I remember the months before Mom dies. The cancer eating her alive, and everyone telling her to go naked—let her nanobots run at full power, let them save her. But she won’t. She’s praying instead, whispering to the childhood god who demands modesty. A god she thanks with her final, tortured breath.

  Daddy is breaking. Drinking, swearing, disappearing into strangers’ beds. He quits MI5, joins a rebel cell, and stops pretending to believe in anything. Then Rhea arrives—friend, savior, lifeline. She drags Daddy back from the edge, gives him back to me, teaches us how to laugh again, how to be a family. And then one day she’s gone, like a dream ending before I can ask what it meant.

  Now she sits across from me, staring out over the loch while Lenora brushes back her fur to treat her wounds. She doesn’t wax or shave anymore; the pelt is thick enough to pass for clothes. Sweat beads on her brow. Her lip trembles. The fur along her neck darkens from soft ash-gray to a stormier blue.

  “How did you escape?” I ask.

  “I didn’t,” she says, voice low and rough. “Till I saw ye, I thought I was still in Purgatory.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Darkmore makes ye live through yer sins again,” Frankie mutters. “Gives ye the chance t’ see where ye cocked it up—and maybe set it right.”

  Rhea nods, the blue fading to a pale silver. “Aye. Met yer mam an’ James back when the Candlelight Accord was somethin’ t’ be proud of.” A shadow crosses her face; the silver dulls to red. “Before Catalina got her bloody hooks in it.”

  “Bullshit,” Frankie snaps. “Admiral Catalina Evard—”

  “—is a charmin’ witch,” Rhea cuts in, fur flaring gold for a heartbeat.

  “She’s a hero of the People,” Jenny insists.

  Rhea’s eyes narrow, the gold sliding toward a predatory green. “Buttered yer muffin on both sides, Princess? Tell me—what happened t’ her predecessor? What was his name? Och, aye… yer brother, Prince Little Willie.”

  “William resigned his commission and returned to the palace to continue his education,” Jenny stammers, looking away.

  “Did he now?” Rhea’s fur flickers crimson. “An’ how hard was it t’ smother the 3D vid o’ him an’ his furry boy-toy?”

  Jenny huffs, cheeks coloring.

  “Did ye know Catalina set ’em up? Arranged the meetin’ herself—”

  “How would you know!”

  “Someone had t’ talk my brother into it,” Rhea says dryly. The crimson cools to slate gray. “Someone had t’ work the cameras, switch ’em on an’ off t’ dodge the Secret Service probes, make sure we got the prettiest angles—”

  “You furry bitch!” Jenny blurts. “Your brother seduced mine to destroy him!”

  “That’s when I knew Cat was playin’ both sides o’ the fence,” Rhea whispers, fur draining pale as moonlight.

  “What!?!” Jenny lunges, but Frankie catches her arm.“My brother held an equal rank in the Accord,” Rhea says quietly. “Benny went t’ Darkmore, an’ Catalina took his place—Lightbearer for Ireland, an’ Admiral in the Royal Space Force.”

  Jenny steps back, breathing like she’s chewing the air, her gaze darting from Frankie to me. When her eyes finally settle, they’re filled with a question she can’t quite ask.

  “It fits,” I whisper. “After I won my first competition, I was gone three weeks out of four—school, training, competitions, prep for the Olympics. I know we moved to the Highlands when I was eight because Mom was a Textile, but Dad kept his job with MI5, even after he started wearing clothes. Strange people—nice folks, just… different—always visited.”

  Rhea chuckles, fur rippling from silver to warm amber. “Aye, that tracks. Yer pop was a spy, no question. We knew the moment he walked in.” Her shoulders roll with a laugh; the amber brightens to gold, easing the tension. “Took him in anyway. Love yer enemies, says the Book. Worked, too. James an’ Lilly were me best mates.”

  She pauses. The gold cools to silver again, a faint shimmer along her collarbones. “Have t’ say, lass—you turned out a might prettier than either o’ them.”

