PART 2 - THE ROAD TO SIOLAN

CHAPTER 05 — INSTRUCTIONS

He woke up again. Not in front of a Casket.

The sight that greeted him was a clear blue sky. That, and a health bar with barely enough red to keep the world colored. Mad cheering filled the air around him.

His breathing was ragged. It was the arena again. But what just happened? Did he really witness a person die in the Casket just after he killed the dude inside the game?

“Is this a joke?” he asked the game. “Cause it’s not fucking funny!”

The answer he got boomed through the arena.

“The winners of this Culling Contest!” the Jackhammer yelled.

The crowd roared their approval.

Flint heard crunching footsteps. He glanced up at Vardock grinning over him.

“Way to not screw up this time, Crip,” he said.

“Did you do this?”

The faux confusion in the fat dickhead's face pissed him off. “Do what?”

Flint shoved himself off the ground. “What kind of sick fuck are you?”

Vardock blinked. “You mad about winning now?”

Flint shoved the bigger man enough to make him stagger. “You had someone put us on the same team.”

“Oh, yeah? Who?”

“One of your fans at the FRB. Then you had them broadcast that sick fucking scene in my head just now.”

Vardock's scowl was fierce. “Why would I wanna be on your fucking tuh- tuh- team? You think I like carrying dead weight?”

Flint's mind raced. There had to be an explanation. He was confident it was standing two paces away. “You got someone to spawn us in the same instance so you could fuck with me.”

“I just won the match for you,” Vardock said. “And what broadcast you talking about? I watched you get domed by that dark lightning spell. I thought you were dead.”

“I wasn't dead,” he snapped. “I woke up staring at the Casket of that fucking dude I killed. I SAW myself kill him in the game, then watched the Casket kill him.”

Vardock's scowl transformed into a look of profound confusion. It was almost convincing, if you didn't know the asshole was the biggest troll alive. “It killed him? How do you know?”

Indeed, how did he know? Was that little field trip even real? “I don't know. It just did. I saw it happen.”

Vardock stared at him a long moment. Then gave an ugly snort. “You outta your mind, kid.”

Flint opened his mouth, but a blaring horn cut him off. He turned to see Jackhammer walking toward them with guards.

Two things flashed in his HUD. The first in white letters:

QUEST COMPLETE: THE CULLING.

The second message in green:

Having won the Culling Contest by working together, you and your surviving teammate (Vardock) are now partied. You will not be able to travel anywhere without them.

“Partied?” Vardock said. “What the hell? How we undo this shit?”

Flint stared sideways at him. “And you had nothing to do with this, either, huh?”

“No.”

“I don't believe you.”

Vardock shrugged. “Fuck I care what you believe?”

Jackhammer was now a few paces away with his retinue of guards. “Congrats, dipshits. Now come with me. Time to meet the King.”

As they followed him out of the arena, Flint's mind struggled with the implications of what happened. If this wasn't a prank, then what he just saw was real. The mage died in the game, only to then die inside the Casket. But was it real?

Outside the arena, townspeople choked up the cobbled road leading to the city, clapping and hollering as their retinue passed. A woman in a sleeveless tunic accosted Flint with a hand, planting a kiss on his cheek and a string of flowers around his neck. A child on the shoulders of a man littered them with rose petals from the front of the line. Others showered them with uncorked wine.

Flint wasn't able to enjoy it. All he could focus on were questions without answers. Why didn't he die when that mage hit him with dark lightning and drained his health bar? Why did he get to witness the player's death? And why did the Casket kill him?

Only the last question had an answer. Because the player died in-game.

“I could get used to this,” Vardock said.

He glanced up to see the big man walking with a woman on holding each arm. Attractive women. And young. They were grinning sideways at him, remarking on his bravery and combat prowess.

Flint pictured the guy in the Casket, the screen showing his final in-game moments before the needle arms were ripped from his body, flatlining him.

Flint's insides went cold. Or at least that's the sensation he got through the simulation. If fragging a player meant really killing them, then dying wasn’t safe in this virtual world. “Oh fuck,” he muttered. “Oh shit, this game is killing people.”

“What's that, lad?” one of Jackhammer's guards asked.

A wave of nausea overtook him. He retched, pushed the guard away, tried to get free of the crowd. The entourage jumped back as he doubled over, coughing puke into the street.

