into the cloud of creatures above her. There really were a lot, and--ow! Her face started to sting. Maddie handed her helmet over to the hand with the light and reached up to touch her cheek. Her fingers came away wet, and she smelled the slight tang of blood. That bat had scratched her!
    She glanced down the wall of the North Wing toward the only light coming out on the first floor--electric light from the stained glass window by the servant entrance. That seemed the most likely place to see anything, but she looked up at the swirling cloud of night flyers and hesitated. She wasn't sure she wanted any more accidents. Maybe it would be better to come back during the day with some excuse--a free pizza, or promotion, or even to ask about the harpsichord. She could say that the old Mr. Arches had promised she could use it.
    Maddie was starting to feel comfortable with that plan--especially since it involved getting away from what was becoming a thick ceiling of bats overhead--when another bit of shadow broke away from the crowd and shot down. Straight toward Maddie.
    It flashed past her face again, and she felt another tug, this time on her forehead. It wasn't long before she felt the same, sharp stinging. Another cut, and she winced as she felt the edges and the blood beginning to run down into her eyebrow. That hurt! Were these bats going crazy?
    Maddie found herself crouching, looking up and trying to keep an eye on every one of the flying things. No, that would be impossible. Instead, she backed up against the manor house and tried to look in every direction at the same time. Not much more possible, but better. Better enough that when the next bit of shadow dropped toward her, she was ready. Well, mostly. She gave a slight shriek, which she decided was justified, given the circumstances, and jerked up her helmet out of reflex. The bat collided with the helmet with a hollow, plastic smack, and dropped to the ground. Maddie's arm ached, mostly from clenching her fingers around the straps of her helmet, but a bit from the impact. It was solid. That bat had hit HARD. Worried that she'd killed it, Maddie turned her bike light on it for a better look.
    It wasn't a bat.
    Wings like a butterfly, hair like a white-guy afro, and baggy pants, all on a little man not even a foot long, lying in the grass, perfectly still. Also, she couldn't help but notice the things fingers. Clawed. Or would it be taloned?
    "Oh my gosh," said Maddie. "I killed a person. A thing. A fairy. I killed a fairy-person-thing." What would she tell her mom? I went out for a bike ride, lied about the library, and killed a mythical creature? She'd have to tell SOMEONE, because you don't just kill someone and forget about it. She felt sick, a tense something that was half in her stomach and half at the base of her skull.
    Then the thing stirred, staggered to his feet, and looked up at her. Glared, really, then lurched away drunkenly.
    "Of all the crazy..." it muttered. "Why would she...can you even believe...with her HELMET!" The little man gave his wings an experimental flutter and jumped into the air, still staggering.
    "Sorry!" Maddie called. "I didn't mean...." She stopped. Didn't mean what? That thing had claws. It had tried to cut her! She wiped away the blood that was gathering over her left eyebrow. Those things HAD cut her. Were they trying to kill her?
    Maddie decided it was time to leave. She started walking back toward the corner of the manor house and toward her bike, forming some vague plan for out-running the things, or at least making herself a harder target to hit. At first she tried to keep an eye on the things, but found herself walking extra fast. Then jogging. Then running. Something swept down at her and she ducked. There was a tug at her hair and she felt some strands tear out of her scalp. It stung, but she decided she liked it better than cuts to her face.
    Some part of her thought about what a great show this would make for public television. The rebellious girl says she's going to the library and instead goes charging off to some spooky manor. Then she's torn apart by little butterflies. The moral of the story would be kind of obvious.
    "I'm never lying to my parents again," she whispered, and something tugged at her calf. She swatted her helmet back there but kept running. There, there it was, her bicycle.
    "Oh crap," she said. She was pretty good at math, but her estimation skills weren't up to the overload her brain was getting at the moment. She could see them in the moonlight. Sitting on her bike, climbing over her bike, gnawing at the tires, was a fluttering crowd of little men. Moth wings, butterfly wings, bird wings, and lots and lots of claws.

Blech.

Thanks to the joys of computers, I just lost 2,000 words. Right when I was about to copy, paste, save, and post them. So yes, you missed out on another section by a matter of seconds. I'm sorry.

But God can make anything work for our good, right? So here's looking forward to how brilliant the rewrite will be!

Tomorrow. Too tired to do it tonight.

Lord of the Manor -- Section 7

[This weekend was a challenge, emotionally and literarilly. I made mistakes in my submissions of Fat Tony, I think, but they're on their way, so I have to trust that what is right will happen, in spite of my mistakes.

[Also, I realized (after much languishing in despair) that I needed to better understand the relationship between a demon and his master before I could go on. I'm pleased to say, I now understand better. Huzzah! This work-in-progress can now a little less work and a little more progress.

[As a final note, I have a deal to offer: I'd be willing to trade a free copy of Fat Tony (as soon as we Lulu it) in exchange for someone maintaining a list of characters as I write Lord of the Manor. When you meet a new character, you put his or her name in a list, and include any descriptions I give of that character. Then I could use this as reference, and you could have a free book. Or two free books, when City of Dreams is Lulu ready. Whatever you think is fair.

[Let me know, if anyone is interested!]

            Michael hadn't intended to fall asleep. He'd tried to read--Shakespeare after talking with Silver and Sticks? Not likely--and he'd tried playing DEMONS IN THE GARDEN on his laptop, but that had struck a little too close to home. Instead he ended up blowing up about twenty mines before he gave up trying to win MINESWEEPER on expert, put his head down on his bed and closed his eyes. Just to rest them a little. Not to go to sleep.

