Darkness. That's all he can see. There's nothing but pitch black. He's been in here for days. He wants to leave, but there is no way out in he's all alone. He wants it to stop. He desperately wants it to stop. He says nothing, until he finally cracks. "Make it stop! Make it stop! Make it stop!" He repeats over, and over, his voice un-echoingthrough the never ending void.

Then suddenly, there's light. Not much, but some. He smiles slightly, believing he's saved. But when Daemon's voice come through, his smile melts pathetically off his face. "You want it to stop? Fine, I'll make it stop. But, now you must never disobey me ever again." Daemon says, a disgusting smirk cutting its way across his face.

The boy's eyes widened in terror, and in a quick flash of light, pain engulfs him. He feels his flesh shifting, and he let's out a scream of pain. Agony is all over. He wishes he could pass out, but the pain is so intense. He just can't.

When it stops, he fell to the floor. He ached all over, and his vision was black, when he opened his eyes, he cringed, seeing Daemon. Another poisonous smile came across his face. "I hope you like your new form."

I stand in the center of the grimy, and cob web-covered ballroom, a shadow of its former beauty, with my shoulders strait, feet shoulder-width apart, and hands clasped behind my back. I look strait forward with focused, unblinking, eyes that now glow the color of the sky. I'm looking through the walls of this mansion, and at the old, black iron gate, that should discourage people from giving into their curiosity. Unfortunately, that is not always the case. Here comes another fool, deciding to give in and come to this godforsaken place.

"Someplace Else," as the town people called it. People often think of me as the villain in that town, when truly I am a prisoner stuck here for eternity until my so called "Master," has had his fill of human souls. It disgusts me to obey his every command, but I have no choice. If I don't obey, then I'm to be tortured, and quite literally left in the pitch-black dark. My worst fear, though I hate to admit it to anyone's face.

That's how he keeps us here. He exploits our worst fears. I turned against him once, and he not only left me in the dark alone, but he killed off the last of my living family, and made me watch, and then took away my true form. Looking at me now you wouldn't believe me, But it's very true. Right now, I'm nothing but a porcelain doll. A lifeless porcelain doll, and not even a shadow of my former self. I do obey, but that doesn't mean I don't get away with preventing him from giving orders. That's what I'm doing now, keeping another soul from torture. By scaring them all away . . .

 Spirit was just starting up the hill on a dare. Why was she doing this? This was stupid. She stopped for a moment to take a deep breath, and think about what she was doing. The Mayor had warned everyone not to go up there, because of Maestro.

Maestro lived up there with an immense family of ghosts, or so was said. What he looked like was a mystery, and no one ever dared to find out. Someone with a family of ghosts had to be grotesque, monstrous, hideous, and appalling. Spirit felt herself stiffening at the thought.

"C'mon Spirit, don't tell me you're scared." Noah taunted from behind the iron gate.

"Shut your face Noah. I'm not scared; I just think this is stupid!" Spirit countered shooting her classmate a death glare. Spirit gathered up all her courage, and made a run for the top of the hill, and to the front porch of the old mansion. She forced her way through old vines, brush, and jagged rocks. She ignored the cuts, and bruises she had gained as she climbed up the steep hill.

"There, you happy?" Spirit shouted from the porch. No answer, but that was no surprise, seeing how high up she was. Then she heard Noah's voice. "Go in," Spirit looked behind her, and gazed at the huge door. "Fine!" She yelled back. Let's get this over with.

She opened the door slowly, and as quietly as possible, but stopped when she saw a young man crying, standing by the window with his face in his palms. She stepped forward, and the man froze. "Go away," he said in a broken voice. He shivered once he heard the pathetic tone in his voice.

"Why are you crying?" Spirit asked. The man swallowed the last of his weeps, and wiped the tears with his sleeve. "Why are you crying?"

He stiffened, and in a whisper said, "If you must know . . . I'm just." He hesitated. "I'm lonely, and cold, and I'm . . . scared."

Spirit stopped to take his voice in, basking in the delicate, natural, tenor, almost singsong tone. He sighed as he turned to face Spirit. She smiled as she watched Maestro twirl with such grace.

Maestro froze like ice.

Maestro walked through the ballroom, gingerly fingering each item he passed by. He swiped off cobwebs, and dust as he continued to the door. He looked past the cracked window, as he looked down the hill.

Was someone there? Maestro tensed his shoulders, and bit down on his lip. The thought of someone finally making it up here made him scared. He didn't want anyone hurt. Chills coursed through his body as he leaned closer to the window, praying someone was really was there.

Tears rolled down his cheek, from his coffee-brown eyes when he realized someone was there. He put his hand to the window, praying this was just a dream. The sobs shook his shoulders as he slowly began to pull his hand away. He drew in quick breaths in his despair. He put his hands to his face, and buried himself into his palms. He was tired of this: scaring people away.

At that Maestro felt his shoulders drop with shame. What was so scary about him? Maestro was always gentle, and soft, and warm. Especially his eyes. Those two beautiful, chocolate-brown eyes. He had long, ebony hair, that he kept in curls that reached past his shoulders. His hair framed his face ever so fairly, and perfectly. His face was one of soft features. A face of an angel. One that would light up an entire room whenever he smiled. If only he smiled more. He seldom smiled, but his lips were a fine, gentle, light, compassionate pair that told the opposite story. Such beautiful lips should smile more often. His skin was pale and smooth like porcelain, and seemed to radiate a seraphic aura. With a face like that, how on Earth could he be seen as a monster? What was so scary about him? But then again that wasn't his real face. Just a stupid porcelain mask, that he didn't even want to wear.

Maestro still didn't look up when he heard the light footsteps coming towards him. Probably just one of the spirits walking up on him. Maestro started straightening up. He tried not to show the fact that he was just crying, but he was still gulping down tears. "Go away," he said in a broken voice. He shivered once he heard the pathetic tone in his voice.

"Why are you crying?" the spirit asked. Maestro swallowed the last of his weeps, and wiped the tears with his sleeve. "Why are you crying?" Maestro stiffened, and in a whisper said, "If you must know . . . I'm just." He hesitated. "I'm lonely, and cold, and I'm . . . scared."

The spirit seemed to take his voice in, basking in the delicate, natural, tenor, almost singsong tone. Maestro sighed as he turned to face the spirit, but turned to see a young girl. She smiled as she watched Maestro twirl with such grace. Damn! Why didn't I stop her?

Maestro froze like ice. His eyes grew wide as he took in the girl's beauty. The girl laughed as Maestro looked her up and down. She had strait, dark brown hair down to her back. She had beautiful face that no painter, sculptor, or illustrator could depict. A face that no author, songwriter or poet could describe. I can't even describe it. Her eyes were like two perfect, gleaming brown orbs, that were shining brighter than the night stars. Her lips were a fine, gentle, light, compassionate pair, just like Maestro's. She was tall, tan, and slender. She stood confidently, but with elegance.

