It was Sunday, January second, in RhyDin City. I should have come off the night watch, but because of the celebrations the day before, we were short and pulling a double. My partner?s Draknar Smith, out of the 42nd. My name?s Friday. I know what you?re thinking. I?ve heard the snickers. But it really is. Friday Maundy. My parents had a hell of a sense of humor, didn?t they?

We were on our way back to the station when we got a call to check out an apparent abduction on the High Bridge. That?s the one in the middle, for those of you who never bothered to learn the names. East Bridge, High Bridge, West Bridge ? sometimes called the Troll Bridge. I?ve heard it described as a three-fingered hand spanning the mighty RhyDin River. Right. We were working the middle finger. It was half past noon. And it was snowing, and colder than a witch?s ? middle finger.

It was fantastic.

When we got there, we found about a dozen people clustered around the Mermaid statue on the northern end of the bridge, making enough noise for a troop of mourners, and all of them trying to talk at once to the responding patrolman, a new kid named Rogers from the 5th who looked scared as hell. Who could blame him?

?Excuse me!? I said, trying to draw their attention while Smith did what Smith did best and loaded his trank gun. He used to work animal control, so he really knows what he?s doing with a dart. ?Excuse me! Let?s have some order here. If you were a witness, raise your hand ? or hand-equivalent.?

Seven appendages shot up. ?The rest of you beat it,? I said, and Smith waved the trank around like he might just use it. The smart ones ran.

?Great,? I muttered. Five left. Two of the witnesses must have been smarter than they looked. I waved the ones who stayed over. ?Gather round. ?

?You know, you don?t look like coppers,? a wizened little woman gave me the stink-eye.

?No??

?No,? she said.

?What do we look like to you??

?Salesmen.?

?Salesmen??

?Door-to-door salesmen.?

?Right. You can go.?

?But I was a witness! I saw everything!?

?Do I look like a cop or a salesman??

?A salesman!?

?Right. You didn?t see anything. Get outta here before my partner shoots you.? Smith aimed the barrel of the trank at her arse. He really knows what he?s doing. When she didn?t move, he tagged her with a shot that sounded like the sweet, sweet poof of the Daisy BB gun I had as a kid.

One down, four to go.

I looked at the others. ?Any of you see a salesman??

Witness number two ran for the far end of the bridge. Smith dropped him at two hundred yards. It was pretty freaking impressive, let me tell you.

There was a uniform chorus of no-sirs from the remaining three.

?All right. So which one of you wants to tell me what happened?? I stared them all down while Smith reloaded. Rogers had disappeared.

?There was a l-l-l-lady w-w-walking on the bridge,? a mousy-looking guy with glasses piped up. He was shivering hard enough to make my teeth chatter. ?A b-b-black car came up and a m-m-m-man grabbed her and drove off.?

?What?s your name??

?J-j-jenkins, sir. Harold-J-j-j-jenkins.?

?All right, Harold J-j-j-jenkins. And where were you when you saw this??

?Over there,? he pointed to the opposite bank.

?I have an apartment next d-d-d-door to the bakery there. The balcony with the Hogswatch lights.?

?Hogswatch??

?Yessir. The p-p-pink ones, sir. For the hogs.?

?Right.?

?They lead the Hogfather?s sleigh through the sky.?

?Right.?

?And deliver presents.?

?Smith,? I said.

Harold J-j-j-jenkins fell at the flippered base of the statue. He was smiling, at least. Probably dreaming about flying pigs.

?You!? I decided it was time to turn up the heat. My feet were freezing. ?What?s your name??

The woman I pointed to squeaked, but Smith persuaded her not to run.

?Mathilda Veeyayhoe?

Spell that.?

?V-i-e-j-o,? she said.

?Right.?

?What??

?There?s no ?H?,?

?I know.?

?Well then you know your name can?t be Vee-yay-HOE.?

I didn?t even have to prompt Smith for that one.