Hands patted his back as he stood there, bent over and breathing hard. The HUD flashed and droplet of red drained from his health bar. It was already dangerously low, and the sight of the diminishing meter only worsened his growing panic.

Flint stumbled after Jackhammer and the guards. The crowd seemed undeterred by his purging. As they drew closer to the city’s gates, their cheers became even more boisterous.

“Walker… Walker… Walker…”

“Vardock… Vardock… Vardock…”

At the top of the hill, a pair of elephants waited inside the gates of the city. Between the beasts was a litter with an ornamental rug carrying the Reach phoenix symbol over the front.

Flint stopped as Jackhammer raised a hand. Suddenly, the open area in front of the litter flashed. The townspeople vanished, replaced by figures wearing armor like him. Other players.

A HUD message alleviated his growing confusion:

You have entered a massive public instance (MPI). MPIs are used to host a large number of players inside a single instance. All major cities and the open world environment on Kvar are MPIs. As you enter individual buildings within the city, you will transfer to a small public instance (SPI) with a finite player capacity. Each building may have dozens of SPIs at any given time. The game will automatically transfer you to the same SPI as fellow party members.

Fellow party members.

Flint glanced at Vardock standing beside him, talking to a player in a red robe. A mage, no doubt. That brought his mind back to the other mage. The one he killed and watched die in a Casket.

“Did I really murder that dude?” he wondered aloud.

No answer from the game.

##

Ten minutes later, the clearing at the edge of Reach City was crowded with players. In front of them, the sheet concealing the litter’s interior opened and a man dressed in white robes wearing a silver crown and golden gems on his fingers emerged.

“Your Majesty,” Jackhammer said, bowing low. “I present you the champions of the Culling Contest.”

Flint glanced between the foul-mouthed arena admin and the Sultan-like figure.

“Excellent,” the King said. “Welcome, noble warriors! My name is Cerevant, and I am His Imperial Majesty’s custodial ruler of Reach.”

Around Flint, the sound of shifting armor as players kneeled. He hesitated, then awkwardly followed suit. That’s what he was supposed to do he guessed.

“Rise, rise,” Cerevant said. “I am not worthy of your prostrations. Though I am a king, I am — like you — a servant of the Imperator.”

Flint and the others rose.

“Now, then,” the King continued. “As part of your induction into the army, I present an important message from the true and rightful high ruler of Kvar.”

A thunderous crack sent Flint lurching backwards. Above the King’s litter, a swirling dark cloud appeared. Like the mouth of an animated black hole, it flexed and extended, until a figure appeared at its center.

Flint recognized him instantly. He wore the same garb in the game's trailer—silver armor with a black dragon on the breastplate.

“Recruits of the Four Kingdoms,” Imperator Beovold said in his impossibly deep voice. “Today begins the great contest to determine the future ruler of Kvar. To win this war, you must annihilate your rival armies. You must slaughter their people and seize their capital cities. The army that controls the cities and outposts of all four kingdoms will be declared the victor, and their sovereign will become my successor.”

The weight of those stakes hung over the players for a moment before the magical broadcast continued.

“Most of you will perish in the coming battles,” the Imperator continued. “But if you must die, do so knowing you have given everything in the service of your king or queen.”

Flint swallowed. That knowledge gave him no comfort at all.

“The age of the Four Kingdoms is ending,” the Imperator said. “May you earnestly seek the glory that befits participation in this noble conflict.”

Another thunderous crack ripped through the air, and the black hole disappeared. Atop the litter, King Cerevant was looking mighty pleased.

“I have every faith in you,” Cerevant said. “I know we have the bravest, most skilled soldiers in Kvar. And because of this, we do not fear the road ahead.”

Some half-hearted cheers rose-up from the crowd. Behind the king, the thick Reach flags hanging off the litter flapped in the breeze.

“Tonight you will celebrate your victory in the Culling Contest,” he continued. “On the morrow, you will journey to the town of High Marsh. There, you will learn to become officers in my army. You will learn the skills necessary to lead my soldiers against the brazen frost dogs of the North. Against the wicked jungle scum of the South. Against the desert roaches of the far East. And in good time, we will win this war.”

As the other players and NPCs cheered again, Flint’s HUD flashed an update:

NEW QUEST: March to High Marsh

Tomorrow, go with your party to the caravan of Culling champions headed to Officer School in the city of High Marsh.