            It seemed like he'd barely put his head down when something tugged on his sleeve. He lifted his face off the wet spot on the blanket and wiped at his cheek. His eyes wandered around until he found Sticks' lizard-like eyes staring right back at him.

            "Am I interrupting something?" asked the demon, smiling, but his face looked tense.

            "What are you doing here?" asked Michael. "Time for me to go home?" He started to dig in his pocket for his cell phone, stopped, and pushed the space button on his laptop. Not even eight yet--wait, that said PM. It was eight at NIGHT. "You told me not to go out in the dark. Why are you waking me up now?"

            "That's an interesting question," said Sticks, walking over to Michael's cloth suitcase and toying with a zipper. His shirt now said WARLOCKS ARE FOR IMPS. "I've been asked to get your help."

            Michael sat up and started pulling off his socks--he hated sleeping with them on. "Help with what?"

            "You might want to keep those on."

            "My socks?"

            "Yes."

            "Why?"

            "We need to go outside."

            "The thing you told me not to do?"

            "Yes, exactly. You are a very good listener."

            Michael stopped with one sock on and one sock half-way off. "Are you making fun of me?"

            Sticks stopped playing with the zipper. "No. I'm not. Sorry, I'm just asking you to do something that's kind of stupid, and definitely dangerous, and might have consequences that you--forget it. Too complicated." He turned and looked up at Michael, head on. "Here's the straight version: the pizza girl is back."

            Michael's eyes flicked to the hallway. "At the door?"

            "Not yet, though if she makes it that far, I suggest you let her in."

            "If she makes it that far?"

            "Exactly. She's on the grounds, at night, and humans during the day are just fine, because there aren't many lesser demons of the Air awake then. For example, when you came."

            "I didn't see any demons out there," said Michael.

            "Again, exactly. You're five or ten times bigger than they are. They're not going to mess with you, one-on-one."

            "But there are more at night?"

            "Lots more."

            Michael swallowed. "How many more?"

            "Lots and lots."

            "Lesser demons of the Air don't sound too bad," said Michael, trying to hold onto some small illusion that things around this mansion were normal, or at least safe. Or maybe not safe, but at least not life-threatening.

            "I once saw them devour an entire pig," said Sticks. "Some of the bones were left over, but not many. Also, I could show you a scar, but it's...." He gestured toward his bottom half on the back side.

            "Okay," said Michael. "Right. They're not nice, and Maddie's out there. What do I do?"

            Sticks wrinkled up his face. "I'm afraid that the best thing you've got going for you is your size."

            "My size? But Maddie is bigger than I am."

            "True, but you'll also be armed."

            "With what?"

            "With whatever we can find. Does Silver still have those oversized trays around? Bring a few of those."

            "You're telling me to take on demons with a pair of fancy platters?"

            "Also, a broom, if we can find one. Better to not let them get close enough for the trays."

            Michael felt the pizza he'd eaten flopping around in his stomach. "Are you trying to scare me or encourage me?"

            "Both sound smart," said Sticks. "Look, we go out there, we get Maddie in the manor house, and in the morning you both go away, no one worse for wear."

            "Unless we get eaten before we get back."

            "Look, young Master. There are a few other things we could try, but not if you want to walk away from this place tomorrow. The moment you start bestowing Rights and Privileges, this place is well and truly yours. Until you die. And there's no guarantee even then that it would do any good against demons of the Air. You're an Arches. Earth demons are your area of specialty."

            "They are?" asked Michael.

            "Yes," said Sticks, "they are. Of course, that's plenty, since most demons, minor demons, and imps are of the Earth and Deep Earth. You're one of the big guns, young Master."

            "Great," said Michael, licking at lips that were suddenly dry. "Except that you don't want me to use those guns."

            Sticks rubbed his hands down over his face. "You're right. Better safe than sorry. Look, you bring me along in...this backpack. We'll dump all the stuff out, I'll ride, and if things get really bad--really, REALLY bad--you give me the Right of Personal Protection and Overwatch for the Lord of the Manor."

            Michael blinked. "What does that mean?"

            "It means I become your bodyguard."

            "But," the boy looked down at the two-foot tall, shoeless demon, "you're kind of..."

            "Small?" the demon finished for him, then Sticks smiled. "You sure you're one to talk?"

            Michael felt himself blush. "I didn't mean--"

            "No, I understand. But you have to keep in mind that the Right of Personal Protection and Overwatch comes with some decent clout. Without it, well, I'm just another guy you know who works for a guy you don't. But with it, I become two feet of tentacled terror. Without the tentacles."

            "So you've done this before?"

            "Done what?"

            "The bodyguard thing."

            "Oh. Um, not exactly."

            "What do you mean?"

            "No."

            "No, what?"

            "No, I haven't done the bodyguard thing before. I've always had slightly...odd jobs. That's just how the old Master and my boss worked things out. But I've HEARD about the Right of Personal Protection and Overwatch, and it's pretty cool. From what I've heard."

            Michael looked down at the sock that was still half-way off his foot. "So, what you're saying is, you have no idea what you're doing."

            Sticks gave the zipper one last flick and sighed. "None at all. But if we don't go out there--"

            "I get it," said Michael. "Maddie seems nice, and nobody deserves to be eaten like that pig."

            "Not even the pig," said Sticks.

            "Sure," said Michael, and he pulled his sock back on.

            Tickertape stared out the window. Night was falling for real, burying the manor grounds in the darkness that invited demons out to play, to frolic, and then to be eaten by unseen attackers. The small quirk shivered. He'd had friends run out into that night, hoping to find food somewhere out there. None of them had come back. Tickertape hoped they'd found a better place.