  Heat leaps up my neck. A cool breeze slides over my pretty bits and steals my breath. I force my eyes past Rhea toward the gorse thicket beyond her.

  I am not rewarding my traitorous panties by calling attention to their misbehavior.

  Then I freeze.

  The gorse behind Rhea is staring at me.

  Before I can think, my hand moves and my flogger snaps over Rhea’s shoulder.

  Crack!

  The lash ignites—not blue, not gold, but something between, a liquid brilliance that seems to argue with itself as it arcs through the air. It hits the gorse, and for one impossible instant the thorns glow like stars—then the entire bush implodes in a spiral of light and heat. The blast turns the air syrup-thick, static crawling over my skin, hair floating as if I’ve stepped into a storm’s heartbeat.

  “Bloody hell, Lizzy!” Rhea shouts, batting at sparks that dance in her hair.

  The bush gives one last hiss, collapsing into cinders and a smell like burnt honey and ozone—revealing something that’s definitely not a leaf.

  Frankie lunges, vaulting over Rhea, and full-body tackles a singed, smoking blonde woman.

  Bang!

  A rifle fires.

  Rhea screams.

  Blood spatters across my face.

  “Damn it all,” roars Lenora. “I just fixed that arm!”

  I stare down at the corset. “Really? You couldn’t just tap my shoulder?”

  A faint hum ripples through the fabric at my hips—almost smug.

  “Don’t you start,” I mutter. “Next time, try saving my life without acting like a pervert.”

  “Let me go!” the blonde woman commands, voice dripping authority—no small trick, since Frankie’s got her caveman-style by a mile of yellow hair. “Oi! Release me, you she-male brute! D’you even know who I am?”

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  “Frankie, gag her and tie her to the railroad tracks,” I deadpan.

  “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Solenne—servin’ the one and only—”

  “Dudley Do-Right,” I offer.

  “The Wicked Witch o’ the West,” Rhea adds, fur flashing amused gold.

  “Saruman,” Jenny suggests.

  “How bloody dare you—”

  “My vote’s for Balor of the Evil Eye,” Frankie says.

  Everyone—including the prisoner—pauses.

  I blink. “Who?”

  “I hereby declare you the Heir to the Cloaca Maxima,” Tess intones solemnly.

  Jenny snorts, then turns green trying not to laugh.

  The laughter dies quickly. Smoke curls from the burned brush; Rhea’s blood drips steadily into the moss. Frankie shoves the prisoner onto her knees.

  “Right then,” I say. “Fun’s over.”

  Rhea’s gold fades to iron gray. “Aye. Let’s hear what this one knows.”

  Frankie looms behind Solenne. “We’ll start polite. How far we go after that depends on how long she keeps pretendin’ she’s royalty.”

  I flick my flogger across Solenne’s shoulders. “Why were you spying on us?”

  “Go play wiv yerself, luv.”

  “You know,” I sigh, slipping a little power into the thong, “I’m still learning this weapon.” The lashes vibrate; delicate arcs of electricity dance across her upper body.

  She grimaces. “Torture me, rebel, and Catalina’ll give it back a hundredfold.”

  “I’m not trying to hurt you. This is barely enough to tickle Frankie’s fancy.”

  Frankie leans close and cackles in her ear.

  Solenne thrashes; Frankie doesn’t budge.

  I loop the flogger around her neck and give it another buzz.

  She stills, glaring daggers.

  “I just want honest answers,” I say lightly.

  “What are you, then?” Solenne snaps. “Some dark Wonder Woman wannabe, yeah?”

  I chuckle.

  Rhea snickers, “Ye’ve got the outfit.”

  “And the whip,” Frankie adds.

  “She’s making a new bow,” Lenora says, plucking a singed bullet from Rhea’s arm — her lips quirking. “From the bones and teeth of her enemies.”

  I nod and send another zap through the flogger coiled at her throat. “Seems like Inanna’s pointing me this way. Shall we see how much magic it takes for my golden lasso to pull an honest answer from you?”

  Solenne’s jaw clenches. Her eyes narrow—not with fear, exactly, but calculation.