Maestro stared, and who could blame him? He had never seen anyone so pure, and alluring as this. He read about such beauty in books, and novels, but he never thought he'd come face to face with it.

He relaxed his shoulders and put his hand to his heart, which was starting to pound hard against his rib-cage. He felt his breathing quicken with anxiety. Sweat began to trickle down his hands. He felt his cheeks go pink as the burned, and his legs began to numb.

He felt himself trembling, and his knees gave out on him, and buckled together. Maestro leaned against the window frame, not knowing what to say, or what to do. It was awkward. Maestro hadn't talked to a living person in years. He felt his legs starting to give out again, and they did. Maestro fell on his tail-bone, and managed to knock over a vase. Why did he have to be a klutz now?

He couldn't bring himself to stand up, and his face was an embarrassed, bright scarlet. He was frozen, and he just sat there, staring at the person he'd been praying would come for years. He gulped hard, and began chewing on his lip uneasily.

"So, you're the terrifying Maestro I've been hearing so much about?" The girl asked with a smile. Maestro turned his head like a little puppy. Wasn't that obvious? And, wait a minute, Terrifying?

He glanced at the old full-length mirror beside him, and looked into the reflection. He cursed himself. He pursed his lips before smashing his elbow into the mirror. The mirror cracked, and only let of few shards go flying. One slashed Maestro's cheek, another scraped his forearm, tearing through the white poet-shirt he had on, and another cut his forehead. Crimson blood clashed with his porcelain skin, as he let the blood keep dripping out.

His warm coffee eyes, went a dead charcoal black with gloom. He brought his knees to his face, and hid himself. He started to cry again, not caring that someone from the outside saw him like that.

Maestro's expression turned to anger, but concern still shone in his eyes. "Get the hell out of here now!"

The girl saw the look on Maestro's face, and grew worried. She bent over, and pulled Maestro's head up, so that he was looking at her, his melted chocolate eyes, looking into her's.

"I see those stories aren't true." The girl said, swiping a few brown strands of hair from her face. She pulled a small rag from her pocket, and Maestro looked at her in a curious, childlike manner. "Let me see those cuts." The girl said putting a tender, petite hand on his forehead. Maestro eased himself against the wall.

"Okay," Maestro said simply. He was more than willing to cooperate, and let her patch up his cuts. She pulled some band-Aids from her bag, and was quick to stick them on. Maestro blushed, realizing how silly he must have looked with the band-Aids on his face.

"That better?" The girl asked with a smile. Maestro gave a shy nod, and smiled himself. He felt better, a lot better. He felt warm, and happy. He hadn't felt like that since before his family was killed.

Then it hit him again. He looked at the girl sternly. "You need to get out of here." Maestro said with hard eyes, just as she was going to place another band-Aid on his cheek. "He'll find you." More tears ran down Maestro's cheeks, stinging the uncovered slash on his face. His face darkened looking down from the girl. "I don't want anyone getting hurt."

The girl looked at him, and froze. "He'll eat your heart." Maestro warned, balling his fists tightly. Tears rolled down his face again, as he focused on changing his voice and his eyes, and even letting his incisors grow to fangs. The first person to show him any compassion in the longest time, had to be scared away for her own safety, but why did he have to be the one to do it?

He stood up, with clenched fists, and tears still pouring through. "Get out of here now! Get away!" He pleaded loudly, in a deep morphed voice. His eyes were now, slit, amber orbs glowing in fury. Maestro started up fierce wind, knocking the girl to the ground. The girl started screaming, and her eyes were filled with pure fear. He put a hand to his mouth, shocked at what he had just done; his own voice had scared him. As the amber faded to blue, and then brown, he cried.

He went down to his knees, and hid his face. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Was all that come out of his lips. He didn't look up. "Just get out of here before he gets you. There are much scarier things than The Maestro here." He said weakly, as the girl got up.

He heard a small squeal come from the girl, and quickly he looked up. "Oh Maestro, you weren't going to turn this one loose without my approval first were you?" Maestro's eyes widened, seeing his master with his arms around the girl's waist, holding a knife to her throat. Daemon gave Maestro a wicked smile. The boy, to the eye only seventeen, looked harmless, but he was quite the opposite. The physical person in front of Maestro was just another poor victim, one who was unlucky enough to become possessed by him. Daemon was vicious, and he wouldn't hesitate to kill this girl.

The demon's charcoal black eyes flared crimson. "Answer me, Michael!" Daemon yelled pressing the knife closer to the girl's neck. His thick, waist-length, raven hair went up, as if being blown by a breeze as his anger increased, and a sadistic aura became visible as he glared at Maestro.

"No master, I would never let that happen." Maestro lied, looking down, trying to hide the crystalline tears forming in his eyes.

Daemon pressed the knife harder against the girl's neck once more, making her faint. He dropped her carelessly, and slid his knife into his boot. Daemon walked towards Maestro, and he didn't hesitate to push himself against the wall as his master approached.

Daemon grabbed Maestro by the hair, and threw him against the wall. He was still clutching his hair when he fell to the floor. Daemon jerked him up, and pinned him against the wall. "Help me, please, someone please help me." Maestro pleaded to the spirits, shifting into his true form. The skin darkened to a smooth brown, and he grew smaller, and his thin face filled slightly. The Maestro everybody feared so much, was nothing more than a helpless child.

"We can't. We can't." The words taunted the boy as he squirmed, trying to break Daemon's grasp. More tears filled the poor child's eyes, as Daemon raised him higher. "We're sorry. We're sorry." Burn in Hell where you belong, you psychopathic, diminished monster! Maestro screamed in his head, helplessly hoping that would make the demon disappear.

Daemon glared at Maestro. "Look at me when you answer me!" He yelled, slamming Maestro against the floor, almost knocking him out. Maestro cringed, and shook with fear, and pain. "You're pathetic! You and all your family! Do you understand you stupid, insolent, little worm?"

Using all his strength, Maestro sat up. Wiping blood from the side of his mouth, and shivering, he answered, "Y-yes m-ma-aster."

"I'll be taking her now-"

"Master, wait!" The demon stopped, and sent a bone-chilling glare Maestro's way.

"What!"

"Please spare her. Please let her go. I'll do anything for you, if you let her be." Maestro pleaded.

"A demon negotiating with a mere child? How humiliating. But . . . " Maestro paused, praying that Daemon would let this girl go. Daemon smirked. Chills went up Maestro's spine realizing that Daemon was planning a sick game. "Both you, and this girl have to find your family in the center of this mansion's labyrinth."

"My . . . family?" Maestro asked, puzzled. He thought right. He was devising on playing cat and mouse with him. That was just sick.

"Yes, your father, mother, and sister." Maestro bit his lip hearing that. "Think Michael. Not a single soul has left this mansion since I arrived, so what makes you think I let your family go?" That made sense, but now Maestro felt like an idiot. He was naïve enough to assume his family just got a free ticket out of this hell.

