by S. L. Stacy
Bowser is chasing Princess Peach in a totally dark, square room, represented by the 10x10 grid in the diagram below. Bowser kidnaps Princess Peach when the distance between them is within the kidnap radius, r. Assume that both Bowser and the princess know the start location of the other. Write a program optimizing the search strategy for Bowser and the escape strategy for Princess Peach.
“How do I know what their optimal strategies are?” Five asks me, staring at the blank window open on his computer screen.
“Have you talked about pursuit-evasion games in class?” When he shrugs, I continue, “This a classic, two-player pursuit-evasion game—the princess and monster game. Let’s say the princess starts here,” I say, circling one of the nodes on the diagram accompanying the prompt. “The optimal strategy for the princess is to move to a random location in the room—or one of the other nodes on this grid—where she waits for a certain amount of time.” As I’m talking, I continue to mark up the diagram. “Then, she goes to another random node, waits…and so on and so forth.
“The monster’s optimal strategy is to divide the room into sections, pick one at random and search it for a time, then repeat for the next random section, etcetera. If the princess is within a certain distance, the monster can kidnap her, but if she can outrun him for a certain number of turns, she wins. I know I went through that pretty quickly,” I realize, studying the overwhelmed expression on his face. “Did that make any sense?”
He takes a moment to study the diagram, processing everything I’ve just told him. “I think so. So the princess’s only options are to outrun Bowser or get kidnapped? She should lie in wait and then knock him out.”
“I like the way you think,” I admit, smiling, “but let’s try to program it the way your professor wants you to, first. Do you think you can at least get it started?” Five nods. “Okay, then go ahead, and I’ll jump in if you get stuck.”
A couple of hours later, Five has a program that, except for a few minor bugs, pretty much works, and I feel a little more clear-headed after the distraction. I can deal with whatever comes my way next, as far as Dolos is concerned. If he gets in touch with me later, I can freak out at him for not leaving me a note, and then we can move past it. If it truly was a one-night stand…well, I’m a big girl. I can handle a little meaningless sex, even if nothing about it felt meaningless at the time. And if he did steal the Guardian Stones…
“Why the long face?” Dionysus asks, trailing me on my way to the front door. “Was Five really that bad? Did he try to pet you? We talked about that, Five!” he yells over his shoulder.
“No,” I say quickly, “he didn’t try to…pet me. It was fine. We got his assignment done.”
“That’s a relief. But, seriously, you look really bummed. Having guy troubles again?” A playful wink lets me know he’s just kidding this time.
“Actually…it is about a guy,” I confess.
Dionysus gapes at me. “What did he do? I’ll kick his ass.”
“There’s no need for that. Really.”
“Well, I’m not very confrontational, so I wouldn’t literally kick his ass, but I could text him a bunch of angry emojis or something.”
I burst out laughing, unable to stay sullen and bitter around Dionysus, even if he is slightly annoying. “I appreciate the support, but I’ll be fine. Luckily, I have a lot of other way more important things to distract me. Victoria and I are going to your friend’s store later to get the antidote. Thanks again for the info.”
“No problem. I can come too, if you want,” he offers, following me out the door and down the porch steps. “I want to help!”
“Oh, really?” I say without breaking my stride. “What do you want in exchange this time? I can’t afford to keep tutoring people for free.”
“Nothing,” he insists. “I feel bad about abandoning Victoria. I shouldn’t have done that.”
I whirl to face him, arms crossed. “No, you shouldn’t have. I think it really hurt her. And she could have used you.”
“So I want to make it up to her now. I want to help you guys find an antidote!” His words are exactly what I want to hear. He wants to help us, and—even though he’s in part motivated by guilt—his intentions seem pure. He genuinely wants to help us save our sorority, no strings attached. Yes, they’re the exact words I’ve been craving to hear—I just wish they were coming from someone else. Someone I cared about, who I thought felt the same way.
“Maybe,” I say noncommittally. “The truth is, we could use some help, but I need to talk to Victoria about it first. It’s up to her.”
