The day wore on with a slithering sort of uneasiness. Reminders that now only hours lay between them and the enaction of their plan were constant.
“And tomorrow evening at exactly this time you’ll be walking up the steps of the palace,” Beel said to Root. He gripped a clock in his stubby hands, watching the hands go round and round and chiming every significant interval like a fretful and sweaty cuckoo clock.
“I know,” said Root, who had drilled the same schedule into her own mind. Even her dreams in recent days had followed a rigid schedule—mixed with the usual Atnaterran surreality, of course.
“Hm.” Beel didn’t look away from the clock. “Not too late for us all to forget about this whole thing and, oh, I don’t know, throw a little birthday bash instead.”
“Whose birthday is it?”
“I’m sure we can find someone.”
There was a knock at the door of their basement room. Azriah opened it to let the last guest inside—Anjeanette, out of breath.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “Got out of work late. They had us helping set up for the event tomorrow.”
Anjeanette pulled up a stool at the table. She was the tenth, and now everyone was in attendance for the first meeting of their full crew.
“Excellent,” said the king from his spot at the head. “Now, let’s get started—”
“Excuse me,” said Saly as he put up a finger. “Er, if I might—I know you all know everyone here, but there are a few faces I haven’t met…”
“Right,” said Vit. “We should do a round of introductions.”
“If it’s necessary,” said the king.
“How about… name and a fun fact about yourself?”
They started with the four of them—Vit, Beel, Root, Azriah. Next was Anjeanette.
“Anjeanette Johnson,” she said with an expression like she’d just been tasked with disarming a ticking bomb before it exploded. “Um, and I played the violin as a child.”
“I’m Cruncher,” said the spirit Root had only met for the first time the day before, a hulking wall of muscle and shiny, hairless, yellow-orange skin with shoulders so broad he took up one entire side of the table. “Let’s see… well, actually I got a nickname, you know. All my friends call me ‘Cruncher.’”
“Right,” said Root. “And your fun fact?”
“That was my fun fact.”
“I’m Brian Sand,” said Brian. He was a dark-haired man somewhere in his thirties. Root had never seen him wear anything but a crisp button-down and khakis. “A fun fact—well, my latest initiative drove meaningful engagement via key procedures targeting action-based protocols.”
A round of blank nods circled the table.
“Squeej,” said Squeej, waving two purple tentacles. A third scooped up a glass of water from the table and dribbled it over her body while a fourth slathered the water across her skin. “And me, I’m just here to set myself up with a nice vacation. Don’t know about the rest of you. My fun fact is that I once ran a half-marathon.”
Root looked quizzically at Squeej’s collection of limbs, but figured her questions were better off going unasked.
“I’m Saly Cranitch.” He fiddled with a loose thread on his sleeve as he spoke, then pushed up his glasses. “What’s a good fact, what’s a good one…? Well, I’ve got an extensive collection of antique keychains. Er, no, sorry, I don’t have any with me—I don’t really use them. I just sort of have them around. In a box somewhere. Where did I put that…? I bought them at one point because—”
“All right,” interrupted the king. “So before you you’ll see—”
Vit cleared their throat. “And your name and fun fact?”
“What?”
“You didn’t do your introduction.”
“I’ve met all of our team members in individual meetings already.”
Vit’s expression made it clear they weren’t going to concede this point.
The king sighed. “My name is Brock. My fun fact… I’m not a fan of needles, I have to say. Now—”
“Do they pose much danger to you?” asked Saly curiously.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re stone, so…”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. Thank you—I’m cured.”
Vit turned to Saly. “Maybe a career as a therapist if you’re not able to salvage the accounting business.”
Saly looked hurt. It didn’t stall the words that seemed to be leaving his mouth reflexively. “And financial planning.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“In front of you, you’ll see a map,” continued the king. “Special thanks to our tour guide for this one—she and I have been hard at work constructing a more modern depiction.”