One left to go. I didn?t have high hopes for him. He looked like panhandler, a shill, a bum. And he was smiling. Go figure.

?My name?s Burt,? he said.

?I didn?t ask you.?

?So yeh can?t shoot me.? The man had big brass ones.

?Just tell me what you saw.? I wanted to go home. Snow was starting to sneak in at the back of my collar.

?I were at th? end of th? bridge when th? lady hobbledy-hoppeded past. She were a cripple, wit? a cane, savvy??

?Right.?

?No. ?twere th? left she were favorin?. But she were right pretty thing, wi? long brown hair an? these greenish eyes. ?

?How close to her did you get?? This sounded fishy.

??Bout as close ?s you an?me. A?int no one notice folk like me.?

?Right.? He had a point. I almost forgot he was there until he started yakking again.

?Left. Anyway, she got almos? halfway ?cross when this shiny black car sliiiiides on up to her, savvy? An? this tall feller ? well, not too tall. Sort of shortish-tall. In a coat. He gets outta th? car and all o? a sudden she explodes inter this black monster wi?fur, an? claws. An? this short guy, well, tallish-short ? he takes th? cane from?er an beats ?er with it. An? then she jumps on ?im. But some other guys scurry outta th? car. An? one o? em shoots ?er wi? sumfin?. An? they load her inter th? car and drive off.?

He finally took a breath.

?Right,? I said.

?Yer gonna shoot me now, entcha??

?Smith,? I sighed and turned away, pinching the bridge of my nose.

Sometimes, I really hate this town.

March 4

Two hours felt like a lifetime, and she'd been gone two months. She woke one morning in the little bedroom in the little house in Teobern, with her view of the snowy little courtyard behind the church, and she knew. It was time to go home.

Alain had bought her clothing, while she was with them. He'd pulled her off the street that morning with nothing but the clothes on her back. It was all hers; she was aware he didn't expect any of it back and had been surprised at how very few things she'd requested when he'd offered. She slid out of the bed, and dressed herself without waiting for Elle to bring breakfast and the itinerary for their day. She put on nothing that she had not been wearing of her own that morning.

When Julianna Desmarais' sister bustled in with the tray, she was clothed and sitting on the edge of her little bed, her hands folded in her lap. "Please inform Baron DeMuer that I wish to return to RhyDin today."

And then she waited, half expecting his promise to be rescinded.

It was not.

There are, she learned, certain overland routes between RhyDin and the Barony of St. Aldwin that cut the travel time significantly over ocean travel. Both relied on places where their respective universes overlapped. She half-expected he would send her on the next shipping vessel that left the port.

He did not.

And so it was that, late one Friday afternoon in March, Zahra Khoury was left precisely where she requested she be dropped off: in the middle of a bridge spanning the RhyDin River. The only personal possession she was lacking to mark the passage of time was a pair of crutches.

It was not snowing, and given the day and hour, it was busier than it had been. Otherwise, the intervening weeks might never have occurred at all.

She waited until the car disappeared, and continued walking across the span.

January 2

She could have waited for another carriage to pass, and hailed it. She should have done. She should have taken a house guard with her when she went out that morning. But she hadn't. And she didn't. Instead, she navigated down the steps of the inn and marched off in the direction of the house, oblivious to the low-looming clouds that warned of snow to come. On a Sunday, and a cold one, there was still commerce in the city, but it was a more genteel sort. The carts didn't venture out, and only some of the shops were bright and welcoming. The foot traffic was sparse yet.

In the direction of the square by the government offices, the reliable clock tower - and not that oddity in that church in West End - chimed the noon hour. A barge braving the ice-dotted gray road of the river sounded its horn. A flock of pigeons burst into flight. She paused long enough to track them upward with her eyes, the argument with Lirssa still stinging in her ears, before continuing at as good a clip as she could manage with the cane, starting across the long arch of the High Bridge toward the South bank of the river. As she went, she was careful to keep away from the railings at the edge, where the stones were still slick with ice.