"Anyway, you and this stupid, little girl have to find them. The spirits will not help you, and I most certainly will not either. You may use your powers, but only for the first thirteen hours. You have twenty-six hours. If you slip up on my rules in the slightest way, I'll eat her heart, and you will be thrown in the dark, just like the last time you disobeyed. If you succeed, I will not only spare her, but I'll leave this place forever."

"I don't trust you." Maestro said, looking at the ground.

"But what other choice do you have Michael? If you don't play my little game, you know for sure that this girl will die. If you cooperate, there is a possibility that she, yourself, and your family may be saved. There are risks, but you never know if something will work unless you try." Daemon explained with a smug smirk on his face. "It's your call Michael. Not that you'll succeed." With that, Maestro's fists clenched. He glared at Daemon, something he had never, not once, dared to do before this challenge.

"I will succeed." The boy said bluntly.

"We'll see . . . " With that Daemon vanished into the dark. Maestro stood up on weak legs as he shifted back into the porcelain doll he despised so much. "You start the labyrinth as soon as this girl wakes up. Good luck, insolent child."

Spirit groaned as she began to sit up. "Just a nightmare." She said before opening her eyes. Her eyes widened looking over at the Maestro sitting in the corner of the ballroom, with his knees up to his face.

"I'm sorry . . . I'm so, so sorry. That was no nightmare. It was all real." He said sheepishly, with tears forming in his eyes. "I'm sorry you got involved." Maestro stood up, walked toward Spirit, and extended a warm hand to pick her up. She obliged.

"I have somewhere I need to take you." He said starting to walk her to wherever it was they needed to go. His touch was surprisingly warm, and soft, and Spirit didn't mind following. "I'll explain everything on our way. We only have a little over a day to get this done." He said, taking his hand away for a mere moment to wipe the tears from his eyes.

"I'm not exactly sure how to explain everything though." Maestro said with a very weak, miserable smile.

"Starting from the very beginning is always a good idea." Spirit said, also with a feeble smile.

"Well, once upon a time, this place was a happy, beautiful place. It was home to a man named Orpheus, and his wife and family. Everyone in the town called him the Maestro, and he was well loved by the town because every day he would fill the town with the most beautiful music ever. So beautiful in fact, that nature itself would lean in to listen. " Maestro said, as they passed through the halls.

"Really? I've heard very different stories about you." Spirit said cutting Maestro off.

"Hm? Oh no, I wasn't the original Maestro. I don't even have the same name as him." Maestro explained with a small blush.

"Well then, what is your name?"

"Michael," The Maestro answered. "I prefer being called by my real name anyway." Michael pursed his lips, for a second. "I should keep telling the story."

"Go ahead, shoot."

"A-alright," Michael started with a nervous stutter. "Well, over the years something vile, and evil decided that they wanted to break the peace, and shatter the happiness. He came here, now regarded as Someplace Else. He took over, and enslaved the Maestro, and his family, and those who died were forced to stay here forever, so that they could still serve him." Michael continued with a shiver.

"Would 'he,' happen to be the one who was holding a blade to my neck?" Spirit asked, feeling a chill herself.

"Yes, his name is Daemon. He has kept every poor soul in this house here for years." Michael balled his fists, and stiffened at the memory of the knife being pressed against Spirit's neck. "Twelve years ago, Maestro had a son. He was born into all this, and unfortunately this is all he's ever known. He knew it wasn't right though, and one day he went against Daemon's wishes. His entire family was killed in front of him, and he was tortured, thrown into pure darkness for five days. He was never the same, and has been terrified of the dark ever sense."

"That's terrible," Sprit said in a whisper

"And that's not the end of it. Daemon took away his true form, and forced him to bring him people from the town, so he could eat their hearts." Michael grimaced at another painful memory.

"Will we see Maestro's son?"

Michael hesitated. "Maybe, if we get this right." Now they were standing in front of the immense maze. Let's get this gone, and over with. Don't worry father, I'm coming . . .

"Your story makes so much sense, you know." Spirit said looking over at Michael, as the pair walked into the labyrinth.

"Well it was true. I have no reason to lie to you. How exactly does it fit though? I thought everyone in the town had disowned this place by now." Michael asked, with his hands clasped behind his back. He had his head tilted slightly as he waited for an answer. He looked rather childish walking like that, and Spirit had to laugh.

Her smile faded though. "They have, but I've noticed something. No one plays music, no one sings, and no one dances, with the exception of the kids. I heard people even the mayor mutter to themselves, 'not as beautiful,' or 'can never be replaced,' when they hear music."

Michael smiled, and a faint blush came to his face. "I guess no one's forgotten Maestro yet. That's a relief, but I'm going to hate seeing their faces when his son tells them he's gone." Michael's expression grew solemn. He squeezed his hands, and he tensed. "He's really gone forever. . ."

Spirit heaved a small sigh. That was sad. He seemed like a nice man. Whoever his son was, he was incredibly lucky to have him. Seeing his father killed like that right in front of him, his entire world must have come crashing down. Spirit thought to herself.

"Say, I never gave you the chance to tell me your name." Michael said softly, cutting off the sad moment, and keeping his head down.

"Oh, yeah, my name's Spirit." Michael's head craned up, and he smiled.

"Spirit? That's unusual."

"Yeah, I think it's creepy." Michael laughed, and Spirit tensed a little seeing the small grin on his face.

"Well. . . I like it, and it suits you. You're full of spirit." Spirit relaxed at the comment, and smiled back.

By this time, Spirit had pulled out her flashlight, and had a lighter in her bag just in case, she even had some flint she had kept from a field-trip. To her surprise, Michael looked extremely relieved when she said that she had the flashlight, and lighter handy. That was strange. If he was already dead, why would he have any reason to worry about walking through the dark?

"Michael,"

"Hm?"

"Is there anyone else still alive here at Someplace Else other than Maestro's son?" Spirit asked, and Michael hesitated. The look on his face looked like one that was remembering a painful memory.

"Yes, Daemon always liked toying with me, and. . ." Michael let out a sigh, and stopped to think. He hated lying like this to someone's face, but he didn't want anyone's sympathy; he just wanted someone to care for him without that. He felt a pang in his heart as he continued. "I really have no idea why I'm still breathing. A lot of people would just like to end it all, but if I did that then he'd still win. Once I was given a chance to save this family, I took it. That's why we're running this labyrinth. . ." Michael said still walking on. Then out of nowhere he stopped. A look of shock overtook his eyes.

"What is it?" Spirit asked, concerned. Michael bit his lip, and slumped down the wall.

"This can't be happening." He whispered. He bit his thumbnail, and squinted his eyes in frustration. "We haven't made one turn; we've just been going strait, and we're going in circles. Dammit, dammit! We've already wasted an hour!" Michael shouted kicking one of the stones on the ground, and making it break against the wall. He eyes glowed sky-blue with fury. "Tricks unnumbered, and dangers untold!" Michael put his hands to his head and brought his head to his knees, and gave a loud grunt of defeat. "Just like that novel, with that blasted Goblin King!"