“The journey will be long and dangerous,” the King continued. “For your victory on the arena sands, I award you 1,000 gold coins. There are numerous armories, weaponeers, and blacksmiths in the city. I recommend you provision yourself for the journey.”

At the bottom of his HUD, a plus-1,000 next to a gold coin icon flashing above his Skill Bar. He inadvertently reached into his right pocket, and felt a large handful of coins. Then two things happened at once. “+500 XP” appeared over his Status Bar, and a warm sensation fluttered upward from the tip of his toes to his forehead. There was a bright glow about him for the briefest instant, and a new dialog box opened:

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Congratulations! You have reached Level One. You have one Tree Point to distribute into the Constitution, Talent, or Skill Trees.

Cerevant continued talking, but Flint needed a distraction. Raising his HUD, he opened the Skill Tree. He didn’t have enough points to buy a new skill, so he switched to the Constitution and Talent Trees. There were three Constitution attributes — Health, Stamina, and Energy. In a separate frame were five Talents — Strength, Agility, Vitality, Efficiency, and Charm.

It was an easy choice. If dying meant really dying, he needed health. He invested the Tree Point into the Health branch with a mere thought. The red meter pulsed before extending by 5%.

Once his HUD vanished, a light jab in his ribs. He turned to see Vardock grinning stupidly at him. “You alright? Looking kinda green.”

“No,” Flint said. “I need to sit down.”

##

When the King finished, the players dispersed into the city. Flint tried catching Vardock, who was ambulating down the main thoroughfare with the quickness of a man who knew his destination. He ducked into a building with a sign overhead that read Hokum Joe’s Respite.

A warning flashed into his HUD:

WARNING — The Party Leader has entered a new Instance. If you do not follow them in the next 0:30 seconds, you will be killed and respawn at their location.

Flint burst through the door of the tavern and was hit with the smell of sour beer. A band playing on the stage nearby. Behind the counter, a man with a blotchy rash over his right eye worked a dishrag into a mug, eying the door with keen interest. His right leg wobbled on a wooden peg-leg.

“Greetings friend,” the tavern-keep said to Vardock. “What can I get you?”

The big man dropped into a seat. “Beer.”

Flint scowled and strolled over. As he took the nearby stool, Vardock turned on him with a frown.

“You following me?”

“The fucking game said it would kill me if I didn’t,” Flint said.

His rival blinked. “It did?”

“Yeah.”

The big man didn’t seem happy about this revelation. But then he grinned, shrugging. “Bet that pisses you off.”

Anger flared through Flint. This guy would be content with his own inconvenience so long as Flint suffered. “No, I love the idea of being chained to your fat ass.”

The bartender set a mug in front of Vardock and swept up the golden coin on the table. He turned sideways to Flint. “What’ll you have?”

“Uh…” he stammered.

“Beer for him, too,” Vardock said, slapping another coin down. “He deserves something for not screwing-up today.”

Flint ignored the insult. “We just killed a dozen people. What the hell are we going to do about this?”

Vardock took a gulp from the mug, coughed, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Damn, that tastes real.”

“Did you hear me?”

The big man turned with a frown, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. A woman in a short skirt appeared behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He turned, flashed her a grin, and she knelt over and whispered something in his ear.

Flint almost interrupted them when a mug was slammed down in front of him.

“Here ya’are,” Hokum Joe said.

Flint stared at the mug. His mouth was filled with the taste of sour vomit, and he didn’t have any intention of drinking it. A message flashing into his HUD changed all that:

You are currently depleted of Health. Certain beverages (e.g. Ale) can provide you with a needed Health boost.

He lifted the mug, frowning, then took a gulp. There was a strange tingling sensation at the back of his throat. It was a very realistic sensation and he was surprised about it. Also, to his surprise, the drink increased his Health bar by a smidgen.

Flint felt a hand on his shoulder and turned. An absurdly beautiful woman in a black skirt was standing in front of him. She had dark eyes and milky white skin.

“Hello champion,” she said, reaching in and petting him under the chin. “My name is Chastity. What’s yours?”

Flint half-choked on his drink, and Vardock clapped him on the back.

“His name is Dickhead,” Vardock said. “And he needs to unwind.”

