Today there would be battle - Death? Life was full of risks. That it wasn't monsters he would be facing -

Life was precarious for Weston. That more and more members of his family were urging an attack on the Font, and he could feel his leverage slipping. They all had drunk, now - that none of them had awoken a 'Power' yet was something. It meant he had time -

Weston wouldn't wait -

They had no idea what they were up against. How powerful Hickory was. That Weston had always known there was a...sinister element. The Covanger Family could be ruthless. They didn't kill, they didn't need to - not since the glory, or gory, days - depending on what Grand Uncle you asked - that they were capable of it?

Of course Weston felt safe, they wouldn't attack a family member - would one of them attack Hickory?

It was an unknown. What was also was unknown was if a bullet could even harm Hickory.

There had been no accidents, no friendly-fire, in their defensive work of Red Hills, in closing the incursion - that he had been learning trigger safety from -

"You want help with them cows now?" Gage asked.

"I wake you?"

Gage shrugged, "Time I got up."

"Sure, it's gonna be a beast today."

"Ya still doing it then? I'm telling you it's stupid."

"You don't -"

"Fuck you." Gage punched the counter, "I ain't pussin' out, I know your reasons, just pour the coffee."

Weston snorted. And he poured the coffee - but only because Gage moved to the stove and cussed some eggs into a half cooked pile that didn't resemble an omelette and yet also failed to be scrambled - they tasted bad. He ate them anyway, then took his time before he tugged on his boots - a hat.

He wore a hat now - his boots were dirty, work boots, a mix of mud and cow shit, blood too, if you looked hard enough, certainly.

"You takin Best out?" Gage asked and Weston nodded, "I'll saddle 'em up so you can finish your ponderin."

Weston ignored him, a drink of coffee. He did need to ponder, he did need to plan. That this was delicate, it involved many moving parts, too much risk - to take lightly. Their lives -

Because he would be attacking a Font today - that most of the Covanger land around here was unimproved, rural, for cattle and oil derricks. That Red Hills had become their 'Capital' because it was quiet, unassuming - the Covanger corporate offices were in Oklahoma City and Dallas. That wasn't important, now it was all about farm land.

That he'd been correct in assuming that other towns that had Covanger land and built a Town Hall had not preserved their ownership, that their land had been stolen, their attempts to have it returned, to even meet the Font owner ignored...

Today represented a broad stroke, that neither his family nor his enemies would doubt his capabilities, his intent, or his power. That foes would tremble - that they all would shake and rue the day they went against the Covangers -

But the cows came first -

He stomped out his house, the sun nearly rising and Gage was leaning against the new fencing, two horses saddled up, Oats and Best - they'd cost him dearly, an oil producer buying horses - fancy that. Weston had paid in gold for 18 horses. He'd got the best he could find because that was next, wasn't it? That he could be one brake pad, one leak away from his truck being next to useless? If they didn't run out of fuel first...

He'd be prepared -

Weston approached Best warmly, pulled a sugar cube out of his pocket and held it, palm out - stroking her dark grey mane. She was lovely, he could tell from her coat she was healthy, the muscular development in her thighs, the fullness of her teeth that she was young and fed properly, and from her demeanor she was safe to approach, gentle -

Skill: Livestock

Unfortunately, that knowledge didn't help him here as much as he'd like - unlike Gage who hopped into the saddle like he was born to it, though it was just his third time on a horse -

Skill: Riding

That his skill cost just as much? Who would have thought so much went into just riding an animal. It covered their health, diet, saddles, rigging, commands, so much - That Gage said it wasn't that simple, and that it was just the basics, that he still felt ignorant -

"Not the reins." Gage corrected with a soft and gentle voice, not for Weston's benefit, "Hold that pommel and swing your leg over that pretty girl, bring your knee up slow and don't drop on her, you wouldn't want somebody jumping on your back, just gentle now, treat her like a lady."

Weston rolled his eyes, but he had to learn. That Gage acted like it all just made sense - that he didn't buy a skill.

"Now hold the reins gently, rub her neck and greet her nicely." Gage's soothing, deep voice just as patient and plodding as the hooves, and he could tell the animals loved him already, no sugar cubes needed.

Animals could be smarter then you'd guess...

Weston's herd of cows were almost always at the river, the first place he looked. Gage walked him through dismounting after they'd trotted there, giving him new tips each day. The cows were already coming over. Weston grabbed the sack of molasses coated feed, gave Best a nibble and turned to his mooing charges, they didn't approach - they were being trained.

His bull was up front - the ornery bastard was finally learning some respect, but it hadn't been easy. Long horned and balls bigger then Weston reckoned was comfortable, more power to him.