“Oh, only found historical records?” asked Cruncher.
“Yes,” said Root quickly.
“Tomorrow’s Evening of Generosity will take place there at the center—in the main courtyard, with additional space utilized in the foyer and Hall of Relics. Servants will be working out of the south wing there. That’s where we’ll begin.
“Four of you will enter early to hold positions as members of the staff. Our tour guide will fulfill her usual duties, and she will be joined by our bartender, window washer, and guard. We’ve obtained forged work papers for the latter three of you—present them at the door and you’ll be granted entry. Our barber will be entering similarly. Not event staff, but contracted—at least, in forgery—after we dismiss David’s usual attendant.”
“Just a haircut and I’m out, yeah?” asked Cruncher. Despite his tough look, he seemed to be the most nervous of the group—Beel and Anjeanette excluded on the basis of a competitive advantage.
“Yes,” said the king. “We only need a small amount of David’s essence. A bit of blood, preferably. You’ll dab it away with a handkerchief and pass it to those entering as event guests on your way out. Easy. Then you can sit back while the rest of the crew does their parts.”
Cruncher nodded, relieved.
“Our tour guide will lead the accountant by the offices. He’ll rework the church’s ledgers and steal the blank checks, which our irritant will get signed.”
“Hey!” said Beel.
“It’s an important job,” said Root.
The king continued. “Then it’s all about the halo.”
“You make that sound like the easy part,” said Azriah.
“It will be. Now, we have to know how the palace staff will handle any perceived threat to the halo—this is crucial. The whole organization—the whole religion, the whole myth—rests on the idea that the halo is the divine right of the Grand Priests—ha! The Grand Priest can’t lose the halo; it’s meant to be impossible. It’s meant to be inconceivable. We can work that as an advantage.
“What this means is that the Grand Priest can never, under any circumstances, be seen to have lost the halo. Any investigation has to happen quietly, and that means slowly. Sure, they’ll lock down the palace, but they won’t start making announcements and throwing around loud accusations. That’s when we escape—the extraction team, guided by me.”
Saly spoke up. “It would seem to me that that bit still comes after actually getting the halo, no?”
“Of course, of course. And the first line of defense is the display case lock.”
“Which the Grand Priest is so kindly going to unlock for us,” said Root.
“He will, just as soon as he notices the case is empty.”
“Oh,” said Cruncher. “So we have to get the halo out without openin’ the lid? Great.”
“The case is heavily protected in ways unseen,” continued the king. “And magic is… well, it’s finicky. It won’t be hard to put doubt in David’s mind—oh, trust me, it won’t—and in doubt he may act rashly. The fata pomorgranate, please.”
Azriah pulled out the strange fruit and set it on the table. Root blinked as she worked to keep it solid in her field of vision.
“A fata pomorgranate,” said the king. “A potent hallucinogen. All juice from one fruit is psychically linked, so that if some is smeared across a surface—say, glass—someone with a seed from the same fruit can control what others see when they look upon that surface. For instance, you might make it appear as though a wall has turned blue, or melted like wax. Or—”
“You make a glass case look empty,” said Squeej.
“Precisely. And that’s where you come in. We’ll need to clean the case with fata pomorgranate solution—and as near to the start of the event as possible, as it won’t last forever after it dries. Then, poof! The halo vanishes. David will look inside, assuming the case’s magical protections are malfunctioning, but fearing the worst. He will need to confirm it with his own eyes. And with the halo still inside after checking a few times, he’ll be satisfied, regardless of how that image comes and goes during the remainder of the evening.
“Nevertheless, bypassing the halo’s remaining safeguards is tricky, and will take time that we just won’t be able to find if we’re trying to work within moments of averted eyes. We need to be alone with the case, and there’s only one place to get that time: the vault, into which the case is primed to drop if something should attempt to lift it.”
