A stiff breeze brushed through Matt’s new shirt, raising goosebumps from his skin. He cursed himself then, having visited the market when it was much warmer and sunnier outside. It wasn’t like he had grown up in Colorado or anything, being subjected to the bipolar whims of early summer weather since he was old enough to complain about it.

  “You look cold,” Petra noticed.

  Matt sighed, somehow feeling no gratitude for the comment. To be warmed, to care for someone… the need for it grasped at his chest with searing talons, but the face before him was the last he would think to take between his palms.

  Even now, when he thought as much to strangle her as to embrace her, the thought of Rachel flared a wanting heat behind his sternum. It had not yet fully settled, he thought, that he would never see Jason again. The shock of betrayal was quickly fading, aided by his conversation with Petra, and he imagined the reality would descend like molasses - languid, yet inescapable.

  So now, he remained trapped in this strange limbo, no longer angry, not yet defeated.

  “A little,” Matt admitted. “I didn’t dress to be out all night.”

  Petra smiled, rummaging blindly through his bag with one hand. When he drew it out, he clasped between his fingers three bronze spheres. Matt racked his brain for the currency’s name, but only managed to produce a dim assumption that it started with a D.

  “Get yourself a room,” Petra said, extending his hand and opening his palm. “There’s a good, safe inn a couple blocks down Nestra, to the right.”

  Matt, having not the faintest idea what Nestra meant, leaned away. “I can’t accept this. You’re too kind.”

  “I insist.” Petra did not push into Matt’s space, but his tone was firm. “Fifteen drooma is no sacrifice. It should be enough for a room and a meal.”

  Matt feigned more reluctance than he felt as he took the drooma. “Thank you. What inn am I looking for?”

  “Between the Sheets,” Petra said, his voice dropping slightly. “Tell them Petra sent you. And stay off the ground floor if you want to sleep.”

  “Thank-” Matt started, then remembered where he was. “Lay, lay.”

  He turned and exited the little courtyard before Petra could reply. As much as his company was enjoyable, what Matt really needed right now was to be alone, to finally process all that had happened today. He turned to the left, then at a frantic shout from Petra, spun around and walked the other direction, embarrassment burning the edges of his ears. Torches guttered invitingly inside many storefronts, serving the swell of busybodies as they seeped out of restaurants and workshops. Footfalls and boisterous conversations buoyed the air around him, carrying him forward in an almost trancelike state towards his hotel.

  Between the Sheets was advertised by a sizable wooden sign, hanging perpendicular to the building off of a simple metal strut. The sign itself was painted in explosive shades of pink and red, the looping letters and curvy design heralding its services as a bit more than Matt had bargained for. Cautiously, holding his head neutrally to avoid garnering unwanted attention, he slipped through a milling crowd of drunkards and through the open doorway.

  The hotel’s lobby felt more like a ballroom than a point of sale. People milled about, chatting, taking each other by the arm, spinning each other away to other partners. All manners of dress mingled, from paupers’ cloth to finery to outright costume, meshing together in a mesmerizing dance of conversation.

  “What’s got you between the sheets?” came a voice from Matt’s left. Matt spun, startled, then relaxed at the sight of the hotel’s receptionist, beckoning him with a stare from behind a simple wooden counter. Matt strode to meet the man, who wore looping black eyeliner and a red halter top. His eyes were a striking blue, contrasting with his close-cropped black hair.

  “Just looking for a room,” Matt explained. “Is there some sort of event going on?”

  The receptionist smiled. “Never been here before?”

  Matt shook his head. “I met Petra today. He recommended you.”

  “As he would,” the receptionist laughed. “He obviously failed to mention the culture of the establishment.”

  “He told me that I should stay upstairs if I want to get any sleep,” Matt admitted.

  “Good call. Shall I keep your name off the card then?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Matt stammered. “Just a room would be great.”

  The receptionist batted his eyes at a spreadsheet behind the desk. “Fourth floor, room four-oh-four. Ten drooma a night, five more if you want to dance.”

  Matt fished two bronze pellets out of his pocket, feeling slightly guilty for avoiding the event. “This should do. I’ll come back if I change my mind about the dance.”

  The receptionist slid a hefty brass key across the desk, leaving it for Matt to take. “First drink’s free. Pretty good deal if you ask me.”

  Matt took the key and nodded, then turned to the stairwell and slowly left the booming cacophony behind. The staircase was built out of smooth stone slabs, contrasting with the creaky wooden steps in Tassel’s apartment. His steps rung strangely in the spiral stairwell, reverberating back to him as if through metal jaws. The door to the fourth floor opened easily, as did his room once he spun the key in the lock. He barely noticed the room’s contents until he flopped onto the floor next to the bed, unwilling to gunk up the sheets with his day-old clothes.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  It took Matt far too long to remember how much effort a proper bath would require. Grunting, still lacking the energy to scan his surroundings, he stumbled to the bathroom door and held his breath, expecting the same foggy wave of disgust he had experienced in Tassel’s apartment. To his surprise, though, the bathroom smelled mostly fine, its contents separated into a tiny, closed toilet room and a larger area with a sink and bath, both half-full of water. Matt pulled his clothes off and immersed them in the tub, finding the water cool but not cold. Nothing but a small bar of gritty soap adorned the edges of the tub, but Matt found that it worked just fine on both him and his clothing. The bath, mysteriously, had no visible drain, though Matt discovered why when he opened the door to the toilet.

  “Huh,” he muttered to himself. “Not bad.”