"Alright, Butch, if you want a go." Weston called and Butch snorted. Gage took Bests reigns and trotted them back shaking his head like every time he saw it, "I'm beat you some day, I'm just gettin stronger."

Butch snorted again, his hoof kicked the grassy knoll, the cows gave long hollers egging him on or just telling him to move so they could have some oats?

"Have it your way." Weston said and started walking over, the ladies shuffling back, but Butch gave another snort and moved forward, too.

That it was exactly like that time he'd almost fought Hickory? Something instinctual - amongst male animals regardless of species, some need - and Weston's Skill reaffirmed his knowledge and also warned him. That this bull was too wild, good breeding stock, but was to be corralled and cautioned with -

It was a challenge.

They closed, what made it so difficult was that he couldn't show his fire, it spooked them - that Weston was constantly practicing his control, being able to call upon it and keep it under his hat?

When Weston was close enough he raised his arms, like horns - and caught Butch's. locking as though he were a Bull himself. The weight -

That was what got him, it was like trying to push a car, and then when Butch moved? Weston was pushing back, struggling to get enough purchase on the ground to at least keep from being pushed back.

And it all almost ended right there, because Butch didn't go down, didn't try to lift his head up like he normally did, Butch twisted. His neck swinging to the right and moving forward at the same time.

Weston felt his weight pivot, lose his footing, slide -

"No!" Gage shouted.

Butch moved forward as Weston's knee hit the ground, and now the head, the horns came - Weston crawled, scrambled forward on his knees waiting for the crush -

"Forward, move forward!"

Gage shouted, amongst anxious moos - Oats' whinny, and Weston scrambled, not even looking, felt his arm brush Butch's leg, his knee splat in cow shit, his heart hammering as he moved through the heard, not looking back.

"Clear!" Gage shouted, Weston turned, looked and saw Gage had his shotgun unslung, was pivoting around Butch who was eyeing him - Gage continued to circle the Bull -

It's what had saved Weston, the slow speed in which he turned, all that weight. Of course Weston knew that on a technical level but to see it? To be saved by it, to observe somebody using it as a tactic on a Bull?

Weston's training - fighting. Military Combatives and boxing, he trained to end fights, not start them, but the technique - what Weston really saw was how different parts of life connected.

How they came together, and he should have known already:

'People. Cows. Know them the same, know them by name.'

That it sounded so dismissive until you worked a herd, you let yourself learn from an animal, to say an animal could teach you about life? What then a person? It was a saying of Grandpappy's that was almost always repeated in mockery.

Weston didn't believe that was the intent, not at all - not anymore.

Weston circled around, checked his heart. Took a breath. Gage eyed him, pissed off - furious, even, it was always hard to tell with Gage and Weston had learned not to read too much into people, right? Assume?

Instead Weston returned to Butch - who was still guarding his turf - his women. Butch had won this bout, he'd give him that, Weston nodded to him, reclaiming the feed and cutting it open carefully...even bags couldn't be wasted...

Carefully he offered Butch a handful of feed first, then moved, to mingle with the other cows.

He still didn't know all their names without the tags, the numbers pinned to their ears - but he knew some, especially his favorite -

"Where's Delilah? Where you at pretty girl, come on over -" Delilah always got two handfuls because she was going to be his first to calve. That she'd come to him already ripe, and he didn't know the stud meant it was a wildcard - he wouldn't be able to breed it without risk, not being able to track the line - strange to have thoughts like that -

"That'd be a good name, eh? For your little one, Wildcard - for your baby, Delilah, when it comes?" She moo'd in delight, and Weston gave her neck a pat and a scratch - then treated the others as well -

Bag of feed empty, quite a few disappointed ladies, after all he had a hundred - "I can't please ya'll, not every day - but ole' Butch has my back, don't ya?" Weston looked over and offered a wink, "You better, ole boy, cause this land ain't got room for a man with balls not willing to use 'em."

They trotted back to the farm, Weston saw his employees had arrived, one was opening the barn and moving the stalled horses to the corral, the other was refueling his generator -

"Rally up!" Weston shouted slowing Best's canter to a trot by slowly pulling on the reigns. He'd not galloped once per Gage's advice - and he felt a pang of jealousy seeing how easily, how naturally Gage stepped off Oates. So Weston stayed mounted as his men approached -

"Tate, Peter, Morning fellas."

"Morning boss." They nodded.

"Families doing good? Good, now today - we've discussed it a bit already, but tonights the night we're going to do a drive through, when can you reach for a gun?"