Spirit stopped for a moment, and thought it out. "Maybe that's it." Michael looked up at her, unsure of what she was implying. "You're right; it is like the Goblin King's Maze, meaning that there are turns. We just have to find them." Michael looked up with some surprise, feeling stupid, and slow.

Spirit put her hands against one of the walls, and ran her hand against it, trying to find a corner, and sure enough, she found one. She grabbed Michael's hand and pulled him into the passage.

Both Spirit and Michael looked around nervously at the things they hadn't noticed coming into the maze. There was a strange moss with appendages that looked too much like eyes for comfort. Thick, black vines were wrapped around the walls, and ravens gathered at the top, squawking mockingly. Michael didn't seem scared, but he looked suspicious that someone was watching him and Spirit, just waiting to trip them both up. His eyes glowed a faint molten gold, even letting the whites of his eyes turn scarlet, hoping to scare Daemon's servants away.

This would have scared anyone, but he was only aiming his glare at the ravens, and the moss, and the other things that they came across. When he looked at Spirit, however, those eyes were the brightest, warmest, deep, chocolate-brown that she had ever looked at. As they walked, making their way together, Spirit pressed herself against Michael, and he didn't mind, and he actually liked it. You would think he would be cold to the touch, but that wasn't the case. He was warm, tender, and solacing.

Michael thought about the labyrinth. They had been in here for about another two hours, and they hadn't come across any false alarms yet, meaning they were probably on the wrong track. That, or the idea of the false alarms were themselves false alarms. Michael bit his lip, a little confused as to which was which.

His thoughts were interrupted by a small tug on his sleeve. Spirit was pressing harder against him, and was anxiously looking up at the owls gathering at the top of the labyrinth's walls. Michael glared at them with molten gold, and scarlet eyes, but the owls didn't budge. This isn't good. This is bad. . . This is really, really bad. . . Those things are definitely not barn owls. Michael kept a close eye on them, hoping that they weren't going to do anything.

He pulled Spirit closer to himself, and leaned forward to whisper in her ear, with rather heavy eyes. "If anything happens, I want you to run away as fast as you can, and I mean as fast as you can. Don't hold back, and don't look back. Do you understand, Spirit?" Spirit nodded half-heartedly. Michael softened his eyes and looked at Spirit once more, clasping her hand in his. "I need you to promise me. If anything were to happen to you, my entire world would come crashing down. I don't want anyone else to get hurt ever again. So I'll ask one last time. Do you understand? Will you run away, and save yourself?"

Spirit pursed her lips as Michael continued. "Don't worry about me; I'm nothing. Worry about yourself; you are everything. You're a manifestation of all the love and happiness taken away from this god-forsaken place, and I don't want that to be gone. I want you to live on and forget everything here. Don't look back; forget. Go home where you'll be safe and be welcomed with warm, open arms. No one loves this place, and no one cares about my home. No one dares to step foot here, and I want it to stay that way. No one cares about me, and you shouldn't either. Just get out of here while you still can. No one deserves to go through this Hell."

Spirit looked at him with the hardest eyes Michael had ever seen. "You're right. . ." she whispered. Michael looked at her with surprise, but he let her continue. "No one deserves to go through what you're going through now, yourself included!" she shouted. "And you know what, after seeing you crying in front of the window when I first saw you, I did care! Even before the you told me what happened here at Someplace Else! You're a human being, and you should have better!" She paused, clenching her fists. "I'm going to get you out of here. . ."

Michael was taken aback, but a smile pulled at the sides of his mouth. She cared that much from the very beginning, and she cared enough to risk her own life. . . She loved him, and he loved her.

Mayor Warren stood there in front of the Garcia's unsure of what to say. Their girl, Spirit, had been missing for the last six hours, and it was after a dare to go up to Someplace Else. That was very troubling. Maestro was a problem before, but not once did Warren think he'd ever go as far as kidnaping an innocent girl. At least not after how quiet everything had been in the last six years.

Warren felt a chill run down his spine, remembering the scream he heard years ago. The tortured, bloodcurdling, sorrowful scream from a child. After hearing that the then mayor, Winston, his elder by twenty-five years, made sure all the minors in town were accounted for. No one was missing, meaning whoever that scream came from was Orpheus' child. It made Warren's blood boil to think that, that bastard Maestro had so much as laid a finger on his friend's kid. And it got worse, seeing that Spirit was missing.

He put a hand to his mouth, unsure of what to do. He didn't want this happening again. For all he knew Orpheus' child could be dead now, and he would stay up until the middle of the night hoping and praying that he wasn't dead. That the child was still alive somehow.

He didn't want to go through that again. He would have to go up there and come face-to-face with the devil himself. He was more than willing to do that but the question was how. Winston had gone up there once. Even though he ended up getting chased out by those ghosts, he had to ask him if anything could be done, or at least get a few pointers.

He ran his fingers through his thick brown, grey-streaking hair as he sighed. He looked at the Garcia's with strong, grey eyes, putting his hands to his sides. He stood tall, fearless, and hardy. The younger mayor wasn't going to make the same mistake.

There was a kid, an innocent girl, that needed to be saved from that monster, and maybe even a remnant of his friend. He needed to save them. With clenched fists, and sturdy eyes he said, "We're going up there ASAP."

Naomi looked at the hill through her window, and smiled weakly. "Maestro wouldn't do that." she said to herself, still gazing at the mansion. She had just gotten news that the townspeople were going up to Someplace Else again. She thought about him, and his smile. He couldn't hurt a soul.

It was about fives years since she last saw him, when she was about thirteen. He was so child-like in his manner. When she first heard his voice, that meek, soft voice, it was like hearing a seven year old. She still remembered him hiding behind a pillar, looking at her, he seemed so scared.

He didn't budge, even when she called him out, and she ended up pulling him out from behind it. The way he kicked and screamed, begging her to let him go, it was all so strange, but never really frightening.

When he finally calmed down, he sat down on the floor Indian-style, looking like a little boy who had gotten in trouble with a parent. Naomi was standing up, arms crossed, towering over him, and Maestro kept his eyes to the ground, hiding his face.

"Would you mind telling me your name?" She asked. Maestro just stiffened, and stayed quiet. He mumbled something under his breath that she couldn't make out. "Come again?" Naomi asked. He still mumbled, a little more defiantly this time. He was acting like a child, and that was going to make things much harder. "Don't mumble." Naomi said, a little harsher.

"Fine! My name's Maestro! Now get outta' here!" He yelled looking up, and pointing to the door.

He didn't have to be so ill-tempered about it, but seeing how Naomi pulled him out from behind the pillar, she couldn't really argue. The Maestro's face was flush as he kept pointing toward the door. He stiffened, then relaxed some, and his features softened. He sighed. "Besides, I-I don't want you getting hurt." He said, a little shaky.

