by Baen Books
They took us to a nearby house, where we could rest through the rest of the night and spend the day tomorrow, so we weren’t at risk of being discovered in the diner. It turned out Naomi mostly wanted to talk. She mostly wanted to talk about her parents. Her mom was a nurse and her dad was a mechanic. She’d had a completely normal childhood, until the shift came.
The stories always make it sound like it would be cool to shift. But all Naomi had got was being a young girl, barely coping with being a human and now having to handle another form too. She talked quietly, over endless cups of tea, at the kitchen table of the house I believed belong to Kyrie and Tom the diner owners, and also waitress and cook. “It’s very odd, and at first I barely remembered what happened when I was the dog,” she said. “Then I started remembering more and having more control. Also more control when I shifted. I still wish very hard that I didn’t have to shift.” She looked at me with very sad eyes, and I smiled at her.
“But you get the healing ability, and you’ll live longer.”
“I just want to be a normal girl,” she said, and didn’t cry but made me want to.
After a while she asked me about me, and Millie and Mike, and how we’d fallen into this very weird cryptid business. She laughed at the cavalier way in which we’d started, and I told her some of the funniest stories I’d hunted down, like the big lizard alien who turned out to be someone’s pet lizard photographed at a really high resolution. “You see,” I told her. “People don’t want to know… I mean, they really aren’t hunting for people like you. They just want an amusing story and the idea that the world holds wonders beyond normal life.”
“How odd,” she said. “For years I’ve dreamed of normal life.”
At night fall, when the people from the diner came for us, we were the best of friends. I never thought I could feel so much at home with someone who could shift shapes, but of course I’d been working with the idea of cryptids my whole life.
Tom and Rafiel gave me instructions. I was to drive to Three Luck Dragon, and go in with Naomi and order a meal. “Don’t worry. There will be no one else there. There rarely is. And then we wait, in the parking lot,” he said. “The… people who run the restaurant are allies, of sorts. They might help. They almost for sure won’t stop us. We’ve talked to them. Or at least sent message. Just delay till after the restaurant closes, and then come out. They will be waiting for you. And so will we.”
It all went according to plan—to a point. Kyrie had given Naomi a wraparound dress thing. She looked good. It looked like a date.
It wasn’t a date. I could maybe see sometime in the distant future where we might have feelings for each other, but for now, she was too much of a wounded thing, and I just wanted to protect her.
Dinner seemed quite normal, even if the restaurant was deserted. The food was good. I figured it was only this empty because it was a week night, and it was late.
I looked outside at the parking lot. My van, with its license plate back to normal, was the only thing in the parking lot.
What if the kidnappers didn’t come? What if the good guys didn’t come? Where were the good guys? Why weren’t there more cars out there?
We paid our bill and headed out, into the warm summer night. At the door, I paused and turned to Naomi to say something about how that was the best hot and sour soup I’d ever had. The sign at the restaurant door was just being flipped from open to close by a hand which showed surprisingly long clawlike nails.
A sound made me turn. There were men surrounding us. They were the men Naomi had been running from when I met her. Instinctively, I put my hand on her arm.
One of the nearest men, an unkempt guy with a bushy beard, snarled, “None of that. She’s coming with us now. She’s our bitch. You stay away if you know what’s good for you.”
“We should kill him, Joe,” another of the charmers said. “He might post pictures.”
The one nearest me was coughing, only I had a feeling it wasn’t a cough as such, and his body was spasming, the features acquiring a lupine cast.
From above came the sound of wings. Two dragons, one green and one red, descended. From the shadows of the parking lot, other… things emerged. A glossy black panther, a lion, a fox and a squirrel wearing a beret.
I was staring at the squirrel as the melee broke out. Someone pushed me out of the way. Other someones grabbed the men and coyotes and forms inbetween who’d surrounded Naomi.
And then suddenly I realized Naomi was nowhere in sight. I told myself that Afghan hounds not being a fighting breed, she’d probably have got out of the way, but I felt that something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
It was dark in the parking lot and there were very large and very odd bodies fighting everywhere. I followed, no sound, no hint of presence, only the vague feeling that Naomi was somewhere around, that she was in danger.
From behind one of the boulders past the building, dividing the parking lot from an alley, came a sound like a sigh. “Naomi.” I ran.
I squeezed between the boulders and to the alley. The man was holding Naomi down, and from her position, he was holding something to her back. A gun? A knife? I’d never had to fight anyone since middle school.
But I thought that now that they knew that Naomi was likely to run away, they’d use even harsher methods to get her to obey. I didn’t know what they’d be, and I didn’t want to think about them. Then I thought about how much Naomi wanted to go home. And about the parents who’d missed her all these years.
I found myself pulling the man off her. He was holding a knife. I didn’t have much in the way of weapons, except my hiking boots. But as I turned to face him, I found Naomi pushing something into my hand. It was a rock.
Whoever said not to bring a knife to a gun fight never brought a rock to a knife fight. The rock is a lousy shield, and sucks as an offensive weapon. But I found panic gave me ideas. As the man thrust the knife at me, I sidestepped and hit his wrist hard with the rock.