"Shadows, Bloodshed or Bullets,"

"Alright, anybody nervous or have concerns, I need to know before we go, not out there. This is not a part of your duties and your jobs are safe, this is an interview."

The men nodded. Trusted Covanger men that were discreet, not thugs. They were paid well and had worked for a Covanger business for over five years - but what made a trusted man was changing, Weston had realized - and he needed reliable help if he was going to accomplish everything he needed to do.

He went over the plan again, what they expected could be different from their maps - everything. The routes they knew were blocked due to abandoned vehicles, how to deal with the shadows, but most importantly -

"Stick around here today, I don't want any hiccups. Go into the house to rest, relax, whatever you need."

They nodded as Pierson showed up.

Pierson was late - of course, obviously had rushed out the door, his clothes - dress clothes. Weston snorted as he saw him get out of his truck, then remembered just weeks ago Hunter had snorted at Weston - Good - he'd needed that...

"Hey, Weston." Pierson said walking over and Weston looked down at him from his mount, "Sir."

Weston nodded, he could hear the surliness - that had to be reigned in quick -

"Your wife is good, cousin?" Weston asked after a pause he took to look out over his land, that Pierson had land as well and chose to live in town? It'd be easy for him to move, assuming Weston's plan worked.

"Yes, Sir."

"And you've drank?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Everybody make it?"

Pierson nodded, "We just lost one truck."

It had been a risk - the convoy. They had begun venturing out, risking the travel, trying to understand the other Fonts, to plan for the future.

The shadows attacked vehicles first. Either the noise, or the heat or - if you weren't quick you were stranded. Which is why the roads were so bad, without a truck? A good truck?

It was a necessary expense and risk, to have the Blue font. Covanger Blue.

Weston nodded, "Then wait here, keep an eye out, I don't want anybody leaving the property."

"Alright, but - what are we doing?"

"You'll see tonight." Weston said and left it at that, he gave Best a gentle tap with his heel and trotted off - was he smiling? He had to leave to hide it, because this was power. This wasn't a board room, this wasn't a carbon copy, a facsimile of whatever modern day boot licking that people called power, respect, this was older then all that, this was being a man -

Pierson was still watching as Weston got off his horse, it was easy to fall, if Best shifted her weight, if his boot got caught in the stirrups - Gage came over and took the horse, leading her into the barn to put the tack away and brush her down -

"Thank ya boss man." He said winking -

"Shut the fuck up, field hand." Weston said under his breath - that Gage had no resentment for 'being on the books' as a field hand? That he also worked his ass off, even not knowing how much he'd end up getting paid - right now they were letting employees choose their pay, they got vouchers - beef, food, resources they needed and eight marbles a day, nobody wanted dollars -

A marble an hour, that was the new minimum wage, and it was more a token payment because nobody even knew what they were worth yet, not really. That Hickory had blown a years salary on fishing poles at the market was damn near unbelievable -

Supply and Demand -

Weston stomped back into his house and got another cup of coffee, then him and Gage would drive out to get the others, to go fight, kill monsters, his daily rhythm -

May walked within the Chapel. She always came in the mornings once she'd finished the food preparation. Bathing - presenting herself, that her family practically lived at the Church to keep everything going, and it was so close.

She was getting closer, to unlocking the power of the book, 'The Blood' that one person claimed to unlock it after reading the first page, she'd read the whole book twice -

The Book of Blood - people called it, and it sounded morbid, but it was never said in such a manner, it was all in the tone, the delivery - the meaning. That didn't mean that some parts of the book didn't trouble her -

Dripping, dribbling, leaking loss, pierced and perforated, banal beating, hardly breathing, inwardly seething, hunger teething, pleasing, pitying, party of present injured persons pleading, holed by some determined needling, yet reaches still for life -

It was...dying, bleeding to death - that perspective, and yet somehow May couldn't help but find it each time she read, sometimes several times - it echoed within her. That wasn't to say she had murder in her veins?

Of course, it was just that it mentioned needling, and that was certainly what had first attracted her to it. She was confident it was more then just emotion, more then just a body part. May felt like it was personality. It was want. Perhaps even need that awoke the power within. That it was a manifestation of that, it had to be -

May didn't want to hurt anybody, but she recalled her father's words - he wasn't a pacifist. And that was what she read within the lines, that it was defensive - Right? Absolutely, that - that her Passion, that part of her wasn't for causing pain, wasn't for hurting, that she couldn't call on it for such a need - it was inspiration, she could feel it when she sang, when she stitched, sometimes even when she smiled...

