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The Curious Foxes

A book by Forseti Fox

Dedicated to: beat you to it, wolf!

Chapter 1 - Florence Arrives

the night, in autumn, and all things began, quick and panicked.

“...And at the end of the day, it's still tricky to parse what exactly La Bête could have been. As I said, there were no more sightings after 1767, even before the French Revolution got into full swing."

This was taking too long. I took a desperately needed swig of ice-cold water from my metallic water bottle before my vocal chords completely disintegrated into sand. “And… and… finding my notes- Ok." I took a long pause, to make the editing easier. “And historical stories like this are only limited by what survives of newspaper articles and other published stories at the time, so it isn't as though La Bête was never spotted again, but the news circuit had effectively dropped the story. Gods-dammit!" Throughout the monologue, a fickle cough had wormed its way in the folds of my throat, and I couldn't suppress it any longer. I paused the recording and started coughing for half of a minute, desperately guzzling more water to no avail. I will never learn the lesson that drinking alcohol and talking non-stop for an hour will dry out my throat more effectively than actual dehydration. True; sitting alone in a little cabin in the middle of a secluded forest was recluse behavior, but such sigmas didn't dissuade my propensity to enjoy a decent-enough cabernet; getting a little buzzed was tradition for my humble, amateurish ghost story podcast.

Throughout the everpresent sounds of my throat spasming, I found where I left off in the script in the Google Document, and bolded the line of text to bookmark it. I decided a break was warranted. Grabbing my rainbow-colored insulated water bottle, I scrambled towards the kitchen, filling it up in the sink despite the fact that I had a nice cold water-filtering container in the fridge. Dirty dishes obstructed the sink slightly, and I almost knocked over a half-full bottle of budget red wine trying to wedge my bottle into the sink, but I fit it in position without problem. With my muzzle unhinged, not unlike a snake's, I greedily devoured every last drop of soft mineral-filled Northern Michigan well water, desperate to kill my coughing. I was thankful; it had at that moment finally subsided.

I stared back at my room, the light of my laptop displaying a digital audio workspace. I had, indeed, recorded for a full hour, and I was way ahead of schedule, in terms of the release date for the episode. I could afford a bit of a break, at least from the podcast. Finally having a few dozen Patreon subscribers really helped me get better at keeping a good schedule, even with all of my odd jobs. And sure, I was only really pulling in about a hundred bucks a month from the podcast. It was barely enough for grocery money. But that wasn't the point. The main goal was to make enough taxable money to keep under the IRS's radar.

A few actual work-related tasks still needed doing. I wiped away the stray droplets that hung on the fur of my muzzle, and filled up my water bottle properly, with the water from the fridge. I also needed to clean the house a bit; dishes from the past four days overflowed on the small kitchen counter, and a healthy amount of paper trash accumulated on the tables and chairs; no food garbage, at least. I had been good about composting. Melodramatically, it was thirty minutes to midnight, and I had already drunk half a bottle of wine, all while alone in my home. Every task seemed daunting, and laziness had begun to fester within me like a virulent fever. the fox would find no such rest. Plus, I was hungry. I hadn't eaten for at least three hours.

I succumbed to laziness, threw enough dishes into the overflowing sink to leave space for a single cutting board, and decided on making a big plate of pasta aglio e olio; a dish that wouldn't take too long to cook that still made me feel as though I was cooking something culinarily interesting.

a while ago. she ran to her car, right after she saw It. in the corner of her eye. a Shadow. far larger than an animal's. horned, antlered even. dusk obscured the details. her Mother wasn't home. She didn't answer the door. only a note, left on the floor in front of the front door. no answer, no noise, no signs of struggle. only a panicked phone call, pleading “Come here!" and a note. “Drive to Marquette." And an address. and a name. “Forseti Fox." was “Fox" a last name, or was the note simply telling her their species? what kind of name is “Forseti?" she only thought about these things later. on the road. up the 43. hours later.

her Mother wasn't home, but her Mother's home was neat. her home was not neat. her roommate was away. thankfully. furniture knocked over. front locks broken. quiet, dull fear turned into hot, white panic. she didn't put gas in her car until it screamed that it was nearing empty. hours later. and the Shadow. the Shadow was in her home. bigger than an animal's. no one but her to see it. in the rearview window. up the stairs in her Mother's home. in the 24-hour liquor store across the street. horned, antlered even. oozing? following her.

her Mother hadn't answered her calls. her Mother hadn't answered her texts. it's not that she forgot to call the police, it was that she didn't want to. yet. her roommate was safe. she was at the university library. “She had to go visit someone. Her mom left a note." up the 43. highway turned to one-lane country roads. dusk turned to dark. she crossed two state lines. all a while ago.

Deign had wanted a poultice to alleviate his skin fungus, he didn't even want anything magical. Touchstone had placed a more magical order; a Potion of Altered Blood, but I didn't have the necessary ingredients on paw, so I wasn't going to get to that tonight anyway. Touchstone resorting to magic was fully baffling to me, he never relies too much on it. I was going to spend all evening working on the podcast, but having podcast work as my only goal for the day was lazy of me, despite my tipsiness. I didn't even finish the recording.

Anti-fungal. I thought to myself, almost hazarding an audible whisper despite my solitude. Of all the animals up here, he wants me to make the anti-fungal for him. I thought that it was common knowledge that I was very pro-fungus. Nowhere in any of my advertising did I indicate that an anti-fungal medication was something that I was apt to make, but he sent the order form anyway. I had all of the ingredients, but I knew that it was going to sting my paws horribly once I got them combined, even though my paws were pretty clear at that time, in regards to any aberrant growth or anything.

Alas, bullets had to be bitten. Cash had already been mailed, and I had to make the poultice before the post came in the morning to pick up the package. The water on the stove, lightly salted, had begun to bubble a bit, on the verge of coming to a boil, and I set aside half of the minced garlic for my work later. I felt my stomach struggle not to digest itself as I impatiently poured an entire packet of uncooked spaghetti into the bubbling pot, before getting started on mincing fresh parsley. The parsley plant in my greenhouse out back was very full and healthy, and didn't mind me taking a sprig or two for my cooking. The smell of garlic worked its way into the pads of my paws, and was likely to remain for the next three days. I silently wished someone would come up with a spell to wipe the persistent aroma of minced garlic from one's paws faster, but it didn't seem to be the priority of any witch to figure that one out. I didn't have the time or patience to look up any civilian solutions online.

The windows were open, but only a crack, seeing as autumn was in full swing. The northern nights cooled down far faster than in the summer months. A screen kept an unrelenting number of winged insects from infiltrating the cabin, at least as best as it could, but they couldn't prevent the hypnotizing chorus of nightly crickets and feral frogs from breaking the siege. The wind rustled through the red-and-yellow leaves, though any color that one might find in the woods would be impossible to discern without an additional light source. Clouds obscured the moon and stars, for were it otherwise, the cosmic array of heavenly bodies would be at a very potent magnitude this far removed from civilization.

The city of Marquette, is located in the Upper Peninsula of the state of Michigan, and nestled cozily along the shores of the world's largest freshwater body of water (by surface area), Lake Superior. It would be the closest city, but even that meager locale, with a population of only around 20,000 animals, could hardly be called a metropolitan hotspot. Back in the day, I would have loved to have a nice little apartment right in the heart of bustling Manhattan, or more realistically, something like Lincoln Park or Edgewater in Chicago, but these days, I wouldn't dream of living somewhere that wasn't completely out in the middle of nowhere. I find that I thrive quite nicely far removed from society. I don't even live in Marquette, I probably live somewhere around twenty miles northwest of it, somewhere in Powell Township. The ethereal and ominous ambience of the woods at night make it hard to call the location “quiet," per se, but it's certainly comforting. I always took myself for an extrovert, but these moments are quite nice.

Cooking, then eating, then dishes, and then, I'd work on the medicinal mixture for Deign Dargnione. Deign's a star-nosed mole, and like me, he has a penchant for alliteration regarding his chosen name, though I must admit to personal laziness. I just made my last name the same as my species. Taxonomically, I'm a red fox, though my coloration is very, very different from most foxes in the vulpes vulpes family, in as much as my base fur is more yellow than orange, and my arms, legs, and tips of my ear and tail are a dark brown. That's not a magical alteration, mind you, that's just the way the genetics in my family shook up. I bet there's some vulpes velox in me somewhere, or maybe a weird genetic mutation.

Deign wasn't born into the Awngaimene society, he fell into it after getting possessed by some formless malevolent entity. Catholics would cry “demon," but our society isn't really built on the notion that the Bible is correct on a lot of things, so using its supplementary texts is a bit iffy. After Deign effectively disappeared off of the face of the earth, and was exorcized by a member of the the Mulgywai Lavitia, who received a tip about someone needing help in Eau Claire. Some time later, Davine wound up living here with a changed name and a local part-time job. And now, he had a skin fungus of some sort, most likely ringworm; nothing magical.

I didn't have a go-to recipe, so I had to consult my old mentor's herbal grimoire, written advice from friends, and the internet. The first step involved combining chopped garlic and ginger in my cauldron, combined with apple cider vinegar in order to activate the ingredients. The second step would be to grind up a pinch of condorbane, an effective magical biocide, in a mortar and pestle, before sliding the ground herb into the brew, followed by a few fronds of awngelia, dispersed like bay leaves. I knew that Deign knew how to perform the ritual required to activate the protective herb in order to prevent the condorbane from actually burning his skin, but just in case, I sprinkled a dash of dagger pollen from the hochflamberge plant from my greenhouse. The third step involved pouring charcoal powder into the cauldron, followed by room temperature water, in order to create a paste for the poultice's base. And lastly, parsley and green food coloring were added to make the mixture appear as though it were more than simply garlic, ginger, and charcoal, and a few random leaves. I then slowly stirred the mixture without adding any heat. There are far less expensive and time consuming poultices to treat this sort of infection, but the mole did tip handsomely.

I carefully avoided touching the mixture in order to prevent my paws from stinging violently and painfully.

deeper into the evening. a long, dark, panicked drive. nothing but trees. a tired teenage turtle checking her into a hotel room in the middle of the night. she had no reservation. he thought it was weird. wasn't it almost morning already? the thought was passing. strange animals and hotels go paw-in-paw.

far inland from the great lake. cheap. was Forseti asleep? could she even sleep? drawn blinds constantly moved aside to check the parking lot that the window faced. the ground floor provided little vantage. anxiety provided little urge for rest. the sun was rising. the “Do Not Disturb" sign hung gently. the blinds, still moving aside hours later. shadows remained still whenever she looked upon them, but almost seemed to dance out of the corner of her eye. wherever she wasn't actively looking. she was tired. starving. she needed a shower. none of these things prompted action. she kept glancing out the window.

hours would skip. was she missing time or passing out? can panic attacks last a whole day? at some point, it became afternoon. at some point, her stomach growled violently enough to snap her out of her fear. to draw her from the hotel room. a simple meal; a veggie burger and fries. a fast food place not even out of the parking lot. mustard and ketchup stained her white paws. stained the white fur around her mouth. her stomach immediately started hurting. her anxieties waxed. she should visit Forseti. were they magical too? a witch? a magician? whatever her Mother was, in the past, before Florence was born? whatever friends her Mother kept tabs on before the young white fox came into her life. what would Forseti do? what would Forseti say? was the Shadow dangerous? or was this other fox an even worse threat? her Mother wouldn't answer her calls.

the sun had set. her Mother still would give no further answer. no shadows appeared outside of the imagination. she checked in for two nights, but she had to leave now. or call the police? she didn't much care for the police, but this wasn't a noise complaint. a loud car driving by. her Mother had disappeared. no, Forseti would know. or Forseti would turn her into a frog. her Mother wouldn't call. Florence had to go now, even though it was almost midnight. out of the corner of her eye, shadows lurked, to disappear when she cast her caze on them. her cell phone had no service, her GPS struggled worse than her fears. night, anxiety, mustard, questions, stomach aches, fear, Shadow. Florence drove into the deep, dark woods.