It could have been the barge that upset the birds. Or it could have been the man stretched out on a flat rooftop, staring through binoculars at a bend in the road where the High Bridge began. As Zahra approached it, the clouds broke; snow fell in a building flurry, clouding his view. There was a chance they wouldn't pick her up again. He clicked his radio, and an engine started nearby.

The black sedan rumbled in the street behind her, then slowed to pull alongside. Ahead of her, at the end of the bridge, a motorcycle pulled up and the rider turned his head to watch her. The trap was sprung.

She faltered a step, looking over her shoulder at the direction she'd come. The beggar she had passed before at the other end of the bridge stood erect and confident, staring after at her. It had been a disguise.

A man stepped out through the front passenger door. He was nondescript in appearance, and had either been glamored that way, or the face he was born with landed him his current job.

"Miss Khoury," he said politely, "my employer would like it very much if you would come with us." He waited patiently for some sign of her consent -- hoped for it, at least.

"I don't think so," she said in as even a voice as she could manage, drenching her Common in the cultivated notes of Cairo. "Tell your man to let me pass." She gripped the handle of the cane tighter, and kept walking.

Were anyone watching, this is what they would have seen next.

The man took two more steps after her, then, and said something in a low voice. The snowfall began in earnest, dusting them with confectionary sweetness and painting the entire scene with holiday nostalgia for the random onlooker. A man and a woman stood on a bridge over a picturesque river, on a snowy winter day. A few shops and townhouses on the far side still twinkled with fairy lights.

She stopped, her shoulders going rigid as she listened. When he was done, her breath fogged into the dull afternoon cold for three full breaths before she murmured some brief reply. And then she swung her cane in a lateral arc for his ribs, shrieking like the Christmas Banshee for help.

The man caught her cane, tossed it into the rear seat of the sedan, and pushed her in after it. By the time the Watch arrived at the High Bridge, the car and the motorcycle had disappeared. A beggar panhandled for change on the North end.

(Adapted from live play between Zahra Khoury and Alain DeMuer, with thanks)

January 2

The black sedan rumbled in the street behind her, then slowed to pull alongside. Ahead of her, at the end of the bridge, a motorcycle pulled up and the rider turned his head to watch her. She faltered a step, looking over her shoulder at the direction she'd come. The beggar she had passed before at the other end of the bridge stood erect and confident, staring after at her.

The trap was sprung.

A nondescript man stepped out through the front passenger door. "Miss Khoury," he said politely, "my employer would like it very much if you would come with us."

"I don't think so. Tell your man to let me pass." She gripped the handle of the cane tighter, and kept walking.

The man took two more steps after her, then, and said in a low voice, ?The Baron wishes to have a word with you regarding Alexander Shade. He told me to say, please. He wishes it to look like you did not come of your own will,? he continued. ?If you choose not to assist, you will be released, unharmed, on his word.?

She stopped, her shoulders going rigid as she listened. The argument with Lirssa just moments earlier still stung in her ears. And now the Baron wanted to talk to her about Alexander Shade. It was too much to be mere coincidence. She thought to refuse. But she was a child of Bast, and part of her birthright was an insatiable curiosity. Her breath fogged into the dull afternoon cold for three full breaths before she responded.

?Then you had better make this look convincing.?

He dipped his head. ?Please scream, mademoiselle.?

She did, swinging her cane in a lateral arc for his ribs and shrieking like the Christmas Banshee for help.

He caught her cane, tossed it into the rear seat of the sedan, and pushed her in after it. By the time the Watch arrived at the High Bridge, the car and the motorcycle had disappeared. A beggar panhandled for change on the North end.

(Adapted from live play between Zahra Khoury and Alain DeMuer, with thanks)

January 2

It was, perhaps, the most polite "kidnapping" in RhyDinian history. The man who had put her in the sedan continued to call her mademoiselle, apologized, and asked if he had hurt her. There was a water bottle, plus a small bottle of wine and a glass, though neither proved necessary: it was a short ride to a garage that became a tunnel that wound its way to a point beneath the SPI complex.