“Um, that thing weighs a ton,” said Anjeanette. “When I first started, I checked to see if it was possible to hide underneath…”
“Not to worry,” said the king. “Our muscle will take care of that.” His eyes went to Azriah. Azriah nodded grimly.
“After that, our bartender and I will descend into the vault through a narrow ventilation shaft. As much as I’d prefer not to be carried in such a manner…” The king gulped. “It’s what has to happen. No one else will fit, and I’ve determined that they have the quickest fingers of the crew. It will be sensitive, removing the halo from the grasp of the skip snare—even with the handkerchief obtained by the barber—but I’m confident they will manage.”
Vit smiled and nodded. They seemed to grow a little larger in the face of the king’s praise. He had a way of making anything feel possible.
“For added confusion in the lockdown and search that will ensue, we’ve procured a… special uniform.”
“Yes,” said Saly. “All ready for the market tomorrow morning.”
“And that should do it. Our extraction team will sneak out of the palace via the hidden tunnel we’ve discovered, and the rest of the team—guests and staff—will leave as normal through the exit once they’ve been checked for the missing halo, never suspected.”
“And to keep in touch…” started Azriah. He reached forward and dumped a handful of tiny items onto the table like a pile of chicken feed.
They looked like pebbles—carved ovals the size of Root’s fingertips, brownish-grey in color like something that had made its way back up and out of an owl’s digestive tract.
Azriah lifted one. “We’ll each have one of these in our ears. They’ll carry our voices between the set so we can talk to one another no matter where we are.”
A knock wafted down from the top of the basement stairs, and then the door cracked. Azriah and Vit had the map and other incriminating evidence covered or shuffled away before the first footstep creaked its way down the steps.
“Hello? We’ve got some—oh!” Orphalia peeked down past the railing as she emerged from the upstairs kitchen with a plate in her hands. “One moment, let me fetch more! I didn’t realize you kids had all your friends over!” She hurried back through the door. “Dear!” came her distant voice. “The guests have guests, can you get…”
A minute later, the older couple tottered down the stairs carrying plates of goodies and a pitcher of water with fruit bouncing around with the ice cubes.
“Here you are, then,” said Orphalia, setting platters along the table. “Some refreshments. What are you all up to? Playing one of those make-believe games? Exploring a dungeon?” She pointed to a map they’d missed, askew atop the table beneath a couple of haphazard books.
“Yes,” said Vit.
“Well, good luck! I hope you get the treasure.”
“As do we,” said Root.
Cruncher was sweating, the conversation painting the look of a startled animal across his wide features. “Oh, thank you,” he said, accepting a glass of water. “Uh, I’m Cruncher. Nice to meet you kind folks. You are?”
“Orphalia’s second husband,” said the man, shaking Cruncher’s hand—or the two fingers he could get his palm around.
A confused look passed across Cruncher’s face, but anything had him better dressed than the look of guilt he’d been sporting prior.
The couple soon retreated back up the stairs, leaving the group with their mouths full as they pulled out their stashed materials again.
“Now, Cruncher,” started Azriah. “Do you have—that is, do you think you might use your real name when meeting David?”
The spirit’s brow furrowed. “Why’s that?”
Root spoke through her mouthful. “Don’t think the Grand Priest would hire a barber who goes by ‘Cruncher.’”
Cruncher wrung his hands. “Well, I suppose I could. Everyone calls me Cruncher, though.”
Azriah shrugged. “Maybe just for tomorrow night you could go by…?”
“Toolip,” said Cruncher. “I suppose I could try. Hi there, I’m… I’m Cruncher. I mean—”
Saly waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it. Here, pretend I’m David.” He straightened up and put a dour look on his face. “Ah, you must be the barber. I’m Grand Priest David Mammona. And you are?”
“I’m…” Cruncher’s face contorted in heavy focus. Sweat beaded on his forehead anew. “C. Cruncher.”
Root shook her head. “Sure, but now replace ‘Cruncher’ with ‘Toolip.’”