There was just no way he could have kidnaped Spirit. He was too kind. And after going up there dozens of times, even though Maestro rather resented it, he never hurt her. Not once.

Be safe, Maestro. . .

Back at Someplace Else. . .

Michael still looked wearily at the owls clustering at the top of the walls. Both Michael and Spirit clung to each other, wanting to keep one another safe in their arms. As Michael held her, he felt her aura, and, just for a split second, he peeked into her soul using, not the powers Daemon had given him, but rather the pure abilities given to him at birth.

It was something that had always been with him. With one touch, he could see a person's entire life story, past, present, and even future, within an instant. He didn't abuse it often, but he was curious. He had just met her a few hours ago, and there was so much he wanted to know.

They were simple questions to things that he had been deprived of. Like, 'what does the air feel like when you go outside on a sunny day?' and, 'what is it like having friends and going to school everyday?' Those things were all he wanted to know. He didn't look in detail. He didn't peer into her private life. Whenever he had done that before, he always suddenly felt like he had been thrown into the mud and hadn't been washed off in months. It felt wrong, and he always found himself with an extremely guilty conscience afterward. She would tell him things in time, and Michael was very patient.

With that one peeked he smiled in spite of all the pain he had been through, and all the wonderful things he had been neglected of. He had his answers, and now had something fantastic to look forward to. He laughed slightly, seeing how sappy some of his questions had been.

His peace was shattered by the loud screech of, not just one, but dozens of the owls up above. Michael stiffened as he stopped dead in his tracks.

The owls sailed down, their wings spread wide and talons bared. Their movements were perfectly synchronized as they descended. The sight was strangely beautiful.

But it only lasted for a moment. As they grew closer, the owls seemed to grow larger, until their wingspan seemed to fill the room. Huge talons reached down and snatched Spirit up off the ground as easily as one might pluck up a dandelion.

Spirit shrieked, first in fear, then in pain. Her struggling only made their grip around her tighten. Eventually, she could make no sound at all.

“Spirit!” Michael cried. The force of the owls’ flapping wings had created gusts of wind so strong, he was pinned with his back against a marble pillar covered in ivy.

His voice drew the attention of one of the other owls. A sharp claw reached for him, but he darted around to the other side of the pillar, hiding behind it.

The owl scratched at the air around the column, to no avail. As the others began to take off, his attacker gave up on catching the elusive Maestro and joined them.

Michael’s heart pounded. He waited for what felt like hours, wanting to make sure they were all gone.

Finally, he stepped out from behind the pillar. His fear had subsided somewhat, but now it was replaced by agonizing worry for Spirit’s safety.

A new emotion he was unfamiliar with was rising in him. It wasn’t like the anger he had felt before, knowing what Daemon had done to him and his family. Even when his master had held a knife to Spirit’s throat, he had been too frightened to even think about fighting back.

What he felt now was stronger than anything he had ever felt before. It was born from something deep inside him. Something had grown there. Perhaps it was the love he had for Spirit that had fostered it. But they had been together then—now he was alone again, trapped in this hell.

He knew what it was he felt. It was hatred. For Daemon, because of all that he had done, and for himself for standing by and letting it all happen.

Clenching his fists, Michael’s eyes grew cloudy. There was power within him, he knew. But what was the point of it if he didn’t use it?

His fingers uncurled like the petals of a pale flower. From his palm a streak of white light shot out, hitting the floor like a bolt of lightning. The light faded and cooled, but what was left in its place began to shift and warp, taking on the shape of a man. Ghastly, decayed features emerged, like an ancient mummy. The man was a reanimated corpse, brought back from the dead by the energy the Maestro had given off.

With a sweeping bow, the ghoul asked in a voice like dry parchment, “What is your bidding, Maestro?”

Michael stared at him in surprise. He hadn’t known he could do that. But his shock faded quickly, and he smiled mischievously.

“Do you know where the owls have gone?”

The ghoul straightened, looking at him with cold, dead eyes. “Yes. I will take you there, if you wish.”

He had been a coward, but not anymore—from now on, he would fight back.

Spirit awoke with a start. She was cold. Shivering, she rubbed her bare arms and looked around.

She was lying in some sort of giant bird nest in the rafters of the house. Carefully, she peered over the edge. The floor seemed miles away, and she doubted she could manage to climb down one of the marble pillars.

Screeching overhead caught her attention, and she ducked, burying her head in the brambles and dry mud.

While she heard numerous hoots and flapping wings, only one owl appeared in her line of sight. The bird alighted in the center of the round nest and ruffled its feathers. Its eyes, as round as marbles and as black as night, stared down at her expressionlessly.

Spirit was frozen with fear. Why had it brought her here?

While she pressed her back as deeply into the nest wall as she dared, trying to appear small and insignificant, the owl settled down to rest. Its white head drifted and its eyes slowly drooped, until it seemed fast asleep.

Again Spirit looked over the edge of the nest, frantically searching for a way out. She wasn’t going to wait around until it woke up.

It was raining outside the house. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the massive chamber. Something caught her eye down below—a blur of white moving very quickly across the checkered floor.

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she realized the white shape was a person, though obviously it wasn’t Michael. Moreover, they were somehow walking up the wall and across the rafters.

The owl was deep in sleep. Spirit tried to move, but her body crunched noisily against the nest fibers, and she froze, afraid of waking it. When she glanced out again, the figure was nowhere to be seen.

A sinking feeling settled in the bottom of her stomach. She doubted they had seen her, and if they had, what reason would they have to help her?

Lightning streaked across the sky, and once again light filled the room. In that instant she saw the figure from before—only this time, they were looming over the nest, staring down at the owl.

Black marble eyes snapped open, and the owl raised its head, staring at the figure. Thunder resounded. Spirit gasped.

A young man stood above them. His beautiful face seemed carved out of the moon. He had long, silvery white hair tied back with a black cord and thick, pale eyelashes. A black cloak concealed the rest of his body, until he suddenly raised his right arm, and she caught a glimpse of his clothes, which were ornate and very, very old.

The owl was transfixed. The man stared at him with amber eyes like two flickering embers. It seemed to Spirit that they were communicating with each other, though neither made a sound.

A flicker of anger passed over the young man’s face, and he grimaced, exposing a pair of sharp fangs. Spirit’s heart flew into her throat.

Quite suddenly, the owl spread its wings. Its movements were sluggish, as if it were in a trance. It rose up into the air slowly and soared out a cracked window, only to falter in the rain. Not long after it disappeared from view.

Spirit turned to face the man. She had nothing to defend herself with, but still she raised her trembling fists and warned, “Stay back!”

He lowered his arm and looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “I just rescued you from being food for her hatchlings,” he said. He sounded far older than he looked.

“Why did you save me? What do you want?”