I kept casting glances out of my front window. Nothing moved in the deep shadows of the dark woods, at least nothing lacking stealth enough to catch any light. I wasn't expecting anyone that evening, but the nagging thought of impending guests wormed its way in the back of my mind. Normal animals tend to ignore such thoughts, but I was skilled in magic pertaining to the Record. I knew better. Should I consult my augers? Or would it simply be enough to actually do my dishes, in case I had a guest? Either way, I had now made a mess in my apothecary lab, so cleaning up was inevitable. It's never smart to leave herbal messes out overnight.

I scooped the poultice into a mid-sized mason jar; enough of an herbal mixture for about three doses, just in case. I jammed the jar into a cardboard box, stuffed it with enough protective paper material to protect the glass, and printed the shipping label. I stepped out into the cold air of the night to slip the package into my mailbox; it was small enough. And normally, the deep, dark night wouldn't bother me at all, but something made the fur at the back of my neck stand up. Nothing I could see, anyway. I stepped back into the cabin.

I had just wolfed down a whole plateful of pasta, even though I was, indeed, a fox. The dish turned out nicely, despite the fact that I was multi-tasking while cooking, and still dealing with a moderate buzz. I used far too much olive oil, diminishing the flavor of the garlic. My hunger was satiated, though, as well as my curse, so I couldn't complain.

The cast iron cauldron had to be treated carefully, and without soap, but getting my paws into the herbal residue would be a bad idea, so I squeezed my paws into a pair of surgical gloves. The fur on my paws and wrists caused a great deal of uncomfortable friction. The nagging insights subsided for a bit, but I still found myself casting my eyes out of my front window every other minute.

Objectively, this life found itself strictly on both sides of the dichotomy of peace and chaos. Days were either spent in the presence of horrible, eldritch entities, or completely quiet and alone. I used to have roommates. Someone was always watching a TV show in the living room, someone was independently cooking up a small dish in the kitchen, someone had to go to work and someone had to go to an audition. Days were spent seeing shows, bar-hopping, worrying about resumes and taxes and boycotts. Nowadays, days are spent worrying about money laundering, the Psychic Wardens, and lots and lots of reading. I had always longed for a life like this, but I also longed for the life I previously had when I was even younger. Most days, I find bliss in the quiet of the woodlands, but some days, I lament the friends I haven't spoken to in half of a decade. I lament the constant little tasks that I always worried about. I longed to know the deep, dark pagan secrets of the world, but that stupid grass really does seem greener on the other side. It's annoying.

At the end of the day, I couldn't imagine living life any other way than this, covered by the rich tapestry of vibrant constellations, and amidst a flourishing, eternal grove of swaying, colorful trees.

The chores were done. The kitchen and labs were clean. I even vacuumed a bit. I lit a few candles; pumpkin spice-scented, nothing ritualistic, and reclined on my beat-up, raggedy couch. I concentrated hard for a minute, trying to summon a more specific premonition as opposed to the vague inclination that a scared vixen was coming to my cabin, but nothing came up in my mind. I stared at the box of Tarot cards under my coffee table, but a second, larger box caught my eye; a kit of ephemera needed to smoke weed. It would be very un-hostlike, to get high while psychically expecting a guest, but I'd had a nominally busy day. I didn't really leave the house or exert myself in anyway, but I did just do a bunch of dishes. I brought both boxes to the top of the coffee table, and started deliberating.

A feral coyote called, not far off; The Ballad of Hollis Brown reference. And I startled, knocking the table with my knees. It had dawned on me that I was a little more anxious than I thought I'd be. And why? Because I had a feeling someone was en route? Awngaimene animals showed up to my house randomly every week, so I shouldn't have been as on edge as I was. But my heart was beating fast. It was an artificial fear, and more often than not, that sort of thing is more horrifying than the genuine article. It's the sort of thing that inspires a fox to start journaling, in case a dramatic plot was about to unfold. I had a wager regarding such things.

I'd knocked the box of Tarot cards off of the table, and thankfully, not the box with ground-up weed contained very loosely. A few cards had wriggled their way out of their wooden container, decorated with a simple pentagram, but only one of them was turned over.

Only the Ten of Wands deigned show itself. The Rider-Waite version of this card showcased a peasant-looking squirrel carrying all ten wands with heavy burden, but I was nowhere near memorized with the Lower Arcana deck, so the meaning of the card escaped me.

she pulled up. indeed, there was a house here. a cabin. even out in the middle of these woods. had she driven on actual dirt roads? or snowmobile routes? or maybe she didn't even drive on paths meant for any vehicle? her GPS held out. her phone had no service. her heart was pounding. the thud of a stampede. her Mother flashed in her mind, and then, the Shadow.

I heard the sounds of an engine. A car had pulled up right to the edge of a clearing, about forty feet away. It's hard to call it a “lawn," consisting mostly of unkempt weeds and natural, native growth. An early-two thousand sedan sat there, engine idling, shining its headlights into the front of my cabin. It was too dark to make out the color, even with my enhanced vulpine vision, and I didn't have enough knowledge of cars to even hazard a guess at the make and model, but perhaps more important, the driver was obscured in shadow. I could only see enough to tell that, indeed, one animal sat in the driver's seat. The car proceeded to idle for a full minute. Whoever the driver was, they didn't seem too keen on getting out of the car.

The sense of fear bubbled up deep within me, a feeling I very rarely experience when expecting guests. I had enough control over my emotions. I beat down the urge to run away, an urge I couldn't rationally come up with an explanation for. I tried not to lurk in the window, thinking that the animal in the car would either get freaked out or shoot me from an incredibly easy distance. Wait, shoot me? Where would that thought come from? I couldn't think of a single reason why someone would want to put a hit on me, nor did I have any idea why I would be afraid of a gun in the first place. There is a small chance that I'm mildly bullet-proof.

The engine switched off, and the headlights went dim, but no driver emerged. It would be so easy to run out the backdoor, no one could chase you through these woods in a car. I banished the thought. it wouldn't have mattered. I debated whether or not there were any protective spells or precautions I could make at that moment, and glanced back towards my lab, brainstorming ideas. I let the moments pass, though, simply standing there.

And then, finally, there was a knock at the door.

I almost bolted right then, but instead merely dealt with the sinking pit in my stomach and approached the front door. As opposed to most homes, I only had one front door without a screen door in front of it. Slowly, I turned the knob and pulled inward, bringing in a much more forte nocturnal ambience, and revealing…

Nobody. No entity, beast or otherwise, stood at the front door where one had just knocked. The panic in my chest tightened further. “Hello?" I called out, wrestling enough control over my emotions to keep my voice from trembling. The shadowy mass of a car still lay dormant at the edge of the property. “I know someone's here, it's OK!" I paused for a second, “Unless you're planning on hurting me, in which case, it's less OK!"

A figure emerged from the right-paw side of the cabin. It was still rather dark, but my nocturnal eyes granted me enough of a boon. It was a fox; white-furred, a tad bit shorter than me, and a tad bit chubbier as well.

The woman's voice, trembling, answered back

“S-sorry, I d-don't know what's the matter with me right now, I'm, um-" her voice trailed off, but I gave her a pause instead of interrupting. “I'm sorry, I know it's past midnight, I'm, um…" She exhaled a sharp “Guh!" then continued. “I'm not entirely sure how to start this, um, introduction."

The dull panic churned in my stomach, but I resisted. “You're all good, did you try driving out here at night? If you're lost, I can totally help you get back to Marquette."

The woman approached slowly, coming into the light spilling out of my front door. She was, indeed, an arctic fox, wearing a black, unzipped jacket, a faded Liouxsy Lacroix and the Strigoix concert T-shirt, and light-gray chino pants. Unkempt, snowy fur spilled out from her sleeves, and the disheveled mess atop her head hadn't seen a brush in days. “I, uh- I don't think I'm lost. Are you, um, Forseti Fox?"

She knew my name, but she said the name as though she were expecting it to be some silly superhero's alter ego as opposed to a name that someone actually went by. She almost went to apologize for asking such a foolish question when I answered, “Yeah, but most people call me Forsy." First thing's first, though. I had to see if she was Awngaimene. “Dahbin io?" I casually mumbled, trying not to draw attention to the gibberish.

However, instead of glossing over my off-hand mumbling, as most Tystwoles are apt to do, a look of complete shock went over her mind, as though I brought up an old, damaging memory.

“Oh, that's, um- Awngaimene?" she spoke. The other fox looked dazzled, as though she were convinced that she got the response wrong. Each syllable was chewed over slowly as if she had peanut butter in her muzzle. But, for whatever reason, this mysterious stranger was related to the Awngaimene. A few butterflies flittered their way out of my stomach, and my sense of panic waned a bit.

“Cool, cool! Though…" I struggled to come up with the words to ask the next question, “It looks like you have no idea what's going on. Are you in danger right now?"

“I think so? I'm sorry, I just remember when I was really young, my mother's friends would, um, say that phrase. I don't think I know what it means, I am so sorry."

“Oh, you don't have to apologize!" I slid to the side of my front landing to make space. “I'm not gonna, like, throw a fireball or anything at you- I should specify, I can't do that. But come on in and tell me what's up, if you're looking for, um, me specifically."

The arctic fox hesitated a bit, “I'm, uh…" Once again, her voice trailed off, and she walked up towards the house. “I'm sorry, I'm really freaking out for some reason."

“You're all good, I am a stranger, and I assume something weird's going on. I am down to help, though. I know you know my name, but do you mind if I ask yours?"

“Uhh, my name's Florence."

“Oh, like '-and the Machine?'"

I immediately bewildered her accidentally. “Yeah, I guess?"

I nodded, “I fucking love Florence and the Machine, I dig it." I hesitated before asking, but decided to go for it anyway. “Or do you prefer 'Flo?'"

“Not even a little bit," she responded, without a hint of sarcasm.

“Noted."

Florence came up to the door, and I followed her inside. I motioned a paw over towards my couch, “Um, sorry, it's a little messy and not-organized in here, but do you want water, or, like, food or coffee or something? Before I, like, get into asking you what's up."

“Just water's alright, thank you!" I went to the kitchen to pour my new guest a glass of water from the filtered pitcher as she made herself comfortable on the least torn-up corner of my old, musty, hand-me-down couch. “So! What's up?" I shouted from the other room, though I was still within eyesight.

The vixen brought her left paw to the side of her head. I could tell she was trying desperately to come up with a concise rendition of her dramatic saga that would make her sound the least crazy. Whatever she had going on probably paled to some of the weirdness I've seen, but it's hard to break someone out of the habit of wanting to appear normal.

“So. I'm going to start with my mother. She's a, um, witch? I guess? She's always used the word 'Awngaimene,' but I have no idea what that means."

I interrupted briefly, “There are a lot of nonsense words that we use. Long story short, it avoids us landing in a Google search, but yeah, that word means, like, people who know that real magic exists." Where some animals were more careful about this sort of thing, I assumed that this fox probably wasn't going to be convinced that whatever her mother was doing was fake. After all, she passed the “Dahbin io."

Florence nodded, “OK, I thought so. My mother had a lot of Awngaimene friends when I was young, but they showed up less and less the older I got, until I guess high school? It was mostly her and me, no dad or siblings, and we were in a suburb of Chicago-"

“Oh damn, which one? I used to live in Chicago." I re-entered, bringing the fox her water. I must have earned some trust, because she decidedly failed to regard the glass as though there was a possibility it was poisoned. “Also, so sorry I keep interrupting, I'm going to stop that now." Florence nodded as she gulped down the drink in one sip.

“Um, Schaumburg, by O'Hare. Did you know a 'Mary'?"

I gave a hundred-yard stare as my heart skipped a beat. “Marianne?"

Florence shook her head, and began to cross her arms as though she were uncomfortable, not not scared “No, she's just Mary." I relaxed a bit. Things were far simpler if that cat wasn't involved.