Cruncher nodded. “Nice to meet you. I’m TCruncher.”
“Closer,” said Vit earnestly.
“Shouldn’t we use fake names anyhow?” asked Squeej.
“No,” said Azriah. “If anyone recognizes you locals, notices you’re using fake names, that’s suspect. We’ve planned carefully to be sure none of you garner any suspicion at all. You’re full-time residents of this city, and we wouldn’t want to compromise that. Only the four of us will use fake names, since we will be taking the fall, suspected after disappearing—but hopefully not until after we’re far, far away from here.” He produced the folder of documents. “All of your work papers have your names, anyhow, though we have a few extra fake IDs if we need them.”
Azriah and Root distributed the documents. Saly and Anjeanette leaned in to get a closer look at the IDs as well.
“Some interesting names you’ll be using,” commented Saly. “Slithersby Curtain?”
“Vixie Luscious?” said Anjeanette with a barely-stifled giggle.
“We didn’t pick the names,” said Root quickly, her ears burning. She stepped away from the papers and fanned the smoke out of her shirt.
“Oh no,” Beel sighed. “Am I Pongo?”
Saly lifted a card. “Looks like you’re Bongo.”
“Tohlog really needs to mind his Ps and Bs.”
Vit turned. “I thought the saying was ‘Ps and Qs.’”
“No—”
“Speaking of Qs,” said Azriah, turning back to the group while Beel and Vit argued their way through the alphabet, “does anyone have any?”
“Of course,” said the king with his brickish approximation of a nod. “Questions, concerns. We need to make sure this all goes off without a hitch.”
They talked through a few clarifying details with Cruncher and Saly, though Cruncher was distracted by his continued roleplay with Saly or Squeej. He’d so far managed to get as far as “Toolcher,” which Root considered impressive progress. When they pulled him aside to try a different approach, Root turned to Azriah and the king.
“I have a question, actually. What about Syrus?”
Vit looked up, pulled away from their conversation with Beel. They nodded. “He’s likely to be there. That’s a good question.”
Azriah pursed his lips. “There’s not much we can do about it. We avoid him if we can. We have our story set if we can’t—lies, alibis. I can’t imagine he’d cause a scene—wouldn’t try to, say, detain us until most of the guests are gone. But if it comes to it, plan C: we take the secret way out as soon as we’re compromised. Regroup and go from there.”
“You really still won’t opt for knocking him out, huh?” said the king. “I know some cozy closets down the staff hallway where we could stash him for a few hours.”
“Too risky.”
“And,” said Vit with a stern look, “that’s not how we operate. We have to avoid him. At all costs.”
“Someone could notice his absence,” Root agreed with a shrug. “Even if I’d like to defect to your side.”
“Suit yourselves.”
The meeting dissolved from there, though the others lingered, chatting and snacking on the finest pickings Herb and Apple had to offer. Cruncher was now managing to introduce himself as “Toolipr” more often than not, despite a regression back through “Tuncher.” If it came down to it, what harm was a wayward R?
Energy flowed through the room like a building bonfire: excitement tinged with nervousness. They’d laid out their plans, allocated duties. Now all that was left was putting it into action. Root felt antsy, but ready to strike. Azriah worried about poking the bear, but they weren’t poking it—they were hunting it, and they had it in their sights.
“I think I’ll be heading out now, if that’s all,” said Saly, stepping over to join Root and the others. He cupped a napkin laden with a handful of snacks. “For the family,” he said, following Root’s eyes. “Got to get back—it’s getting late. Have to make sure to get a good night’s rest; big day tomorrow.”
Azriah nodded. “We’ll see you bright and early.”
“I can’t imagine I’m going to sleep tonight at all,” said Anjeanette, watching Saly go. “I feel… ugh. I need a drink.”
Root laughed. “Tell me about it. Still got some of that gin?”
Anjeanette looked sheepish. “I finished the gin. My roommate still has some vodka. Well, it’s mostly water at this point, I think.”