No, that passion, it was a precious thing, a silk ribbon, a rhythmic melody. And certainly not fish scales -

It still bothered her, that there was only one subtle way to demonstrate her displeasure - to return the favor with an equally awful present.

That was her next task of the day, she played the loom - the girls, other women all took turns but they weren't as talented as her. If somebody was using it they got up the second May arrived.

Crowds would gather when she played, some came every day to listen, of course they did. The music was like no other, it had taken time to understand it, it was - well, complicated...how it worked, how it responded, how it mattered what you put into it.

She pulled out her purse filled with containers, first she removed marbles, placing a couple in the indention with the beveled surface. It didn't need marbles to work, but it added something. May had merely tried it one day, and to her surprise it served a secondary purpose as well, that people had seen them and they 'tipped her'.

That she always left with more even as the instrument consumed them, appreciative listeners walked up and deposited them in, it didn't interrupt her, it was applause, reinforcement of her talent and ability -

That today was special because she was making Hickory something - using those nasty fish scales, other fitting materials. She pulled containers from her purse and began filling up the various reservoirs - the fish scales went in one nook, then river water was poured into a vase. She added a handfull of the hard nuts - bitternut, black walnut, but also pecan -

She put in a handful of grass in that same spot he had - a memory, cherished but also a childish reminder, an empty shotgun shell went in another vessel, a scoop of dirt, a piece of sharp glass from a broken beer bottle.

Then she began to play, her biggest surprise from the loom was that the 'Ingredients' changed the sound, that she didn't know what song was right until she ran her hands over the keys - water was consistent, the notes splashed, and of course grass was wild and reckless, hungry - the glass surprised her because it didn't bring the sharpness she'd hoped for, but neither did it make the notes brittle, mostly smooth - perhaps? Reflective? Distorted?

Of course it was the fish scales that really mattered - all those tiny scales, it made the notes shiny, but also shortened them, brief sparks of life which meant she would have to play quickly - it meant this wasn't a song for singing, a shame because her voice always enhanced the cloth - no helping it -

She played, letting the notes beat out with a staccato rhythm, starting high and quick, her fingers danced across the keys, at first tying chords together. Finding her pace, her preferences, she began working her way though the material, searching for a resonance and purpose that could knit them tight, that could properly mock him in return, to tease and tantalize - and she was struggling - music came easy to May - why was this so difficult? She could see him in her mind, she knew him, she should be able to play him -

It was only then, as the world brightened around her, that she realized - this wasn't for Hickory. It was the sun, as it crested one of the nearby buildings on it's it trip through the sky a beam fell onto the instrument and the notes changed -

Light mattered too? Of course it did. That May was normally done by now, normally played in early morning - was only taking so long because she was struggling - how would she notice unless the light changed as she was playing?

The light hit the loom and the notes changed, they finally grew stronger, brighter - they rose, it hit the fish scales and they glittered like a handful of gems, dark blue, some so dark to almost be black, as oil - perhaps like they'd been covered in the monster gore, not tarnished, but polished from the battle -

"There is a house in Old Red Hills they call the Rising Son -"

May didn't know it was a premonition - it wasn't, not truly, she wasn't predicting the future with the magic, that her and Weston spoke often, that all the hints had been there, his family position, obvious - that he'd been so busy lately, planning, talking about different Fonts, their properties, farmland. That it just took this subconscious moment to put them all together, to weave them together -

She'd look back every time he wore it, she'd remember what she sang - the lyrics were different, she changed them on the fly, breaking verse, slanting rhyme, there was a story here. That she hardly thought about what she was singing...that it could explain everything...

The fabric pooled beneath the instrument, an entire ballad's worth, cut off when the music ended. She lifted it and it felt like oil, incredibly smooth, the weave so tight, and yet - there was so much more. Holding it up to the light she saw no trace of the grass but she smelled it, grass growing next to the river, a sunlit day warming the rich, fertile earth.

Nuts - that she realized this fabric was completely masculine, there wasn't anything here a woman could have for herself, that as beautiful as the fabric was, the color, the drape was intimate and any woman would want it. That she briefly considered making it a different sort of present for Weston? One he admired on her, not wore - but as she slid it across her bare skin, her delicate skin, it felt like it scratched her - like it tore at her worse then velcro, not quite needles but...

How carefully he would have to tread, to not feel like he was being ripped apart? If he made the wrong move - and she nearly threw it away because who would want to wear it? She had to make it for him. She felt it, she knew it passionately, that he needed this - that it had to be right now?