“No, I don't think I know many Chicago Awngaimene, and most people usually pick weirder names."

But that answer bestowed upon Florence a confused look on her face, though she didn't immediately explain why. “OK, that's weird then, but, um- OK, my story. So I always kind of knew that magical things were real, but my mother kept most of it a secret from me the older I got. I remember her casting some spells around the house when I was young, but it stopped around the time I started going to school. I ended up going to college and moving out a few years ago, but I only went up to Northwestern in Evanston."

A flicker of jealousy flashed in my mind, as did the memories of acting school auditions, but I pushed the thought back. “Oh, congrats, I applied there, like, forever ago- Sorry, I'm interrupting again."

The other fox put her paws up casually, “Oh, you're OK. Gods, I've been trying to think of a way to start this conversation over for a while now, I cannot figure it out." She took a deep breath, and I finally sat down after awkwardly standing for the whole conversation. the Shadow was approaching the cabin. “So, I'm a junior in college at this point, I have a dorm, and it's not the furthest drive- I suppose you know the area. And my mother calls me. She says 'Come home please, I need you for something, I'll explain when you get here,' which is fairly ominous, I know, but not enough to not get me to go home. We have a pretty good relationship. So I tell my roommate I'm going to go home for the evening, but I'll probably be back. She says she's going to be in the library all night anyway. So I drive over, and when I show up, the front door's open, which is very strange for, you know, any major city. And my mom isn't home. I keep calling and checking rooms, and she's not there. And that's when I find this note-"

At this point, the mysterious fox pulled out a folded up piece of lined notebook paper, visibly crumpled after being stuck in the vulpine's front pocket. Women's pants tend not to have the deepest of pockets, unfortunately. As she unfolded the note, she read it out loud, “It just says 'Drive to Marquette,' and here's your name and address."

The panic that I once swallowed down had leapt back up my throat. I didn't know this woman's mother, and I didn't like how she knew my address. Sure enough, the note read Florence's words verbatim. In dark green Sharpie, of all things. I thought I was the only animal to use anything other than black.

“OK, I'm going to interrupt one more time, because I do not know your mother, Florence, and I have no idea why she'd have you go to me before anyone else." A flicker of mistrust wormed its way in the back of my brain, and I found myself watching Florence's muzzle intensely to gauge her reaction.

But she shook her head and kept the same confused, worried visage, “I don't think I know any of my mom's friends, so I can't answer that question. I'm so sorry, I thought she knew you, that's…" she shook her head once more, trying to find the words, “That's got to be extremely uncomfortable, but the rest of the story isn't going to make you any comfier."

I nodded, preparing myself for a more intense story now that I was somehow involved.

“So I look around and call her more, and even call her phone, but I get nothing. And I don't call the police because…" she shrugged, “I don't know, I just didn't. But even before I give up, I see a- um, almost like a Shadow, but it took up space somehow? It wasn't a see-through ghost or anything, it looked like… it looked like it just sucked up light in the space where a person might be? But it was tall, like eight-feet tall, and I think it had, um, antlers? It almost looked like it dripped a little, though there wasn't a mess somehow. And it started following me, fast. It could have easily caught up if I didn't book it to my car."

“I drive back to my dorm, calling my mom the whole time, which- I know, I shouldn't while driving, but I can't get an answer anyway. I make it back, and almost consider calling an authority or something for missing women, but then I find that my dorm is a complete mess, like, it looked like a break-in. My bed was smashed, both mine and my roommate's closets were a mess, the closet door was off of it's hinge, almost like- Almost like the intruder who broke in wasn't looking to steal something, they were looking for an animal who was hiding. I call my roommate, she's OK, and I call maintenance, or, um- My RA to tell her that we had a break-in, I tell her I'm going to stay with my mother, and not that my mother's missing. But I wait around a while I guess, until I notice that the Shadow is right outside of my window, and I know if I don't leave now- or, um, if I didn't leave then, it'd catch up, so I got in my car, and I guess I panicked because I drove straight here."

As Florence finished her story, I could tell that whatever happened to her had really messed her up. She was visibly shaking, and had even begun to claw into the fabric of the already-beaten up couch. I grabbed a synthetic fabric, standard-orange blanket that was pretty clean, despite resting on my floor, and handed it to her, putting a paw on the anxious vulpine's shoulder. Whatever magical conspiracy was at play here, Florence definitely had no part in its machinations.

“Yeah, that's totally, completely weird, especially if you don't really know any Awngaimene lore or anything. Do you want more water?"

The vixen wrapped herself tightly in her blanket, staring off into space, “I still have some, but thanks." I snuffed the pumpkin-spice candle on the bookshelf behind my seat in order to burn a lavender-sandalwood incense stick instead, in the hopes of using aromatherapy to ease any stress. The two fragrances clashed horribly.

“For sure. Now, um, from what details you're telling me, I don't really know what exactly this Shadow entity could be, but shadow-type entities do actually exist for real, so it could be one of maybe five things that I know about. I don't think I could figure it out on my own, though, we're going to have to see a Mulgywai-" I caught myself, “Which, I know is a weird fantasy word, but I'll explain all of that in a sec'. Mulgywai are pretty much, like…" I struggled to come up with the word, “Bureaucrats? I guess? But they're helpful. We could even go now- Or, I guess when you're ready. Awngaimene animals are pretty nocturnal regardless of whether or not they're actually biologically nocturnal, though, so we have time if you need a sec.'"

“Do you think any of the things that this Shadow might be… Do you think my mom's OK?"

That was a hard question to answer. “I'm not a pessimist, it's not like these sorts of things are hungry feral animals. They probably have an agenda or something, we'll figure this out soon." I fidgeted in my seat again, to get more comfortable, “I know your mom, or someone, sent you after me specifically, but I am so sorry that I can't help, more than just to defer you to someone else."

“Oh, you've been great, Forestry- or, I'm so sorry-"

“Oh, yeah, I'm Forseti, like, um, the Norse God of, um, justice, though it's kind of uncertain…" Forseti is one of those deities whose historical place in the pantheon has been mostly lost to history. I always thought he had a cool name.

“I don't think I know many minor Norse deities, I'm sorry."

“You'd be forgiven for that," I half-joked.

“Though yeah, Forseti. I can remember that. Do you use he/him?"

I always considered my gender to be anything but concrete, but caught up in the general supernatural weird vibes, I merely responded with, “Ehh, soft he/they."

“That's cool, I'm, um, she/her."

I nodded, it's always good information to know. “Yeah, totally, thanks for asking. Did you want anything else at all?"

A look of contemplation crossed the arctic fox's muzzle. When I meant to ask for a third or fourth time if she wanted refreshments, the other vulpine instead seized the moment to ask: “I guess, tell me about the magical secret world, if you even know where to begin with all-" She waved her arms around wildly, “This."

I, in fact, did not know where to begin with that. Sure, a good number of beasts in this grand underground secret world accidentally stumble into it without any context, but up to this point, I personally had never needed to actually explain how the society works. I myself wasn't born into it, like many of my friends, and so I put my paws on my hips and looked nonplussed into the fox's eyes in the vain hope of coming up with a satisfying answer to this new fox's request.

the Shadow had arrived.

My fear returned, despite the fact that I hadn't seen anything. “Did you say you drove straight here from Chicago?"

Florence looked a little nervous all of the sudden, “Um, yeah, why?"

“And you saw the Shadow walk on hindfoot, yeah?"

“I didn't see it teleport or anything."

Suddenly, the front door to my home violently broke inwards.

There was a tall figure standing there, entirely made out of what appeared to be an oozing, black Shadow, with a long, toothy muzzle, and deer's antlers atop its head. What looked almost like sludge seemed to drip from its body, though it disappeared as soon as it hit the ground. The Shadow seemed to suck in each drop of light that dared to intersect its body.

“Back door!"

I waved my paws towards the kitchen, which would lead to an ulterior exit to my home, and was thankful that my phone was in my pocket. I didn't even bother to grab shoes, hoping my pawpads were calloused enough to brave the elements. The being was something I've never seen before in my life, and it moved fast. It didn't possess any form of super-speed, but its walking gait was easily twice as fast as a normal animal's. By the time I ran into the kitchen, then the back porch, it had already raked a rather painful cut into my right shoulder. Even if Florence hadn't struggled to shove the mountain of cardboard boxes out of the way from the back door, it would have easily caught up.

But once we reached the openness of the cold, night air, I realized that my plans didn't really extend any further. I had forgotten about my bewitched boline hanging up by the door, or any number of spells at my disposal. I simply looked towards the white fox with a face of wild panic, and blurted out a brief, “Car!" hoping that she'd run to her own car instead of my own.

That's when the Shadow ripped my tail off.

It's really painful, getting your tail ripped off. Imagine the sensation of a horribly broken leg, yet mildly worse, because your bones get snapped clean off. If I had to put a number to it, I'd say it's one-point-five-times more painful. It pains me to admit that I'd know that fact personally. My eyes grew as wide as full moons, and my mind went completely blank as the Shadow merely pushed me aside to pursue the other fox. Florence, too, went into shock, and even though her fur was already snow white, it wasn't a stretch to imagine that her skin went completely pale.

This time, though, I was ready for contact. For the brief second in which the entity grabbed hold of my tail, I focused my own, personal magical ability in the attempts to poison the Shadow. The particular poison that I had in mind would have caused the Shadow to start tripping out as though the being had ingested psilocybin. This tactic worked surprisingly well as a means of buying time.

But my spores wouldn't take.

My plan also took course over the span of a mere second, and as soon as I realized it wouldn't work, hot, ardent pain once again seared through my furry rear-end. Florence was still stunned from witnessing my gory dismemberment. Perhaps bafflingly, yet without lying, I shouted, “This happens a lot! Go!"

Luckily, Florence could multitask, because she both stammered a rather alarmed “What?!" while turning tail, so to speak, and ran towards her car. Realizing that I was not the fox that this malevolent being was chasing, I turned back towards the kitchen, scooped up my lost tail, and flew through my cabin to meet up with Florence in the front yard.

The Shadow, however, was mere feet away from the arctic vulpine by the time she made it to the front door of her tan Honda from the mid-2000's, and I was even further away.

That's when my backup plan came to mind. Right next to the front door of my home was a rusty, metal mailbox, stuck to the wooden wall by even rustier screws. This container wasn't for mere post office affairs, though. Within it lay a simple, white cotton pouch filled with half-a-dozen magical reagents. I clutched the sack tightly in my left paw and raised my other towards the Shadow, muttering in an eldritch, esoteric language.

“Sschizcahnne schnizor liguiahmme!"

The cotton bag burned to ash in my paw. The dark being went to grab at the vixen, but completely lacked any force to pull her away. Florence easily wormed out of its clutches, climbed into the driver's seat of her sedan, and slammed the door. The entity tried pulling the door open before the fox could lock it, but completely lacked the strength to make it so much as budge. With my tail in my paw, I ran to the passenger side while the Shadow was distracted, slammed the door, pushed a surprising amount of food wrappers onto the floor, and shouted “Drive!"

Before she could turn the engine on, however, Florence's curiosity took precedence. “What did you do to it?"

“I got rid of all of its, like, inertia, but the spell's only gonna last for seven seconds max, floor it!"

The key turned, the engine hummed, and Florence shifted into drive, doing a donut in my front yard before peeling down the dark dirt road. The antlered figure wasn't about to give up. It was as though it didn't even comprehend that I had put a magical obstacle in its way.

“Uh, heads up, I don't have anything else up my sleeves. Also, I have never seen anything like that in my life."

Florence nodded, shaking visibly in the car's interior lights, but not yet succumbing to madness. “Where should I drive?" The Shadow began to dissolve into the black darkness of the woods behind us. More clouds began to blot out the pitch-black sky, erasing all of the stars.