            "Mr. Tape?" came a voice.

            The quirk looked down from the window ledge where he was sitting. Walk was looking up at him, his scaled head reflecting some light from the quarter-moon outside.

            "Just Tickertape is fine," said the quirk, feeling odd to have a demon address him that way, even a minor one. "Can't sleep?"

            Walk shook his head. "It's still early. I mean, I'm exhausted, but it's like I'm too tired to sleep. Does that happen?"

            "Sure," said Tickertape, looking out the window. "All the time. Anything I can do for you?"

            "I don't know. I don't understand what's going on. I feel like a tumble without a message to deliver. No matter where I run, it won't make a difference. I'll still feel lost."

            Tickertape laughed quietly. "Yeah. I know that feeling."

            "Really? I thought it would be different for you. I mean, you're a quirk. You have your Job and Responsibility, right?"

            The quirk reached out his hand and tapped the glass in front of him, an absent, wandering kind of drumming. "Had. I had a Job and Responsibility." He looked down at the demon. Walk's eyes were wide with shock.

            "Did the old Master take them away? That's terrible!"

            "No! Oh, no, sorry. I didn't mean to give that impression. No, the old Master didn't take them away. He was a very kind man. He wouldn't do that to anyone."

            The lesser demon's face was scrunched around his eyes, confused. "Then what's the matter? Why don't you have your Job anymore?"

            Tickertape flexed his fingers. "It's like the Job is...fading. Like it's slipping out of my fingers. Rope Feast blamed me for his armor, and I didn't want to believe it, but the more I think about it, the more I think he might be right...." His voice trailed away, fading like the ability he felt leaving his fingers, more and more each day.

            "Armor?" asked Walk.

            The quirk shook his head. "Forget it. Thing is, my Job and Responsibility came from the old Master. He's gone, and we don't have a new one, yet. Until the new Master gives me a Job, I expect my old one will keep dripping away, drop after drop."

            "Like the juice in a lag," muttered Walk, looking disturbed. Disturbed and crestfallen. Tickertape decided it was time to put some hope back into this conversation.

            "Exactly," he said. "And every hour, lags flip over, right? A new hour replaces the old one. Things fade, but new things take their place. We just have to find the new thing. We'll get a new Master. Give it time."

            Walk nodded. "Do you think the new Master would help--I know it's crazy to ask, but do you think he'd--even though it was in the Great Hall, the new Master MUST know how to--"

            "To save your friend?"

            Walk nodded again.

            "I expect he'll do whatever he can. The old Master was a good man. One of the best, from everything I've heard. He wouldn't leave us with a bad Master. And besides, maybe we can even do something about your friend."

            Walk's eyes were wide. "Are you serious? Have you BEEN there?"

            "No, but I've been here. Things may be bad, but there are still good demons around, all over. You met me, didn't you? And I'm a GREAT imp. One of the nicest." Tickertape smiled bigger than the smile he felt inside, but it seemed to be enough. The minor demon smiled back.

            Then they both jumped as something hit into the glass of the window and clung there. Too close for Tickertape's comfort, a lesser demon of the Air looked at him through wide eyes that seemed to flash from deep inside. The winged, man-like thing gave a sharp-toothed smile, rapped on the glass with a closed fist, then flitted away on moth wings.

            "That...was creepy," said Tickertape, his entire chest thumping with his heartbeat.

            "Yeah," said Walk, sitting on his backside where he'd fallen. "That's why we went through the Great Hall."

            "An understandable decision," said the quirk, staring out the window. Then he leaned closer. "Seems like there's a lot of them out there. More than I've seen before."

            "What's happening?" asked Walk.

            "I can't tell. Too dark--hang on." Off to the east, a rectangle of yellow spread across the lawn in a sweep, a door opening to spill its light onto the grounds. Then it was gone again.

            "Can you see anything?" Walk was shoving a small footstool over to the window to get his own view.

            "Looks like someone's out there," said Tickertape. "And he's got...a tray."

Hunt for the Elusive Agent

They're not actually that hard to track down. It's just a slight challenge to find MY agent. Whoever he or she is.

But that's how I spent my day, or at least much of the afternoon: meandering through a world of blogs, submission guidelines, personal doubt, and email. In other words, I spent it submitting query letters for Fat Tony: Tech Support Wizard.

One of the last things I read today was a post on QueryTracker.net from someone who had just received two offers of representation after four months of submissions (or possibly more--the dates were skeewumpus). Here's this author's stats for submission:


Queries sent: 115
Positive Responses = 16
Negative Responses = 99

So, as a result, I feel slightly sheepish. Here are my numbers for Fat Tony:

Queries sent: 15
Positive Responses = 3
Negative Responses = 5

My numbers for Pete and The Dog are about the same, but with only 14 submissions before I gave up.

So what does this mean? It means that these numbers give me hope. Time to submit to more people. Lots more people.

Lord of the Manor -- Section 6

[I'm finally writing again. I expect to have a full 3,000 words for the day, but this afternoon is dedicated to query letters for Fat Tony: Tech Support Wizard. So this is probably all you get. Sorry for being sick.]

            "How was the manor?" asked Maddie's dad.

            Maddie shrugged and dropped the pizza carrier back on the stack. "Old. Breaking down. Kinda sad, really." She hopped onto a stool, out of the way of the swirl of dinner-time pizza prep. "Michael seemed nice. In a slightly nerdy way."

            "Nice eyes?" asked her dad.

            "I didn't look," answered his daughter, sticking out her tongue at him. He stuck his out right back. BUT YEAH, she thought, THEY WERE NICE. AND I POINTED OUT MY LEGS TO HIM. WHAT WAS I THINKING?