He dropped it. I didn’t have time to stop and didn’t dare stoop for it, so I hit him again, hard, across the forehead with the rock. He came at me roaring. And he was twisting and writhing. The teeth that closed on my arm were canine. I screamed.
Suddenly Naomi was there. There was a swipe of the knife, and the creature – coyote? wolf? – latched onto my arm. Blood poured out of the animal, spurts hitting my arm. Then the teeth let go. My arm was bleeding too, but the animal fell to the ground, bleeding, writing, changing.
Where the coyote had been there was a dead, naked man. And Naomi was looking at me, “Are you hurt?” she said. “I couldn’t let him hurt you, see. Not after everything you did for me.”
Which was the last thing I saw before I passed out from blood loss or perhaps shock.
I came to with a man sewing my arm. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We get pretty good at fixing wounds, after a while.”
“Will I change into a werewolf?” I asked. And to the man’s blank expression. “I was bitten by one.”
“Nah. Doesn’t work that way. You have to be born that way, and then you change at puberty.”
“Good,” I said. I’d had a glimpse into how the other half lived. I didn’t want to become one of them.
I slept in Kyrie and Tom’s guest bed, on the back porch of their house, that night, and planned to head out on the road bright and early in the morning.
At least that was the idea, but Naomi called and I met her at the diner. They’re keeping it all pretty quiet still, just announced she was found and I gather there would be a story of amnesia. But that morning no one knew she had been found, and I could have breakfast with Naomi and Mr. and Mrs. Howland, who were like everyone’s dream parents, still unflappable and loving, after losing their daughter for ten years, and after – doubtless – knowing what had happened.
I shook hands with her father over the breakfast table, and smiled at Naomi. “You come back and visit now and now, son,” her father said. “Goldport is pretty pleasant,
if you don’t come during a blizzard.”
“I will, thank you, sir. I’m not so far away.”
And then I headed back to the van, and headed back to Kansas and Mike and Millie. For the first time since college, I’m going to lie to my best buds. It was an art rendition of a dragon, I’ll tell them. Photographed in a storm, of course it looked real.
They won’t question it. We’ve had enough of wild goose chases. We’ll have a lot more in the future, at least if I’m concerned. There will be funny stories of someone’s pet lizard with paper wings glued to his back; spooky stories of legends of some lizardlike being living in top secret bunkers.
But as far as I’m concerned, no matter how much I travel, or how much people crave the fantastic, Big Foot, the Ohio Wolfman, Utah’s Bear Lake Monster, Denver’s Lizard Man, and the Carolinas’ Panthers are all safe from me.
They have trouble enough policing themselves and each other and trying to stay safe and on the right side of the law.
And in the end, all they want is to be normal people. Like everyone else.
I don’t need to add to their troubles.
Sarah A. Hoyt is originally from Portugal, but is a long time U.S. citizen. She’s the creator of the Shifter series, which began with Draw One in the Dark and Gentleman Takes a Chance, and continues with latest entry Noah’s Boy. She is also the author of the Prometheus-award-winning Darkship Thieves, as well as its sequels Darkship Renegades and A Few Good Men.
The Sorcerer of Daigawa
by Jon F. Merz
The stone fortress looking skyward looked as if it were erupting from the lush green of the valley floor. Towering walls of granite mined from a quarry many leagues to the east overlooked the river hewing its way between the Daigawa Mountains on either side. High above, towers and ramparts afforded the guards a perfect vantage point on every approach. It had been designed to thwart attack from any angle. To a traditional warrior, the fortress appeared insurmountable; it would take a large army prepared to lay siege for months to overcome its defenses.
But Ran, hidden in the shadows of the thick fragrant pine boughs, saw opportunity where others did not.
Two weeks previously, he had sat motionless in this same spot, watching the full moon cast its glow upon the eastern side of the keep. Bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, the imposing walls had revealed weaknesses. Divots in the stone blocks ran all the way up to the underside of the lowest rampart.
Where others saw mere imperfections, Ran saw handholds and footholds. They weren’t uniformly spaced. Nor would they made for an easy climb. But it was possible.
And possibility was the foundation of success.
Sinking back into the looming shadows of a massive pine, Ran waited. There would be a new moon tonight for his infiltration. Just as he had used the full moon to aid his observation a fortnight before, Ran adhered to the teachings of the ancient scrolls he had spent years studying by letting nature aid him whenever possible.
From a very young age, Ran had been schooled in the legendary arts of the Shinobujin, whom the outside world called Shadow Warriors. Masters of spying, infiltration, and nontraditional warfare, outsiders considered Shadow Warriors to be supernatural warriors able to bend the universe to their will and bewitch a stalwart sentry with a mere glance.
Ran smiled at the thought. Certainly, there was much he had yet to learn about the higher levels of the art, but magic? More likely those stalwart sentries had dozed off. Rather than face harsh punishment for sleeping on duty, they had simply concocted a tale that a shadow warrior wizard had cast a spell over them.
And Ran knew something else: his brethren at the Nine Daggers clan were happy to let others believe in the myths and legends because it would invariably aid them in their missions. So whether or not it was actually true – it may as well have been.