I muttered a simple, “Hmm," to indicate the rich thought process currently manifesting in my brain. It could be an animated corpse or a constructed entity of sorts, it didn't feel intelligent, and it isn't affected by the Fungal Entity at all, so it's not quite biological. Ouray's Spell of the Moment worked on it, at least, so it's not above magic. Also I'm going to have to come up with seven-hundred-fifty dollars to get more ingredients. It took less than a second for it to rip off my tail, so it's strong as hell, and I don't want to take it to Marquette. Also, that fucking hurt. I have a theory.

“OK, so I promise I'll give you a magical crash course down the line. For now, though, you're just gonna have to- take a left here."

Tires squealing on a particularly slippery patch of dirt, Florence fought hard to prevent her little car from ramming into the trees on the passenger side. Her vehicle was not meant for these roads, and her psyche was not meant for my horrible last-minute navigation tendencies. After a brief, equally high pitched squeal from the arctic fox, I continued. “I have an idea as to what this could be. It could be, like- OK, so not a Shadow Person, like the kind of thing you see in sleep paralysis; those aren't real, but think along those lines. They're called the G'hialgiange. I will not be spelling it. They hate water, though, and I think it's going to rain, so I want to lure it to- Take a right here." Another near-accident occurred. “Thank you. I want to lure it to Lake Superior, and catch it in the rain, which means we're going to have to get into a boat."

“I'll take your word for it," responded Florence, “What's the plan?"

Her response was strangely confident, and I stammered a little in bewilderment before instructing Florence to “Take a right here. I'm so sorry." The other fox had gotten quite good at predicting my rapid-fire directions.

“So we just drive out onto the lake and wait it out, and the thing will just… what will happen?"

“I'm actually stealing- borrowing a boat. We'll paddle out."

Florence nodded. “What about my mother?"

I began to stroke the fur on my chin. “If you're comfortable, I think we'll need to defeat this thing before checking out on your mother. I'm- I don't think this is the sort of entity you can interrogate. I don't think it's… sentient? Or alive?"

Florence nodded even deeper, visibly uncomfortable with the idea, but trusting me enough to know that continuing on as this Shadow's quarry was a bad idea. I craned my neck to try and perceive the nocturnal sky, but I couldn't make out what was the tops of trees and what was a cloud. I attempted to crack the window open a bit to hopefully catch the scent of rain, but was only met with a pitiful, mechanical whirr.

“That window's broken, sorry."

“That's OK. I was just trying to see if I couldn't get a scent of petrichor or something, though yeah, I'm pretty sure it's going to rain."

“And this thing dissolves in the rain like- We're doing Wizard of Oz?"

I started rubbing my right cheek intently, not remotely able to explain properly. “Ughh, it's complicated."

“It's unsettling when you say things like that. You don't have any other, like, magical spells or something?"

“I can do weird mushroom stuff and slightly predict the future by intuition, everything else requires a ritual and some components."

“What does the future say- Wait, do I want to know?"

the plan would not go as planned. “Shit, I just, um, consulted the Record," I declared, bringing a paw up to my seeing-eye as my other eye went black in order to read the Record. “Just now, actually, and the plan might go poorly."

Florence gulped audibly. “But you don't have any other ideas?"

“Nope, not at the moment." I laughed a nervous, not-at-all comforting little laugh. “Reading the Record- er, fortune telling is kinda wrong sometimes, though. I don't think we'll die- I'm not thinking about it. I'm not thinking about it. I am putting maximum intention into anything else and verbally manifesting anything other than thoughts of our impending- I don't know what I'm talking about. I could be talking about anything." Though it sounded like a comedic bit, talking to myself helped me snap out of my intuition towards the future. it would take only a fox alive.

We had arrived at Lake Superior ten minutes later. The dirt road opened up into a clearing that Florence took for a makeshift parking lot. Little lights dotted the coastline, only mere miles away. The shore of Lake Superior was by no means left to the wilderness, when lakeside real estate was so easy to sell, but large enough stretches existed to shield certain activities from the public eye.

In fact, the clearing led to a semi-derelict wooden boathouse with a small dock, jutting out a few hindpaws into the lake, or half as many meters, for those using metric. The clearing lacked any real beach, however, and the boathouse required a wooden staircase to be reached. The drop into the water from the ledge wouldn't have been more than a few hindpaws as well, but it was hardly the sort of cliff you'd like to throw a boat off of and hope for the best.

After a random hike through the wilderness a year ago, I discovered this abandoned shed. The section of the door where the doorknob would normally be found had rotted away, and much to my surprise, I discovered a little rowboat tucked away in the back corner. The vessel certainly smelled musty, though mold was something I was entirely used to. I worried for Florence's delicate vulpine sense of smell. But despite the scent that it had picked up, I tested it a while ago to make sure that it was, indeed, still seaworthy, and even stashed a few emergency supplies in a tiny compartment in the rowboat's stern. Over the course of the year, I was able to keep the boathouse secret and undisturbed, though a touch of a certain puma's glamour magic certainly helped. Petrichor did, indeed, hit my canine nose. It would rain any second now. I left my severed tail in the car.

After flying down the staircase, I forced the door open, scrambled towards the rowboat, and instructed Florence to: “Grab the oars for a sec' and jump in, I'm gonna push it in the water."

“How likely is it that we die?"

“Definitely less than fifty percent- Actually, don't let my subconscious try to actually predict that. I'm thinking about anything else right now." My go-to joke gets less funny the more that actual consequences start to manifest.

Awkwardly clutching the oars, the arctic vulpine sat on the aft-most seat of the boat, keeping her legs to the side. Without a considerable amount of musculature, I groaned and strained as I pushed the arguably-lightweight craft across the floor and into the water, where it landed with an audible plop, and splashed the both of us in the process. The Great Lake Superior is already incredibly cold in Autumn, and we both unconsciously made fox-like chirping noises in surprise. “Oh yeah, don't fall in, hypothermia will happen."

“Noted," answered Florence as I jumped in the boat, took the oars, and started paddling out to open water. It had begun to sprinkle a bit.

“So, um-" continued the white-furred vulpine, “It's already raining a little. Are we… good then?"

The act of steering a rowboat was arduous work for a small-framed fox such as myself, and my answer came out as more of a grunt, “Digits-crossed. Either way, very little can cross water, unless you count Jesus."

“Are… you're not going to tell me Jesus was actually real, or-"

“Oh, no, not at- I mean- that's a can of worms, but you know. I'm doing bits." The sprinkling had turned into steady rain, cold on my fur. I instructed Florence, “If you get cold, I stuck an emergency blanket in the compartment there-"

But my words turned to ash in my mouth. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shape move in the clearing. And while normal animals would dismiss that as an illusion, I knew better. “Wait, I think I saw it." I strained my vision, attempting to focus my eyes towards where Florence parked her car. We were about a couple hundred hindpaws from shore.

The younger canine's voice was colored with minor panic, “So it's not dissolved?"

“There's a small chance I fucked up, but it still shouldn't be able to cross water." The panic afflicted my voice as well as I continued to scan. “Shine a flashlight, if you have your phone. I left mine behind."

Florence did as she was told, fishing in her pant pockets for her device before shining her cell phone's light towards the shore.

The Shadow was running towards us with astonishing quickness, walking on water with ease. Even though the antlered figure was almost ethereal, it was corporeal enough to block out some of the light, leaving very little room for doubt that it was real. It even seemed to suck in the light.

Both of us screamed, and Florence dropped her flashlight into the rowboat. She flung herself off of the seat to grab it, but within seconds, the Shadow grabbed the smaller fox by her torso and hoisted her screaming body into the air.

I grabbed Florence's ankles and sent spores to course through her veins. Holding fast onto her shin, I let my mycelia form rhizomorphs in order to dig into her flesh to strengthen my grip, the only hope I had of competing with the Shadow's sheer force. I then kicked the oars into the lake, hoping they'd sink to the bottom.

I shouted. “If you understand English, I poisoned her! She's going to die and there is no cure. She'll die."

The Shadow stopped pulling.

Florence, suddenly concerned, stammered, “What was that?!" but I ignored her. “I threw the oars into the lake also, so we're stuck out here. It's impossible for you to take this fox anywhere alive. She's essentially dead now."

The Shadow dropped the fox back into the boat, though it hesitated. I couldn't figure out if it was trying to call my bluff, or if it could actually sense the spores that I planted into the vixen were authentic, but it waited nonetheless.

“I don't know your agenda, so I'm asking you, unless you have a master. If you do, go to them, and tell them that I offer myself in her place."

“Forseti, what's your plan?" pleaded Florence with a half-joking , nervous laugh. I had to keep a straight face and ignore her. The Shadow still wouldn't move. “My stomach feels-"

I interrupted her. “You have a master, don't you? You can't bring a dead fox to them, so go and ask if another fox will do. I submit willingly. Neither of us can leave the boat now, and there's no cure for her poison, and you can't take me back without consulting them, so go!" My voice was stern and steadfast. The Shadow dropped Florence, and though I couldn't see, it sounded as though her head hit the seat of the boat with a sickening thud, causing her to pass out. I almost winced, but I kept my muzzle straight.

I had no idea how accurate my assumption was, but the assault had subsided. The Shadow turned and walked back towards the shore, silently. The rain fell heavier.

I waited for a few minutes, keeping myself from shivering in the rain, and forcibly keeping every thought in my head stoic. If this thing could read minds, read emotions, or even so much as sense that something was off, I couldn't budge. Even if it were a few meters away, I couldn't see the Shadow in the dark and the rain.

After counting to five minutes, I collapsed, almost immediately hyperventilating. I hugged my body, shaking in the cold rain. Of all the gambles that I had taken that even, infesting the arctic fox with Amanita calyptroderma and calling it Amanita bisporigera seemed to have paid off, the former being a potently poisonous fungus, and the latter being the nominally tasty Coccoli. I was only glad that I was able to concentrate on the right fungal strain while keeping that specific thought as far away as possible from my mind. One must practice mental resilience when psychics exist.

I waited a few moments longer, breathing heavily and hugging myself. The Shadow never returned.

Florence remained passed out. I worried that she'd have a concussion. I knew she had a pulse, but she was certainly knocked out cold, which was something I had never seen before from a head injury alone. After my moment of panic, I recovered my senses and wrapped the vixen up in the emergency blanket. Despite venturing the odd “Hey," I couldn't rouse the fox from her sleep. If she were actually concussed, I don't think magic would help; she'd need to see an actual doctor. That was far from the only problem, though. I made a pact with a silent entity, and threw the oars into the water in a moment of panic. I was very much so without a plan, though at the very least, I had bought some time. The Shadow would need to walk to Chicago, and then walk back, or so I hoped. My missing tail hurt, and my body throbbed.

It is not rare that I find myself thrust into a complicated and dangerous situation like this. Being tailless, freezing, and with my soul held for ransom would be far from the most horrifying situation I'd dealt with. And it wouldn't be the most harrowing either either. One rarely dives headfirst into their own curiosity without expecting to tread a bit of water. If the felines reading this would forgive me for using an old phrase, “Curiosity killed the cat." Though it is often forgotten that the phrase has a follow-up. “Satisfaction brought it back." Facing fear and pain is a quick way to learn, and wisdom is a helpful tool in getting out of danger.

Time wasn't in infinite supply, and the chill of the north Michigan air burrowed itself into my fur. Despite everything, I would come up with a plan. After all, this is the first chapter of a whole-ass book. I feel like I'd get yelled at by the publisher if I gave up here.

Chapter 2 - The Marquette Awngaimene

First, though, I'd need to actually come up with a plan. The frigid rain fell at such a volume that it stung my skin, even through my thick fur, andI began brainstorming.

Alright, we're about a few hundred hindpaws from the dock. The water's too deep for me to push the boat, but the current's too strong for me to feel confident that I can swim it back. I wasn't a completely pathetic swimmer, but it felt like a gamble. Those oars were made of wood and something synthetic, but I couldn't see them, even if…

I remembered that Florence's phone flashlight was still turned on. It was face-down, which is why I only just thought of it. I picked it up and scanned the ever-intensifying waves, hoping to catch a glimpse of the oars floating in the water, but no luck.