He nods in understanding. “I get it. Run it by her, and let me know. Thanks, nerd.” There’s a spring in his step as he goes back to the house.
I unlock my car, hesitating before opening the door, a sense of foreboding passing over me. A blast of autumn wind perturbs the otherwise calm, clear day, dragging cold fingers down my spine. Shivering, I get in the car and turn on some music, cranking up the volume until Billy Idol’s husky voice drowns out my own jumbled thoughts. At a stoplight, I text Victoria to let her know I’m on my way. After we realized the stones were missing, she promised to reschedule with Rae and meet me back at the house. She still hasn’t answered by the time I get back to campus.
As I walk up to the Gamma Lambda Phi house, something elongated and black streaks across my path, coming to a stop on our lawn. The black cat sits back on its haunches, velvety ears standing at attention. It mewls at me as I pass, and I can feel its alert, yellow-green eyes watching me open the door and go inside.
“A black cat,” I mutter. “That’s just great.” I’m not usually superstitious, but right now, I’ll take all the good luck we can get—and that doesn’t include black cats, broken mirrors, or walking under any ladders.
“Victoria?” I call out, walking further into the house, the only sounds the rustle of feathers and gentle coos coming from the birdcages. When I go upstairs, she’s not in our room, either. I sit down at the desk and boot up my laptop while I wait for her to get back. Looking over at Dolos’s rose, I notice it’s already starting to wilt, the dark red petals turning a brittle brown. I take it out of the vase, about to throw it away when I realize I don’t have any mementos from our time together, however short and tumultuous it was. A few healthy, vibrant petals still remain; I carefully remove these, tossing the rest.
I have a book of pressed flowers my grandparents helped me make when I was little so that I could take part of their garden home with me. Sliding it off the bookshelf, I open it on my bed and flip through it, past splashes of pink peonies, clusters of tiny, star-shaped purple heliotrope, and the stain of blood red roses. Flush against each page, the flowers could almost be mistaken for illustrations, the splayed petals tissue thin and vulnerable-looking. Finding some empty pages toward the end, I slip the remnants of Dolos’s rose inside and squeeze the book shut, layering a few heavy text books on top to press the petals down. They should be dry in a few weeks.
I try texting Victoria again, then pass the time replying to some emails. An hour goes by with still no answer. I don’t want to panic yet, but somehow I know that something is wrong. Perhaps it’s an instinct leftover from the time when humans had to be attuned to more subtle changes in order to survive—the whisper of movement in the grass, a faint scent on the wind—that told them danger was coming.
Still, I silence the warning signals for now, realizing I have one last option before going into full-out panic mode. After a few long, tense seconds of combing through my purse, I find the wadded up piece of paper with the address Dionysus gave us. I unfold it, squinting down at his messy handwriting: The Midnight Shoppe, 457 Little Lane. Ask for Billy. Searching for the address on my phone, it can’t pinpoint the exact location, but it shows Little Lane on the map: a small side street in downtown Shadesburg. Victoria could be there already, waiting for me. Throwing on a lightweight jacket and shouldering my bag, I head out into the indigo twilight.
Chapter 9
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nbsp; Little Lane is tucked into a sleepy corner of downtown, away from the main business district and the bars packed for happy hour. The few businesses on this block are closed for the day—among them, a nail salon and a thrift store—but, as I coast up and down the street, I don’t see Victoria or any signs for The Midnight Shoppe. Pulling up in front of Hot Nails, I cut the engine and get out to investigate on foot.
Keeping to the streetlights, I peer down a dark alleyway next to the nail salon. A smear of color out of the corner of my eye draws my gaze downward to a basement level window framed in multicolored twinkle lights. A set of steep, concrete stairs leads down to a glass door, partially obscured in shadow. I take a cautious step toward it, then another, and another, until I can make out the faint, loopy gold words painted on the door:
The Midnight Shoppe
Open weekdays, 5:00 p.m.-1:00 a.m.
Saturdays, 4:00 p.m.-midnight. Closed Sundays.