            "Good for you," said Mrs. Sparks. "You up for helping out for the evening?"

            "Do you need me?" asked Maddie, stretching and looking at her watch. "The library is open for another hour, and I was thinking I could get a jump on my summer reading."

            Her dad stopped tossing dough and her mom stopped spreading sauce. They looked at each other. Meaningfully.

            "What?" asked Maddie.

            "She's not MY daughter," said her dad.

            "Not mine, either," said her mom. "I never started my homework until the last month, if not the last week."

            "Clearly adopted," said the tall Sven, slipping by with his blond hair and a stack of pizzas for delivery. "I'm out of here. Back in twenty. You want a ride to the library?" He paused at the door, looking slightly hopeful.

            "No thanks," said Maddie. "I thought I'd bike."

            "Sure," said Sven. "Any time, though. You let me know."

            Maddie smiled and nodded, and Sven left.

            "You didn't want a ride?"

            "Not really."

            "Sven's a nice guy."

            "He's old."

            "Eighteen is old?" asked her mom. "I'll have to write that down. What does that make us, dear?"

            "Aged cheese," said her husband.

            Mrs. Sparks snorted. "Speak for yourself."

            "Also," said Mr. Sparks, "Sven doesn't have beautiful eyes."

            "I just didn't want a ride, okay? And I'm leaving." Maddie hopped off her stool and pushed out through the back door."

            "Hang on!" Her mom's voice chased her out through the door. "Could you get me that mystery I wanted last month. Which was it? The--"

            Maddie let the door close behind her and pretended not to hear. There was a remote chance that her mother would remember Maddie's cell phone and send a text message, or even call, but those things she could ignore. She didn't want her mother waiting for a book from the library, since Maddie didn't intend to go to the library.

            The wind was brisk on her face and on her bare calves. For a trip to the library, long pants wouldn't have been necessary, but--too late--she realized she could have used them for an evening trip out to the manor. Pants and a jacket. It was summer, but not enough of summer for all the chill to be gone. Crazy weather. Maddie blamed global warming. Or global cooling.

            "Costume, huh?" she muttered to herself. Right. That little 'man' was wearing a costume with bat wings that looked ALIVE? That twitched, like real wings with real muscle and tendons and even a cute little talon at the joint? Sure, that was a costume. And Maddie was going to the library.

            Why would Michael lie about his butler like that? Actually, that question was easier to answer. If Maddie had a butler who was two feet tall and could fly, she'd probably want to keep it on the down-low, too.

            But how does a person even get a butler like that? Did Michael bring him along in his suitcase? Didn't seem likely. Had the old Mr. Arches had servants like these all along? It was odd that the old man had waited for the pizza himself, but Maddie had assumed that it was because he liked her. No, she was sure he had liked her, but she was beginning to think that friendship wasn't the only reason Mr. Arches had given her such personal attention.

            The sky wasn't quite black yet, with a lighter blue still hanging on at the fringes of the horizon. She pedaled under the occasional street light, out past the last line of houses before the long stretch of road that led out to the manor. Though she hated it, she'd put on her helmet, and she double checked that her tail-light was flashing red behind her. Better safe than sorry biking at night, and besides, there was zero chance anyone would be seeing her hair tonight. She wasn't going out to the manor to hang out.

            Why was she going out there? She thought about the question while her body really swung into its rhythm, left-right, left-right, her headlight tracing a path in front of her. Curiosity, mostly. What was this new kid doing? What LIVED out there? Curiosity. Nothing to do with Michael. He was way too short. Though, she admitted, she hadn't minded too much that he'd been a little flustered by her legs. Not that her legs had anything to do with anything.

            Also, when she thought about it, she was a little mad, and she was surprised that her anger was aimed at the old Mr. Arches. He'd been keeping secrets from her. Of course, EVERYONE keeps secrets, Maddie figured. We all pick our noses, but it's not something we want to share with our friends and neighbors. But even so, Mr. Arches had made her feel welcome, like he was a friend, and like she really KNEW him. And now it looked like, for the couple years she'd known him, he'd been living in a house filled with things. People with wings. Creatures. Well, maybe just one creature--couldn't be sure there were any more--but still, if there were only one, why didn't anybody seem to know a thing about the manor? Why was Mr. Arches the ONLY person who seemed to live out there? Maddie was sure there was something funky about the place, and she wanted to know what it was, and she was mad at Mr. Arches for not telling her about it. Not really mad, but a little mad.

            Anyway, tonight she was doing something about it. Curiosity may kill cats, but she wasn't going to do anything too curious. Just peek in some windows, look around a bit. Then, if she found something, maybe she'd call up Michael and ask him about it. She'd put his phone number into her cell phone, just in case, and there was no way she was telling her mom and dad about THAT. They would totally misunderstand.

            There it was, up ahead, the gate. She slowed and stopped and checked her watch, its light a vivid turquoise in the darkness. Fourteen minutes. She grinned. Not bad at all. She looked up to head through the gate and onto the manor grounds, and she stopped. Her eyebrows came down and she blinked.

            Something was off. Strange. Hinky. Odd. Almost even freaky.

            It wasn't strange like the butler had been strange. He'd been strange, but almost cute. Not exactly cute, at least not in the puppy-kind-of-cute way. More like bear-cub-cute, cute with the option of taking a bite out of you at some future date. The woods, however, were currently not any kind of cute. They were...she didn't know what they were. But Maddie didn't particularly like it.