Alright, what now? You used to be in the Scouts, they did that Polar Bear Plunge thing where you jump in near-freezing water. You didn't die. You could probably last a couple of minutes, as long as Florence cranks the car heat. And isn't concussed.

But the waves were pounding harder the more it rained, and I doubted that I could beat the current by swimming alone. I hugged myself tightly once more, salvaging as much body heat as possible, and rubbing at the wound where my tail once sprouted from, as well as the one in my shoulder.

Which prompted me to come up with yet another entirely unhinged idea.

A hatchet was stashed in the storage compartment of the meager vessel. If I could hit my left elbow right, I could separate my forearm from my upper arm. The resilient fungal hyphae running throughout my body would remain intact, however, and allow me to extend the length of my arm while still allowing me to control my paw. It would hurt immensely, and take all night for my arm to re-attach naturally, but it would allow me to grab the boat, sink to the bottom of the lake, and walk the vessel back to the docks, as long as I could keep my bearings straight underwater.

This ability came to my awareness less out of a sense of experimentation, and more so from accidents experienced on previous adventures, but it was a useful skill nonetheless.

I retrieved the hatchet and held it aloft in my right paw. After a quick inhale, I readied myself mentally, and brought the weapon down. The ax was incredibly blunt, and only caused a surface wound less than a centimeter deep, but I knew this would take a couple of swings. I took another deep breath, steadied the weapon before I wimped out, and brought another swing down, making another centimeter of progress.

I don't bleed anymore. I obviously haven't gone to a doctor for my curse, but I assume that my nutrients and oxygen flowed through my body through the fungal mycelium in the stead of veins. A sickly dark green sludge began to smudge the boat where I engaged in my dismemberment. It would smell horrible if it weren't for the pounding rain that was already washing it away. I turned my arm around, to strike at it from the other side, and made another strike. Pain threatened delirium, and I felt as though I'd pass out soon, but my willpower prevailed. With one last strike from the hatchet, I found myself to separate my forearm from its socket.

As I had theorized, though, the hyphae maintained their integrity. I placed the hatchet down and pulled my arm out further, until the two segments were held together by rope-like rhizomorphs, the length of a few hindpaws. If I jumped into the lake now, the strings would keep extending until I hit the bottom. All I had to do was hold on and pull the boat.

Despite worrying about the consequences of being unconscious with a concussion, I ardently hoped Florence wouldn't wake up to see my macabre plan in action. I grabbed tightly onto the side of the boat with my disembodied hand. The fungal strings embedded themselves into the wood, securing my grip, as I stated to dip into the churning waters slowly, so as not to tip the boat. The shock of the frigid water still somehow breached my frazzled senses, despite the agony in my arm taking precedence, but as soon as the shock wore off, I inhaled deeply and sank into the water.

The lake was freezing and pitch black. My body refused to get used to the temperature in any capacity, but at least the pain in my arm began to dull. Shock kept threatening to overwhelm my muscles. I could feel the external fungal extensions begin to harden and throb. Fungi love water, but harsh, cold temperatures mitigate a mushroom's ability to cause budding strings to extend. I needed to trust my senses and reach the shore, before I drowned, succumbed to hypothermia, or suffered the rhizomorphs to turn brittle and break.

Luckily, all foxes can sense magnetic fields. Look it up.

“I thought it was a G'hialgiange-"

“In what world could that have possibly been the G'hialgiange? With no boat?!" barked the voice on the phone. I didn't have mine handy, but Florence's phone only required a paw-print to unlock it, which works whether or not the paw in question is conscious. The older woman on the other end was the only person whose number I had memorized.

“It was shadowy-"

“Shut up, fox." She exhaled loud enough for it to get picked up on the phone. “I have a suspicion as to what this entity is, but I need to make sure. I want you and the other fox to come down to meet me, now."

I sighed audibly “Down to- All the way to New Orleans? There isn't any way-"

“Yes, immediately. Otherwise you will die and get others killed."

I went to rub my forehead in frustration, forgetting that my arm was detached from my body. It almost felt like a phantom limb, though the segment was simply displaced as opposed to missing, lying in the nearby boat. “Is there- If I wait one night for my arm and tail to reattach, would that kill us?"

An angry growl, then; “Gods-dammit, Forseti! You know you can't be seen in public with-"

“I know, I know. The Shadow thing ripped them off," I half-lied.

“You have such a small margin of time now, you know that? I hazard to predict that you're going to make it down here alive at all. Don't waste any time."

“I won't-"

“And don't consort with the Marquette Awngaimene. If the Psychic Wardens get involved, this whole situation spirals even further-"

“I won't, Marianne. I'll text you when we start-" I sighed once more, making sure the older woman would hear it, “When we start the two-day drive, that you're making-"

“I don't want to hear any bullshit. You're the one that made the pact and asked for my aid, these are the consequences."

“I had to save the fox."

“Which was noble, but there are consequences all the same. I'm hanging up now, I don't like speaking on the phone with unsaved numbers that lack any- any cyber-security? Security precautions? You know the technical terms. Call me as soon as you reach your phone."

Click! The old woman hung up, seemingly under the impression that my phone had any actual cyber security. I was amazed that the call even connected, this far out in the boonies, but what elation I held at the start of the call quickly dissolved into annoyance; a common effect of chatting with Marianne the Sphynx.

Wrapped up in an old, musty canvas tarp that was once lying around in the boathouse, I took a moment to regain body heat, though the ever-present shivering refused to recede quickly. The percussive downpour rattled against the metal roof above. I was still unable to rouse the vixen from her unconsciousness, but I didn't want to take the blanket off of her. The underwater walk back to the docks went off without a hitch; a welcome change of pace considering how my other plans had fared. A handful of swords held up by mere strings still dangled menacingly above our proverbial heads, but for the time being, we were still breathing.

There was no way that I could carry the vixen back to her car without my forearm, though. I could only shuffle over, still keeping the tarp around me as much as possible. Though it smelled heavily of mold, so did most things if I sat down on them for too long. The shiny emergency blanket on the boat shimmied a bit before I completely made my way over, and finally, a small, strained murmur came from underneath.

“Florence! You're awake!" I pulled back the blanket where I imagined the arctic fox's face to be. “Holy fuck, I think you passed out from a concussion, do you remember anything?"

The vulpine rose with a rigid, pained movement, cracking her neck in the process. “There was, um- The Shadow got to our boat, and-" she took a pause from talking to groan and rub her head, “And it was choking me out, and I think it made me- made me fall asleep?"

In my memory, it looked like Florence hit her head and then passed out, but it was so dark out, so of course she would have landed on her knees. “Oh, thank goodness, I thought you were concussed for a sec'." I went to put a paw on her shoulder, but she turned away suddenly.

“I, um- Forseti, did you poison me?"

I had forgotten about that. “Oh, um, that was a bluff. I had a feeling that the thing needed you alive, so I, um, lied. But I put spores in you anyway-"

Any grogginess Florence had once again sharpened into alarm. “Wait, what?"

“A harmless mushroom, the, um, the coccoli. It'll just kind of turn into nutrients for you, it's not going to grow into you or anything."

She still looked incredulous, “That sounds- I feel like there are so many other plans. Why didn't you just bluff without doing anything?"

“I don't know, the Shadow could have, like- been psychic? Or sense it or something?"

“I think I actually have a stomachache."

“Oh, um, sorry. Sometimes that mushroom does that to people. I chose it 'cause it's biologically similar to the Destroying Angel."

“I mean, I guess it worked, so thanks, but- You know, I'm just going to take it at face value that this was the best plan-" Her eyes went wide, “Oh fuck, what happened to your arm?"

She didn't scream, but I could tell that the fox was fighting the urge to vomit as she turned away, though that was possibly spurred on by the fungus dissolving in her stomach acid.

“Oh yeah, so- I guess after the Shadow made you pass out, I sort of, uhh, threw the oars overboard, and made the entity make a pact with me instead of you, and then I- So it's kind of hard to explain, but I cut my arm off so I could walk the boat back to the boathouse."

Florence continued covering mer muzzle with her paws, every word she spoke further exasperating her ability to keep her stomach relaxed, “Is this- Is magic usually this macabre?"

“Not for most spells, I'm just cursed with a, uh, fungus curse."

“And… it doesn't hurt?"

“Oh, it hurts, but I'm kind of used to it. Uhh, I'll explain in a sec', but we gotta prep'. We have to, um, drive to New Orleans tomorrow to meet a friend."

A brief pause, “Forseti, you have to realize everything you're saying sounds like a non sequitur."

I climbed to my hindpaws. “I am so ready to start with an in-depth explanation of everything, starting now."

Rain. Night. The low hum of a Honda's engine. The ominous shadows of trees, still covered with leaves. Florence driving, because I cut my arm off.

“So, um- I'm not an expert on this sort of thing at all. I'm one-hundred percent going to miss something, so- I'll just get into it. Awngaimene society is… So, actually, let me back up. Magic is real. You know that now now. Animals have been able to use magic for a crazy-long time, I'm talking 'the year multiple-thousand-B.C.E.' type stuff. It… and I'm not trying to say that, like, every mythology and every fairytale is based on fact, because probably only about twenty-five percent of that sort of thing is based on something real in the magical world, but it sometimes informed the world at, like, a religious, philosophical level. Or at least spiritual, not-from-this-world entities did a bit- Witches did a little. Um, Awngaimene of the Fog of the Witch Dawn- to clarify; really old, powerful Awngaimene were way more prevalent in actual society than they are nowadays. There was a series of quote-unquote 'cataclysms;' probably the biggest one being 'The Long Cataclysm' that took, like, fifty years, starting in, like, 1200 B.C.E. Long story; oh Gods, and then there was the Affair of the Blighted Court- long Story, a lot of powerful people died. The point is that… is that those who knew about magic, and those who practiced it, were pressured to keep it secret. That's because of the constant religious-slash-bourgeoisies pressure; some witch hunts actually got real Awngaimene, but maybe about a tenth of them- Salem was entirely Tystwoles."

“Sadly, I assume that most witch hunts weren't actually useful in preventing rogue, dangerous women."

“Yeah, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, an innocent person got killed, and in the leftover cases, an innocent witch got killed. Moving on, though,. That's a downer. In addition to witches, there are magical entities and spirits constantly, like, attacking us, so we gotta protect the world against them. Pre- or, before the 1800's- C.E. A.D. Whatever. There were a lot of sub-magical groups. Each with their own councils and archwitches and threats that they had to deal with, and everyone was keeping their societies secret. The biggest change was brought about by the Ajai Foulgydan, or First Foulgydan; Chaaya of the Waxing Moon; a flying fox. She held a summit in Tibet- that's not a pun. And she was the first person to gather all of the archwitches- You'd expect me to say 'most,' but she actually pretty much got all of them to come, and it was in the year 1799. From there, she unified Awngaimene society. It was weirdly very successful and unanimous, and every magically-inclined person unified under a shared identity. Our goals were to learn everything there is to learn about magic; because, to be honest, us modern mortal animals know, just, so little about magic. It's baffling- um, our goals; learn magic, keep magic a secret from the Tystwoles completely, because we can't- Oh yeah, Tystwoles are, like- And I hate Harry Potter, but think 'muggle.' Learn magic, keep our identity secret, and- oh yeah, we just became pretty much huge community-centered hippies- like, in a cool way. The third goal was to take care of the community. Because, like, a lot of people have to, like, drop off the grid, or fake their own death, and nobody can become a figure in, like, the public eye, so there isn't a lot of money in the society. And a lot of people, like you, actually, stumble into the society because of, um, magical forces in the world that prey on, like, ordinary animals; Tystwoles. And it's our goal to protect those who accidentally stumble in. That actually happened to me, with the Fungal Entity, who; by the way, isn't Awngaimene, it's just that the Awngaimene in Marquette know about them. Any questions so far?"

Florence shook her head, “I think this will just go better if I don't interrupt you. I think I follow so far, though."

