Someone landed lightly on the roof. Adrian didn’t take his eyes off the door as Amethyst pointed her gun at the ceiling.

“Who’s there?” The sheriff’s question was a command.

A dark, grinning figure dropped down in front of the door. Adrian blinked and shifted his grip on his sword.

Francis tapped on the window. “Can I come in?” he asked in his own voice. Silver glinted at his throat.

Adrian looked back at Amethyst, who nodded, lips tense. He opened the door.

Francis walked in as if he’d never used a wheelchair.

Adrian sucked in a sharp breath. Amethyst’s eyes widened.

“Francis…”

“What did you do?”

Francis gave another sharklike grin. “I spent the past six days rewiring my spinal column and hardwiring my neural net against seizures,” he said. “It’ll probably last until the next thunderstorm rolls in, so let’s get this sonuvabitch already.”

Adrian was already watching the alleys again, waiting for the shooter to move. Amethyst looked Francis over, and nodded.

She spends a lot of time down at the junkyard. The father and son who run the place know her, and they’re more than happy to tell her all about the latest things that’ve come in. She pokes around, turning over this piece and that, spending much of the afternoon half underneath a scrapped car, and leaves with some pieces. The older man gives her most of it for free.

She doesn’t know, exactly, what causes her to pick one piece of scrap over another. Other pieces are in better repair, or would require less reshaping. But she takes the pieces that call to her, and goes back to her workshop.

It used to be a student science lab, before she was given exclusive access. There are still gas taps for the bunsen burners and weird-ass emergency showers all over the room.

She’s altered most of them.

She builds all sorts of things, from junkyard sculptures to random appliances, from simple toys for the kids at the orphanage down Ide Street to complex engineering masterpieces that cause folks from all over to hound her for days, if they ever find out about them.

She is only seventeen, and she has 23 patented inventions to her name.

She never knows what she builds until she starts, and usually not really until she finishes. And nothing is ever finished. Everything could use some modification, eventually.

She is not really sure why she is an engineer/tinker/inventor/mechanic/junkyard artist, just that she is.

She never tells anyone that she hears the metal singing.

Adrian can hear someone coming up the steps to the bookshop, but it’s the jangle of worldstrings across his skin that’s important. Before the man outside can enter, Adrian slides off his glasses and bends over a book.

The bell chimes, and Adrian looks up. The strings tell him that the person in front of him is a man, killed twice, resurrected twice, psychopathic. Adrian slides his glasses back on, and the figure resolves into that of a man, tall, dark-haired, clean-shaven, fortyish in appearance though possibly not in age, hazel- and mad-eyed.

“Can I help you?” Adrian says in his best disinterested-storeclerk voice.

The man smirks. “Just looking,” he says, gliding off into the stacks.

Adrian knows that the man isn’t looking at the books, so Adrian turns back to the book in front of him.

“So you do need the glasses to read,” the man says from right behind Adrian, and Adrian has to forcibly suppress his startle reflex, because the strings gave him no warning.

The man’s arms wrap around Adrian from behind, and sitting at the counter as he is, he’s effectively pinned. “Nice ploy, though, taking them off to read the worldstrings when I entered.” There is unnerving glee in the man’s voice. “What did you see?”

“That you can’t hurt me,” Adrian says, his voice bored. Very slowly, he shifts his grip on his cane.

The man pulls the cane from Adrian’s grip and throws it across the store. “And we are in Arkham, where there are a hundred ways to break such a tabu.”

“And yet you haven’t.”

The man moves to press up against Adrian and bends down to whisper intimately in his ear. “You’re like the best and worst of your parents, distilled.” The man’s breath is hot against Adrian’s neck. “Your mother’s human beauty. Your father’s coloring. Your mother’s self-possession. Your father’s otherworldliness.” The man’s hands slide almost possessively across Adrian’s body, and though he fights down a shudder, he knows the man can feel how erratically his heart is beating.

Abruptly, those hands still, and the man presses even closer. His lips brushing Adrian’s ear with each syllable, he whispers, “Your mother’s bitch nature … your father’s masochism.”

A beat. Two.

In a voice of nothing but boredom and ice, in a tone so flat it must have had a level taken to it, Adrian says, “You didn’t answer my question.”

Another beat.