Zahra waved off both the apology and the offer of refreshment; perhaps given her conversation just thirty minutes earlier, the invocation of DeMuer's title called forth some fears she'd thought she'd laid to rest. "This is highly unorthodox," may have been the only thing she murmured aloud. It was certainly the only thing she said in Common once she was in the car.

She was beginning to believe Tilau Ali was correct: she was going to get herself killed one of these days.

The driver held the door for her, and escorted her into an elevator. It had brass and wood paneling, but was still more functional than beautiful, and went up what must have been forty feet. Conversation and footsteps murmured through the doors on every floor except for the last one, which was a very quiet hallway. There were five doors in total; he knocked on the first, then opened it.

Alain DeMuer finished the sentence he had been writing, put away his little black book and stood when she entered. A very faint smile appeared on his lips; his eyes, however, were far more guarded and calculating. "Good evening, Zahra."

She turned to her escort, her voice feather-soft, and said 'thank you' to him before she trusted herself to speak sense to the man at the desk. When she fixed her attention on Alain, she was a little steadier, her green eyes unflinching and equally cautious. "Baron DeMuer. Good afternoon." Her chin tilted up slightly in unconscious defiance.

He gestured to the chair across the desk from him. "I would've settled for a chance meeting, maybe go to a cafe and talk this out over drinks, but then, nothing else would be possible. I'd like your help, and it'd be a very hard thing to get without you involved."

She gave him a long look, before making her way to the chair and hooking the cane's handle over the back of it. The book bag was next, and then she divested herself of her coat. "And what does pulling me off of the street and bringing me here accomplish that you could not have otherwise?" She took the three careful steps needed to get her around the chair to sit unaided

"It means that if you choose to do anything for me, you can claim it was under duress. If you choose not to, you're free to go, and you can say whatever you like about it."

He reclaimed his seat, crossed his legs, and folded his hands. Watched her. "I'd like your help bringing in Alexander Shade. Once we're done with him, he'll be dead... and that'll be the end of it."

"Bringing him in," she repeated. "It sounds very simple and neat, when you say it like that. But I suspect it is neither of those things." She watched him right back. "I don't understand why you need my help, or what it is you think I can do for you."

"Shade has more access to advanced magic than we suspected -- he's augmented his abilities, and he could easily inflict heavy damage or escape if we don't find a way to mute them. Our arcane resources outside of elemental magic are regrettably... limited... but we understand much of his strength and ability comes from blood-derived drugs. Vampires... shape shifters..." he trailed off.

"We're setting up an ambush. We know where he'll be, and when he'll be there. But we need to be sure he can't get back out."

The back of her neck prickled and she stared at him through the recitation, her nostrils fluttering on an inhale. "And you think I can do this?" She might be forgiven her incredulity; she was all too aware of her limitations.

"I do," he said simply, and watched her.

After another moment, he produced a volume from within his desk; it was heavily laden with symbols, musty and old, and his eyes took only a moment to attempt deciphering them before he passed it over to her. "I'd like to know what you think of this. It's beyond any of our abilities, but I understand it's the kind of thing that could help us with men like Alexander Shade."

Slowly, her head tilted to angle the look she gave him sidelong. Her disbelief was apparent. But curiosity being what it was, and she being what she was, she took the book from him in silence. Her gaze dipped down and she opened the cover, flipped a few sheets into the text.

While she read, he poured himself a small glass of bourbon, and gestured to her in silent question.

Several minutes passed in silence as she parsed over what she was seeing, and considered the implications of pursuing the introductory cantrip to its logical aftermath. She shifted in her seat, leaning over the volume. He barely got a look at the offer of the drink. She shook her head and flipped the page.

He put the bottle away, then, and drank alone.