“Good! Great! So, glossary- Oh! Fun fact, Chaaya of the Waxing Moon herself; she isn't alive anymore. I have to clarify, some people live for a while. But! She actually- so it isn't a language, but all of the terms that she came up with are specifically nonsense words- gibberish, so that no Tystwole can deduce, like, etymology, or look it up online nowadays, and it obscures the society a lot, keeping us secret. She also was afraid of cultural appropriation, and didn't wanna use culturally significant terms; she was really forward thinking for the nineteenth century. 'Awngaimene,' are, like, any animal in the magical society. You already know 'Tystwole.' 'Cwalborde' is the opposite of 'Tystwole.' 'Foulgydan' means, like, 'archwitch.' 'Frote Foulgydan,' is any rogue- er, independant archwitch; there are animals that know magic nowadays that don't participate in the society, there are even a few other factions sometimes, and they usually get a bad rep'. 'Mulgywai' are, like- I don't know, they handle the Awngaimene records and money stuff and legal stuff. A lot of Awngaimene get actual jobs, but Mulgywai work one-hundred percent in the society to organize in-house laws and check in on people, but it's not the only actual Awngaimene job. 'Hauksborque' are Mulgywai that- and they aren't cops, but they're kind of like a town watch that protects against magical threats or also mortal threats. They're not cops at all, I have to specify. 'Mracksiogne' are Mulgywai that are, like, magical taxonomists. They go out in the field and try to experiment with magic and record learned knowledge, and most of them die horribly. And then you can be an Apothecary; they didn't make another word for that. That's people who do medicine magic, like me."

“I feel like, um, there's a bunch more, but I wanna open up the conversation for questions. I'm just Awngaimene, I'm not Mulgywai, even though I do, like, apothecary work and odd jobs, I have to do DoorDash and a podcast still, or the IRS will be afraid that I'm, like, laundering money, because I own a home- We gotta worry about that sort of thing. To be completely honest, my friend, who we might visit tomorrow in Louisiana, is a Frote Foulgydan, but I think- And this is mostly because I do not want to make that drive- and also my arm needs to reattach- And, just, Marianne is a lot. But I think that we should visit with the Marquette Awngaimene; just the Awngaimene, not the Mulgywai. There's an all-night bar that's kind of out in the woods, but it's rad as hell, and it's off-the-grid and not checked by the Food-Safety whatever that government branch is- Oh! I should mention. The US government is, like, kind of close to figuring out that we exist, but we hide our tracks really well, so we're really only a conspiracy theory. There's no, like, men in black. Unless aliens are real, but I don't think they are. Gods, I need a drink of water. I've been talking a lot. Any questions?"

The white-furred fox looked completely dazed still. I could see literal gears turning in her head.

“So, um- I have a lot of questions, but- So my mother was Awngaimene, I'm assuming, because of the secret code thing, but she wasn't- I guess, is there any way to check if she was registered?"

To check in with the Mulgywai specifically this evening was a bad idea, according to Marianne, but Florence would need to be registered eventually. The only thing gnawing at the back of my brain was the fact that if Florence were registered, there would be no going back to normal life. The more that the Marquette Awngaimene knew about her existence, the harder normality would be for the fox. Normality wouldn't happen, though, without first figuring out what happened to her mother, so a meeting with the Mulgywai was only inevitable.

“What's your mom's full name?"

“Mary Johannson."

“Gotcha, I'm sorry- I've never heard of anyone by that name. But maybe someone up here would know!" We had almost arrived back at my cabin. “I am going to take, like, an ungodly amount of ibuprofen, but then we can head out." I'd normally get high after a dismembering, but I didn't want to stress out Florence with my stoner antics. “Do you need anything?"

The white-furren vixen paused, then spoke, “Probably, but this is all a lot to process, so I'm just going to play it by ear for now."

“For sure."

it would be smarter to sleep a little, and journey to new orleans as soon as possible. to consort with the marquette awngaimene first would add an unwanted obstacle.

We didn't head out immediately. The two of us were out in the freezing rain for a considerable amount of time, and though the heater in Florence's car helped enough to prevent full-on frostbite, the both of us were in desperate need of a hot shower and an even hotter drink. The wet canine scent would linger in Florence's car for decades. I let the vixen use the shower first, and was eternally thankful that I had recently done a deep clean on it; without getting into too much graphic detail, it can get ugly when my curse mixes with hot steam.

After putting on a spot of coffee, I sat myself down next to a recently lit fireplace and tended my wounds. I wrapped a copious amount of gauze around my arm at the elbow, and though the two body parts were connected by mere fungal rhizomorphs, the arm would begin to reattach itself naturally in a matter of time. Unfortunately, gauze does not wrap around a tail as easily, but fortunately, taking care of wounds was a big priority of the early Awngaimene, so the Wand of Sutures was created. I hunted around for the ugly, gnarled oakwood wand, hidden somewhere in my disorganized lab, but eventually, I found it in a crack between the table and the wall. A quick incantation and a faint glow was all it took for stitches to conjure, though I wouldn't be able to move my limb or tail until they fully healed. The arctic fox took an incredibly long shower, though I suspected that she was mostly taking a desperately needed moment alone to collect herself.

I then donned my witch's hat, having felt entirely naked without it. My thoughts dwelled on Florence's prolonged respite. Maybe something within me needed a pause as well. Little seeds of dread and anxiety began to sprout in my mind's garden, even though this situation wasn't the most daunting that I'd faced. Something was amiss with the Record.

We hit the road once more. The rain continued to fall with the oppressive percussion of a college-level drum line. Florence asked me to send a pawful of texts to her friends while she drove; a tricky task to pull off with one arm. I didn't expect her to trust me with her phone, but she thought that I'd have more experience coming up with excuses to explain her absence. I often find that coming up with fake, sick relatives still does the trick, even in a magical community.

Esu's doesn't have an address, and neither does the house it sits in front of. The Marquette Awngaimene had to take particularly complicated measures to get the bar off of Google Maps. Lavitia wanted to make sure that it was a place for Awngaimene, and only Awngaimene, with one notable exception. The impala bartender never explained how she was able to afford the property, as well as run a fully operational bar in the first place. There simply was no money in that sort of business when Awngaimene were the only clientele. But people are allowed their secrets, and no one in Marquette complained about there being a convenient spot to grab a drink.

Lavitia Wellwhiskey spent a ridiculous amount of time making sure that Esu's was open all night, every night, from 9:00 PM to 6:00 AM. Of course, she took Monday night off to rest, but for twenty straight years, she was able to keep the drinks pouring, with only Old Man Willoughby on staff. Lavitia was a talented cook, and a brilliant mixologist, and a particularly skilled exorcist and spirit-channelor, though that sort of trade rarely pops up in the food service industry.

On this stormy night, there was a limited number of souls at Esu's, living or otherwise. There was only Lavitia, Moss the shrew; the rodent one-half my size, and Fons; the painted turtle who, unfortunately, was a Mulgywai. Even Old Man Willoughby was nowhere to be seen. I imagined that the rainstorm ate at the bar's ambitions for a more bustling atmosphere. Either way, one of the patrons this evening was a Mulgywai, and I thanked the stars that I asked Florence to keep her identity as a non-Awngaimene as lowkey as possible. I didn't explain why.

“Ahh, Forsy! Welcome!" crooned the impala as Florence and I made our way through the front door. The bartender was old enough to be my mother, and exuded the apropos motherly-ness. She wore a neat, white button-up and a sleek, dark-gray vest.

“Heyo!" I responded, wiping my wet shoes on the welcome mat. “Hope all has been well and good!" Though the outside of the locale looked like a basic barn, the inside looked quite classy. Furniture straight from the Roaring Twenties was bought and renovated. Beautifully stained walnut flooring juxtaposed well with the bright red velvet of the seats, and the dark-wood tables were lit by candles and overhanging vintage stained-glass pendants..

“Well, it's too cold for my liking, but we make due."

“You have to get a heat lamp, Lavitia." complained the cold-blooded turtle without looking up from his book. Even though he wore a tan, down-insulated, self-heating reptile's jacket, the small trace of a shiver lingered in his voice.

“You're fine, Fons. Forsy, though, what can I pour for you- Oh, who's this? I'm afraid I don't remember you if we've met before." Lavitia, wiping a glass with a rag, cast a look towards Florence.

“Ah, this is Florence; Awngaimene from Chicago. And I'll take a Manhattan. Do you want anything?" I asked the vixen. “I'm paying."

Florence looked towards me disappointedly. “Don't I need to drive?"

“Lavitia also makes food. And virgin drinks- Oh, I don't have to drink if you're not comfy with it. I'd probably only have the one anyway."

“Oh, go for it. I just don't want to drink if we're driving to New Orleans tomorrow."

Lavitia was eavesdropping as she mixed rye whiskey with vermouth. “Ooh, what's Marianne making you do this time, fox?"

It dawned on me that I didn't give Florence a complete rundown on Awngaimene gossip, nor did I explain well enough that our appointment with the Sphynx was slightly hush-hush. I decided to opt for eighty-percent honesty, leaving out the few incriminating details. “Florence has a problem with some sort of Shadow entity. I have no idea what it is, but Marianne has an idea." I groaned through my words to express discontent. “We just have to driiive down to her tomorrow."

Lavitia, to Florence: “Oh lord, is this your first time meeting Marianne?"

A little caught off-guard, the fox responded. “Yeah, I guess."

“Try not to let Forsy here make it a regular thing." The antelope laughed a hearty laugh, “I've got a hot cherry pie. A la mode, if you'd like. Hot chocolate or coffee, too, if you're not in the mood for spirits."

“Uhh, sure- And yeah, hot chocolate, if that's fine, Forsy."

I nodded, “Would you actually put another few slices on my tab too, Lavitia? The Shadow cut my arm off and the fungus is taking up a lot of energy and I'm starving." My healing magic made me viciously hungry.

Lavitia looked annoyed, “You better not be eating my food just because you're starving. This is cuisine-"

“Oh, I was just justifying why I'd need more than one slice. And also I wanted to bring up my injury. For sympathy. Look at it." I held up my stitched-up wound with my other paw.

“Forsy, you come in here with a missing arm every other week."

“And yet I keep finding myself with a deficit of sympathy." The impala chuckled at my expense. Just then, the Mulgywai Fons chimed in from the table he was sitting at, looking up from his book; a pulp mystery novel, from what I could tell. “Is this entity something we should worry about?"

“It's not in Marquette anymore- Actually, Fons. You might know. You do magical work stuff a bunch. Do you know many Shadow entities?"

“Not personally," answered the painted turtle.

I didn't let sarcasm derail the conversation. “I thought it was a G'hialhgiange for, like, one sec'-"

“Forsy, G'hialgiange can't cross the 45th Parallel."

I rolled my eyes, “Well, I forgot that."

“Come get your cocktail, fox." called the impala, brandishing a stunning, auburn beverage garnished with a single cherry. I started pacing over to the bar to retrieve the Manhattan, responding with a gratuitous “Thanks, Lavitia!" as Fons continued.

“I heard a rumor about cultists moving through Voyageurs."

“It was more of a singular, incorporeal thing."

“Well, fox, describe what you saw."

Eighty-percent truth was a gamble. The hope that Florence wouldn't interject burned bright. “Well, it was pretty big, had antlers, was semi-transparent, but still seemed to suck up the light; a Shadow. Kinda oozey, but it wasn't a tangible ooze. I didn't see if it could move through walls, but it did strike me. And it seems to have kidnapped Florence's mother, back in Chicago, and I I have a reputation now, because her mother sent Florence to me."

The turtle nodded, soaking in the information as he sipped a cheap, light beer. “Who's your mother, Florence? If you don't mind me asking."

Florence cleared her throat. “Her name's Mary."

Fons and Lavitia's eyes widened, and even the shrew, Moss Agate, turned his gaze towards us. I soon realized why.

“Mary can't have-" The Mulgywai started, before I cut him off

I had completely forgotten about the Chicagoan Foulgydan “Not Resurrection Mary. Just the same name."