“I just got into town,” Frank Almonaster says breezily before releasing Adrian and heading out the door. He is enough of a bastard to pile on the insult with a jaunty wave.

Adrian slips out his switchblade and begins to sharpen it. He can retrieve his cane later.

Roland had never seen the gray man before – which was kind of odd, since his family knew everyone in both Arkham Town and East Arkham, even the uni students. There was something odd about the stranger, too.

I’m a fine one to be judging normalcy, though, Roland thought wryly. He turned to pay the cashier, then looked back.

The man was right behind him. Roland took a step back, but before he could move any more, the stranger grabbed his arm and pulled him close.

“The rats are coming,” he hissed into Roland’s ear. “They’re in the sewers. Soon they’ll be in the walls. You can’t stop them coming.”

Roland pulled away. “What are you talking about?”

“Ask about the rats. Ask about the storm drains, and the missing women. Ask about the Bauers. And talk to your professor.“

With that, the man went hazy, and vanished. Roland blinked. At a touch on his shoulder, he spun.

His twin stared at him, one corner of his mouth curled in laughter. “Skittish, much?” Beowulf asked.

Roland glared. “I’ll tell you later. Do you remember where Professor O’Neill’s office is?”

“Sure. It’s in Granddad’s hall.”

“Come on.” Roland marched off. His brother ran to catch up.

“What’s the rush?”

“Rats,” the younger Archer twin replied, quickening his step.

He could hear squeaking coming from the sewer.

“Your name is Grendel?” Jacob said disbelievingly.

“Boy, is Roland the odd man out, or what? Two from Beowulf, one from medieval legend.” Talia was trying her damndest not to laugh.

“Actually, my name’s Alice,” Grendel said, hitching her backpack higher on her shoulder.

“As in Wonderland?” Jacob was clearly having some trouble with this.

Grendel nodded, looking woebegone.

“Why Grendel, then? As nicknames go, it’s a little … odd.”

“Not if you spent your toddler years tormenting a brother named Beowulf.”

“Oh, and you’re now registered at Miskatonic University.”

I coughed, inhaled my tea, and screeched something approaching the word “what” at Arawn. Arawn, the bastard, started laughing. Still coughing, I groped for a napkin, giving him my best “you’d better explain this now” glare.

“Look,” Arawn said between fits of laughter, “you need more background information than I can give you. There are people at Miskatonic who specialize in exactly the kind of stuff you need to know. Besides, the whole valley’s a liminal zone. You’ll be able to interact with them – well, somewhat – and they’re used to dealing with soul wanderers.”

“And from what you’ve told me of liminal realms, the time I spend there will matter a great deal; it’s not like the other soul wanderings where time doesn’t matter.”

“Well, yes. But it’s not really that bad.”

“I’ve read those fairy tales.”

“The Miskatonic Valley’s time has a very regular relationship to your time – it’s faster. An hour of your time is equal to about four hours of Miskatonic time. And besides, I’ve already asked someone to come and wake you if you need it.”

“Who?” I asked. I’d learned to be wary of Arawn’s messengers.

Arawn grinned. “Your cat.”

This time, I didn’t choke on my tea. “You’re kidding.”

He shook his head. “Cats are liminal creatures. They traverse the threshold realms naturally. And you’re one of her humans; you’ll be easy for her to find.” Arawn grinned again, reaching down to rub Abigail’s head. She purred and batted at his hand. “Yes, she’ll find you easily enough.”

It was a nice fall day thankfully lacking in humidity, so Professor O’Neill decided to take a walk. To hell with the strangenesses; they couldn’t keep her in her office all day, not on such a nice day as this.

Down by one of the dorms, some students were busy raking up the leaves. Kathleen pondered the growing pile for a minute, then walked on. As much fun as it would be to disrupt the pile, there were no strangenesses there. She’d save it until there were no strangenesses anywhere, and then she’d go leafpile-jumping, no matter what Nora said about immature hobbies.

The odd couple on campus passed Kathleen; she tipped her hat at them as they passed. She liked them well enough, even if Talia’s rats were a little creepy and Roland himself was a little demented. There were no strangenesses there, so they were okay.

—————–

Some miles away, I snorted a laugh and lost the wind I’d inhaled. Annoyed, I exhaled the rest of the scene, and watched the images fade into the still air.

