Jack blinked. “And what gave you that impression?”

“Well,” said the lizardman, expression fraught, “the man who broke into my office with a spear was a good indication.”

Shaking his hand, Jack gestured to him to sit. He squeezed between Lydia and Hannah, leaning his new sword against the table. Lydia scowled, aiming a kick for his shin.

With a grimace, he said, “you’ve not taken this to the Police why?”

Oyster scoffed. “Have you been living under a rock? They broke up in eighty-six.”

“What about you, aren’t you just living on the moon? Wrong Police, moron!”

Hannah slapped his arm, whispering, “that’s the richest man in Blackpool, be nice!”

“I know,” he whispered back, “but I can’t help it! My natural reaction to idiocy is to retort.”

Everyone knew who Saul Oyster was: the owner of the football club, most of the city’s rental properties, and a cutting edge tech company that dabbled in runesmithing.

And he’d come to Jack for help.

Lydia leaned in to create an impromptu huddle. “It was a good pun, though. I approve of this side character.”

He shuddered at the tickle of her breath. “Your approval doesn’t make a difference! I’ll keep my straight man tendencies to a minimum, so Hannah, we’ll need your more delicate touch.”

Nodding, she made a fist.

With a deep breath, he met Lydia’s questioning gaze. “You should just stay quiet.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Absolutely not, you’d be utterly helpless without me.”

“I just need you to not insult, demean, or otherwise offend our esteemed guest.”

“What do you take me for?” She fanned herself. “I grew up dealing with people like this, I’ll have you know; though usually less… Reptilian.”

Unconvinced, he pressed his lips together. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Her glare attempted to flay him.

He coughed. “Okay, guys, Operation Asspelunking is a go!”

Hannah squinted. “Do I even want to know?”

“Haven’t you heard the legends? There’s a pot of gold lodged deep in every lizardfolk’s rectum.”

“That’s definitely not true.”

“How can you know if you’ve never been in to have a look?”

She shot up, jaw agape. “Some things are just obvious! Do they poo out leprechauns, too?”

Narrowing his eyes—a strange sight when done horizontally—Oyster regarded them. “What’s obvious? What have you been muttering about over there?”

With a trembling smile and a stilted laugh, Jack rubbed the back of his head. “J-just discussing how terrible it is that someone tried to kill you.”

“For the record,” said Lydia, folding her arms, “I will not visit the inside of any rectum, unless it’s with a—”

He clamped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, wow, such a comedian, this one. Now, did you get a good look at the guy, any distinguishing features?”

“Unfortunately not, he was wearing a balaclava.”

“What did the spear look like?” asked Hannah.

Oyster fingered his chin. “Long. Wooden. Oh, and it was covered in lots of tiny little symbols.”

“You mean runes?” said Lydia. “Considering what your company does, shouldn’t you know that?”

“I let the boffins deal with that sort of thing.”

Face ashen, Jack said, “what did the blade look like?”

“Sharp.”

Sighing, he shook his head. “Yeah, cheers, anything else?”

“Umm…” The lizardman took a long look into the distance. “Oh, yes! It was black, and very shiny. Almost like it was—”

“Twinkling,” said Jack, breathless. “Starsteel. It’s a Sidhe weapon. How did you get away?”

Oyster glanced away, grabbing his collar. “My personal guards nobly laid down their lives so I could escape.”

His brow creasing, Jack chewed his lip. “And you want us to, what, find the assassin?”

“Lord, no,” said Oyster, “I want you to protect me. You are the team who stopped Armageddon, no?”

“We had a bigger party at the time,” said Jack.

“Plus celestial forces were on our side,” said Hannah.

“Regardless.” Oyster wiped his forehead. “I still remember how the demons took me; first they plucked out my eyes, then they cut off my hands, and then they boiled me in truffle oil.”

Lydia swallowed.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“The smell must have been atrocious,” said Jack. He gasped when his ribs were assaulted by elbows on both sides. “So how did you find out about us?” His voice was strained and squeaky.

“I have my sources,” said Oyster, puffing his chest. “Will you do it?”

With a weighty stare, Jack said, “there’ll be a high rate of hazard pay.”

The lizardman’s features sagged in relief. “Money is no object; you defeated the devil, after all.” He inclined his head at Lydia. “And with the Lady Blackwell on my side, I’d feel much safer.”

Hannah sniggered. “Oh, Lady Blackwell.”

“Shall we fetch the palanquin?” said Jack.

She glowered, harrumphing as pink dusted her cheeks.

“No need for that,” said Oyster, standing. “I came in my car.”

Groaning, Jack cradled his face. Lord save him from the procession of idiots.

He wouldn’t, of course; He was probably too busy processing requests for flaming swords.

“One final question,” said Lydia, strutting over and holding the door open. “Have you any idea why anyone would want to kill you?”

“I have a few,” muttered Jack.

Oyster grimaced. “Come; it’s better if I just show you.”

***

They rode in Oyster’s black Ford to the city centre, where a skyscraper rose above the others. It was a sleek glass tower, rounded instead of cubic; sparkling in the winter sunlight, strong sunglasses would be required to view it.

Jack had taken the front seat, and the other two flanked the lizardman in the back. It was a wide car, and they were comfortable despite the full bench, Hannah testing the tinted glass’ efficacy by pulling her hood back and forth.

Jack paid no attention.

All his focus was on the strange twinge in his stomach, reaching to his hands and urging them to wrap around the driver’s throat. She was an unassuming woman, middle-aged and plain. What was wrong with him?

Sure, bad driving made him tetchy, but never to this extent. Was it related to the sword?

Maybe he just craved a drink. It was barely afternoon, and his bullshit meter for the day was already full.