Open Halloween.
The clear peal of a bell sounds overhead as I push through the door, into the dimly lit, musty-smelling shop. “Hello?” I call out, craning my neck to see past the counter and unmanned cash register. When there’s no response, I walk the length of the store, perusing its cluttered shelves. Most of the merchandise is geared toward shoppers with a superficial interest in the occult: mood rings shaped like spiders and skulls, “healing” crystals in various sizes and colors, tarot cards, Ouija boards and books covering everything from necromancy to telekinesis. Every once in a while, there’s a more unusual-looking item hidden amidst the junk—a type of plant I’ve never seen or heard of before, a crystal ball reminding me of the one from Madam Moira’s tent. Then, there’s the downright creepy, like these gray, misshapen things floating in liquid-filled glass tanks. Feeling nauseous, I look away from them. You’re being ridiculous, I scold myself. Whatever they are, they’re fake. This is all junk.
“Can I help you?” a gruff voice barks somewhere behind me. I jump, almost knocking over one of the exotic plants. “If you’re looking for drakon venom, we’re all out.”
“No, I’m not looking for…whatever that is,” I say, turning around fully to face him. A man—if, with the slightly pointed ears peeking out from beneath his white hair, you could call him that—has appeared beside the counter. Light-colored stubble covers his cheeks and chin, culminating in a too-long goatee. He’s wearing a plaid shirt tucked into a pair of dark brown pants and cumbersome, shiny black shoes. I wonder where he came from, until I notice a set of heavy, maroon drapes in the back of the shop, swaying as they settle back into place. “I’m looking for…” I glance at Dionysus’s note. “Billy.”
“Well, you’ve found him,” he says curtly. I would have thought Billy would be more excited about having a customer, especially considering it seems to be a very slow night. After an annoyed sigh, he lumbers over to me. “What can I help you find today?” He has a weird, shuffling gait when he moves, walking without picking up his feet.
“I see you’ve been eying the moonshade,” he adds, peering over my shoulder at the shelf behind me.
I follow his gaze, shuddering. “I wasn’t…that’s moonshade?” I realize, looking again at the plant I almost knocked over. On first glance, there’s nothing really that special about the delicate vine with blue-green leaves. Inspecting it more carefully, I notice it’s overflowing the confines of the terracotta pot, spreading across the shelf and even entwining itself around a smaller, flowering plant in the next pot over. I don’t really know anything about plants, Olympian or otherwise, but the moonshade seems to be strangling the other plant, its leaves and stem in the process of turning the same bluish green color.
Billy has a hopeful expression on his hairy face, misconstruing my interest in the moonshade. “That’s the last of it. You can have it, but it’ll cost you.”
“That’s okay,” I insist, stepping back from it. “I’m not in the market for any moonshade. Actually, I need something that can reverse its effects.”
“Ah,” he says with a nod. “So someone you know is stuck in a transformation. It’s foolish to take moonshade without having an antidote on hand.”
“It wasn’t their fault,” I say defensively.
“That’s what they all say,” he mutters, gently taking a section of the vine in one of his hairy hands to inspect it. “Such an interesting species. Most people consider it a weed, but, as you know, it can be very dangerous when it falls into the wrong hands. In its natural habitat, it grows close to the ground, in damp, dark places—too much sunlight kills it. It has a fascinating survival mechanism. When it comes into contact with another type of plant—something small, like grasses, flowers, certain shrubs—it can transform them into more moonshade.” Releasing the vine, Billy straightens back up, shiny, dark eyes meeting mine. “Once the plant’s been taken over, the change is irreversible. It can never go back to what it once was.”
“Look, as much as I appreciate the, uh, botany lesson, I’m kind of in a hurry.” I know I’m being rude, but I can’t waste any more time listening to him prattle on about moonshade biology. “I’m just looking for the antidote.”
Billy gives an apologetic shrug. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any here.”
“That’s okay—I can make it myself. I just need to know how. My…friend, Dionysus, said you’d be able to tell me.” My voice is already losing its confidence. A store full of tarot card decks, crystals and alien flora, and even Billy doesn’t have the fudging antidote.