            She breathed out her nose. Whatever. She was on her bike, with lights, and no badger or skunk was going to mess with her, and it's not like there were wolverines in the neighborhood. She supposed there might be coyotes or wolves, but weren't the wolves further north this time of year? And coyotes only went after small stuff. No, she was just making stuff up because it was dark. She double-checked her cell phone, just in case, and she had plenty of battery and good signal. That was it, then: time to go in.

            She leaned into the first good push and was on her way, through the gate into Daimon Home.

            "Might be a problem," said Bunch, squeezing through the hole under the Noon Clock.

            Crooks, who had been lost in thought, jumped in his throne and dropped the book he hadn't been able to concentrate on. "Right," he said. "Problem. I've been informed that the new Master is completely ignorant. Not a bad kid, but he has no clue what he's doing. He'll probably be gone in the morning."

            "Huh," said Bunch, wrinkling up his nose. "Yeah, guess that could be a problem, too."

            Crooks crooked one eyebrow at the rounder demon. "There is another problem I'm not aware of?"

            "Probably lots," said Bunch, grinning. "I try to spare you when I can."

            The former ruler of the South Wing looked at his minion levelly. "Your concern for me is touching."

            "Don't want your blood pressure going up, you know," said the minion who had weathered many level gazes before this, and was probably up for handling quite a few more. "Be a shame to have you die of a heart attack before you managed to take back what's yours."

            "No demon has ever died of a heart attack," said Crooks. "Ever. Earth and Air, some of us even have two hearts. What is this other problem?"

            "What?" asked Bunch. "Oh, right. Looks like the air spirits outside are starting to make a fuss."

            Crooks grimaced. "Some demon trying to slip outside? Poor fool. We do our best, but we can't feed them all."

            "Is someone trying to slip out?" asked Bunch. "That is a shame."

            His master blinked at him. "I thought that was what YOU were saying. No demon is going outside?"

            Bunch shrugged. "Not that I know of."

            "Is it gargoyles, then?"

            "Nah, they got burned too many times. Last time I talked to Heavy Nose, he said they hadn't been down to garden in weeks. Drives them crazy, not being able to take care of the place, but what can you do? They stick to the roof."

            "If it isn't demons and it isn't gargoyles..." Crooks let his voice trail off. "You're not trying to tell me that the new Master is trying to get out? He was warned! Sticks was perfectly clear!"

            "Who's Sticks?"

            "Another friend, but by your reaction, I'm guessing the Master isn't outside."

            "Nope," said Bunch, picking at his teeth. "Snug as a lag in the cheek of a bag, last I heard."

            Crooks finally got over his distracted state of mind--concern about the decline and fall of the manor could do that to a demon--and finished putting all the pieces together. His eyes got wide. "Are you trying to tell me--"

            "Yessir," nodded Bunch. "Looks like the pizza girl is back."

            "After DARK?" said Crooks, almost shouting. "Is she an idiot?"

            The round demon crossed his arms on his oversized belly and shrugged. "Apparently."

            The former master of the South Wing pinched his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He missed the days when he could have picked an information demon who would have told him all this at FIRST, instead of talking circles around everything. Of course, he'd never had another Head of Information and Gossip who could find out everything so FAST, so maybe it balanced out.

            But what to do? No way he could get out there and protect the girl. With his Rights and Privileges in decline ever since the old Master's death, he didn't have the clout to take on an entire flock of demons of the air, and from what he'd seen and heard, there was more than one roost on the manor grounds now. Even with the demons he could call on to join him, they'd only be rushing out there in time to be picked apart along with the girl.

            Maddie. Her name was Maddie, and the pizza she brought was good. In fact, pizza from her family's place was the last meal he'd had with the old Master. The Feasts could call up some amazing food, but none of them had ever managed better than a passable pizza. And besides, Crooks liked her. He'd watched her before, on his nighttime trips, and she had spunk. Energy. He had to do something about Maddie.

            "I've got to go," said Crooks, jumping out of his throne and grabbing a new shirt from his pile of laundry in the corner and beginning to change.

            "Go where?"

            "Ask a friend to ask a friend for a favor. Also, probably to do something really stupid. Want to come?"

            Bunch laughed, his belly bouncing.

            "Thought so," said Crooks.

            "Before you go," said the round demon, "what happened to your tail?"

            "It'll grow back," said Crooks.

            "That isn't an answer."

            "It's all the answer you're getting at the moment. You may be my information demon, Bunch, but that doesn't mean I tell you everything."

Lord of the Manor -- Section 5

[3,417 words. Take THAT, Nasal Congestion!

[By the way, if you didn't see it before, Talk is now a girl, and so is Noise Feast. So...whatever you imagined before, I'm afraid you have to re-imagine it. Sorry.]

            "How did you get in here?" asked Michael.

            Sticks blinked at him, then pointed at Michael--no, not at Michael, but just behind him.

            "Where we come from," said the demon, "we call them 'doors.'"

            "Right," said Michael. "But...what do you want? Why wait for me in my room? Why not come next door? We were right there."

            Sticks nodded and grimaced, sort of at the same time. He grodded. Nimaced? "That's exactly the problem," said Sticks. "You said 'we,' as in 'more than one.'"

            Michael glanced back to the butler's pantry. Oh. Right. The BUTLER'S pantry. "You have a problem with Silver?"

            "More like he has a problem with me. He knew me when I was younger, and has it stuck in his head that I'm a completely irresponsible seventy-five-year-old. You know what it's like."

            Michael felt his eyebrows go crooked. "Not really, no."

            Sticks snapped his fingers. "Sorry. Human ages and demon ages. Seventy-five for us is more like...twenty-five for you."