Chastity smiled at Vardock then returned her gaze back to him. “I can unwind you.”

Flint blinked. He wasn’t used to this kind of situation. And distracting as the woman was, Flint’s life was on the line here. He had assured thousands of people of the safety of Four Kingdoms. People who were now hooked-up to a Casket that would almost assuredly kill them. He had to figure out a way to get out of the game and tell the FRB what was going on. “Sorry but I’m not in the mood. I need to find a way to quit the game before…”

He trailed off as she straddled him, grabbing the back of his head and pulling him close. Flint almost knocked over the mug as he tried to steady her weight ontop of him. She drew her mouth up close to his right ear, and Flint’s senses were battered by the overpowering scent of perfume. Her breath was hot on his neck as she whispered. “Why don’t you take me upstairs?”

“What?” he croaked.

A hand snaked down his abdomen and he felt her grab his cock through his dirt-caked trousers. His whole body went rigid. Suddenly, the memory of murdering seven people in the arena dissipated like smoke on the wind. Before he could speak, Chastity grabbed a fistful of his shirt and yanked him out of the seat.

“Yeah, buh— buddy!” Vardock yelled as Flint was dragged toward the stairwell.

“Uh, listen, I need to take a rain check,” Flint said as he tried turning away at the top step.

She grabbed his arm, nails digging painfully into his shoulder.

“Ouch!” he gasped.

He was twisted round like a top, facing her. She pushed him against the wall, dust pluming from the drywall.

“What the fu—”

She pressed her lips to his, forcing her tongue in his airway. He could barely breathe, and thought he would pass out. When she released him, he took a huge gasp of air, like a man almost drowned. Her hands clutched his face tightly, dragging her lips to his ear.

“I want you to screw my filthy brains out,” she hissed at him. Then her mouth attacked his face again.

“Mmm…” he said, mouth muffled against her own. This wasn’t so bad. A new feeling bubbled over like a cauldron inside him. His muscles went tense as cords, blood draining from his head like water from a broken pipe. A warmth grew in the pit of his guts, moving downward, concentrating itself in his trousers.

He let her drag him across the hall. They broke through a wooden door, still lip-locked. She broke free, shoving him backwards onto the bed. His head slammed off the headboard, but he hardly felt it.

The door shut and she slammed home the lock. He sat up eagerly, watching her move towards him with that alluring sway of the hips and fumbled with his trousers. When he realized she wasn’t moving, he glanced up.

Chastity glared at him, opening her mouth to speak. But the voice that came out wasn’t her own. It wasn’t feminine at all. Instead, it was a deeper, scratchier voice. A voice so distinct it was unmistakable.

“Don’t be alarmed, kid,” she said. “I’ve commandeered this NPC in order to commune with you.”

Flint’s eyes widened. “McCormick?”

“The one and only.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Said I’d be seeing you again soon, didn’t I?”

“How did you… why are you—”

“Why am I what? Interrupting your fun?” And he used her arms to motion to the possessed body. “I’ll let you get on with that in a second, but we’ve business to discuss first.”

“How are you controlling that girl?”

“How,” the mobster repeated with a chuckle. He—or actually she—strode to the window, her high heels clacking off hardwood like the hoofs of a great Clydesdale. Peeling back the shades just enough to give a brief peak outside, he said: “Being an Admin comes with certain privileges.”

“You’re an Admin?”

“Yes.”

“First you’re a police informant, now you work for the FRB? Why would they make you an Admin?”

“Why not?”

“You’re a fucking criminal, for one thing.”

“You think?”

“And a back-stabbing piece of shit. Why the hell did you turn me in?”

Chastity snorted. “You still mad about that?”

“You almost got my brother killed.”

“But he’s alive, right? Gannon got him the meds.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I struck a deal.”

“Glad things worked out, then. You enjoying the game?”

“Are your FRB friends aware the Caskets are killing people?”

McCormick-Chastity, still looking out the window, gave him a sideways glance. “Figured that out, did you?”

“Yeah.”

“And here I thought you were dumb as a sack of hammers. What clued you in?”

“At the end of the Culling battle, I almost died to the final enemy. Only I didn’t die, I just lost all my health and was transported out of the game. I saw the guy I was fighting, but not his character. I mean, I saw him. In the Casket. I saw him fucking flat line when Vardock killed him.”

