There was a swarm of five-foot tall faefolk at Mustang’s Township High School. As the students (Kendo included) hopped off the bus, they looked upon the unclothed, mantis-winged, sticks-for-a-body and holes-for-eyes faefolk, dumbfounded. Then they immediately ran for the hills that poked out behind the football field. Kendo, instead of following the herd, walked straight up to the grinning, pointy-eared, crimson-skinned fae who was hovering right by the school’s entrance and demanded an explanation.

The teachers stood in awe. Some were slapping themselves; others were pacing back and forth like nervous chickens and still others were mumbling to themselves, trying to decide whether or not they needed therapy or a CAT scan. And then there was the infamous Mr. Browning who was staring at the multicolored faefolk like they were a perfect example of abstract beauty to force on his new art appreciation class. (He also taught at University during the summer and constantly riled over the complete and utter incompetence of high school students. He was responsible for many a failed dropout and even more student parking regulations.) The faefolk were doing a kind of pacing themselves, flying back and forth and up and down around the school’s perimeter. Each of them looked like a hunting griffon, crouched but suspended in the air waiting to dive at their prey. Kendo had seen a griffon in Creature’s Court. He remembered Enkaiein’s polite nod and the griffon’s graceful bow in return. He decided he liked griffons better than whatever these things were.

Kendo crossed his arms and stared down that red fae like a mudslide wouldn’t move him and rephrased his question, “What are you doing in the human world? Aren’t you people supposed to be hanging around Creature’s Court?”

Naked but for her black pearl necklace, the fae twitched more than fluttered backward. She was just slightly taller than Kendo and, like the rest of the faefolk, had skin made of intertwined tapering twigs. In her case, the twigs were red. Others had yellow or blue or even multicolored weavings for skin that crisscrossed all the way down their bellies and back, where their spiral patterned wings burst out from underneath the folds. They looked like dyed wicker baskets. The red one hissed at Kendo, “You! You murder our Frock!”

Glancing at the faefolk crowding around him, Kendo said, voice like ice, “Frock deserved it.”

A collective hiss enveloped the faefolk before their red leader responded, “You human. You filthy! You do not decide our Frock’s fate. We decide! We say when our Frock gets murder!” Her voice was a breathy, angry cat-whisper.

“Well Frock’s dead. Get over it.” Kendo said, sounding bored. He was so tired of all this monster shit.

Another collective fricative and Kendo found himself sandwiched in the arms of a burly green fae from behind. Of course, not a single teacher moved to help. They were all too busy trying to decide whether or not they were insane. All the students had fled, leaving Kendo with only himself to rely on. Well, he was used to that at least. Dropping down so fast the faefolk barely saw him move, Kendo slipped out of the fae’s grip, plunged through the swarm just as he and Melanie had scrambled through Creature’s Court, and shed his jeans jacket (which frankly didn’t look nearly as good as his old leather one, and was uncomfortable and itchy) to raise his guard a few yards out of reach.

“This human feisty,” one fae said.

Then they all charged, buzzing toward Kendo in a cloud that, because their skin was made of woven twigs, looked much like an oversized, multicolored tumbleweed. When Kendo had crushed Frock, Frock’s joints cracked out first, and that’s what he aimed for with these things. They attacked like any massive bug their size would, with sharp stinging motions from every angle they could find. Kendo managed not to get too banged up and countered by crushing every elbow, knee, and shoulder he could under his foot or his elbow, depending on where the attacks were coming from. The faefolk’s limbs were lanky and fragile and Kendo could easily split some of them in half, leaving each fae crumpled on the ground sans their right forearm or their left shin or wailing in agony over a dislocated, bent wing. None of them bled; instead their arms and legs broke apart like ripped seams, splintering and unweaving themselves as they disconnected from their bodies. The faefolk doubled back, slashing and biting more frantically now, and caught Kendo off-guard in his momentary exhaustion.

Just then, as Kendo was thrown down, buckling hard on the pavement of the school’s parking lot, a howl that could make a pro-wrestler shake in terror echoed above the scratchy hisses of the faefolk. Kendo couldn’t see what happened; there was dust in his eyes from when he fell, but he heard the cracks of the faefolk’s limbs and their agonizing near-silent screeches, heard pounding and kicks and growls, felt the entire hoard stumble backward and away. He scrubbed his eyes and squinted up at his savior, who extended a strong hand to help Kendo off the ground.