That she almost ran, leaving the materials in her rush, now depleted and bleached, the grass a husk, the water tepid - why did she need to make it right now? Or was it just her? Her strange passion moving her to some unknown purpose, an artists desire - but she did move quickly, she hurried to the Bar where they met each day, but they were gone already, she needed marbles, she knew she didn't have enough, she needed Sewing -

Weston went over the vehicles Tate and Peter had already prepped and outfitted per his instructions, he didn't do it in front of them, but he did it. Peter had missed wiping down Pierson's driver mirror, did it matter?

Everything mattered -

Peter would drive Weston and Gage now, so he could keep an eye on him, Tate could drive Pierson, they were just loading up into the vehicles when Weston caught headlights coming down his drive - he nearly threw the door open and beat the shit out of Pierson for wagging his tongue when Gage clicked, like he did for the horses - easy there, boy -

It was May - at entirely the wrong time. What the fuck?

"That your lady, Weston?" Peter asked, it was done respectfully, friendly -

"You are doing something." May said, she had a confused look but only briefly, something in her hands as Weston approached her, her manner became more assured, "Do you need anything?"

She wasn't going to ask him to explain? Perfect -

"No, May. Thank you." Weston said, and she nodded, sliding her hair back, then held up a coat hanger with a dark silk shirt draped over it.

"Wear this tonight." May said, "That's all I ask, wear this and come back safe."

Weston looked, "You made it?"

She nodded and didn't leave, Weston realized she was waiting. He pulled off the dark casual long sleeve he'd donned earlier and May grinned sheepishly at him, that he was so focused on what he needed to do tonight, he still smiled back, her eyes darted to his nudity, then the truck - to the new shirt he now had on and she paused.

Seemed thoughtful, gave Gage a small wave when she looked again, noticed him, Peter waved back, too, grinning, then May leaned forward and kissed Weston. It wasn't brief - but neither was it lascivious, Weston felt - but what he truly felt was the shirt.

It was uncomfortable, nearly painful - not standing there, but when any sort of pressure touched it, it was almost like needles - that he would have to keep his arms out, his neck up, shoulders square -

"I know." May said - again glancing into the truck, "I don't know why this is your shirt, or why you have to wear it, call it women's intuition, but Weston, wear it."

He nodded, May was not normally like this, never so direct. Because of that alone, Weston didn't think to question, she must have a reason. But he could only give a small nod, hardly a movement before it scraped - she smiled, gave a small dip that could have been a pivot and a curtsy, a flirtatious wave as she turned around and left -

Weston moved carefully, getting use to it. That in a strange way, if he walked perfectly, or when he was still it could almost felt good. Like stubble scratching against his flesh - against his body, his neck, his chest - thinking of her purpose, May's kiss, her glances into the truck and -

The shirt felt cool, like water, there was also an oiliness to it that was slick, and even if it wasn't as thick as the oil of his family? That it reminded him more of fishing with Hickory, of that feeling on his hands after holding his trophy catch - he was happy it could be all those things.

It smelled like grass -

It was when he was climbing into the truck and thinking that his shoulder brushed Gage's and he felt the bite, that sharpness had him pull back from the briefest contact, when before perhaps he wouldn't have.

It reminded him that Peter was right there, he scooted over further and widened the space between them, using the motion to put on his seatbelt and glancing forward he saw the man's eyes on him in the mirror -

Watching -

Covanger men - Trusted men. He realized he was being too trusting...

"Ready Boss?"

Which Covanger?

"No." Weston said, "Gage, out."

The door flew open and the shotgun was out, in his hands, the safety flicked off -

"Clear -"

"What's go-"

"Who do you work for." Weston asked as Gage moved to circle the other truck - he'd walk circles, guarding -

"You, Bo-"

"This is your only chance." Weston said, and he let the fire form not just over his head, but in his eyes -

"Your father -"

Weston knew it -

"I was told to keep you safe, I swear, I'm here to -"

"Tate?" Weston asked, but Peter held his hands up, he shrugged, "Out. You are not being punished but you aren't my man. Report to father after you finish, you are to put three thousand one inch scratches on the north wall of the barn before leaving, if they are not there when I return -" Weston didn't finish.

That nobody knew the day, that the Men had stayed on the property since learning they were running an operation tonight - Weston had been pragmatic, hadn't anticipated interference, but that didn't mean he acted a complete fool -

It was a struggle to keep himself composed, would his own father interfere? If he knew, of course he would - not harm, but, perhaps the man even thought he was doing it for Weston's own good, that he had risen too high, too fast, perhaps didn't think Weston was capable and it was better to fail now, when the stakes were low...he'd be generous to his father.

That using a spy was women's work - and using them against family? On a critical mission, for any reason - Bad Blood -

It made Weston furious.