“My name is Alistair. I’ve come to kill the one called Daemon.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“You’re part of his latest game, are you not?” Alistair tossed his head. “He has marked you for death. If the Maestro fails in his quest, he will devour your heart.”

“I know that!” Spirit snapped. “The question is, how did you know?”

His eyebrows rose. “I can smell him on you. He has a very particular stench…”

“Lovely,” Spirit muttered. “And I suppose you want to use me as bait to catch him?”

“You misunderstand my intentions,” Alistair insisted. “I have no intention of letting harm come to you. In fact, I’ve come to provide my protection…”

He seemed distracted, his eyes darting off to the side. His irises had changed color since their encounter with the owl, slowly fading to gray, and now darkening to black. It reminded her of what Michael had done at their first meeting, when he had been trying to scare her away.

“Did the Maestro send you?” she asked.

Alistair looked back at her. “I can answer your questions later. We must leave now, before the others return.”

***

Michael followed the ghoul through the labyrinth. Each minute trickled past like sand in an hourglass, passing too fast for his liking. They were running out of time.

He tried to avoid thinking about the possibility that Spirit had been hurt, or even killed. If she was dead, he would feel it, but if she was injured or dying, he wouldn’t know until it was too late. If she died, he didn’t know what he would do. He doubted he’d have the will to go on with the search for his family, knowing that Daemon had taken Spirit’s heart.

The ghoul pointed to a door. “Beyond that is where they nest,” it croaked.

Michael reached for the handle and flung it open. He could sense Spirit’s presence behind the door, though it was faint. She had certainly been there before...

He entered the massive chamber. High up in the rafters, he could see the outlines of nests, edges of feathers. Humidity and rainwater entered through a broken window nearby.

Spinning on his heel, Michael levitated into the air, propelled by his magic. He landed on one of the wooden rafters and looked out at the rows of nests. The gigantic owls were all fast asleep, but there was no sign of Spirit.

Michael felt a sudden urge to destroy the owls and search the contents of their stomachs for her remains. He raised his hand as if to strike, his eyes glowing blue, only to touch his forehead, the malevolent light fading.

What had gotten into him? The deaths of these creatures would serve no purpose. If Spirit had been eaten, he would have felt her die already. No, she had to be somewhere else—but where?

The needling feeling that something was very wrong with him persisted. This isn’t like you, he thought. You are Michael, sweet, gentle, kind, compassionate…

He floated back down to the floor, and with a flick of his wrist, the ghoul who had led him there crumbled to dust. Daemon had said he could only use his magic for the first thirteen hours, but he was reluctant now.

It had to be his worrying about Spirit. That was all. He wanted her to be safe, and he felt powerless and alone without her.

Kind, gentle, compassionate Michael. He swallowed. The words rang hollow. From then on, he would only use his powers when in dire need, and even then only sparingly.

He raised his hand, palm spread, out in front of him and closed his eyes. The house’s groans and sighs as it settled seemed to echo through him, rebounding from wall to wall. Soon, he had created a picture in his head from the sounds, a map of the mansion’s inhabitants.

At last, out of the ambience he picked out her voice: “So, why do you want to kill Daemon?”...

***

Alistair had carried her down from the nest on his back, and the two had made their way back to the labyrinth halls. He seemed to know where he was going better than Spirit, and she was in no position to argue with him about which way to go.

She was still a little shaken by all that had happened. When she finally calmed down, she plucked up her courage and asked, “So, why do you want to kill Daemon?”

“The same reason the Maestro does,” he replied.

Spirit blinked and shook her head. “The Maestro doesn’t want to kill Daemon. He only wants to free himself and Orpheus’ family.”

Alistair stopped in his tracks and turned around to face her. “What did he tell you about Orpheus?”

She shrugged. “That he was the original Maestro, and he played the most beautiful music anyone in town had ever heard. Daemon took him and his family prisoner. They were killed, but their souls are still trapped here. The only one of them that survived was Orpheus’ son. Now the Maestro is trying to find them, to make sure Daemon leaves once and for all.”

He frowned. “You say that as though the Maestro and Orpheus’ son were two different people.”

Spirit raised an eyebrow. “They are two different people...”

Alistair smiled thinly. “I’m afraid he’s misled you. The Maestro, or Michael, is the son of Orpheus. He inherited the title of Maestro from his father.”

Her eyes widened. “You mean he… He lied to me?!”

“I imagine he had his reasons for doing so,” he murmured. “Although I wonder if even he knows the full story…”

“The full story?” Spirit fumed. “You mean there’s more he’s kept from me?”

Alistair gestured with his arm. “There is no time to stand around and talk. Walk with me, and I will tell you what I can.”

Huffing in frustration, she nonetheless fell obediently into step beside him, and just then an odd thought occurred to her.

“My name is Spirit, by the way. We never properly introduced ourselves.”

He nodded. “Ask your questions, Spirit.”

She remembered the sight of his fangs in the dark. “What exactly are you?”

“A dhampir. My father was human, my mother was a vampire.”

“But aren’t vampires supposed to be dead? How could your mother have carried you to term?”

“I was conceived through magic. My parents hoped to create a perfect being with all their strengths and none of their weaknesses.”

“And why are you, as a blood-sucking creature of the night, so concerned about my safety?”

“If Daemon eats your heart, he will become stronger. It is in my best interest to keep him in a weakened state.”

“Mm-hm. And if you’ll forgive me asking, is Daemon really what his name implies he is?”

“He is an aswang.”

“A what?”

“An aswang. A demonic creature which feeds on hearts and livers. The weaker ones usually only prey on the unborn. They have long tongues which can reach inside the womb and—”

“Okay, I get the picture,” Spirit interrupted, swallowing bile.

“They are shapeshifters,” Alistair continued in a softer tone, “They can appear human by day and monstrous at night.”

“The Maestro can shapeshift, too. What does that make him?”

“A human with the powers of a demon.”

She thought of Michael’s beautiful porcelain face, his adorable smile, his trusting, childlike gaze. I have no reason to lie to you.

“I just don’t understand,” she groaned, “Why would he lie to me?”

“Perhaps he does not know his true identity,” he murmured, “or perhaps he does know, and merely wanted to spare you from the truth.”

“The truth?”

His black eyes locked with hers. “You have seen him shapeshift. No doubt you’ve seen his true form. He is no more than a child wearing a mask of maturity.”

Spirit shuddered at the memory of Michael’s face contorting into that of a scared little boy in Daemon’s grip.

“And you have seen Daemon. He looks like me, doesn’t he? His body is too young for the soul that occupies it.”

Her lips twisted with disgust at the comparison. “Don’t sell yourself short, man.”

“What if I told you that Daemon’s spirit is inside Orpheus’ body?”

“Uh…”

“Confusing, is it not? The aswang has possessed him for some time now. Since before Michael was born.”