  “Why are you naked?” I ask. “I can understand Rhea—she comes with built-in clothes, so to speak—but you? There’s no way what’s on your head, under your arms, and elsewhere will ever keep you warm, let alone protect you. So why?”

  “I was made this way,” Solenne fires back, quick and defiant. “This is ’ow I am, an’ this is ’ow I’ll stay, right?”

  “Right,” I say, noting the Inanna star inked on her hip. “So it’s a religious choice. I can respect that.”

  “Religion?” She barks a laugh. “I don’t worship no bloody fiction—nor some jumped-up machine, neither. Gave all that up years ago.”

  “Well, that’s your choice,” I muse, rubbing my chin. “Still, everyone believes in something.”

  “Not me,” Solenne says, chin high.

  “I believe I’ll have another fae healing potion,” Lenora says with a wink.

  A smile tugs my lips.

  “You believe in the Candlelight Accord—or what’s left of it,” Rhea snaps.

  “What’d you know, dog girl?”

  “Me? Nothin’,” Rhea scoffs. “Not of the travesty Catalina’s made of it.”

  “Catalina’s lifted it t’ the heavens, she has.”

  Rhea’s fur darkens blood-red. She spits. “Racism. Hatred. Repression. Gender bias. Lies dressed up as faith. If that’s your idea of heaven, enjoy your seat in hell.”

  “The Candlelight illuminates human purity—free of manipulation—”

  “I see,” I cut in. “My father told me about the Accord. I was raised in it. They took in my Textile mother when the world shamed her. They accepted everyone.”

  I kneel, dig through my bag, and pull out red centipede leather—tunic panels, pants, a half-cut cape—something I’ve been piecing together to keep me decent once we hit civilization. I spread them out on the moss. “Let’s see how accepting Catalina’s version of the Candlelight is now, shall we?”

  Her voice wavers. “Wot’re you gonna do to me?”

  “I have a problem,” I tell her, drawing out a spool of frog-gut thread and handing it to Tess. I wink. “Bless that for me, Prophetess of Inanna.”

  Tess raises an eyebrow. “Lizzy… what am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Ask Inanna to change it.”

  “Into what?”

  “Snapcord,” I whisper.

  “Snapcord? What the—Inanna’s the goddess of women, love, beauty, sex—”

  “And war,” I say, motioning her to keep her voice down. “Please ask.”

  “You ask.”

  “My faith score’s only a ten. I’m betting yours is in the triple digits.”

  Tess sighs, nods. “I’d curse you if I didn’t love you,” she mutters, then kneels and begins praying in a strange braid of Gaelic, Latin, and English.

  “Rhea,” I say, ignoring Solenne’s sputtering glare, “will you please groom our guest?”

  Rhea grins. “Ye’re askin’ the hairy lady to brush the blonde’s bush?”

  Solenne’s hands fly to cover herself. “You bloody well won’t!”

  “Lass, if yer gonna show ’em t’ the world, tidy ’em up,” Rhea snaps.

  “I meant up top.” I tap my own head and mime snipping hair just below my ears.

  “No way!”

  “Would you prefer Frankie…?”

  Solenne’s gaze flicks to Frankie’s mohawk. She shivers. “The princess—or you, then?”

  “We can’t,” I sigh, and glance at Jenny.

  Jenny smirks.

  Solenne’s jaw drops. “You lot don’t even know ’ow, do ya?”

  “Oh, we do,” I say. “Tess cuts mine, I cut Frankie’s and Lenora’s. We can’t because we’re making you clothes.”

  “Don’t need bloody clothes.”

  “Dress or die,” Frankie says flatly.

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “She nearly killed me,” Rhea reminds her, half-grinning.

  “But they ain’t makin’ you dress!”

  “She comes with built-in clothes,” Tess says, handing me the spool of newly blessed cord.

  “She’s a furry!”

  “I can’t see her teats or lady bits,” I tell her, “and I can see yours. But that’s not what matters.”

