Six Months Earlier.

“I've been wondering, and the American people as well, about the new spending bill, specifically the budget increase for the USDA.”

“Sally, I hear you: With climate change, temperature changes and all that, new invasive species are challenging our Wildlife Services, and—”

“Senator Blinken, with respect, the previous budget for the USDA was 400 billion, and most of that went to food stamps. You've tacked on another 70 billion and moved 100 billion from supporting working-class families struggling to make ends meet, to a little-known agency called APHIS.”

“The APHIS mandate, when working together with local law enforcement, is the defense of our American ecosystem. The protection of our environment from invasive species is as important as defending our borders from adversaries abroad.”

“An easy pitch for full stomachs. I'd watch out come November, Senator, when hungry voters hit the polls.”

“I've talked with our president. We are optimistic that new measures to protect our agriculture will increase productivity and bring down prices in the aisles.”

“Thank you for your time, Senator Blinken.”

“Thank you.”

“Up next, Summer 2028 and the most chaotic presidential race of our time is in its final stretch. We have the latest polling ahead and a discussion with our pro panel, stay with us.”

The news anchor vanished behind their network logo and the TV, fastened on the ceiling above the mini-mart floor, transitioned to commercials. Bill looked down at a bag of salted almonds in his hand. He'd been shopping before he'd stopped to watch the News; now, he had lost his appetite.

William Boyle—Bill, to his friends—was a 50-something cog-in-the-machine; a greasy investigator with a mop of dark hair and a crooked nose. 30 years with the USDA, 25 in Wildlife’s pocket, and just when he was looking at retirement, congress had decided to get tough on the ecosystem. They were going to set his town on fire.

Bill placed the snack bag back on its shelf and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his tawny duster. “Have a good one,” he said to the clerk on his way out. The kid didn't look up from his phone.

It was late and well into the night. Bill's ride, a beat-up 90s Sedan, was the only car parked up front. He went to fish his keys from his pocket when the brights of a black SUV glared in his eyes. Its tires squealed and turned, and it came to a sudden stop behind his trunk. The passenger side door opened.

Bill gave up on finding his keys.

A man wearing a racing jumpsuit and motorcycle helmet exited the SUV. His face was hidden behind a dark visor, but Bill knew a thrall when he saw one.

“William Boyle,” the man said as they approached. “You've been summoned.”

Thralls walked like men and they talked like men, and if you couldn’t see their bodies, then they could well-enough appear human. Yet, in Bill’s experience, they had a crucial flaw.

“You say that like she's casting a spell,” Bill remarked.

“You have been summoned Mr. Boyle. She's waiting in the vehicle.”

Bingo. Thralls struggled with small talk.

“She came in person?” Bill looked through the driver-side window of his sedan and thought of his pistol, loaded and locked in the dash. What a time to leave his iron behind.

“If you will not walk to the vehicle, I will walk you there,” the thrall said, there was no room for argument. They reached back past their hip, as if they’d produce a weapon hidden on their person. “I encourage you to proceed, quickly.”

“Hey, relax,” Bill replied with a thin but amiable smile and raised his hands to show he wouldn’t resist. “We're gonna do your little sit down.”

The SUV's side door opened and a second stranger in the same racing getup stepped out. They held out a gloved hand, not a spec of skin exposed; nothing to betray their true nature.

“Need my ID? I swear I’m over 18.”

Thralls didn’t react to jokes, either.

“Keys,” it said.

Bill made a wry chuckle. “You're taking my car?” There was a hint of incredulity in his tone, before he realized they had him pinned. The first racer wannabe had taken a step behind him, blocking him from retreat. He retrieved the keys and tossed them into the thrall's waiting hand.

“Have her back by morning,” he said. “And don't touch my gun.”

They walked off with his keys and Bill saw, through the open door, a woman seated on the far side of the vehicle. She wore a black, form-fitting pencil dress and long, white gloves up to her elbows. A wide-brimmed hat, decorated in ivory charms, sat tilted on her head. Her red lips were visible on her face; her eyes, however, were not.

“You're letting the cold in,” she said.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Bill replied. He climbed into the SUV to sit beside her. The door, held by the stranger behind him, slammed closed.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“I didn't mean to offend you.”

“But you did offend me, making me wait.”

Bill looked about the dimly-lit cabin. There were two thralls in the seats behind him, another one driving, and the fourth, the friendly messenger, had returned to their seat up front. The SUV rolled forward and the lights turned off.

“My deepest apologies.”

She smiled. It felt like that was all he could see in the dark; lips curved in disquieting satisfaction; illuminated briefly by the headlamps of passing cars.

“Well?” Bill asked. “You pulled a rabbit from your hat, Ms. Monterro. And now its wondering why it's here.”

“Cypress Grove,” she said. “You're familiar, aren't you?”

“Yeah, the coven up at Bellingham. Two dozen sisters and a handful of crones. I've been there, we consider it contained.”

“Working with humans has many benefits,” Monterro sighed, as though disappointed. “They are so easily charmed, so easily made to see what they want to believe.”

“So they put up some illusions and hid something,” he shrugged, “You're all hiding something.”

“They have made a deal with Crow Valley.”