            "But...isn't twenty-five pretty adult?"

            "To a sixty-year-old? No. At least, not to most sixty-year-olds, and actually, Silver was more like a one-hundred-sixty-year-old. Which is beside the point. The point is that I'm here to help you."

            "Sure," said Michael. "Great. Look, do you mind if I sit down? My knees feel funny."

            "No problem," said Sticks, then he looked around the room. "Huh. There's pretty much just the bed, isn't there. Do you want me to move? I can, if you don't feel comfortable sitting by me."

            Michael looked at Sticks and decided it was probably safe. The demon looked fit enough, but still, Michael must have had three feet and at least sixty pounds on the guy. That, and Sticks didn't FEEL scary. He didn't feel exactly safe, either. It was similar to the feeling he'd had around the attorney, Mr. Canker. Come to think of it, he got the same feeling from Silver. They all seemed like normal people--well, normal people with a few seriously weird things about them, like, oh, BAT WINGS, to pick something at random--okay, so they weren't really all THAT normal feeling, but they didn't feel foreign to him, like an insect or a slug. He felt like he could relate to Silver and Sticks, like a lot of the same things would matter to them that mattered to a fifteen-year-old boy.

            But they didn't feel tame. None of them. Not the lawyer, or the butler, or this miniature whatsit in jeans. They felt like wild things.

            "Where's my wolf costume?" Michael muttered.

            "Excuse me?" asked Sticks.

            "Can I tame you through the magical trick of staring into all your eyes without blinking?"

            This didn't get the reaction Michael expected. One second, Sticks was sitting casually on the end of the bed, the next he was clinging backwards to the far wall with his hands and bare feet--Michael hadn't noticed that the demon wasn't wearing shoes. Sticks stared at the boy with narrowed eyes.

            "Did I say something wrong?" asked Michael.

            "Were you serious about that?" asked Sticks, looking like a lizard, poised and ready to bolt.

            "About what?"

            "About taming me."

            "What? No." Michael could hear something in Sticks' voice, something that made 'taming' sound like a lot more than just teaching a few tricks. "It's just something from a children's book. WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE. It's, like, forty years old. Haven't you read it?"

            Sticks shook his head. "Haven't read much for the last half-century or so. Things have been busy for me."

            "Right," said Michael. "Busy doing what?"

            "Working for a guy."

            "My great-grandpa? The old Master Arches?"

            "In a sense," said Sticks. "There's a guy who's in charge of the South Wing. He didn't exactly WORK for your great-grandpa. They had more of a...beneficial working relationship. A treaty, of sorts."

            Michael realized he wasn't really hearing what the demon on the wall was saying. He was looking at the bed.

            "Sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to scare you and I don't want to be rude, but really, do you mind if I sit down? I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed at the moment."

            "Of course," said Sticks, holding out one hand palm up toward the bed. "Sit wherever you feel like. This is your house. You don't have to ask MY permission."

            "People keep telling me that," said Michael, sitting down on his bed and crossing his legs. "When do I start believing them?"

            Sticks shrugged, an odd gesture from someone clinging to a wall backwards. "As soon as you make it true, I suppose."

            "And how do I do that?"

            The small demon smiled. "If I knew that, I suppose I might be Lord of the Manor."

            "Nice," said Michael. "You can have it."

            Sticks scampered even further away until he was crammed entirely into the corner of the ceiling.

            "Take that back," he said, his voice strained.

            "What?"

            "I said take it back!"

            Michael blinked at him, saw tiny tendons standing out against his tiny neck. Sticks was sweating. Michael wasn't sure what he'd done, but apparently it was something serious. The little demon was frantic.

            "Okay. I take it back."

            Sticks immediately relaxed and took a deep breath, wiping sweat off his forehead with the bottom of his T-shirt. "Young Master, you need--no, I shouldn't put it that way. I'm not in a position to tell you anything that you 'need' to do." He looked down at Michael's bed. "Do you mind if I join you?"

            Michael shrugged. "It's a big bed. I don't mind."

            "Thanks." Sticks pushed away from the wall and, in one long spring, leapt to land near Michael's pillow. He dropped down, sitting cross-legged in a mirror of Michael's pose. "You really didn't get told anything, did you?"

            "Um...probably not. What do you mean?"

            "Did your great-grandfather teach you anything about the manor? About Daimon Home? About what he did here?"

            "I never meat Great-grandpa. At least not that I can remember."

            "Oh, Air, Earth, and Night," muttered Sticks.

            "What's that?" asked Michael.

            "Sorry. Something a friend says when he's upset. I picked it up from him. Bad habit."

            "What was he supposed to tell me?" asked Michael. "Great-grandpa, I mean."

            Sticks scratched behind his ear. "I don't even know where to begin. Or if I even should begin. Is it too late for you to go back home? You're not stranded out here, are you?"

            "No. Not stranded. I've got my cell phone. Shouldn't be too hard to get a taxi."

            "Not a bad idea," said Sticks. "I'm sure they could find someone else. It's not like it HAS to be passed down in a family." He was tapping his thumbs against his knees.

            "I still don't know what you're talking about," said Michael. "My grandpa DID leave this place to me."

            "Exactly. And you can sell it. Give it away. Find someone else to deal with it. You can go back to being a normal twenty-three-year-old."

            Michael blinked at him. "I'm...uh...fifteen."

            Sticks waved the comment away as if it were irrelevant. "You could go back to wherever you came from. That is, assuming you haven't handed out any Rights or Privileges that you can't take back." The demon's head twitched, and Michael found himself looking into eyes with pupils slit vertically, like a snake's or a lizard's. "You haven't, have you?"

