“As the brave black cat, noble and courageous, bravely braved his way across the wilds—“ Sir Fishbits paused, turning his head over his shoulder to glance at the book strapped to his back, “—I hope you’re getting all this, it’s really good stuff.”

Not for the first time, Book longed to have eyes to roll or pass withering glances with. All he could do was scrawl a few insults on a random page the cat might never see.

The cat jerked around, fur standing on end, paws splayed over the soil. “He sensed danger!” Sir Fishbits added, “luckily, he knew a thing or two about fighting. He fought wildly and without restraint, bravely and courageous.”

You have said brave and courage no less than three hundred times in a dozen variations since we left the cottage. Ten minutes ago.

“He could smell it. Dank. Smokey. The stink of hell and ledgers. Even with his trusty henchman, the old spell book on his back, the brave hero cat knew they would be more than evenly matched. They had to hurry!”

Damn. It’s him, isn’t it? Book wrote, with a sneaking suspicion that they had yet another problem on top of their new wayward mistress to deal with. He felt a chill in his spine.

“Quickly, they ran! Have courage, my friend!” Sir Fishbits shouted, reminding Book yet again there was a reason Gertrudis never encouraged the cat to pursue his dreams of writing novels. He should just stick with his day job of napping and criticizing others. That was where he shined.

It unfortunately was never easy to find anything in Dreadforest, even oneself sometimes. The cat may have picked up Rachel’s trail, and a second one alongside it, but their journey to find her was not an easy one. She’d run far and fast. Sir Fishbits’ grace was hindered by his awkward companion rustling against his back, and he fell victim to more than one particularly tempting sunbeam along the way. Time was of the essence, yes, but a cat had to look after himself. Despite Book’s silent protestations that went unread, they stopped for at least three (possibly four) naps along the way.

They passed several odd creatures as they went, which was not unusual in Dreadforest. A dodo here and there. A jackalope. A small family of nesting Alicanto birds.

Oh my!

Book would have grinned if he had a mouth. Alicanto birds! He’d never been near one in the flesh. They were magnificent creatures, according to Gertrudis’ writings, which sought out and regularly feasted on precious metals.

Being a creature crafted of magic and paper, Book had little use for gold, but that didn’t stop him from liking it. He’d always fancied himself as an elegant creation, and quite rightly deserved some gilding on his pages. That would be a conversation to have with his mistress, once they found her, of course. Odd that they'd be out during the day, Book thought to himself. Unfortunately Fishbits was already darting through them towards Rachel (finally).

----------------------------------------

What a stroke of luck, Hugh mused. A wrong turn at the crossroads, and he was finally back in Dreadforest. So many debts to collect. So many ledgers to correct.

He pinched the brim of his pork pie hat, tipping it ever so slightly as he bowed his head. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am. As to your question as to who or what I am, it’s a matter of perspective.”

He liked to think his current appearance was a pleasant one. He’d been wearing it for over half a century at this point. Hugh had yet to meet any lonely housewives or desperate gamblers who found it particularly upsetting. With his prized tweed sportcoat, matching gray slacks, white button down, and penny loafers, he felt he’d thoroughly captured the image of a perfect gentleman.

Judging by her expression, this woman was not of the same opinion. Perhaps his entrance could have been a little more tactful, but this place always took him unaware.

“If you want directions, I can’t help you,” she informed him, not entirely welcoming.

“Directions?” Hugh asked, “oh no, nothing of the sort.” He strode forward, removing his hat and gesturing at the fire with it, “that’s my calling card. Fire. As long as there’s an ember here or there, I’m perfectly fine.”

She was crouched too low to the ground to move very fast if she had a mind to run off.

“If you’re thinking about touching my hair, I’ll shove your face in your calling card, so don’t try me,” the woman warned.

“You’re an odd one. New here, I suppose?” Hugh asked, noting a large rock that made a serviceable enough chair and sitting down on it. He put his hat in his lap and smiled warmly.

The woman snorted, licking what appeared to be a piece of fried egg from one of her fingers. She was a charmer.

Giving him a quick once over, she seemed reluctant to even continue their conversation, “a man dressed like a horse track bookie tells me he’s got a thing for fire, and I’m the odd one?”

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Hugh reached under his coat, pulling out a small pencil and notepad. He was unphased by her bad mood and table manners.

“You poor thing,” he said, brushing off her insult, “I’ll tell you what. Let me help you. Clearly you’re lost. You want to go home, I take it?” Best to get right to business. He had a schedule to keep.

“How do you know I’m lost?” She asked.

“My dear, everyone in Dreadforest is lost. That’s the effect this place has. Lucky for you, I’m just the man you need. The name’s Fefnir. I specialize in lost souls. For a very low price, I can solve all your problems.” He licked the edge of his pencil and flipped open his notepad, “all I’ll need from you is a signature. As simple as that.”