Now it was the vixen's turn for confusion. “Resurrection Mary?"

It was a naive question, or moreso, a mere echoing of someone's name posed as a question. Even to ghost-chasing Tystwoles, the spirit haunting Chicago's Resurrection Cemetery was quite famous, but to Awngaimene, it was well-known that the ghost was one of the only Foulgydan based in the Midwestern metropolis, working from even beyond the grave. At least Florence was savvy enough to recognize the name, adding on before anyone else could respond. “Like, the ghost?"

I gave the fox a stern look and tried to telepathically communicate that it was time to change the subject. For the record, that is not a power I possess. “Well, we're not talking about your mom. Unless ghosts can have kits now!" I continued before anyone else could. “I could probably visit Foulgydan Mary sometime, but I doubt she has the resources that you guys have, let alone Marianne." Big cities made for small Awngaimene communities with very few exceptions. “Have you got any ideas, though, Fons?"

The turtle shrugged, a hardy feat considering the weight of his shell. “Beats me. I could ask Foulgydan The Lady Juxtaposed- But yeah, I wouldn't visit Marianne if I were you." Normally, I would have agreed with the Mulgywai's point, but in this particular case, I wanted to avoid the actually-telepathic Foulgydan even more.

“Is every woman named 'Mary' or something?" asked Florence, nonchalantly.

“Well, Marianne is different from Mary."

“I don't know. It feels weirdly biblical." It was my turn to shrug, but I lacked a proper counterpoint, so I continued talking with Fons. “I already told her I was coming. I don't want her getting pissy."

“Ehh, that's on you, fox."

“I know." I grumbled. I was not looking forward to the drive.

Lavitia called out once more, to no one in particular. florence doesn't know about the ghost. “Willoughby, be a lamb and- Er, bear, I suppose, and pass the arctic fox her hot chocolate. I'm gonna fetch the pie." I should have intuited that something was about to go wrong, but something else caught my attention. “Oh hey, Lavitia, did Deign stop by? I finished his poultice, but if I don't gotta mail it, saves 0n-"

Suddenly, a massive, hulking bear manifested out of thin air right in front of us. The muscular ursine was fully transparent. A ghost.

Florence was completely taken by surprise, and having just had an intense encounter with a similarly transparent entity, she screamed. She was the only animal in the room to react, and then it hit me.

I forgot to tell Florence about Old Man Willoughby's main, spectral character trait.

All eyes shot towards the white-furred fox. The shrew known as Moss Agate spoke up for the first time that evening, a tinge of mockery on his muzzle, “What, you never see a ghost before?" But Fons was a bit more perceptive.

“Florence, have you ever seen a ghost before?"

The ursine poltergeist wordlessly handed a mug of hot chocolate into the vixen's shaking paws. “N-no."

“Forseti, is Florence a Fangdyne Tystwole?"

The jig was up. Willoughby dematerialized. Lavitia came back from the kitchen from behind the bar with her paws full of plates of pie, but began to eavesdrop before calling after us.

Sheepishly, I meagerly coughed out, completely non-commital to what I was about to say. “Well, it didn't seem important-"

Florence then jumped in, and I cursed myself for not explaining why it was important that her lack of Awngaimene knowledge was best kept secret. “Fangdyne are animals who accidentally fall into this sort of thing for the first time, yeah? I suppose that would describe-" She then caught onto the awkward vibe in the room and cast a guilty look towards me, “So, I'll stop talking."

Fons rubbed his eyes, not eager to explain the snow-furred vulpine's new situation, and the other fox continued, “Is everything OK?"

“Well, Florence, it's not great. Forseti here didn't want you to get registered."

“Do we have to do it tonight?" I pleaded, but I already knew the answer.

“Yes, but you gotta go see The Lady Juxtaposed."

The arctic fox looked nervous. “Well that's completely ominous. Is that bad?"

“Well," started the reptile, “A bit. Getting registered means that you have to give up your old life completely and become Awngaime, or consent to monthly interviews with a Mulgywai to verify that you've kept our society a secret. Jesus, Forsy, why did you think you could get away with this?"

I wanted Florence to have an out.

“I don't know, ask Marianne." I shouted, throwing the furless cat under the bus.

The other fox's face went white, bringing out the white of her face fur twice-fold. “So, um, if I don't agree to either of those options…" She didn't continue.

“Those are your only two options." Fons let out an exasperated sigh. “We're not threatening to kill you or anything, but the third and-" he continued with air quotes- “'fourth' options are pretty brutal. We're not going to talk about the fourth one, so don't think about it."

I knew exactly why.

However, the lack of a death threat eased the tension in Florence's shoulders. “That's alright, I don't want to know. Can I, um, not decide immediately, at least?"

“I'm sorry, but you have to see The Lady Juxtaposed before you go down south-"

Lavitia burst into the scene, emerging from the bar area, holding an entire pie in one paw, with the proper utensils in the other. “No one's seeing anyone until you've had dessert. The poor girl has been hunted down by some entity, if you've forgotten, Fons. Give her a break. This pie's up for grabs, take as much as you want. I'm going to grab a tub of ice cream. Forseti's paying for everything-"

I tried to put up a fight. “Wait, what-"

“Shut up, fox. It's your punishment for being lazy about the drive. I know The Lady Juxtaposed gets off of The Lady Juxtaposed's shift at six, so go stop by before then, let The Lady Juxtaposed know that you're going to have a registration meeting with poor Florence here after you keep your appointment with Marianne, if she says she knows something. Florence, you worry about finding your mother before you worry about anything else, alright, dear? Willoughby, be a lamb- bear and fetch the ice cream." Without word nor complaint, the ghost materialized once more to follow the barkeeper's task. Why he didn't manifest in the kitchen itself was beyond me, but I didn't talk to Willoughby much. He really only chatted with Lavitia.

“I should add; that plan works for me." interjected the Mulgywai, “Sorry, I gotta be a bit of an asshole about this thing. It's my job."

Moss piped up, “Hey, is that pie, like, completely up for grabs?"

I responded, apparently the financial benefactor of this evening. “Go nuts."

Lavitia then emerged from the kitchen with her paw-hands full of used glasses, apparently having given up on putting them back. “What are you even up to, Moss? You and Fons just sort of showed up, got drinks, and drank them quietly."

“Ehh, I like the ambience," responded the shrill-voiced rodent, before adding, “Plus, I'm half-sorta swinging right now"

The impala shrugged. “I don't think anyone else is showing up tonight, hun."

“Fons, you up to-"

The turtle interrupted, suddenly violently, “I'm almost done with this book, everybody, OK? Just give me five minutes, I'll be chattier then, I swear."

Out in the makeshift parking lot, Claudia was walking her pet feral dog; a St. Bernard named Bernard. The black-and-white skunk was wearing a comically thick, dark-green bomber jacket and ripped-up, black jeans. She held a plain, black umbrella under her right armpit, without actually opening it up to use it.

Florence and I were on our way to the car, about to make our way to the Mulgywai's base of operation, when the sight of my close friend caught my eye. “Yo, Claudia, what's up?"

She spoke in an entirely uninterested tone, with a voice actually deeper than mine, “Walking the dog." Even though her voice sounded alert and awake, her eyelids hung heavily, as though she hadn't slept all too often.

“Is Lavitia cool with you bringing Bernard in?"

“I'm not going inside."

I nodded. Claudia was not a mammal of many words. “Cool cool, yeah, cool- Wait, you don't live near here."

“No, I don't."

Awkwardly, Florence chimed in, “Um, hello! Are you one of Forsy's friends?"

“Yes," answered Claudia.

I stepped in to clarify. “She and I go way back, probs one of my closest friends here. This here's Florence: Fangdyne Tystwole."

The skunk nodded sagely, “Good luck."

The arctic fox coughed nervously a little, her eyes darting towards her car. She seemed as eager to get out of the conversation as she wanted out of the rain. “Uh, yeah, thank you, Claudia. What are- um, what's going on?"

“I'm walking the dog," answered Claudia. The dog in question sat in the wet dirt, panting, and seemingly oblivious to the rain.

I caught the vixen's cue and added, “Yeah, we should probably head off. We're in mortal danger, but see you around!"

The skunk nodded once more, “Yeah, good luck." And we were off.

Florence pulled into what seemed like a simple independent gas station on a dimly-lit road heading into Marquette. The sign ahead read “Great Lakes Gas." The Great Lake in question roared audibly in the distance. The Michigan rains continued falling with a heavy patter. I was still completely sober; Lavitia forcing me to buy one of her thirty-four dollar pies soured my mood, though I did have to hide the drink she poured, lest I receive her scorn for wasting her craft.

“So, The Lady Juxtaposed…" I started, making sure to prepare the vixen for any surprises this time, “The Lady Juxtaposed's kinda cursed, like- Y'know, I'm cursed, but it's way worse for The Lady Juxtaposed."

Florence, having just finished parking next to a gas pump under the roof, looked towards me and raised the ridge above her right eye inquisitively, “Worse how?"

“So, The Lady Juxtaposed doesn't go into her whole story often, but the gist is; I think The Lady Juxtaposed's from the eighteen-hundreds, but, like-

“I'm so sorry to interrupt, why do you keep using her whole name?"

An exhausted exhalation escaped my muzzle. “It's a whole thing. But long story short, The Lady Juxtaposed used to be two different animals; a rabbit and a blue jay, and I think they were lovers, but the two of them came across something horrible; we have no idea what, and long story short, the two animals got kind of, um, combined, I guess? And both animals functionally died, and the combined bodies just sort of, like, had a new identity. I think a sort of form of amnesia developed; I'm not a brain scientist, I know it's not actually amnesia, but yeah, The Lady Juxtaposed was born, and has no memory from before the curse started, besides the odd snippet here and there, and- sorry, I talk a lot. Long story short, The Lady Juxtaposed's body is perfectly, symmetrically split down the middle; one half is a rabbit, the other is a bird."

The white-furred vixen's muzzle held a look of horror, “That's, uh… that's a lot, thanks for the heads up, though."

“For sure. You'll never see me complaining about my curse, there are way worse ones out there." I rubbed at my disconnected arm, it was already halfway healed.

“So, um, what are we here to do?"

“We're gonna go in, talk to the gas station attendant; they're Mulgywai, this is kind of a front. There aren't a lot of all-night businesses in Marquette, so we can't choose a glamorous front. The Lady Juxtaposed will be in an office in the basement, the attendant will take us to the back. We'll probably explain The Shadow, our meeting with Marianne, and then how you'll go through the registration process once we get back." The digital clock on Florence's dashboard showed three-o'-clock. No other drivers frequented the parking lot.

“And, uh, does the Lady have a nickname?"

“No, and The Lady Juxtaposed really needs one. The Lady Juxtaposed insists on animals using her full name always, and can read minds- Apparently, it's, like, a reminder that The Lady Juxtaposed isn't a whole person anymore? It's weird."

“I'll keep that in mind."

Thankfully, the roof above connected to the front door, and Florence and I were able to escape getting too drenched by the time we reached the front door. An electronic chime sang out as the other vulpine opened the door for me as the two of us were met with cool, air-conditioned air, and the oppressive scent of plastic and floor cleaner.

A cedar-furred rabbit my age, wearing a dark-blue sweater, looked up from the counter, reading a book with the same cover as Fons'. Maybe the Mulgywai had a book club. The two of us had met and chatted more times than I cared to count, but the time-honored safety measure had to be invoked. “Dahbin io?" I asked.

“Awngaimene- Wait, that's my job." the lagomorph answered plainly, until she was confused that I asked the Dahbin io first. Sure, the Awngaimene code was a bit overkill, but overkill had successfully kept us secret so far.

“How's it going, Chance?"

“Ugh, Forsy, you should have come in, like, fifteen minutes. I'm almost done with this book, and it's good."

“Oh, you're all good. I think I only need to see The Lady Juxtaposed."

“Ooh, what for?"