  A small wooden sign above the toilet guided him to a sizable wooden bucket on the sill next to the seat. A quick inspection of the bucket and toilet proved the functionality of the system: a steep slant deposited waste from the toilet into a vertical shaft beyond the back wall of the room. The bucket was to be used to transport dirty bathwater to the toilet and wash off any residue - and though the shaft smelled predictably horrific, Matt had to admit that it was a much cleaner smell than Tassel’s place. He smiled at a little warning on the bucket: Do NOT use this until you have bathed!

  Not for the first time since arriving in Lyrian, Matt wondered what his future might look like. He couldn’t bear to think about returning to Earth, so his thoughts often turned to employment. Back home, he had no qualifications beyond a high school diploma and a fast-expiring first-aid certificate that he had earned during his first and only season coaching Little League. He had no aspirations of a college degree. If drudge work was his future on Earth, what would be the difference in doing it here? He had already been learning the basics of smithing, and while he couldn’t imagine himself banging on metal every day for the rest of his life, he had to admit that it was exhilarating to learn such a useful skill.

  Rachel, of course, wouldn’t have to work. Matt wrinkled his nose and flopped onto the bed, having finished hanging his sopping-wet clothes on a rickety wooden rack near the window. She and Lana could probably both sap off of Tassel’s Edomic for the rest of their lives without having to earn a single drooma. Even if Tassel left them, Rachel likely had enough power to survive.

  Matt wondered if Jason had ever needed to work for drooma.

  Without much more to think about than the lost prospect of finding his best friend, Matt let his eyelids fall shut, needing not wait another moment for this terrible day to catch up to him.

  ? ? ?

  Matt stood at a crossroads.

  Surrounding him on all sides was a vast, empty plain of grass. The sky above him was a piercing blue, almost too perfect to be real. Churning thunderclouds loomed behind him, though not yet closely enough to obscure the sun. Ahead of him, across the intersection, sat a one-story general store, painted in a cheery baby blue, whose rooster-shaped weathervane spun erratically in the mounting breeze.

  Matt’s legs felt strange as he walked towards the general store, as if he had replaced his legs with prosthetics and hadn’t quite learned how to use them yet. He tottered across the intersection, glad to see no cars in either direction. The door jingled melodically when he pushed it open, welcoming him to a dusty little shop with a few shelves and a tiny restaurant. A figure behind the cash register waved at him, and Matt quickly recognized the man as Tim.

  “What’s got you out here?” Matt greeted, somehow knowing that he should be feeling more than he was.

  Tim leaned over the counter, resting his weight on his elbows. “I could ask you the same question, Beyonder.”

  Matt frowned. “Hold up. This-”

  “Isn’t real, yes,” Tim grinned. “I’m not Tim.”

  Tim continued to speak, and as he did, the room around Matt shifted. It grew larger, smaller, grew gilded accents then lost them to brutal concrete. It flashed through different places Matt had been - his own bedroom, Rachel’s house, a classroom at his school. People flashed by - Jason, Holly, April, Ian, Shannon, and so many more who he had known back on Earth. He felt as if he were being harvested, starved of his own life to feed a nameless, frenzied hunger.

  And he snapped awake in terror.

  Hardly a foot above him, a dark, featureless void hung like a living shadow.

  And, behind the shadow, Petra stood with his arm outstretched, muttering under his breath as sweat beaded on his brow. As Matt watched in petrified horror, Petra drew closer to the monstrosity as the shadow began to vibrate, emitting no sound but still somehow conveying its loathing, its suffering. In an instant, Petra shouted one final command, lunged forward and grabbed the specter with his outstretched hand.

  The living shadow vanished in a brilliant flash of light.

  Matt lay, petrified, his mouth hanging open, his breath catching in his throat.

  Petra spun and gently sat down on the edge of the bed. “Are you okay?”

  Matt’s throat refused to unclench. He hoped his silence would convey that he… probably would be, soon.

  “Torivors,” Petra spat disdainfully. “You were harvested, weren’t you?”

  Matt nodded, the motion coming out jerky and nervous.

  “I have been, too,” Petra murmured. “Many times. I’m sorry I didn’t get to you in time.”

  “So they-” Matt stammered. “They know you?”

  “You too, now,” Petra sighed. “And they’re getting hungrier. I’m not strong enough to contain them forever.”

  An invisible fist scratched at Matt’s windpipe as it tightened in his throat. “You’re saying they’ll escape. How many are there?”

  “Not important,” Petra said quickly, reaching to Matt’s elbow and pulling him to his feet. “I was going to wait for autumn, but this escape… changes things.”

  Matt shook his head and sat back down. “I’m not getting dragged into another magical intrigue. Leave me be.”

  Petra cocked his head. “They know you, Matt. To exist in Trensicourt without my protection now is to beg for death.”

  Matt cursed his horrific luck. “Fine. Where are we going?”

  Petra closed his eyes. “You’re going back to sleep. I’m going to mend the wards. I’ll meet you in the ballroom at sunup.”

  “You expect me to sleep?” Matt objected indignantly.

  Petra smiled. “No, but I expect you to try.”

  And before Matt could find the words to object, Petra slipped through the window. Matt ran to the window in time to see Petra launch himself across the back alley to a third-floor balcony on the opposite side, then quickly drop one floor at a time until he hit the ground running at a full sprint.

  Matt did not bother to watch him disappear around the corner. He returned to his bed, yanked at the blankets until they looked more or less clean, then slid under the frame. It smelled of dust and rubbing alcohol, and the floorboards weren’t exactly flat, but it was far preferable to being seen. He closed his eyes, glad to be rid of the persistent moonlight streaming in from his window.

  It was a futile effort to sleep, he knew that much. But, given what might happen tomorrow, he had to try.