Ashmedai slid one hand around the back of Nathan’s head, pulled him forward, and kissed him deeply.

After a minute, he pulled back. “You’ve been watching me all evening. The least I deserve after that kind of ogling is a kiss.” Ashmedai grinned. “And you’re not a bad kisser, either.”

“It’s hard not to watch you when you want to be watched. And I wasn’t ogling you. I’m glad the kiss was up to your standards, though.”

Ashmedai’s grinned broadened, then softened, and he kissed Nathan again. “It’s too bad I never met you until after you were married,” he said, running a fingertip gently over Nathan’s earcuff. “You don’t strike me as the kind of man who’ll sleep with anyone else now.”

“Unfortunately not,” Nathan said, gently pushing the other man back. Ashmedai smiled again, bowed slightly, and melted back into the crowd.

Nathan turned around. “Enjoying the show?”

“Don’t get snippy with me. I wasn’t the one kissing someone other than my husband. And yes, I was.” Ekion grinned. “Too bad you weren’t up for more.”

Nathan stared at his husband for a long time. “It scares me to say this,” he said slowly, “but you’re starting to sound like my mother.”

“I am not!”

Nathan grinned.

Arkham feels odd, like cold soup that’s partially congealed. It feels dead, which is most disconcerting, given that there are at least three thousand people living in Arkham proper. It’s rather hard to stay calm when one doesn’t even feel real.

The most disorienting thing about Arkham is this: every other sense shows me a vibrant, thriving town. For the first time in my life, I find myself wondering which is right – what my hands feel, or what my eyes see.

I do not much like the feeling.

The walk to the University is hard; I keep having to fight to keep myself from sinking into the ground. As it is, I cannot bring myself to touch the gate.

I don’t have to, though. The professor I’ve come to find finds me first.

***

I hate my office. Dunno why, I just do. So I wander the grounds of the school, most days, scaring off the students and the wimpier of my colleagues.

God, whoever made me a professor really screwed up. Either that, or they need to test his tea for drugs.

So, I’m wandering, right? And I find this guy just standing at the main gate, staring at it like it’s gonna bite off his hands if he touches it.

Man, if he’s scared of the gate, he prolly shouldn’t be here. Before I can snark, though, he turns and looks at me.

Straight in my eyes.

No one does that – not if they wanna live. I tense, but it doesn’t rile me like it usually does. I dunno why. Maybe he’s just too damn calm – and he is, although it’s pretty damn clear he’s holding onto that calm for all he’s worth.

And that’s when it hits me – he’s got one of the deep senses. He’s got one of the deep senses, just like me, or like Jacob, and something about Arkham’s setting him off.

The first time they’d slept together, Gabriel had felt skittish and left soon after. Even as he vanished out Adrian’s window, he’d worried that he’d upset Adrian, but Adrian had stuck his head out the window and invited him for coffee the next morning, so Gabriel guessed it was all right.

The second time they’d slept together, Gabriel had stayed until Adrian had fallen into the trance that passed for sleep, and then, feeling vaguely disquieted, had left.

The third time, Gabriel didn’t really want to leave, but he was feeling restless and didn’t want to disturb Adrian either, so he slipped out into the darkened hall and began wandering the house.

In a corner of the den, he found the little shelf. It was a corner shelf, mostly hidden by the nearby furniture. If it weren’t for the tealight burning on it, Gabriel didn’t think he’d have noticed it at all. Curious, he stepped closer.

Besides the tealight, the shelf contained only two things – a ring and a slightly worn photo. With a start, Gabriel realized who the woman in the picture must be.

“That’s Anne,” said a voice from behind Gabriel. “Adrian’s wife.”

Gabriel spun, coming face-to-face with Jonathan. He didn’t say anything, and after a moment, Jonathan spoke again.

“He lights the candle for her every night.” Jonathan looked sidelong at Gabriel, his strange eyes glinting oddly in the candlelight.

Gabriel still said nothing, but something in his face must have given him away, because Jonathan’s expression softened. Gabriel left the room before Jonathan could say anything else.

Jonathan picked up the picture, looking into Anne’s eyes. “I think you would approve of him.”

Gabriel’s soft footsteps, which had paused outside the door, continued down the hallway. Jonathan smiled.