The driver let them out in an alleyway behind the building, whereupon they entered through a narrow service door. Every step away from the car lessened his murderous desire.

Maybe he should have listened to Rooney, but he couldn’t think about that now. His fingers brushed the scabbard.

Ascending to the top floor, they strode straight down a corridor with white carpet and motivational posters along the walls.

Most of them were to the tune of ‘The World is Oyster’s’ and ‘Work is Life’. Jack mused if he worked there, the only thing seeing those would motivate him to do is jump out the window.

The corridor was sparsely populated, but the few lizards nodded respectfully at Oyster as they passed, giving sideward glances to his odd trio of guards.

They reached the end, and went through a heavy wooden door next to a desk where a bored lizardwoman filed her nails.

She didn’t notice them.

Stepping into a massive office, Jack couldn’t help a pang of jealousy. Oyster’s desk was bigger than his bed, for crying out loud—and was that a flatscreen? In the corner, he had a gaming system set up, complete with a giant screen and chair with lots of buttons.

He gawked. Behind the desk, a leather chair stood like a throne; the wall-sized window offered both a panorama and enough light to make Hannah turn away. She watched the door.

In the panelled wall to the right of the desk was a safe—Oyster turned the dial and opened it, withdrawing something finger-sized as he rubbernecked.

Presenting it to them, he swallowed, gaze flicking all over the place.

“It’s a USB stick,” said Jack. “Please tell me that’s not the only copy.”

Oyster shrugged. “It’s a top secret project.”

“Exactly what I like to hear,” came a deep voice from the doorway.

With a shriek, Hannah scrambled away from a mass of blue shimmers, from which stepped a tall man dressed all in black. A balaclava covered his face, and he brandished a black-tipped spear.

In a flash, Jack drew his sword, standing between the intruder and the rest of the room. The Gate remained open, leaving him to wonder where it led.

His thoughts were interrupted by a blade flying at his face.

Parrying it, he stepped to the side and crouched under a wide jab; the assailant was on the edge of an area rug.

He gripped it and pulled.

The man hopped backward with an alarmed cry, weapon clattering to the floor. Jack needed no prompting. Surging forward, he aimed a stab for his neck.

With inhuman grace, his opponent scooped up the spear and caught his strike; he locked with him, coming close enough he could smell his sickly sweet breath. Growling, the spearman pushed.

Jack gave way, swinging on his hips and launching his foot upward.

Straight into his crotch.

With a howl, he collapsed, the spear clattering from his hand. He crawled to the Gate, tears staining his mask.

“I won’t forget this,” he said, growling, before freezing in place with wide eyes.

“I don’t think so,” said Lydia, approaching with a wicked smirk. “You’ll be answering some questions.”

He smirked; the Gate flashed.

“Lydia, watch it!”

It was too late. A blast of light from the opening drove her away, grunting as she corrected herself and halted.

By that time, the aggressor had scrambled through the Gate, allowing it to blink from existence.

“Shit,” said Lydia, panting.

Jack sighed, peering at Oyster. “Maybe make a copy, yeah? Label it ‘in case the other one gets nicked’?”

***

They escorted Oyster home, where he immediately locked himself in his office. The manor was huge, a central building of white stone flanked by two wings, all of them four storeys. On the expansive grounds, winding pathways melded with tended gardens full of resilient colour speckled with frost. The sweet smell still tickled him.

Once again, the driver had set off what he had dubbed the ‘murder alarm’, but he was getting better at ignoring it.

He needed to have words with this sword.

In the pillared front entrance, two men in suits stood guard with wires trailing from their ears. There was basically an army of them, apparently. As they followed Oyster in, Jack distinctly heard one of them say, “amateurs,” to his mate, and a fire of affront sprang up in him.

Their afternoon was spent guarding a carved mahogany door in a hallway as wide as a street, fine red carpets adorning the floor and fantastical tapestries along the walls, between floor-to-ceiling windows.

Hannah had instantly drawn the curtains.

He spent some time studying the tapestries—one of which was a particularly moving story about a child’s journey on a talking motorcycle—until Lydia and Hannah finally convinced him to join their game of Future Magic King: The Congregation.

To his surprise, it was fun, despite his constant defeats with borrowed decks. Lydia seemed genuinely happy when he finally beat her.

He’d cheated, but she didn’t know that.

They dined with the staff, who were, thankfully, human, and had diets which strictly excluded any kind of insect. Dinner had instead been chicken stew, which he had deemed to have too many vegetables, but finished anyway.

Once the sun had set, they set their sleeping shifts. Jack had the first watch.

Leaning his sword beside the door, he sat on the floor and leaned on the wall, pupils unfocused.

It didn’t look like he was paying attention, but that was the point.

Being pulled headfirst and screaming into the Sidhe’s endless blood war had taught him how to scout for danger.

The windows were a possible entry point, but they’d alert him with noise. All he had to do was keep himself awake and alert, attention on both ends of the hallway.

It was so peaceful.

And warm.

Strangely comfortable, too. He sat against a wall, yet it felt like he was sinking into an armchair.

He fell asleep.

When he woke, he felt groggy, his mind fragmented. It smelled coppery, and something wet and sticky clung to his limp fingers; it was on his clothes as well.

Opening his lids, he swallowed his heart. He really hoped that wasn’t what he thought it was in his hand.

His right hand held the cursed katana, dripping with blood.

Before him, a man in a suit with a wire trailing from his ear lay face-down in a pool of crimson.

Jack retched.

That same crimson covered his weapon and his clothes; a deep cold gripped him, as though he’d dived into an ice lake.

“What have you done?” said Hannah, approaching with a trembling lip.

That was a good question.

What had he done?