Chastity’s head twisted around, a sudden look of panic etched into her features. “You left the game universe?”

“Yeah. For a few seconds.”

The woman stared at him. Almost like she—or rather, he—was deeply pondering the implications. “Shit, he finally said. “I should’ve known this would happen.”

Flint eyed the possessed prostitute warily. Her posture had straightened from the slightly bent forward seductress into a rigid stance. The shift was jarring, almost as extreme as the shift in his own feelings over the past few minutes. From horror at the sight of killing someone, to brainless lust, and now profound confusion. “Known what would happen? What the actual fuck is going on?”

McCormick forced the concerned look off the prostitute’s face. “There’s been some changes to the game. Instead of respawning, the game is terminating any player who dies. We need you to fix it.”

Silence in the room.

“Excuse me?” Flint finally asked. “I know shit about programming or fixing bugs.”

“It’s not a bug. This is a result of a directed, intentional change in the game’s source code.”

“So change it back.”

“We can’t.”

Flint stared at him… or her… for several seconds. “You’re telling me an FRB employee altered the Casket’s programming so it kills people. And you can’t do anything about it?”

“Not an employee. An entity inside the server. Someone we need you to eliminate.”

“An entity?”

“Imperator Beovold. The NPC who rules Kvar.”

Flint pictured the dragon-transfiguring character that only recently spoke to them outside the city. “How can an NPC change the source code?”

Her gaze remained level, and the male voice broadcasted through her throat was calm. “Our programmers can’t access the files needed to fix the problem. Not until this NPC is terminated. That’s what we need you to do.”

Flint balked. The whole thing was so absurd he considered it might be a prank. “Me? Why me?”

“You're an elite PvP specialist in a similar game. You have the skills to accomplish the task.”

“This game is a little different from Battle Smite.”

“The principles of player-versus-player combat are the same.”

“Yeah but we’re talking about killing an NPC. Not another player.”

“Before you get to Beovold, you’ll have to kill many players.”

That didn’t sound so good to Flint. Not after what he witnessed in the Arena.

“The choice is already made,” McCormick said. “The FRB wants you and Vardock to build an army strong enough to kill the Imperator.”

Flint scowled. So being paired with fatso wasn't a coincidence. There was one oddity that now made sense. Still, there were a lot of things that didn’t. “So killing this NPC will magically unlock the source code? How’s that work?”

“There’s nothing magical about it.”

“If the NPC altered the code so it kills people, can’t he also make himself invincible?”

“No.”

He waited for an explanation. When one wasn’t forthcoming, he said: “Why not?”

McCormick chose not to answer. “Tomorrow you and Vardock will travel to Siolan. There, you’ll find a sorceress named Sigrid. She’s going to help you build an army strong enough to defeat the Imperator.”

“And if I don’t want to help?”

Chastity’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll help.”

“Why’s that?”

“Cause if you don’t, your brother can kiss the Decel infusions goodbye.”

Flint expected that was coming. “You and Gannon are scumbags. This isn’t the deal we made.”

“Deals change. Haven’t we been over that?”

“Fuck you.”

Chastity smiled. “Truth be told, I’m doing you a favor.”

“I don’t see it that way.”

“Going to High Marsh to join the Reach Army means you’ll be sent into pitched battles. One after another. With the other kingdom’s armies. How long can you survive thousand-man PvP battles? Those instances were designed for players to die and respawn dozens of times before one side captures the field.”

Flint thought about that. The players he fought in the Culling were pretty bad and he still nearly died. In a massive PvP battle with ten times the number of players, there was a lot of randomness that no amount of skill could control for. Still, fighting an NPC controlled by a rogue AI didn’t sound like a great alternative. “You know me and Dexter hate each other, right?”

Chastity shrugged. “You’ll get over it.”

Before he could reply, a message popped into his HUD:

NEW QUEST: PATH OF THE CONQUEROR

You have been chosen as one of a select group of Culling champions to forge a separate path. Abandon the Reach King and form an army strong enough to defeat the Imperator and conquer the four kingdoms of Kvar.

NEW QUEST: KEEPING ZEEKE ALIVE, PART I

You will desert the Kingdom of Reach and form an independent guild strong enough to decimate the armies of the four Kingdoms of Kvar and the Imperator himself. Zeeke will be given his next Decel infusion once you abandon the Reach Army.