“Wait a minute. Wouldn’t that mean—”

“He has two fathers, one on Earth and the other in Hell?” Alistair’s eyebrows rose. “How else would he have such power?” He gestured around them with a sweep of his cape. “This is all he has ever known. He knows nothing of the laws of nature. It would be all too easy to hide the truth from him.”

Spirit felt sick. “But… but how is it possible? Daemon—I mean Orpheus, he looks so young. How can he possibly be Michael’s father, much less married and with another child as well?”

“He still has his shapeshifting powers,” Alistair’s brow wrinkled with confusion at the rest of her sentence. “Another child?”

“Daemon told Michael to find his father, his mother, and his sister. They’re all supposed to be trapped here.”

“And so they are,” he agreed, “But Michael does not know that it is a wild goose chase. Without Orpheus, he cannot win Daemon’s game.”

“So what should we do?”

“Find his mother and sister first. Then, we can deal with Daemon.”

“But what about Michael?” she persisted. “Shouldn’t we try to find him?” He’s probably worried sick about me, she thought to herself.

“No.”

“But he could help us! This is his quest, after all!”

Alistair shook his head. “He is more dangerous than you realize.”

She stamped her foot. “I’m not going with you without Michael! Besides, why should I trust you? How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“You don’t.”

A chill seemed to pass through the hall. Spirit shuddered.

“You may go your own way, if you wish,” Alistair went on, “But you will be helpless, lost, and alone.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So, I have no choice but to follow you?”

“In a way,” he murmured, having already turned his back on her.

She looked around at the cold, dark, foreboding passages that surrounded them. After a few seconds of hesitation, she hurried after the dhampir.

Spirit had been following Alistair for what seemed like hours. The hallways of Someplace Else dragged on endlessly like a snake devouring its tail.

She tried to keep her sanity by asking questions. Alistair wasn’t the best conversationalist, but he at least gave some answers.

“Where did you come from?”

“Another world. It is like yours, but different.”

“How so?”

“To you, magic and monsters are a fantasy, belonging only in stories and legends. In my world they are real.”

“Well, from the looks of it, they’re real here too.”

“The creatures you have seen are not native to your world.”

Spirit shrugged. “But there are still people where you’re from—regular humans, I mean? You said your father was human.”

“They have a hard lot. Humans are nothing but prey or servants to many of the other creatures.”

“Did Daemon come from your world?”

“Yes. He came here through a portal. I followed him. For me, it was only a few minutes. For him, twelve years passed...”

He stopped suddenly. Spirit looked around; the halls looked the same.

“Have we been going in circles?”

Alistair wouldn’t answer. Instead, he got down on one knee and ran a finger over a crack in the wood floor. With his nails, he dug into the panel, prying it away.

Below was water, black and churning. A foul stench filled the air. Spirit gagged and covered her nose. “What is that?”

“Putrefaction,” he answered with a smirk. Dangling his legs over the edge, he turned to her. “If we keep walking down this hall, it will never change. We have to go underneath.”

He dropped into the darkness, landing with a splash. The smell grew worse.

Spirit sat by the hole. Her feet were sore from walking. She couldn’t stop thinking about Michael. Where was he? She hoped he hadn’t been captured or hurt. And if he was looking for her, what then? Alistair thought he was dangerous, but she still didn’t believe it. Michael couldn’t hurt a fly. He simply didn’t have it in him. Maybe Alistair just wanted to keep them apart. But why?

She didn’t have time to think. Holding her breath, she jumped. The liquid was shallow, reaching only up to her knees. But her eyes began watering at once from the fumes it put out, and she was tempted to keep holding her breath to avoid the horrible smell.

Alistair didn’t seem affected at all. Standing tall with his cloak trailing in the brine, he adjusted his gloves and asked, “Do you have a source of light?”

Spirit remembered her flashlight, took it out of her bag and switched it on. The tunnel walls and ceiling looked like they were covered in greasy motor oil and slimy green moss.

The sound of distant sloshing caused her queasy stomach to suddenly drop. Alistair must have heard it too, but rather than getting back out the way they had come, he reached up and sealed the plank overhead. She wanted to scream at him, but the sloshing was getting very loud, very fast.

Three figures appeared from around the corner. Spirit focused the beam of her flashlight on them. They were women—or at least, they looked like women.

As they approached, she felt a chill run down her spine. The woman on the left was incredibly old, with wrinkled skin and eyes clouded by cataracts, but she had a long, thick mane of beautiful hair that couldn’t possibly have been her own. The woman on the right had a freakishly ugly and distorted face, but her body was slender and lithe. Between them, the third woman would have seemed normal, but her eyes were a shade of piercing, frosty blue not found in nature.

The three came to a stop in front of them, their black boots glistening. The woman in the middle came forward ahead of the others. She looked at Spirit, studying her.

“Ah! What lovely eyes you have,” she said. A short, thin blade she had concealed in her hand gleamed in the artificial light as she raised it to Spirit’s cheek. “I should like to have them for my collection.”

Spirit shuddered at the cold kiss of metal. Alistair coughed. The woman glared at him.

“Your eyes are as dull and dark as pitch,” she spat.

“What about their hair, Iris?” the old woman croaked.

Iris glanced at Spirit’s long dark hair and shrugged, then stepped closer to Alistair. Reaching behind his head, she sliced the black cord holding his hair back. It fell forward, framing his stony face. Spirit’s lips parted. With the strands loose like that, he bore a striking resemblance to Michael. Why hadn’t she noticed it before?

“His hair is white… and very soft,” Iris purred, stroking Alistair’s pale locks. She smiled cruelly and leaned in close to whisper to him. “Aura’s going to have fun with you, even if I don’t.”

“Who are you?” Spirit whimpered. “What do you want?”

Iris turned her icy gaze on the girl. “I am Iris, and these are my sisters Aura,” she gestured at the old woman, “...and Cordelia.”

Cordelia, whose face was as hideous as sin, had never taken her eyes off them. She seemed unsure whether to glare at Spirit with vicious jealousy or to gape at Alistair with a most improper longing.

“We preserve bodies for our Master,” Iris continued, waving her knife in the air, “It isn’t often we have visitors anymore. We’ve not met our quota of flesh. But you two should be more than enough—”

Her words were cut off unexpectedly as Alistair knocked the blade from her hand. It fell into the brine with a splash. Spirit’s eyes darted from the spot where the knife was dropped back to Iris and Alistair—he had pounced on her, knocking her flat on her back in the noxious liquid.

Cordelia shrieked. Her sister was not so frightened, as Aura unsheathed her own dagger and rushed forward. Spirit staggered back and lost her footing trying to avoid the old woman. Falling on her rear, she held her flashlight straight up in an effort to keep it dry.

The tunnel plunged into darkness, Spirit prepared for the worst. Aura never reached her, though—the sound of violent thrashing and bubbly cries filled the emptiness. Spirit’s hand shook, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She couldn’t see a thing, but fear kept her from shining the flashlight on the scene unfolding before her.