“You’re the,” Kendo stalled. “You’re the waiter,” He finished, shocked.

Standing there with Kendo’s hand still in his was the very same waiter who had chased Kendo and Melanie out of one of the huts, way back when Melanie had confronted Grivgas. The same spiky fur on his head and the same serious look, but no longer in his diamond-white tuxedo; the waiter (who looked much different in a hoodie and jeans) let go of Kendo’s hand, not a scratch on him. Backing away cautiously and deliberate were the faefolk, all of them hissing and glaring, if glaring was even possible with their holes-for-eyes.

Turning his back on Kendo, the waiter yelled, “Be gone!” His voice was just as deep and violent as it had been back in Creature’s Court and Kendo found himself a teensy bit intimidated. Facing Kendo as the entire cloud of faefolk skidded into the sky, leaving behind any of their dead and some forgotten limbs, the waiter said, “Victor sent me. You’re one stupid human to take on so many faefolk on your own. He figured something like this would happen. Frock may have had a ton of enemies but that bloody conniving Gatherer had plenty of allies too.”

“Victor who?” Kendo was getting sick of not knowing what the hell was going on. Last time he saw this guy he was convinced he’d rip both his and Melanie’s throats out if given the chance.

“You know him,” said the waiter as he gestured to his head of fur, motioning over it back and forth, “Got slick-backed hair, lots of teeth.”

The bartender from another of the Creature’s Court huts entered Kendo’s mind. “His name’s Victor?” Even though Grivgas and Enkaiein had names, Kendo was still struggling with the idea of monsters having bona fide identities. Shrugging, since this guy had admittedly saved his life, Kendo stuck out his hand for a shake, “I’m Kendo. What do they call you?”

The waiter didn’t shake his hand and instead stared at it like it was diseased. “Wilfred.”

Kendo mused over Wilfred’s attitude problem as he pulled his jeans jacket off the pavement and slapped it clean. “Okay then, Wilfred. So why would someone from Olden want to save me? Last time I spoke with that guy—Victor was it?—He seemed to have a pretty low opinion of humans.”

It was Wilfred’s turn to shrug, “Victor just thinks you’re all weaklings. I wouldn’t say he has a low opinion of you.”

“Yeah, great, thanks. Get on with it.”

Wilfred sighed, in that single exhale expressing how rude he thought Kendo was for interrupting, and said, “Victor has a soft spot for humans brave enough to enter Creature’s Court. Says they’re more daring than the rest to come to a place where practically everything wants to eat them. That’s how he got to know Melissa so well.”

“Who?”

“Purple hair.”

“So she is human, then.”

Kendo got a nod out of Wilfred for that comment but nothing more.

By this point, all the teachers had gone off either in search of the runaway students or to check themselves into a psych ward. Wilfred stuck his hands in his jean pockets and walked a few paces before craning his head back at Kendo. “Coming?”

“Coming where?”

“Olden,” Wilfred said like he was talking to a two year old.

With a quick survey of the empty school parking lot, Kendo shrugged. “Whatever.” It was easier to do whatever Wilfred said than try and fight it at this point. He didn’t give a damn anymore. He followed Wilfred off school grounds, stepping over and around the sprawled carcasses and limbs as he went like they were nothing more than logs in his path. He followed Wilfred for about a mile in an extremely convoluted, meandering pattern.

Then they came upon a bike path. Kendo recognized it. Eventually it would lead past the school bus parking lot and around that pond where Grivgas lived. It would also lead past Melanie’s apartment. Kendo expected his stomach to lurch or his feet to give way as they meandered through the neighborhood but nothing ever happened. He felt unbearably numb. Wilfred gave him a small glance every now and then, more to make sure he was still behind him than anything. His presence was that of a babysitter or a chauffeur who hadn’t gotten his money yet; clearly he didn’t want to be doing this and kept his back to Kendo for most of the trip. It was midday when they passed Melanie’s old apartment. Kendo didn’t even look at it twice. He just jogged to keep up, letting his gaze momentarily wander to the hole in the screen door then back to Wilfred and that was that. He wondered why he couldn’t feel anything. It hadn’t been like this with his mom; he’d been clinically depressed for years after his mom died, but with Melanie it was as if she wasn’t even important. Like a war statistic instead of a person he knew. He couldn’t even find it in himself to hate thinking that way. Maybe he was just overwhelmed with all this shit.

