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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. I began to brainstorm.

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 thought of it just then. 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 just right, I could separate my forearm from my upper arm. The resilient fungal hyphae running throughout my body would remain intact, 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 anyway. 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 normal 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, the hyphae maintained their integrity. I placed the hatchet down and pulled my arm out further, until the only thing holding the two segments were rope-like rhizomorphs the length of a few meters. If I jumped into the lake, 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 started 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 have a tendency to 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? It literally was walking!” 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 audibly 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 in annoyance. “Down to- All the way to Louisiana? 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, rubbing at open air. “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 aggrivation; 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 shimmered a bit in the ambient light 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- 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 my Gods, 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 impulse wasn’t helped by the strange fungus dissolving in her stomach acid.

“Oh yeah, so- I guess after the Shadow made you pass out, I sort of, uhh… I 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 sort-of near 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 real magic, because probably only about twenty-five percent of that sort of thing is based on something real, 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, I think, 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.”

“I was going to say: I assume most witch hunts weren’t based on actual witches, but there were actual witch hunters?.”

“Not really, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, an innocent person got killed, and in the leftover cases, an innocent witch got killed, but not due to anyone’s expertise. Moving on, though- That’s a downer. In addition to witches, there are magical entities and spirits constantly 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- um, where was I? Uh, 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, y’know, a lot of people have to, like, drop off the grid, or fake their own death, and nobody can become a figure in the public eye or anything, 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 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. 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, I don’t know why. That’s people who do medicine magic, like me.”

“Wait, but I thought you practiced fungal magic.”

“You can kind of just learn whatever magic you want if you have the time. But yeah, not to get into detail on that; I feel like, um, there’s a bunch more terms, but I should actually properly introduce my whole thing. I’m just Awngaimene, I’m not Mulgywai, even though I do, like, the apothecary work and odd jobs, I have to do DoorDash and a podcast still, or the IRS will be afraid that I’m 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 first; 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 men in black or anything. 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 still looked completely dazed. I could practically see physical 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 for her. 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.” A breather break would do both of us good.

it would be smarter to sleep a little, and journey to houma 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 pot 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 a purple witch’s hat, having felt entirely naked without an article of clothing on top of my head. My thoughts dwelled on Florence’s prolonged respite. Maybe something within me needed a prolonged 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 channeler, 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 was 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, 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?”

“Well, 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-”

“I don’t think baking can be considered cuisine-”

“Your chances at getting a taste to find out are dwindling.”

I didn’t press the semantic point. “It’s incredible, either way. 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. 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 maraschino 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. It was 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 have a reputation now, apparently, 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. “Are you talking about 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, if it saves time-”

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 shadowy 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 filling the silence. “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 facefur 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’ option-” he continued with air quotes- “is pretty brutal. We’re not going to talk about it, 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, as if it were my permission to give. “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 mostly-full glass with the Manhattan, 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 The Lady Juxtaposed’s whole story often, but the gist is; I think The Lady Juxtaposed is 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- Anyway, the two animals got kind of, um, combined, I guess? And both animals functionally died, and the combined bodies just sort of, like, formed 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, and she again asked the question that I forgot to answer. “And why are we using The Lady Juxtaposed’s whole name?”

“I think I don’t know entirely.”

“Does The Lady Juxtaposed 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. That’s, uh… that’s a lot, but thanks for the heads up.”

“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.

Thankfully, the roof above connected to the front door, and Florence and I were able to entirely escape getting drenched. An electronic chime sang out as the other vulpine opened the door for me, and 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.” and summoned to chase her all the same.

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 our minds fluently.

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. I went on. “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, Forsy.”

“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, “Give or take. 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 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.” which was wrong.

Chance looked frantically through a blue binder full of what I assumed to be a Mulgywai training packet, despite the fact that she wasn’t new. “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 cold air drummed up by 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 outfit, 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?” I don’t know why I stated obvious, previously-stated information.

“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. Everything was a mess, I didn’t have time. 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, I was still, well- I was a Wiccan for a while, but I guess I just transitioned into 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 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, in order to establish my amatuer expertise as an aromatherapist again.

“What dark-and-horrifying being brought you into all this? Or- I know it’s the Fungal Entity, but what is… what are they like?”

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 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 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’ pretty much all the time, that might spell doom for you.”

Florence then took on a faux-threatening demeanor. “You value your life so little?”

“I’ll probably value it more after I sleep. 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.”