"You good?" Gage asked, approaching - Weston turned and saw Peter, he had his knife out and he was making tally marks on the barn -

"You drive." Weston said, getting out and moving to the front, taking the passenger seat, Gage put it in gear and took off, being on the road, leaving Red Hills - Weston expected to be surprised, not horrified -

Trying not to laugh was the second hardest part of Hickory's day - he was hidden in the bushes of the park, and watching - he couldn't hear them, not at first, not until Hunter had started hollerin' -

"It cheated me!" Hunter pointed at the scrap pool, "I'm tellin ya, Chase, that was a marbles worth, I know what I'm going on about."

"You don't know."

"I damn well know! The thing's broke! Watch, you should get a marble with all that and you won't."

Chase unloaded his arms -

*Plink*

"I'm telling you, I've carried three loads and ain't got a marble yet!"

Chase shrugged - Hunter leaned over the pool touching the water - staring at it distrustfully, Chase brought another load -

*Plink*

"That ain't right." Hunter mumbled, getting a load, carrying it back and throwing it in - "Are you kidding me!"

"Get something heavy."

"It don't have to do with weight, dingus, it has to do with content. I'm telling you!"

Chase unloaded -

*Plink*

Hunter was howling like a cat stuck outside with a pup in the food bowl!

"It's giving you my marbles! Half them marbles are mine."

"Then why they rollin to me?"

"It's broken."

"Tell Hickory then." Chase said rolling his eyes -

That Hickory was almost pissing himself, until he heard it - "Fuck this, I make way more at the market anyway."

And Hickory watched, as Hunter pulled out a fishing pole, laughing - "Can you believe that idiot is buying used fishing poles for 200 marbles a piece? I can't put 'em out fast enough."

Hickory stopped laughing.

Shadows moved through the night - once they got close to leaving Red Hills, Weston got out - rode in the bed, the trucks stayed bunched together -

It had been another thing he'd noticed. From the reports, shadows attacked vehicles. He'd told his family, everybody, that was wrong. Shadows attacked people first, mainly Hickory.

It was part of the reason they'd stayed sequestered within the town environs. What was obviously happening was that shadows were attacking 'Energy'. The strongest source - trying to eat it. The Font. Hickory. Vehicles. Now Weston -

Why?

Weston stopped thinking about it as the town of Orbane came into view - didn't appear suddenly. It appeared as a light in the distance - a big light. Surrounded by darkness -

Weston felt the confusion wash over him. The most obvious building, which towered above any existing structure, his family had told him it was large, but - this was massive, far bigger then the last report - which meant it was still growing, still expanding -

Five stories high, covered in buttresses, roundabouts, steps and overhangs that made it a maze of fortified architecture that left the mind lost in wonder, not just how it was built, but how it could stay up - it was bigger then every single Font building of Red Hills put together - far bigger -

What the fuck - what was Hickory doing?

It wasn't the only structure, either - surrounding it were other magic structures matching the style, they erupted from the existing town like mushrooms on a corpse, like warts - if they weren't so perfectly chaotic in their dangerous balance -

A corpse that had been picked clean...

"Scout run." Weston made the call, and Gage tapped the brakes three times, Tate pulled over on the side of the road to wait now that they were close enough to town they shouldn't be attacked by shadows, Gage continued driving -

There were roads. New roads, and the Font...

There were a few people scurrying about, across the road - they stopped and stared at their headlights, or they quickly retreated, hurrying away -

No other vehicles -

It was dark, that was why he hadn't noticed, no traffic wasn't rare but vehicles weren't even parked in driveways, in lots, Gage kept driving, Weston looked closer, had him turn his high beams on -

Telephone poles had their wires ripped down as well, Weston saw a building torn apart, metal stubs where they kissed the concrete foundation, nearly no visible metal at all -

They must have a scrap yard somewhere, Weston realized, but why...destroy for marbles? That didn't make sense...

The buildings, the smaller ones were all the same, perhaps residences? Perhaps too full, and that explained the huddled groups of people outside of them - like homeless shelters.

All except for the scrap yard, when they found it - along with the largest gathering. About twenty people waiting in line but in that slow passing movement Weston noticed the difference, they didn't wait. They didn't bend down, they tossed whatever in and walked away...it clicked, that somehow they were using the scrap yard to build...

Why hadn't Hickory done that?

Then the other differences -

No bank. No skill shop. No market. No...loom, certainly.

There had to be a Town Hall somewhere, Weston knew that, at least, finding it nestled behind the largest construction, the 'Chapel' - he saw people sleeping inside it as well, that it was also larger...