            "I have no idea what you're talking about."

            "Who have you met so far?"

            "Just you and Master Silver."

            "Perfect. And did you give Silver any assignments?"

            "I had him get the door once."

            "Think back. What did you say to him? How did you ask him?"

            Michael looked up at the ceiling, trying to concentrate. "I...think he asked me if I wanted him to take care of it, and I said, 'sure.'"

            "That was it?"

            "I think so."

            "He didn't have you accept him as your butler? Or manservant? Or gentleman's gentleman?"

            "N...no. He SAID he was my butler, but that was it."

            "Again, perfect," said Sticks. "And what you gave me wasn't really official, either, so you're not bound to the place yet. You can get out of here. What time is it?"

            Michael pulled out his cell phone and looked. "A bit after six."

            "Right. They'll be waking up in the forest and even on the grounds soon, so tonight is a bad time to go, but if you wait until the morning--and DON'T TALK TO ANYONE--then you'll be fine. You call a taxi, you fly back home, and you have that lawyer sell the place to someone else. You got that?"

            "Hang on," said Michael, starting to feel a rushing in his ears. "You told me this is MY home, right? Now you're trying to throw me out!"

            "I'm trying to save you," said Sticks, standing up. "You're not ready for this. You haven't been prepared at all, you're ignorant of even the basics--no need to get huffy, that wasn't an insult--and, frankly, neither of us have any idea if you can handle even a simple binding." The demon's face wasn't exactly gentle, but it wasn't unkind. "Go home, young Master. Leave the manor to someone else. We'll do all right until he comes. Or she. Don't want to be sexist, right?"

            Sticks smiled, and Michael tried to smile back, but his brain felt even foggier than before.

            "Stay in my room, huh?"

            "Right," said Sticks. "And especially, don't give anyone an assignment. Don't ask for anything if you can avoid it. Just go to bed, wake up, and go. It'll be better." Sticks hopped off the bed and walked over to Michael's door. A quick jump and twist of his arms was all it took to turn the knob, and the door swung open. "I'll go tell my boss that you're heading out. He'll understand. Take care of yourself, young Master."

            Michael lifted his hand and waved, then let it fall back into his lap as the door swung closed.

            "This is so weird," he whispered into the empty room.

            "Washed out," whispered Rope Feast, his voice quiet with rage. He paced up and down the abandoned upstairs sitting room that was the Lynch Feast base of operations when they weren't trying desperately to control the kitchens. "Washed out of my Scullery like common dirt."

            TECHNICALLY, thought Tickertape, IT ISN'T your SCULLERY. ALSO, IT WAS THE IMPS THAT WERE WASHED OUT. YOU WERE DRIVEN OUT BY A HEAVY RIGHT FROM NOISE FEAST. The quirk never ceased to be amazed at how QUICK the Master of the Feat of Din was. She was like a snake, except Tickertape had never seen a snake quite that fast. Or that vicious. He stole a quick look at Rope Feast's split lip.

            "I'll get her tomorrow, though, mark my words." The Master of the Feast of Lynchings stopped, looked out the window at the darkening world, and grunted. Around them, scattered over chairs and tables and on the carpet, were the tired remains of Rope Feast's army. Hunger was starting to take its toll. Only one meal a day didn't match up too well with battles morning and evening, and the grumbles, tumbles, quirks, firks, lags, bags, tags, snags, and flickers were starting to feel it.

            "I'll come up with something," muttered Rope Feast. "Or you will, quirk." He turned and looked down at Tickertape. "Yes, I think you should. Especially considering the quality of the armor you dressed me with. Not up to my standards, quirk. Not at all."

            Tickertape looked up at Rope Feast's bruised face and saw red. Not just on the larger demon's lip--that red was quickly turning to brown, anyway--but a red like a kind of haze, washing over everything and narrowing his vision to a tunnel, centered right on the wrinkled, leathery face of Tickertape's master. It was a strange haze that did strange things to the small quirk's mouth and brain. It loosened words that had been lodged there for weeks, waiting to come out. In fact, things got so jumbled up inside that Tickertape finally admitted to himself what his hungry stomach had refused to let him consider before: he was mad. Angry. Furious. He was outraged. He was like a tag when you put a library book on the shelf out of order. He had finally snapped.

            So Tickertape did something he hadn't dared do before: right to Rope Feast's face, he...muttered.

            "What's that, quirk?" Rope Feast's eyes narrowed, glowing a hot yellow.

            Tickertape would not be cowed. He screwed up his courage, stood up straight, and mumbled.

            "I told you to speak up!" shouted Rope Feast, and then it really happened.

            "I told you that the armor is fine," said the quirk.

            Rope Feast blinked. Several times. Furiously.

            "In fact," said Tickertape, "the armor is more than fine. It is spectacular, and if you weren't so SLOW, you would never have been hit. But you ARE slow. Slow in a fight and slow in the brain. Do you know how I know?"

            Rope Feast could only sputter.

            "I'll tell you how I know. I know you're slow in a fight because, even in armor that I made, you STILL couldn't win. And I know you're slow in the brain because you think you CAN win. No, that's not it. You think it's even worth fighting. You can call out food at Lynch Feast, but that is IT. You'll never be able to do Break Feast, and never be able to do Din Feast, because you don't have the Right or the Privilege. But you keep fighting, thinking that somehow you can TAKE it, and you can't, because it's not something you can take, but you don't realize that. You struggle and starve, rage and rail, and I'm done with you. I, Tickertape, Chief Quirk Exemplary Plenipotentiary over Dishes and Sundries, am through with you." He turned to look at the tiny lag who was standing on his hands next to a chair. "You coming with me, Micklewhip?"