At last, there was only silence. Working up her courage, Spirit gasped and finally lowered her arm.

Crimson tainted the murky depths. Iris lay on her back, eyes wide open, her face colorless and waxy. Her sister Aura floated face-down nearby, her head covered only in faint wisps of thin hair—the gorgeous mane had been only a wig, now lost in the scuffle.

But worst of all was Alistair, who crouched among the carnage, his cape shielding him from her view. Spirit jumped to her feet and circled around him; he raised his face and blinked in the brightness.

Dark blood smeared his mouth and chin. Fangs poked faintly from his lips. A scarlet glow emitted from his eyes, which were trained on her face.

“I had to do it, Spirit.”

Spirit shook her head. Her hands, clutching the handle of the flashlight a little too forcefully, where trembling, causing the beam of light to jerk erratically. Alistair’s skin glowed white like the moon one moment and faded to ashen gray in the next.

“If I hadn’t done it, we’d both be dead,” he continued, rising to his feet like a specter, “I had no choice.”

A stifled sob interrupted them. Spirit turned. The flashlight shone on Cordelia, cowering at the other end of the tunnel.

Alistair wiped his face with a black-gloved hand. He advanced toward the last sister, who ceased her weeping out of sheer terror—or was it something else?

Spirit stayed behind, afraid he would kill her too.

Cordelia gazed up at Alistair, enraptured. She raised hands as fair as lilies to cover her mealy mouth and pug nose, leaving only bushy eyebrows and small, deep-set eyes, wide with awe. Spirit’s flashlight shone on him from behind, suffusing his white hair so that it seemed like a halo.

“I-I never hurt anybody.” she whimpered, her reedy voice muffled through her tapered fingers. “It was always Iris and Aura… they did all the work. I just… watched…”

Alistair’s eyelids lowered. “But you have the largest number of spoils. From the looks of it, an entire body of work, save a head.”

The foolish woman blushed. He had noticed her pilfered limbs and stolen assets, and that was enough to tickle her fancy. But her coquettish reaction was brief. “A-Are you going to kill me?” she stammered.

“No,” he replied with a tight-lipped smile, “Not if you lead us back to your place.”

The dhampir’s honeyed tone worked far better than his words. Cordelia’s face looked like the tip of a thermometer left in a desert at noon.

“Of course…”

She turned around and started down the tunnel. Alistair gestured at Spirit to follow. She trudged after him slowly, as though her feet were made of lead.

With Cordelia in front of him and the stricken Spirit unwilling to look at him, neither noticed as Alistair pulled open a small cloth bag dangling from his neck, unleashing a tiny figure that soared up over them and escaped through a drainage pipe no wider than a bottle cap.

Michael slowly ascended the stairs of the library. He was thinking of a book he had read once, long ago. It was about a girl who could hear everything anyone had ever said about her. It didn’t matter how far away they were, whether they had ever met, if the other person knew she was listening. She heard it all.

There were many times he wished he hadn’t used his powers. Listening to Spirit and Alistair’s conversation had been the worst of those mistakes.

He’d dipped into her thoughts, seeking answers to questions he’d always had. But he never went past that. It was just the surface thoughts he heard, the small, meaningless experiences. The sensation of sunshine.

He’d never known a world without Daemon. Now he understood that he knew nothing of reality, of normalcy. Was he even truly human? He’d worn a mask all his life. What if his true form was something monstrous?

But that was impossible. He had broken the illusion in front of Spirit, and she was none the worse. She loved him, and he loved her. Surely that counted for something.

He wasn’t sure what to do about Alistair. Somehow, Michael knew him. His voice was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Maybe he had heard him in a dream. Perhaps they had met before. But where?

Michael had reached the top of the stairwell. From there he could see nothing but walls of books. It was his favorite room in the mansion. He went there to hide, finding safety behind the volumes and comfort in the familiar musty smell of aging paper. Escapism was available there too, in the form of Oz, Wonderland, and Shangri-la.

Now he was here because he didn’t know what to do next. He began to see the hopelessness of it all. What was he doing, looking for advice from books? Books weren’t people. They could give him facts and fantasy, but not tell him what to do.

He sat down on the top step and ran a hand through his hair. If only he had gotten to Spirit sooner!

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something darting through the air. He lowered his hand and followed its movements with his eyes. There was no way of knowing what it was, because it was moving so fast—some kind of insect, perhaps? But it was glowing faintly, too…

In an instant, Michael’s hands had moved from his lap to the air, catching the thing between his palms. His eyes glowed faintly; he’d had to use his magic to move that fast. Through a tiny crevice between his fingers, he peered inside at his captive.

The creature was no taller than his thumb and had the body of a girl with yellow hair. She wore a tiny green dress with a gold sash around her waist, brown gloves that reached past her elbows, white stockings to her knees and little leather shoes with golden buckles. All of this was decorated with either frothy lace, green silk ribbons, or gold embroidery. Clearly the creature had sacrificed practicality for the sake of feminine vanity.

There was more, though—on the creature’s back were a pair of thin, gauzy wings, and out of her mouth came a string of creative insults and expletives.

“What are you?” Michael asked, interrupting her.

“Slimy two-faced—what do I look like? I’m a faerie, obviously!” she snapped. Her voice was surprisingly loud and clear for such a small thing.

Michael smiled faintly. “I’ve never met a faerie before.”

“No one in this realm has,” she grumbled.

He sighed. Might as well ask the same question he always did: “Who are you and what do you want?”

The faerie crossed her arms over her chest. “My name is Ennui. I’m supposed to be scouting—”

“Scouting for what?”

“For a woman named Eurydice, a possessed man, and a boy wearing a mask!”

Michael was so startled, for a moment he lost his hold on her. Ennui zipped out of a gap between his fingers, only for him to catch her by the ankle, pressing it between his thumb and forefinger.

“Ow! Let go of me!” she screeched, thrashing about and flapping her wings as fast as a hummingbird. Finally, she gave up and sat on the tip of his fingernail, looking exhausted.

“What will you do when you’ve found them all?”

“Report to my master.”

“Who is your master?”

“The son of the countess!”

“What countess?”

She squirmed and spat, “Countess Carmilla Bathory!”

In leather tomes with dust-coated pages he had read about Countess Bathory. One of the cruelest women in history, she had tortured and killed hundreds of innocent girls. It was said that she bathed in their blood in the hopes of keeping her youth and beauty.

“Alistair is her son?”

Ennui looked annoyed. “Obviously! They’re hardly on good terms, though—he’s killed her twice already.”

Michael shook his head. “Why is he here? Why is he involved in my business?”

“That’s his concern, not mine. Now, if you’ll excuse me—hey!”

“I want you to lead me to your master,” he said.

“I can’t do that! Oof!—Fine! Just let go of me!”

“Do you really think I’m that foolish? Point in which direction to go.”

Defeated, Ennui slumped and gestured down the hall. Michael started forward.