A light breeze lifted the branches around him, and the fragrant pine tickled his nostrils. Ran closed his eyes and opened his mouth to amplify the night sounds. He heard the cough of a guard far above him float down. He caught the clink of a spoon against a cauldron over a hearth in one of the homes in the tiny village nearby.
But little else stirred.
It was time to move.
Using a low-crawl, Ran eased himself out from under the tree and waited until the breeze rustled the grass against the foot of the fortress before moving again. Each time there was an ambient noise, Ran used it to cover his own approach. He resisted the urge to rush while moving across the open expanse of ground. Instead, he focused on controlling his awareness and his breathing, forcing him to take more time.
He finally arrived at the foot of the wall and looked up, centering his position beneath the lowest rampart, trying to visualize the location of the first handhold. He stepped up onto the lowest stone, keeping the pressure he exerted between his hands and feet equal. While one hand or foot would search out a new position, the other three maintained solid contact to hold him in place.
It was highly unlikely the guards would expect a solitary intruder to free climb a wall in this fashion. People, like animals, preferred the easiest routes. It was a natural instinct Ran would exploit as he made his ascent. And while he did indeed have a grappling hook whose ends had been wrapped in soft silk to absorb noise when thrown, he didn’t want to risk relying on it when one reasonably alert guard might discover its existence during the long climb ahead.
A line of sweat broke out along his hairline and cooled in the breeze as he continued his climb. He felt the muscles of his arms and legs stretching and flexing as he moved ever higher. Ran kept his breathing slow and steady, carefully flushing his system with enough air to power his muscles but also mindful that too much would cause him to become dizzy. One mistake at this height would mean certain death.
While he focused on the climb, Ran replayed what the leader of his clan had told him a month previously back at the training school hidden deep in the mountains of Gakur, nearly a hundred miles from where he was now.
* * *
“There is a relic of importance that we must have.”
Ran, fresh from a soak in the heated stone baths after a grueling day of staff practice, sipped the tea in front of him. “What is the relic?”
The leader of the Nine Daggers, a man by the name of Tozawa and a legend among the Shinobujin, had only smiled. “It is a special sword, forged by the smith known as Daisuke over two hundred years ago. Its blade is reputed to be the finest known to any warrior…alive or dead.”
“Do the dead have need of swords?”
Tozawa grinned. “As I am still fortunately among the living, I cannot answer that question.”
Ran had frowned. Only the traditional Murai warriors had such an unnatural love for their sword blades, believing them imbued with the souls of their ancestors. Shinobujin were pragmatic; they appreciated the sword blade for its ability to deliver killing blows.
Still, hearing one spoken of in such lofty terms unsettled Ran.
Tozawa had smiled at him. “I know what you are thinking, Ran. As skilled a pupil as you are, you still have much to learn. Bring back the sword. Accomplish this mission and you will graduate.”
* * *
Another breeze caused Ran to momentarily sway on the side of the fortress wall. He glanced back down and saw that he was perhaps a hundred feet up now. More than halfway to the top. He redoubled his efforts, ignoring the aches and pains from his arms, back, and legs. He moved in silence, always alert. A few minutes later, he paused just under the rampart.
Ran let his jaw relax and waited for the sounds of the immediate area to introduce themselves. Hearing nothing nearby, he reached up, grabbed the rampart, and folded his body over it. If anyone had been looking at that exact spot, they might have seen a small undulation in the wall as Ran’s body slid over. It was the moment where he was most exposed, but it was also extremely unlikely any of the guards would be watching the top edge of the wall, even if they were actually trying to do their jobs.
Ra
n huddled under the inside wall, swathed in deep shadows. Dressed from head-to-toe in a mottled array of deep blues and grays, the fabrics broke up his body lines and made him harder to see than if he’d been wearing absolute black. Around his head, Ran wore the traditional two piece mask of his kind. One part was carefully wrapped around the top of his head and the other over his mouth. He had also blackened the area around his eyes and other exposed bits of skin with bits of charcoal from the fire he’d cooked over earlier today. Only the whites of his eyes might give him away.
His scanned the scene before him. From this rampart, he could access the first tower to his left that spiraled up another fifty feet. At the top of this tower, he would be able to access the walkway leading to the main part of the keep.
His target.
Ran drew in a deep breath and exhaled smoothly. Forty feet further down the wall, he could see the back of one of the guards on duty. They’d been evenly stationed atop the battlements, and his scouting mission had revealed there were no roving patrols. These guards would remain at their posts until they were relieved at dawn, just a few hours away.
Ran was confident they wouldn’t hear him. He had spent years practicing how to move silently in all types of environments and conditions. The teachers at the Nine Daggers had shown him how to cross loose gravel, thick leaf litter, and even how to emerge from the water without any sound at all. Stealing across the thick stones that made up the rampart was easy by comparison. Of course, while his teacher’s punishments for failure were often very harsh, his life hadn’t been at stake. Ran took a few cleansing breaths to calm his racing heart.
With his eyes fixed on the entrance to the tower, Ran eased out of the deep shadows and used the special sideways walking method to cross the open space. He kept his body level knowing that any sudden motion would increase his likelihood of being discovered.