            At first the Lag looked stunned. He glanced from Tickertape to Rope Feast--whose face was progressing from red to a lovely purple--then back to Tickertape. Then he smiled and nodded vigorously.

            "Fine," said Tickertape. "The two of us are leaving."

            "You are NOT!" shouted Rope Feast. "You are staying with me. I won't have imps thinking they can wander off, willy-nilly. You are part of the United Army of the Feast of Lynchings, Grand Conquerors of the Scullery, and you will STAY part of this army! Anyone caught defecting will be dealt with severely." The larger demon flexed his fingers and leaned in close to the quirk, his trumpet-bell helmet dully reflecting the light from the flickers scattered around the room. He almost spit as he delivered his final line to Tickertape. "Have I made myself clear?"

            "Very," said Tickertape. He then reached up, tapped two places on the helmet, and watched as the entire assembly collapsed around Rope Feast's eyes. As the Master of the Feast of Lynchings struggled with his armor, the quirk ran to Micklewhip, took the lag by the foot, and dragged him out into the hallway. Behind them Rope Feast raged, the rest of the imps twittered and tittered, and Tickertape wondered what he had done.

            He didn't STOP to wonder, though. He kept them moving at a good pace, Micklewhip's hands churning along almost in time with the patter of Tickertape's feet. They cut through an unused bedroom, slipped into a demon-sized servant's hallway, and shuffled quickly down the stairs until they were, as best as Tickertape could tell, solidly out of Rope Feast's territory. The problem was, he was no longer sure whose territory they were in.

            "Well, I've done it, haven't I, Micklewhip."

            The lag nodded. "Yup," he said.

            "Suppose there's no going back, is there?"

            An upside down headshake. "Nope," he said.

            Tickertape rubbed his hand over his face and looked around. Looked like they'd ended up in another sitting room. Abandoned, of course, even with white sheets over all the furniture. Most of the rooms in the North Wing were designed for human habitation, and so matched the normal sorts of places humans lived. Or, at least, Tickertape assumed they did. The manor was the only house he'd ever known.

            He pulled on one of the sheets, looking up at the human-sized couch that was under it.

            "Pillows up there," he said. "We can sleep here for the night--not that you need a pillow." The lag grinned and settled comfortably on his broad hands. "I don't know what we'll do about food in the morning. I suppose it wouldn't be too late to join Noise Feast. She might take us in--"

            He stopped. Micklewhip was shaking his head vigorously.

            "Yeah, you're right," said Tickertape. "I saw the punch she landed on Rope. Don't want to be on the receiving end of something like that. Well then. Wait until morning and try to find Shatter Feast?"

            "Yup," said the lag.

            "Excuse me," said a voice from under a sheet-covered table. "Do you mind if we join you?"

            Tickertape stepped back cautiously, reaching with one hand for the extendable pen-knife he kept on his back. He always felt a small rush of pride at how well the pen wrote--when he could find ink--but he hadn't shirked on sharpening the blade, either. As sharp as a snag's needle, but quite a bit larger. With the other hand he pushed Micklewhip behind his back. Lag's weren't much use in a fight, with their awkward, hourglass bodies.

            "Who are you?" he called.

            "I'm Walk," said the voice. "And I'm here with my friend, Talk. We're coming out now, but we're not going to do anything scary, so, um, don't do anything scary back, okay?"

            "Fine," said Tickertape, but he kept his hand on his knife. "Come out."

            A slightly scaly hand reached under the edge of the table's sheet and lifted. Two minor demons came out--young ones, from their look--one boy and one girl. The boy--Walk?--had human-like features, but was completely bald with scales over his head. He wore a leather apron and an oversized wristwatch. Tickertape felt his hand twitch at the sight of the watch--a new toy!--but he kept his face in control.

            The other demon, who must have been Talk, was horned with long hair that wrapped around her, almost with a mind of its own. She looked good in an oversized T-shirt that went down to her ankles, but she was a good half-foot too tall for Tickertape's tastes.

            "Hi," said Walk.

            "Hello," said Tickertape.

            "Yo," said Micklewhip.

            Talk said nothing.

            "You don't look familiar," said the quirk.

            "Yeah," said Walk. "I mean, no. We're probably not. We're from the South Wing."

            Tickertape's eyes went wide. "You're joking with me."

            Talk shook her head and Walk looked sad. "No joke," said Walk. "We...came through the Great Hall."

            "You...you're...you..." Tickertape was stuttering. "You're insane!"

            Walk's face cracked and he looked like he was about to cry. "We felt like we HAD to! We're running out of food down there, and the kitchens are here. We thought we could make it through--we were careful, we really were! And then the shadow came, and Shambles ran off, and--" He couldn't finish, but just closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. Talk put her hand on his shoulder.

            "Oh my," said Tickertape, sighing. The two demons were barely kids. The must not have any Rights or Privileges, which probably meant that Tickertape was not only the oldest, but the most useful of the group. How odd. A quirk about to be in charge of two minor demons and a lag. It was almost enough to make him smile. He shook his head and spoke. "Looks like we're all refugees, of one sort or another. I'm not sure I can promise you food, but whatever we find, you're welcome to join us. That all right with you, Micklewhip?"

            The lag nodded his upside down nod, sympathy all over his face. Then again, lags were always sympathetic, which was why Tickertape felt a need to look out for them. Not from these two, though. These two minor demons were just as harmless as a lag.

            Walk swallowed and got his breath back. "Thank you," he said.

            "Thank me after we found some food," said the quirk.