“Oh, psh.” Root swatted Anjeantte’s shoulder. “We’re gonna be rich. You don’t have to bum liquor off your roommate. I’ll buy you a drink.”
The fleeting look of surprise faded from Anjeanette’s face as a smile grew—but not without a pink hue creeping into her cheeks. Maybe Root had looked at her just a moment too long. She didn’t want to scare the girl off right before they needed her touring skills.
“All right,” said Anjeanette. “But I’m going to be rich too, you know. So you’ll have to let me buy a second round.”
“Deal.”
“Hang on,” said Azriah. He stepped in front of Root as she turned to grab her things.
“What?” She pivoted around him and picked up her bag from its spot on the rumpled quilt of her cot.
“Just…” Azriah sighed. “Don’t stay out too late, all right? We really need to be at our sharpest for tomorrow. This is a big deal.”
“Yeah, obviously.”
“And don’t drink too much.”
Root rolled her eyes. “Lay off, you’re not my dad. I can take care of myself.”
“I’m serious, Root.” He pointed to her bag and lowered his voice. “If you’re drunk, if you let your guard down, you could lose that… we’d be in big trouble. In fact, maybe you should leave it. The three of us—”
“It’s fine,” said Root. She’d been letting it roll off before. The fretting hardly fazed her; it was nothing she hadn’t heard before. But now he was just being pushy. “I’ll be back in an hour or two. I’m just getting a drink. We’ve been working our asses off non-stop for weeks. Call it a morale errand if it makes you feel better.”
He sighed again. “All right. Just…”
“I know,” said Root, back at Anjeanette’s side. “Buzzkill over here,” she said with a grin, turning to the other girl and jabbing a thumb in Azriah’s direction. Together, they headed for the door.
It wasn’t the most conventional social club, but it was something.
Anjeanette leaned one elbow on the sticky bar counter as she sipped her… fourth? Fifth? Oh, she didn’t really know. Did it matter?
“And then,” continued Root. She talked so animatedly, all hands and expressions. Anjeanette wished she could have… even a quarter of that charm. That outgoing… ness. Ess. She hummed a laugh, giggling at her own thoughts, but Root didn’t even seem to notice. “Then… the big plant… vine… thing, it curled back around—snapped up Beel.”
“What?”
“Yeah! All tangled up like this. And all around his legs. And then he wouldn’t go near another of those things for three days! Kept making us take these huge circles to go around every time we saw one. Weird plants. I don’t know what they were. Viny… weirdthings.”
“Why didn’t, um… why didn’t he just go around just him, and you guys could keep to the regular path?”
“Didn’t want to be alone.”
“Was it that far?”
“Beel has an extreme view of what it means to be ‘alone.’”
“So he made you go too?”
“We kind of just did it, actually. You just learn to anticipate what he’s gonna say. With Beel. And take the path of most resistance.”
“Least?”
“At least what?”
Anjeanette scrunched up her face. “Um… I don’t know. What?”
Root grinned. She sipped her drink—also her fifth. Fifth? No, maybe she was on her sixth. She picked at a spot on her face as she watched Anjeanette. Anjeanette shifted in her seat. She caught a whiff of something cooking in the kitchen.
The lull in conversation gave her eyes time to flick around the bar in anxious assessment. There was enough room to wriggle under a built-in bench in the far corner, joining the dust and stale crumbs. A coat closet by the entrance had enough room for her slight frame.
She really was having a nice time, but if there was a number of drinks that made conversation easier than tamping herself into a crawlspace, she’d never discovered it.
Anjeanette broke the silence. “And then somehow you ended up here, planning… you know.”
“Sh!” Root leaned in and tapped a finger against Anjeanette’s lips. A smile broke across her face. “Yeah. Somehow. Or maybe we came here with a plan.”
“You do a lot of… this?” asked Anjeanette, trying casualness-ess despite the hammering of her heart.