Bill sucked in his stomach. “Yeah?” He pressed his lip with his thumb and bit the nail. “Not the first I've heard of that.”

“So, you're aware?”

“Aware enough to know that Crow Valley is up and down the Sound cutting deals with every coven above ground.”

“And they've made a very important deal with Cypress Grove. I don't know what the crows offered them, but the grove has made good on their bargain. They're transporting a psychopede, soon, into Crow Valley’s control.”

“We haven't been tracking psychopedes out here since the 90s,” Bill said with a sardonic laugh. “Gave up on that when your wrigglers wormed their way into the groundwater. Last I checked, Bellingham and Vernor Hill were—oh I dunno—a hop and skip away from each other. What do I care?”

The dark of the cabin deepened and squirming shadows appeared in the corners of Bill’s eyes. His heart rate spiked.

“You forget yourself.”

“I do.” Bill rolled his jaw. He regretted not having his gun and imagined how he would take a shot at the witch beside him, and go out not as an old man, but as a legend of the Agency.

Truthfully, he didn't have the courage.

Bill drew a slow, steady breath. “You're the witch,” he said with a sigh. “And I am your rabbit. What does Ms. Monterro want me to do with Cypress Grove?”

Those squirming shadows retreated from Bill’s vision and Ms. Monterro raised her hand, palm up and expecting. “Your phone.”

He sneered. It was just like her to give a stick and expect a carrot. “I’m flattered.”

“I'm putting a number in your contacts. When you see me calling, answer.”

“And then what?”

“You will intercept the transport before it reaches Crow Valley and secure the psychopede. You will not destroy it, but deliver it to your people. You will take it to Maryland.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

Bill squinted at the witch, as if he could conclude some secret from the shadows obscuring her face; a truth in the movement of her lips. Ms. Monterro finished with his phone and dropped it unceremoniously into his lap.

“I'll need time to get some squads together. If you’re telling me to hit a truck in broad daylight, I’ll have to run it up Command.”

“And I will need time to pinpoint exactly where this transport is, when it is leaving, and what route it will take. Be ready when I call you.”

“What happens if I'm not ready? Gonna give me the stick again?”

Ms. Monterro chuckled warmly. “No,” she answered. “But this game we enjoy; the balance of power that we have, in our own ways, strived to preserve; it could all suddenly,” she snapped the fingers of one elegant hand, “End.

“If She is allowed to have her way, then this world will fall, and we will have fought for nothing.”

Bill ripped a thread of nail off his thumb and spit it to the floor. “I just heard that our blue-blooded poli-ticks in DC want to pump money into APHIS. They let you fester and spread, and now, out of nowhere, they've changed their minds.”

“And what do you think about that, Bill?”

“It reminds me of my ex-wife’s garden,” he began. “One time, I asked her why the garden had so many weeds. She said the difference between a weed and a flower was in the intention of the gardener. Everything’s a plant, until someone with a shovel decides what should stay and what should go.” Bill paused and Ms. Monterro watched as he turned to look through the dark scenery that passed them by. “This garden of ours has grown wild for a long, long time. If someone tries to start picking weeds now… a lot of people are going to die.”

Ms. Monterro nodded, a movement he could only discern by the tip of her wide brimmed hat.

“Get this psychopede and send it to Maryland. If your scientists can… divine its purpose… there may still be an opportunity to stop Her.”

“Her…?.”

“The Queen of Crows.”

“Huh.” Bill winced, an instant pain blossomed behind his eye. That name gave him a migraine. “I know her. I feel like I should know her name, but for some reason it won't come to mind.”

“It's enough that you remember She exists,” Ms. Monterro said, her tone strained. It was then that Bill noticed the witch’s hands, balled into bitter fists. “You and I are on different teams, but we are partners against Her. If APHIS is to come here with fresh men and new weapons, then it's also by Her design. Your witless gardeners will play right into Her hand.”

Bill scoffed, “Witless is right.”

Ms. Monterro clapped her hands and the SUV rolled to a stop. “Remind me what it is you do, Bill? Mr. Boyle?”

“I'm the lead Invasive Species Investigator for Wildlife Services,” he said. “Specifically, I work in the secret Xenos-Wildlife Suppression Division.”

“Can I expect to have XWSD’s full support?”

Bill smiled; the car had already stopped. Ms. Monterro had asked a question she knew the answer to. As she would put it, they had reached an accord. “I’m sorry that I was glib earlier, but I wanted to be frank, and I'm going to be frank now. My job is to make sure your kind and my kind don't massacre each other.” He opened the side door and stepped out of the car, onto the gravel of a disused road. “You've always been fair, if not rough around the edges. You have my support; I'll get you the rest.”

She smiled, red lips pursued beneath her hat in genuine, if brief, appreciation. “Until next time.”

The side door swung from Bill's hand and closed itself shut. “Yeah, ‘til next time,” he muttered.

The SUV drove off and Bill was left beneath a bridge on the south side of Vernor Hill. He recognized his surroundings and knew he was off in the boonies, but that didn’t matter. He was so deep in his thoughts, not even the cold could command his attention. For a while he paced in circles, he chewed on his nails, and when he tired of thinking, he remembered the world around him.

“Fuck,” he growled, turning in place.

He was miles from home.