  I nod toward Rhea. “And you will need something for protection—Frankie might have plates or spare leathers—”

  “Like hell I will,” Frankie growls.

  “What kind of man are you?” I shoot back. “You’d have her fight barefoot and naked beside you while you’re kitted out like a Caledonii barbarian?”

  “Bugger me,” Frankie grumbles, “she’s gonna fight at my side?” He starts digging through his pack.

  “I’m no fighter, lass,” groans Rhea.

  I match her glare. “Scout. Hunter. Provocateur.”

  “All better naked,” she insists—then blends fully into the scenery, only her face visible.

  A childhood memory surfaces. “Did you and Dad…?”

  Rhea winks. “And yer mam.”

  I swallow hard. Not going there. I turn back to Solenne.

  “So, what’s it gonna be? Die—or wear clothes and guide us?”

  The blonde fingers her waist-length hair and sighs.

  While she hesitates, I call up my Examine skill on the spool of blessed thread.

  Item: Snapcord — Rare

  Arc-Tempered Explosive Filament

  Length: 100 yards

  Description: A semi-elastic filament designed for precision demolition and restraint. Stable under normal stress, heat, and magic. Detonates instantly if cut, torn, or broken by any means other than a controlled electrical arc.

  Handling: Must be joined or severed using an active arc current.

  Effect: One yard, double-looped and tensioned to its breaking point, releases a radial blast capable of cleaving organic trunks up to 24 inches in diameter.

  A wicked smile curls my lips.

  Perfect.

  I rise, needle, leather, and explosive thread in hand. “Have you decided?” I ask, soft as a velvet glove.

  Her jaw works. The rest of them wait, breathing shallow—Tess with her prayer finished but eyes sharp, Rhea’s fur a low skeptical gray, Frankie glaring like a dog that wants to be allowed to bite.

  Solenne’s fingers tighten in her hair, then slip free. She meets my eyes—defiance coated with something thinner, like varnish on rotten wood.

  “You lot—wot’re you gonna make me wear, then?” she says, the posh edge gone from her voice, vowels flattening out into something streetwise.

  “A leather jumpsuit.”

  “Why? Wot’s the game? Wot d’you expect to gain from that?”

  “In the short term, I want to keep you alive,” I muse. “In the long term… let’s call it a wager.”

  “A bet? For wot, then?”

  “You say the Candlelight Accord is just as good now as it was when I was a child.”

  She nods, chin out. “’Course it is. Better, even.”

  “I disagree. So here’s my wager. Guide us to your base, dressed and groomed. If they accept you? We’ll surrender.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “We’ll save you. If we can.” My stomach knots; I doubt we’ll have the chance.

  She narrows her eyes. “Wot’s stoppin’ me from strippin’ ’alfway an’ turnin’ you in?”

  I hold up the spool. “Snapcord. Only my magic can cut it. I’m going to sew you into the jumpsuit. This is centipede leather—trust me, it’s the devil’s own to cut. How many of your scalpels did we go through, Lenora?”

  “Just that outfit? Six.”

  “She carries a lot of knives,” I stage-whisper to Solenne.

  “Not enough for you to carve up another one of those things,” Lenora mutters.

  “Sew me in? ’Ow’m I meant to—” she sputters, “—go to the loo, then?”

  “Oh, it’s got a modesty flap—you do remember what modesty is… right? Fits down there just like a monthly pad. So, haircut and new duds… or”—I grin—“I think we still have one of the worn scalpels around somewhere.”

  Solenne sags, lips curling. “Bloody damn you, woman.”

  “Maybe,” I sigh. “Shall I save you a seat in hell? Or maybe you’d better save one for me—I’m fairly sure you’ll arrive first.”

  She exhales hard through her nose. “You’ve got your bleedin’ deal.”

  Jenny steps close, cups my ear, and whispers, “You’re inviting the furry to join us and wrapping the blonde in explosives. Why not both?”

  “One went to jail for loving my daddy,” I answer. “The other pointed a gun at her. Who would you save?”

  The words hang between us—too heavy for anyone to breathe around, too honest to undo.