Root shrugged. “When it suits me.”
“Traveling about as your alter ego?”
“My…?”
“Yeah.” Anjeanette could barely contain the fit of giggles that was already threatening to bubble over like a forgotten pot of rice. “Miss Vixie Luscious.”
“That’s not—!”
Anjeanette put up her hands. “It’s on your ID.”
“Listen here.” Root leaned in. She placed one hand on Anjeanette’s leg, her unfocused eyes inches from Anjeanette’s. She seemed to be struggling to keep her eyes up on Anjeanette’s, and her smile was about as well-hidden as a camel behind a lamppost. And Anjeanette knew hiding.
Root paused. Anjeanette sucked in a breath. The heavy smell of alcohol on Root was enough to add to Anjeanette’s drink tally. Was that… six?
“I’m listening.”
Root’s already sliding facade slipped away like butter off a hot knife. “I… don’t have a good threat.” She was slow to reposition herself back onto her own stool.
“You can try again later if you think of something.”
Anjeanette dropped her eyes from Root’s prying gaze. Root’s backpack sat on the floor beneath her stool, one strap tangled around her ankle and held firmly beneath her heel.
Anjeanette’s heart rate got away from her again. A backpack—out to the bar for drinks with a girl? What else could that mean?
In one smooth sip, Anjeanette downed the last of her drink. Five. Right?
Well, she had to do something. She’d be kicking herself for the rest of her life if she didn’t.
Just go, she told herself. Don’t even think, for once in your damn life.
“Excuse me?” she said, flagging the bartender. She leaned in the man’s direction, across Root, letting one hand rest on the other girl’s thigh. Equal, mirrored, one-for-one. She couldn’t lead—never in her life did she expect she’d manage that—but she could reciprocate. “Could I get another of these? Yep.” She turned her head, face-to-face with Root. “You want another?”
Root lifted her attention from her glass to peer at Anjeanette through her eyelashes. “Sure, but I’ll tell Azriah to blame you.”
“Might need one of those extra fakes… and a fast way out of the city. You know, if I’m taking the fall.”
Root laughed. She lowered one hand and placed it over Anjeanette’s. Anjeanette leaned back to her spot but abandoned her hand to its new domain.
“This really has to be the last one,” said Root as they received their new round. “And then we should get out of here.”
“Mm,” said Anjeanette into her glass. “Back to your roommates.”
Root huffed a laugh and rolled her eyes.
“My roommate is never home. Always out. Not like yours.”
Root swallowed. She gave Anjeanette an appraising look. “What a funny thing to say.”
Anjeanette’s heart shot into her throat. Her hand was clammy—could Root feel it? It was still cradled between the other girl’s thigh and her hand.
“It is?” Anjeanette barely managed.
Root shrugged, one shoulder and a cock of her head. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to find the words to an invitation in that drink.”
Anjeanette couldn’t raise her gaze; it was hooked under Root’s hand, looped around her ankle. “They must be in here somewhere,” she said in a voice that sounded distant and drowned.
They both laughed at that.
“I just…” started Root. Anjeanette still couldn’t raise her eyes, couldn’t lower her heart rate. If only both could share and find a happy equilibrium. “I wouldn’t want to… I mean, you know I’m leaving town tomorrow night, so—”
“That’s fine,” said Anjeanette quickly, and finally lifted her attention. “I’m not—um, that is, I’m really busy with school and my internship and… well, you know, this… group project… and everything anyway, so—”
The corner of a smile peeked around Root’s glass, and she shrugged again. “I’ve got nowhere to be until tomorrow at noon.”
The nervousness left Anjeanette like water down a drain. A new type of nervousness rose in its place, apparently sensing the vacancy. It seemed there was a unique variety of nervousness for all of life’s occasions. She had tomorrow to learn another one—and not one she’d ever expected to make the acquaintance of, but life was full of surprises that way.
They finished their drinks and left the bar.