"Let's go back, drop the truck and do a walk through, I want to understand that building." Weston said.

It was a long walk, but with how much attention their vehicle had attracted already - Weston had no doubt it wouldn't be stolen, scrapped...

The 'Chapel' glowed with an orangish light, reminiscent of torches and he couldn't help but be impressed. The one opening was a single long tunnel, wide, but the feeling that emanated as they walked into it was incredibly heavy unlike Red Hill's open welcome. It was also blocked.

A door that was solid stone, no handle. Two large men.

"Why are you here?" One asked, a holstered weapon his hand hovered close to, a tactical belt similar to the police. He also had a badge - it seemed to be a sunburst, but stylized to be made from wild, red hair that had a feminine facial silhouette -

"I've come to meet the book holder." Weston said, "Jared, I believe, regarding my families property, we've made several attempts to reach him."

"These are not visiting hours, the Fontiff is meditating." It was spoken directly, these were serious men, they wore their badges with authority, their bearing marked them as previous law enforcement, perhaps military, perhaps both -

That they spoke clearly, but not with reverence as they titled the 'Fontiff' was also telling, also important...no worship, or it seemed Jared had pissed off more then just Weston's family. Still -

Weston felt his throat dry, it was brief but palpable. What had he expected, to skip in here? To just be given all their land back when more experienced negotiators in his family had failed - but this was intense - back on his ranch he was big. He was Weston Covanger - here...

"When is he available?"

"You'll know if he wants to see you."

Weston nodded. It was a stone wall, two guys, guns - and no point in pressing the issue, it was merely a formality, an offer to correct a misunderstanding, anyway - a last chance.

He turned around and walked away, his shirt bristling - it had kept his posture firm, tall - that it wasn't a shirt to slouch in and he was grateful for that effect, that subtle, private reminder that Gage also had his back -

It wasn't enough for them to take him seriously - or perhaps they had? He realized that they both had looked him over and he'd assumed it was for weapons, but thinking again - seeing how nobody even approached the building, seeing the huddled groups of people -

"You're still havin' a run at it." Gage said as they walked, the area clear - it was a statement -

"They boxed in the Font, there's no sight lines, they don't know that this can happen and if they are growing this fast I think it's dangerous to wait even one more day. How much bigger will they be next week? If you provide cover, just warning shots to keep them busy -"

"And carry your daisy ass out when ya faint?"

"I'm not going to faint this time." Weston said -

"You sure it ain't overconfidence, man."

Weston stopped walking - turned to Gage, "It's not confidence at all."

Hickory felt himself pulled out of sleep like he'd escaped a nightmare but he'd been sleeping good. He thought maybe his heart was still heavy, he'd had a bit of trouble falling asleep - that he had felt near torn apart that Hunter was ripping him off and laughing about it.

Did all of them guys know? All his buddies? Were they all having a chuckle behind his back?

Hickory loved joking around, loved pranks, even on him, but he wanted to laugh, too. He wanted to laugh with them -

That he'd made sure to count every marble he'd 'stolen' and he was gonna give em back the next time they were drinking, after they had a couple rounds, of course, so they could laugh good and proper - all together...

And Hickory knew his feelings were hurt, that he was being a bit of a puss and it almost surprised him to be acting such a way, that also he didn't care, that he was gonna confront Hunter and let him know that his feelings were hurt just as soon as he saw him next -

After deciding that he'd been able to sleep, so he was surprised, to awake so sudden, to feel his heart aching, to feel a jumble of emotion right there -

Weston approached the Font casually after hearing Gage's bird call, whistled into the night - it was that same haphazard construction, the enchanting torchlight illuminated it clearly revealing the brown gurgling water that smelled almost like beer. Stepping near the fountain Weston saw what he'd taken for tribal decor was actually drinking horns -

They had veins running through them like they were made of stone containing ore, like hairline cracks - rich copper the same reddish tint of the badges. They were heavier than they should have been even if they were solid metal.

He wasn't procrastinating, he was waiting, the second whistle came a minute later as Weston pretended to contemplate drinking. That meant the truck was moving into place and the coast was clear, as clear as it would be -

He took a deep breath and then pushed his hand into the water. What Weston didn't think about - which should have been obvious, was that there was neither shadows attacking the Font, nor stationed armed guards to defend it - like in Red Hills, didn't they get attacked by the shadows here?

Of course that just meant somebody was closing the incursions like they were? Right?