“Through here,” Wilfred said, snapping Kendo out of his thoughts as he wiggled between bushes onto the bike path again.

Kendo was getting a tad irritated with all this roundabout junk. “We could’ve gotten onto this path from right behind the school you know,” he said.

Wilfred scoffed, “You humans don’t know anything. No wonder none of you can find Olden even though it’s everywhere.” He shook himself off like a dog, dripping leaves and tiny little twigs onto the path before beckoning Kendo to continue their march. After a while, when Kendo had almost forgotten his remark, Wilfred explained in a tone that suggested he was just getting bored without a conversation, “Olden isn’t someplace you can take a direct path to. You have to smell it out. It’s like trying to hunt a rabbit without knowing where the hole is.”

That made no sense to Kendo. He shrugged and pretended to understand. That seemed to frustrate Wilfred even more; and so once again they continued on, both of them on edge and feeling awkward without anything to talk about. After a while the awkwardness faded to a welcome trudge for Kendo; it was nice just putting one foot in front of the other, letting his mind sink into a comforting quiet where all he heard were his and Wilfred’s footsteps.

Wilfred cleared his dry throat. “Here we are,” he said just as the sun was about to set and the sky tinted reddish orange. They were at the nook in the path that led to Grivgas’ hideaway. As they stepped inside, the air shimmered. It looked much cleaner than last time; not a carcass to be found and the wind smelled like buttercups. The trees folded into a sun-blocking canopy and Kendo could hear a dog yapping happily in the distance. It had turned sunny all the sudden. Herds of grasshoppers skittered in and out of the underbrush, which was so vibrantly green it was starting to give Kendo a headache.

“I thought Grivgas lived here,” Kendo said, watching a garter snake slither near Wilfred’s heel. It looked friendly. Everything looked friendly, from the thumb-sized glittery people who were perched atop red vines climbing up the trees to the very trees themselves, standing tall and inviting all around them. It was creeping Kendo out. Things here seemed too nice, too nonthreatening. It had to be a front for something darker.

“There’s more than just Creature’s Court in Olden,” said Wilfred. He smiled for the first time in Kendo’s presence and nodded at a little shorthaired dachshund in their path that yapped a happy hello in response before zipping away to chase something Kendo couldn’t see.

“Cute dog,” he said.

“She’s more a brat than anything,” Wilfred responded, smile forgotten.

There was something drumming in Kendo’s left ear. He shook his head to get it out and instead felt something bite him on his earlobe and not let go. “Ow!” He pulled at whatever it was. It was as big as his forefinger and wide as a quarter in the middle. It felt like sand and slime. Yanking harder, he managed to pull it off of his earlobe. He scrunched his nose at it. It had huge green eyes so close together they looked like the infinity symbol and a body made of sandstone. He couldn’t fathom how it was staying together, but it had managed to tear some of Kendo’s hair out and held it between its two claws like a shiny pink trophy.

Wilfred plucked it out of Kendo’s hand and pitched it into the woods. A drumbeat sounded way too loudly as it plopped on the ground somewhere in the distance. “Keep an eye out. Those things blow your eardrums if they get the chance.”

Kendo squinted into the distance where Wilfred had thrown the thing and kept following. A half-hour hike away was a clearing full of sand, like some landscaper had started a huge project and not gotten past the first step of uprooting everything. The sun still shone. It was hot, too hot for the beginning of fall.

“Here we are,” Wilfred said and spun around to face Kendo, standing smack in the middle of the sand clearing. It was about the size of the high school gymnasium and looked colorless compared to the rest of the surroundings where the trees were green as could be, their bark sparkling in the sun with the glittery skin of the tiny people.

Kendo stopped and stared at him expectantly, not saying a word.

“You’ve made yourself a boatload of enemies killing Frock,” Wilfred said in a sigh, “And I don’t want to be the one going back and forth between Olden and Reality to save you all the time.”

More wordless Kendo, hands shoved in his leather pant pockets, face like a monument.