She shook her head, “blow me. I’ll find my own way home. I like my soul just the way it is, thanks.”

Hugh lowered his notepad, deflated, “oh dear. What gave me away?”

The woman wobbled a little on her ankles, slowly rising from her crouch and smacking her palms together to shake away the vestiges of her meal, “you took off your hat, idiot.”

He reached up to smooth back his hair self-consciously, one of his fingers catching on a short horn. Damn. The woman must be a witch. Magic tended to have strange effects on his disguises. How very careless of him not to check first.

“Well,” he recovered quickly, “all the more reason to trust me.”

She took a step back. Then another.

“Now wait just one moment,” he said, standing up, “don’t be too hasty. You can trust me because now you know I’ve got the power to help you. I can deliver.” He put on his best smile, even better than the last one.

Unexpectedly, she stopped backing away. Wonderful! I’ve still got it, he thought to himself.

Then she raised her fists, nodding at him, “you come near me, goat-boy, and I’ll show you what you can deliver.”

He could tell they were getting nowhere. So, reluctantly, Hugh dropped his mask of polite interest with just a hint of evil, and crossed his arms. “Fair enough. I’ll stay where I am, but at the very least I’d like to have a conversation. Would you grant me that much?”

She remained silent. As good of an answer as a simple yes. Progress.

“So, whatever you’ve gone through so far has been a bit of a negative experience. I can tell as much by the look of you. I’m sorry to say, your hair looks especially ragged. I’ve never seen such tidy and simultaneously wild braids. How on earth did you get so many sticks stuck in such short hair? It barely reaches past your shoulders. I’m quite impressed, to be honest.”

The woman pursed her lips, biting back some of the colorful words she no doubt packed in her arsenal. Clearly a modern woman. Hugh rather liked her. His spawning jackal always told him he had a soft heart for spitfires. Hard to imagine a lump of coal could be soft, but here he was now - - absolutely enchanted.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” She demanded, fists steady, almost twitching like a boxer in an old gangster flick.

Hugh’s pleasant smile turned into a sinister smirk, then a bit of a nasty grin. He licked his lips, lowering his voice and leaning just a little forward, polished heels snapping together. “I’ll give you this one for free. I like power. I like lists. I like to collect things - - and I quite like the odd witch when I come across them.” He drew a manicured, and ever-so-sharp nail to his chin, tapping it gently, “do whatever it is you want to do here. The place is yours. That much I can tell. Once Dreadforest sinks its roots into something it wants, it rarely lets go. You’ve got fire. I like that. Hold onto it, and you just might get the hang of things.” He paused, lowering his hand, “and if you ever decide to leave, I mean really leave, I’ll happily take you up on the offer.”

Before she could reply, he tried to disappear into a puff of smoke. His power never quite worked here, unfortunately, and all he ended up doing was burning an overhanging tree branch above his head just enough to bring it falling down to smack him in the face.

The woman stared at him in surprise, lowering her fists at last. “That was–something.”

“It was nothing,” he replied quickly, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbing at the bits of charred tree on his forehead, smacking the branch aside. It almost smacked back. “Just act as if I did something far more sinister and we’ll call it a day.”

She shook her head, “you’re not very good at your whole shtick, are you?”

Now she looked embarrassed for him. Hugh straightened his back and tucked away his handkerchief, “I’m very good at it, actually. A lesser experienced demon wouldn’t have even managed as much as I just did. Dreadforest has something of a grudge against Hell, quite literally for some ungodly reason.”

“I would think it was the opposite,” she pointed out, “you’re a demon. If it was an ungodly reason, that would be good for you. Wouldn’t it?”

Hugh shrugged, unphased. He was used to this place. He’d just picked the wrong time to impress a woman. “Perhaps. At any rate, I have other business to attend to. I’ll have to walk away, I suppose, but I’d really appreciate it if you pretended I’d managed to disappear perfectly. I have something of a reputation to maintain.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, not even remotely on the defense anymore. “Don’t write my name down, and don’t come looking for me, but my name is Rachel. I’m sorry if I was on edge, it’s just a lot right now. Everything is a lot.”

Hugh shook his head, “not at all. It’s been a pleasure, Rachel. I am a gentleman, so I will have to be frank that I’ll most likely come looking for you at some point anyway, despite your request. At the very least for some tea and conversation.” He gestured about him, “this whole place tends to put one on edge, demon, witch, etcetera. There aren’t many people to talk to.”

She frowned, though this time it held a little bit less edge, “I can’t promise I won’t deck you next time, then. Just a fair warning.”

He nodded, “I’d expect nothing le–”

“DON’T TRUST HIM!” Shouted a grating, raspy, and very familiar voice.