Flint dry-swallowed the bile in his throat. “This isn’t fair.”

“It’s not,” McCormick agreed. “But life is full of—” he stopped speaking and jerked her head toward the window like a switch had been flipped. She quickly strode over to it, her high-heels clacking off hardwood like the hoofs of a great Clydesdale. She pulled the shade back on the window and peered out. “The enemy is here.”

Flint was so confused he felt like screaming. His voice almost squeaked when he spoke. “Enemy? What enemy?”

Chastity turned to him and the mobster spoke through her in a quiet rush. “Listen carefully. In a few moments, one of Beovold’s Vizicar will arrive. He’ll invite you to meet the Imperator in-person. They know you are a threat, and intend to kill you the moment you step outside Reach City.”

Flint’s chest started heaving as a fresh wave of panic set in. One minute he’s murdering people, then he’s about to get laid, and the minute after that, a demon-possessed hooker is putting thousands of lives on his shoulders. It really was too much. “I need a fucking Xanax…”

Chastity put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t leave Reach City with the Vizicar. Inside a Safe Zone, no player can be killed by an NPC. Not unless the player attacks first.”

He closed his eyes and blew out through pursed lips, forcing his breathing rate to slow.

“Go to Siolan and find Sigrid,” McCormick said. “Do this for us, and we’ll take care of Zeeke. You have my word.”

When he didn’t reply, she gave his shoulder a shake. “Do you understand?”

“Sigrid,” Flint gasped. “Siolan. Find Sigrid.”

The sound of loud footsteps approached beyond the door. Chastity’s head snapped towards it, a look of panic growing in her features. “Don’t make any sudden moves.”

He opened his mouth to say something. Maybe to protest. Maybe to complain. Whatever it was vanished from his tongue as the door exploded off the hinges.

He gave a girlish scream as three black figures burst into the room. They ignored him completely and immediately began searching the place. They lifted the small rug, pulled out a frayed wooden panel on the door. One pushed open the window and stuck his giant neck out as though searching for an escapee. Another reached under the bed frame and flipped it over as though he wasn’t laying on it.

“Ooph!” he grunted, smacking onto the floor like dead weight. He strained his neck up, spotting Chastity in the corner, hugging herself and watching him with a terrified countenance.

“Alone,” one guard announced, voice muffled by the helmet.

A man in a dark robe appeared in the doorway. It was one of those monk-like figures that surrounded Imperator Beovold in the trailer. The man has a black hood drawn up that cast most of his face in shadow. Only the orange glow of two eyeballs and the sharp end of a nose was visible. On his right breast was a dragon sigil.

Flint’s targeter scanned him.

Vizicar Camorr

Level 200 Specialist Magus

The hooded man stared at him coldly, his orange eyes unblinking.

“You are Master Walker?” Camorr asked in a voice like reedy hinges.

He swallowed. Knowing the monk-like figure wanted to kill him made it hard to suppress the urge to run. But that hardly seemed like an option. “I am.”

The Vizicar’s orange eyes danced across his form, and Flint did his best to lay still with both hands visible and non-threatening.

“His Imperial Majesty has been awaiting your arrival to this land for many years.”

“Um…”

“He knows you to be a powerful warrior from another realm, and would very much like to meet you,” Camorr said. “Tomorrow. Before your caravan leaves for High Marsh.”

Silence in the room. Flint wasn’t sure what to say, so he said nothing.

“You will meet us on the hill beyond the city’s western gate at sundown,” Camorr said.

A quest popped into his HUD:

NEW QUEST: THE BLOODLINE

Meet the Vizicarum outside the northern gates of Reach City after sundown tomorrow.

Camorr fixed him with a glowing stare for a long moment. Almost like he was trying to remember something.

“Have a good evening,” the man finally said. He raised a gloved hand and snapped his fingers. The soldiers turned and left the room, the door slamming shut behind them.

Flint glanced at the prostitute. She was hugging herself in the corner, eyes wide with fright. “You still in there?” he whispered.

“What?” she asked in a voice that sounded much more feminine.

He heaved a ragged sigh. “Never mind.”

She tip-toed toward the door, watching him like a potential assailant. “I’m sorry, I don't feel well…”

She disappeared through the door, leaving only the diminishing sound of heels clicking off the hardwood.