He takes a moment to think, stroking his goatee. “I may have just the thing that can help you,” he finally says, wagging a finger at me. “I’ll be right back.” Turning, he shuffles into the back room, the curtain rippling out like waves of maroon flame in his wake. Before he disappears, I notice a section of shirt sticking up out of the back of his pants, revealing a glimpse of brown fur.
A few minutes later, he hobbles out, a roll of parchment clutched in one hand, a black feather clasped in the other. “Everything you’ll need is written down here,” he says, setting them on the counter next to the cash register.
“Great,” I breathe, hurrying over. “That’s great.” I start to reach for the scroll, but he lays a protective hand on it.
“There’s just the little matter of payment.”
“I have cash,” I tell him quickly, taking my wallet out of my purse. “Or I can just charge it if you need more. Do you take Visa?”
Billy shakes his head, an amused smile creeping onto his face. “I don’t want your money.”
I hesitate, tucking my wallet away. “Oh. Then, how am I going to pay for it?”
“What are you willing to give me?” he asks, drumming stubby fingers on the counter.
“Billy, this antidote is for my friends. They’re some of the most important people in my life. I’m willing to give you…well, almost anything,” I admit quietly.
The sinister smile widens further, making me wish I hadn’t been so honest. “I was hoping you’d say that. The payment I require is a little more…unusual. I have an appreciation for unusual things, as you can probably tell,” he adds, gesturing to the rest of the shop.
“But I don’t have anything unusual to give you,” I realize, heart sinking. “I mean, I have The Breakfast Club on VHS. You can have that if you want.”
“Well, of course you do, my dear,” he insists, chuckling. “You are unusual. You’re a guardian, yes?” I guess I don’t have much of a poker face because his look of uncertainty quickly turns to excitement. “I thought so. A guardian’s wings can fetch a hefty price on the underground market.”
“You want my wings?” I cry out, taking a reflexive step back. “Won’t that hurt?”
Billy shakes his head reassuringly. “Of course not.” His hand dips beneath the counter, reemerging with a black, glass sphere about the size of a small apple. “It will be easy and painless. That is, if you are willing to exchange your wings for the antidote that will save your friends.”
“I…I need to think about it
,” I stall, mind racing. “I need to talk to my friend Victoria about it first. There might be another way.”
“I guess that’s a no, then,” he says with a disappointed sigh, swiping the scroll and quill from the counter.
“Wait,” I plead as he turns to leave, “that’s not a hard no. I just need a few hours to think about it.”
“I don’t have the time or patience to wait around while you wallow in indecision,” Billy snaps, a cold gleam in his dark eyes. “Either make up your mind now, or get out. I don’t care if you are Dionysus’s friend. I can’t help you if you don’t know what you want.”
“I know what I want.” I slam my hands down on the counter, and Billy gives a start of surprise. “I want that recipe. I just have one question. Does giving you my wings mean that I won’t be a halfling anymore?” While flying is certainly the biggest perk, there are other advantages to being part Olympian. Like the ability to heal ridiculously fast. And the living for a really long time part.
“You’ll still be a halfling,” he assures me, setting the rolled up parchment and feather back down. “You can even still perform your other duties as a guardian—you just won’t have your wings anymore.”
“Well…I guess that’s okay.” Biting my lip, I take another look at the scroll, impatient to find out what insights it contains. “I can live without them if it means I can turn my sorority sisters back.”
“So we have a deal?” Billy arches a furry eyebrow, and I nod. “Wonderful.” Untying the gold ribbon from around the scroll, he unravels it with a flourish, smoothing it open in front of me. There’s something written on it in what I assume is Billy’s tidy cursive:
By signing this agreement, I grant you permission to take my guardian wings as payment for the Drink of Restoration recipe. This agreement is final and eternally binding.
“All you have to do is sign here,” Billy says, pointing to the empty line below the contract, “I get your wings, and the recipe will be revealed to you.”