"I've only cast some very rudimentary wards before," she whispered, still reading. She didn't mention that she'd figured out how to do it on her own. "This is... elegant." It was the only word for it. "But it would corrupt the caster. It isn't necessary to kill the animal. One's own blood would suf --" she realized what she was saying and colored. "-fice."

Most of the rudimentary concepts of warding were beyond Alain. What he knew was that wards had been set up to alert the owners of trespassers, and that there were honest-to-god gargoyles that come to life at his house. Little else.

"Workable?" he ventured carefully.

"In a small space, yes." She fanned her fingers over her mouth, still reading through the instructions.? It is similar in principle to what I did to ward my room at home." Something darkly humorous about the situation struck her, and she smiled up at him wryly for a moment. "I keep forgetting myself with you. I suppose there is no point in pretending you do not know what I am, though, is there?" It really wasn't funny. She felt a little sick. She took a couple of breaths. "I have a ... friend who suggested I change my own approach, and cascade the triggers so that there is more than one," this time, she was searching her vocabulary for the right descriptor. She settled on "ring of defense. I've been trying to puzzle that out, but I think what I am considering might work in this case, too."

"Do you think the kind of ward you could set up with these materials would 'short out,' I guess, what Mr. Shade has worked out for himself?" Yes, Alain was very out of sorts here, but he looked confident, mostly, and that counted for something.

"I do not know." She was honest, at least. "I do not know what he is capable of, and I may as well confess to you that I am generally ignorant. It might. Something similar might. Do you really not have any mages who are more familiar with him and his methods?"

"Shade Inc., his family's company, has developed its own school of arcanism based on a number of influences, some which would seem related to your own. But in general the inspiration for their practices is so exotic, there are few who can relate to it, decipher it, and turn it against them. I'm sure they intend it that way."

"If I could see what he is doing, I might be able to think of something to either botch it or nullify it so he can be contained." And then she was talking to herself again, "But if you had him where I could observe, you wouldn't need me, would you?"

He smiled a little at the question -- she was dead on -- and offered a folder over to her, as well as a small box containing six image orbs. "This is the best we can do: instances of what we believe is the same magic he uses at work, photographs and descriptions we've gained from informants and our own field operations."

She was interested, that much was clear. Hand her a puzzle to cipher out and she could never turn it away. She opened the box of image orbs and selected one at random to activate. It was a gruesome scene: one of the company's people in a fight with several of Alain's. Fire erupted from a woman's skin as her attacker's veins bulged and blackened and he sweated blood, before the first shots hit his chest and he staggered backwards. The image cut out.

She blinked the horrifying afterimages away and pulled another orb from the box, a shade grayer than she had been. "The man was his?" she asked as she activated the second orb.

"Not his, but he worked closely with the company owned by Mr. Shade's family." Semantics. The second orb had a number of labels, including time and date, and had been stolen from the company itself; it showed a sequence of teleportation spells in action. They seemed to be progressively dizzying and exhausting as they were used: only five seemed manageable (and probably very unhealthy) in rapid succession. But they were more than enough for an escape. The colors of the magical aura involved were captured in vivid detail, and SPI had retooled the orb to slow down and zoom in on it at several instances. They did not understand the magic very well, but it was not for lack of trying.

She leaned in, her elbows on her thighs, to watch. Apparently, it was riveting. She played it again.

And again.

He's found a way to... " Mages use this sacred place for their playground, Saif had told her once, not realizing where they are or what they do. Her eyes blazed with interest, the wheels spinning. "You have more, like these?" She played it again, as slow as it would go.

"Rows 17-F through 17-M in our archives are dedicated to individual teleportation, especially the combat and other short-range varieties. Or you can search based on activities related to Shade, Inc., and its former associates, using one of our Enola machines." Alain set his glass down.

"At the very least as long as you're helping us, our resources are at your disposal."

(Adapted from live play between Zahra Khoury and Alain DeMuer, with thanks)