Wilfred started pacing. He would’ve looked like a professor if he had been wearing his diamond-white tuxedo, but in his hoodie and jeans he just looked antsy. “Because you’re human the best way to prepare you is to teach you magic, since physical strength won’t work on a lot of things and humans are pretty scrawny anyway.” Kendo gave Wilfred an indignant look that didn’t please him. His white spiky fur-for-hair stood on end and he said in a voice so stern it would shut up a laughing hyena, “With an attitude like that I’d rather let them kill you.”

Kendo rolled his eyes. “I can’t learn magic. I’m not a wizard or anything and I can’t even do card tricks or figure out how to use those fake wands that bend by themselves.” He remembered trying out slight-of-hand back in grade school when his mother was alive for School Magic Day. Everyone was supposed to pick a magic trick from out of a hat (you know, for irony’s sake) and perform it in front of an assembly of parents and relatives for some charity event after school. Kendo screwed up his trick, dropped the card out of his palm before he could pretend to pull it out of someone’s ear in the audience. But still, his mom had clapped and said how proud she was. It made him feel better but he never tried anything like that again, if he could get out of it.

“I’m not talking about trickery,” Wilfred said, “I’m talking about real magic. You don’t need any slight-of-hand for the real thing. Humans are the best at it.”

“And why would humans be good at magic? Last time I checked we were just meant to be food for the rest of you.” One painful image of Melanie struck Kendo’s thoughts but vanished as swiftly as it had come.

Wilfred acted like he hadn’t heard Kendo, “Humans have by far the best imagination of any creature. If you learn to use it, it’ll be the best tool you’ve got. And it’s limitless.” Now he really did sound like a professor. A strong wind gusted the sand. It swirled along the ground, mirroring the flat clouds sweeping overhead that were the same white as Wilfred’s fur-for-hair.

“Fine,” Kendo said unenthusiastic, “What do I do?”

Wilfred put his hands on his hips, disappointed. He lowered his head at Kendo, suddenly looking old and worn; the spiky fur on his head looked as though it was lacking pigment instead of being a naturally poppy white. “If you’ve got an attitude like that then you won’t get anywhere with it.”

“What attitude?” Kendo asked honestly. From where he was standing he was aggressively void of attitude.

“That!” Wilfred threw his head back and his arms out, “That right there! You don’t have any passion! You don’t seem to have an opinion on anything! Isn’t there anything you feel strongly about?”

Melanie’s smile flashed in Kendo’s mind, Melanie’s death soon after. “There was.” Kendo’s voice was dull as ever. He still couldn’t feel anything.

Wilfred gave him a thoughtful expression. It was the first time Kendo had seen him look genuinely concerned. Just when the staring was beginning to get uncomfortable, Wilfred averted his eyes and said, “All right, better than nothing. Let’s give it a shot. Think of that thing you used to care about. Remember that feeling. Think hard on it. Make something happen.”

“This isn’t going to work.”

Wilfred crossed his arms and tapped his foot.

Kendo sighed. Might as well humor the guy. He didn’t know how to get back to Reality anyway.

The problem was Kendo didn’t want to think about Melanie. He didn’t want to remember. He was getting over it. He already had his breakdown in the middle of Creature’s Court and now he was moving on. He’d convinced himself of that.

Except now he was scared to even whisper her name in the back of his mind. Afraid—no, terrified—that all he’d really done was bury his emotion under a brick wall of stoicism, that his “I don’t care” act was just that: an act.

Wilfred cleared his throat. “I can smell the fear on you. Use it.”

“Can it,” snapped Kendo, one index finger jutted in Wilfred’s direction.

Wilfred smirked. He knew Kendo could use that temper of his too, if he only found a way to channel it.

“So all I have to do is imagine something?”

“Exactly. Just picture it in front of you. You don’t have to use sight either; you can use smell or a sound. Anything so long as you can really feel it.”

“Okay then.” There was only one thing Kendo wanted. Denying it wouldn’t help. He wanted Melanie, wanted her right there beside him safe and alive, and so that’s what he imagined. He thought of her smile, her walk, the way she leaned on one hip when she was irritated, her eyes and hair and how it had felt so illogically peaceful when they’d huddled together for warmth those nights in the wood, surrounded by shadows and monsters.

Wilfred shuffled backward. He saw her before Kendo did, a faint afterimage of Melanie standing behind Kendo with a betrayed expression on what was left of her slashed-up face.

He had succeeded.