One-hundred-percent honesty this time. “I had a, um, Fangdyne Tystwole arrive at my home."

The rabbit suddenly went into professional mode, nodding assuredly while interrogating, “Understood, and does she know about that-which-she-should-not-know-about?"

The look of nervousness was plain on my muzzle, “Nope! Though it was half-brought up in her presence."

Chance's business-like demeanor held up, “Then we'll definitely knock this out as soon as possible. You should be good to go down as soon as I-"

The lagomorph suddenly scrambled for her cell phone, lost on top of a counter riddled with ill-placed merchandise and yet-to-be-stocked cigarette cartons. Though there was no ringtone, I could hear it vibrating against the glass “OK, so The Lady Juxtaposed beat me to it. Lemme call real quick." She brought the phone up to the top of her head; rabbit problems, and connected almost right away. “Hey, Foulgydan The Lady Juxtaposed!" Every time Chance used the archwitch's full name, it sounded far more well-rehearsed and well-practiced than when anyone else did it. “Um, Forseti Fox is here, he has a Fangdyne Tystwole with him- I know you know, yes." The Foulgydan could read minds by intuition, and Florence and I were close enough for The Lady Juxtaposed to read.

Chance continued. “I can register for-" A pause. “I mean, I don't know, I didn't ask what it was. I think they asked for you by name." Another pause. “Are you sure they can't come down?" One last pause. “Definitely, um, thanks for responding, Foulgydan The Lady Juxtaposed, I'll handle it." With a palpable, anxious look, Chance returned to the two of us. “So, it looks like The Lady Juxtaposed wants me to handle this situation for, um, job training reasons, but no worries, Forsy, if it's too big to handle, you can definitely go down to see The Lady Juxtaposed." Something in her sudden nervous demeanor made it look as though the rabbit Mulgywai was hiding information.

I wasn't going to press yet, though, and nodded in response. It was kind of a hassle that we were here in the first place, I didn't want to dwell. “For sure. Um, so- I don't know, do you wanna describe it, Florence?"

Florence looked confused. I haven't checked, but I believe I've written that sentence more than ten times this chapter. “I don't think I, uh- I think you know more about this sort of thing."

“Totally. So, um, Florence is from Chicago. Her mother was Awngaimene, but I guess she got out of the society, and didn't do anything magical for, like, the amount of years that constitute however old Florence is. I didn't ask."

“I'm twenty-one." answered the vixen.

“Twenty-one years," I repeated, “And then, all of the sudden, her mother was either abducted, or disappeared, by some Shadow entity- It's transparent, but physical, and has antlers, and ripped my tail off. Anyway-"

The lagomorph then interrupted, “And your arm too?"

“No, I'm just stupid." My response had the delivery of a joke despite being a good reason why my arm was severed. I think I accidentally made Chance balk. “The weird thing; Florence's mother leaves a note with my address. What's weird is that I've never met her; a, um, Mary Johannson. So, Florence comes up, the Shadow attacks, I, um, may have sold my soul to it, and we faked Florence's death, but the thing went off, so now we gotta see Marianne tomorrow- er, I guess in two days, but I didn't want to drive, and went to Esu's, and-" I sighed for the seventy-sixth time, “I tried to pretend that Florence wasn't Fangdyne, but Fons was there, and told me to leave a notice of registration with the Mulgywai before I drive down, because Florence isn't ready for the full meeting yet. And I'm pretty sure the thing-that-we-shouldn't-talk-about hasn't noticed her yet."

Chance looked frantically through a blue binder full of what I assumed to be a Mulgywai training packet. “Yeah, that's um- For sure, that's- Quite complicated stuff-"

“Should we just see The Lady Juxtaposed?"

The brown-furred rabbit contemplated this, but then, all of the sudden, received a call on her cell. “One moment," she asked, picking the phone up before ominously answering the caller with short “Yeah's" and “Sure's." Then, “I'm on the phone with Foulgydan The Lady Juxtaposed, The Lady Juxtaposed, um- Yeah, knows what's up."

It's nerve-wracking when the ability to keep a secret is completely removed from you.

“And, um, feel free to visit Marianne first, but come back as soon as possible, and, um- Once you come back up here, visit with Foulgydan The Lady Juxtaposed as soon as possible, but in the meantime, for all of our safety- er, don't stay in Marquette too long, and don't waste time on the way down."

Such a declaration was far too ominous for me to feel comfortable, especially since The Lady Juxtaposed could pick up on subconscious thoughts as well; subconscious thoughts that had the potential to draw in other psychic entities like flies to rotting fruit.

I wasn't about to blame Chance for The Lady Juxtaposed's less-than-thoughtful request, though. I knew that it was I who set up this problem in the first place. “Oh, um, do I have time to let my arm heal?"

Chance closed her eyes, before painfully responding “The Lady Juxtaposed wants you to head out ASAP- I guess Florence could register, but, um- I'm so sorry, ma'am, this is a sort of magical thing that if you know more about it, the more likely it is that bad things will happen-" The rabbit glanced at her phone for a moment. “Foulgydan The Lady Juxtaposed told me to stop talking about it. The Lady Juxtaposed says that you could register now, but you have better chances of, um-" The next word was a bit quiet, “surviving, if you, um, just go see Marianne. You can heal your arm, though. "

We two foxes blinked in tandem as though in a cartoon. The low hum of the air conditioner and the patter of precipitation were the only sounds for a moment. Awkwardly, the rabbit added, “So 'surviving' isn't the best word that I could have used, I'm realizing."

I cut her off before I made things worse for her, “You're all good, Chance. We can do just that." I flashed a sly, foxy smile, “When we get back safe, let me know about that book club book, I like mysteries."

“Stay safe, Forsy."

Florence and I made our way back to the car, spending as little time in the torrential downpour as possible. I didn't have much to say for a moment; I didn't want to think too many thoughts while The Lady Juxtaposed was nearby.

“So…" started the arctic vixen, “What's with The Lady Juxtaposed?"

“Fucking psychics. They're always annoying."

“So, I'm not in the fit, at the moment, but if you couldn't tell, I'm kind of a witchy goth." admitted the white-furred vulpine. We were back at my cabin, the heavy rain enduring. I had finished brewing a peppermint chamomile tea; nothing particularly magical, but definitely nothing caffeinated. “I'm not even wearing eyeliner right now, that's rare."

“Huh, I kind of noticed the shirt, but, like, I only really know 'Bewitched,' and I think the 'The Hitchhiker' cover? But yeah, Liouxsy Lacroix and the Strigoix is kind of a goth band, from what I could gather?"

“Oh yeah, I noticed I was wearing the shirt earlier, I had to make sure you didn't think I was a poser." Florence laughed to herself, “So, um, I threw only a few outfits in my suitcase before I came up. Full disclosure; I kind of assumed that there'd be some sort of cult-like robe situation or something, if witches were real after all, and I didn't want to bring the corsets and chains if it embarrassed myself."

“That's rad as hell, though." I was currently wearing a sweater designed to look like a red flannel shirt, and garish pajama pants with feral foxes over a hot pink base color. I am not a goth.

“It's as if-" the other fox took a moment to collect her words. “I knew that if I went into this sort of thing with any expectation, it would just- I'd be off, by a lot. Even though my mother never let me in on her secret or something, I was still, well- I was a Wiccan for a while, but I guess just sort of a soft pagan over time. My friends kind of, um, have a coven actually. And, OK- in my head, I always thought that if I'd see, like, the secret, magical world, I'd be at least a little prepared, but there's just- I underestimated how weird this could be." Another pause, another moment to collect her words, “I don't know, I feel like I've had my jaw hanging open like a dumbass all evening, and I just want to- I guess- Just know that I'm ready for this. I am, um, more than ready to face a few more horrible things beyond my comprehension." She laughed again, a bit more heartily. I passed off her mug of tea.

“Florence, I am willing to bet that this evening has been, like, in the top five most traumatizing evenings for you-"

“Oh, it's number one. Not even close."

That got a chuckle out of me, “Nah, but, like, that was totally my situation too, after I met Marianne, and then a few of the Marquette beasts." I got to my paws and proceeded to light a rosemary-pine scented candle. I consider myself an amateur aromatherapist. It's a skill that goes paw-in-paw with my skills as an Apothecary, ideally.

“What dark-and-horrifying being brought you into all this?"

I felt the ghost of a blush paint my inner ear red. I didn't know if I was ready to tell the full story. I didn't want to scare the fox, but I didn't want her judgment either.

“Yeah, so there's this, um, Fungal Entity, living in Crystal Falls." My voice drifted off, “That's funny, actually, I think there's a town called 'Florence,' like, a mile away."

“Yeah, I used to think it was a way less common and, like, way more gothic- Victorian name when I chose it. Turns out there are fifty midwest towns named 'Florence,' and also a popular English musician."

I tilted my head, “You chose your name?"

“Yeah, when I transitioned."

I completely failed to notice, “Oh, for real- I don't know if, like, passing is a priority of yours or anything, but for real, I completely didn't notice you were trans."

This caused the vixen to straight-up cackle, “That's funny, actually- But thanks!" She proceeded to flash a toothy smile, having seemingly taken the comment as a compliment. “I guess I haven't figured out how to slip it into conversation when I meet people yet, if they don't notice."

“For sure! But yeah, remind me to tell the Fungal Entity story later, it's kind of, um, unnerving."

“More unnerving than that Shadow thing?"

“Well, less dangerous, for sure, but definitely, um- Eh, you're just gonna have to trust me."

“Is it like that thing that I'm not supposed to know about?"

Panic showed visibly on my muzzle, “I promise this isn't a bit. You gotta actively, like, monastically meditate and not think about that thing you're not supposed to think about."

Florence flicked her tongue, “How likely am I to survive?"

“Oh, like, well over seventy-five-percent-" Arguably, not the most comforting percentage, “But yeah, there are some straight-up fae-esque rules you have to follow in this world. I'm going to actively change the subject." Sleep deprivation caused the first thing to come to my mind to be a complete non sequitur. “The sun's probably gonna rise in, like, a few hours, if you want to see." I asked. I was in a fortunate enough location to see the celestial body peak over the Great Lake itself in a dazzling display, were I of a mind to get up often enough for a sunrise.

The arctic fox chuckled, less fervently than earlier, “Forseti, I've got to sleep. How long of a drive is it tomorrow?"

I pinched my forehead with my non-severed paw, “God, like, twenty hours- I'm helping, I promise. My arm's almost healed. I can probably do the first stretch, actually."

Florence took a long sip of the hot tea, the warm feeling quite comfortable after our foray into the cold Michigan air. “Thank you kindly. But we should probably sleep either way."

I nodded. “You're right. Is the couch comfy, and do you, like, need anything? More blankets?"

“This is all fine- Thanks Forseti."

I smiled. “For sure!"

“Seriously, thank you. I think you, um-" Florence's voice trailed off. “I'm pretty sure you saved my life, that's- I don't think most animals would do all of this for a stranger."

A warm feeling of selflessness buzzed in my chest. “Thanks- er, I mean, thank me when we find your mom."

“You're a cool fox, Forsy."

“Thanks, Flo."

A brief pause, preceded by an agitated, drawn-out, “-rrrence. Florence;" a pointed correction from the arctic vulpine.

“How many Progressive Insurance jokes do you get a day-"

“It happened once, and I'll never let it happen again. People have bled over this, Forsy."

I laughed as I headed towards my room. “I'm just saying, I flip back and forth between 'Forseti' and 'Forsy' that I swear I've started accidentally shortening people's one-syllable names. I know someone named 'Sarah,' and I swear I accidentally called her 'Sare,' once."

Florence looked dumbfounded. “Was that… a joke? I don't think I follow you."

“I don't know. I'm tired."

One last laugh escaped from our collective muzzles before oppressive yawns brought up the rear. “Yeah, it's bedtime."

“Goodnight, Forseti."

“See you in, like, fucking six hours- Marianne wants us to leave by noon."

“That's unfortunate."

“I've done this drive too many times."