His hand slipped in easily, the water boiled and then he felt himself tapped, brushed at, like a person startled awake, disoriented, the resistance that struggled against him felt wild and panicked, like a spooked cat scrambling - it didn't solidify, it faded -

The Book -

Weston felt it, saw it's silhouette was a tangle of thorns, except where his finger made contact - there it was becoming plain brown leather -

Then he closed his eyes to concentrate because some resistance had finally awoken to his transgression, was coming together, the fight was on.

He felt the power approach, at first he thought it was drums, heavy footsteps that beat across his mind, a looming presence that cast a long, threatening shadow -

He wasn't intimidated - instead he felt the force leaning against him and he pulled some of the flame he was using to boil the Font, to convert it - directed it against his opposition, the rest of his power contending to wrest control of the Book.

He felt the presence push harder, grow stronger, felt how it was unpracticed - clumsy, even, and Weston knew he was right, that this Jared hadn't known this could happen, Weston moved a bit more of his power over but most of it still was directed at the Font.

Then the next power was used on him, weaker then the first - he was like Hickory, two powers - but the tactic was different for this one, it wasn't blunt and heavy, it was like rocks were being hurled at him which was actually easier - Weston felt them coming, used his flame to divert them, to slap them away - and still pushed the majority of his power into the Font -

But sweat did break out on Weston's head - it didn't sizzle and pop and hiss, his Pride was a cool thing, instead it rested on his forehead like small diamonds reflecting the light of his majesty, his control - but for all it looked enchanting -

"You...you...bastard!" Weston looked up - he hadn't known what to expect from Jared, other than male, but from the power he felt in his mind? He expected at least a biker - not 'Bob from Accounting.'

Jared's power glowed around him in a round bubble shield - he approached alone, unafraid, which was shocking in itself, but not as much as him being hit by another power -

Three?

"I will make you suffer!" Jared screeched in a nerdy whine filled with rage, consuming wraith - "I will flay you."

Jared's left hand came up flat, his eyes wild, and Weston saw his now shrinking hand print, the portion of the book he'd already claimed - floating in the air as the man's fingers moved steadily ticking through pages like the second hand of a clock, seeming to count down in confidence to Weston's demise, the confidence he had - then ripping -

Was he going to throw a building?

The page appeared and folded itself around Jared's hand in sharp, jutting origami, and Jared turned his eyes in vicious hatred -

What was this? Some sort of - magic? Hickory had never -

Weston prepared to dodge, but it wasn't like a baseball - the thorns exploded out of his grip shooting out in all directions like a handful of bottle rockets then swirled in wicked honing glee to come at Weston from all directions, it was his shirt that saved him as the thorns neared -

Dazzling scales covered his whole body, shielding him from the sharp barbs, the physical damage hit and knocked patches of the unexpected armor off to spray like sparks at a grinding wheel -

Weston realized he was spread too thin, that he had lowered his defense to attack the Font, to match the defending power, and -

He was losing, struggling to concentrate - how was this man capable of so much? How was he doing it and not even focusing - Jared's eyes widened at surprise at seeing the scales cover Weston - shimmering blue - feeling what happened next -

"What the fuck are you."

Because while the shirt had protected him - that was nothing compared to what it truly did - his shirt. That he had been so focused in this battle of wills, that he had been so proud of the control he held over his power, that he'd been practicing, that he'd completely failed to comprehend how to truly use it - he'd not had a real opponent to practice against -

It was so obvious! Because in that terrifying second of relief, feeling his body become covered in scales? Felt them protect him. It reminded him, again, of how perfect May was, that she had made it for him, and he'd felt his strength grow - flare - that she cared for him, he was proud.

He felt stupid. This whole time he'd focused on control thinking that the power was singular, using the flame like it was on the end of a stick to hold against a target, to burn them - and it could be, but by focusing on directing his strength, on controlling it, he'd neglected to think about ways of making it stronger, he'd assumed it was just always as strong as it could be -

He needed to focus on feeding the fire, not watching it burn - what Weston had first thought was a distraction, thinking about May, had actually made him stronger - Weston pulled back his mind and focused not on controlling the licking flame, but on his brightness, he saw the attacks for what they were - insects. Let them come! Like moths to the flame, to be incinerated in this bright radiance! Let them understand what they face!

"I am Weston Covanger, Baron of the Red Hills, named after three warring tribes united to attack and steal the land we claimed, dying the earth with their bloody failure. I am here to show you why it hasn't been attempted since -"

Jared keened - at the sudden burst of flame, and Weston knew his victory was assured, that this man could not stand against him - not even with three powers and the book -

And that's when Weston felt the fourth power hit him and still it didn't matter, he looked at Jared as though he was no more then a bug - all while using the shirt to fuel his fate, his victory - his families oil, their toil, the rough lives they had persevered through, never quitting. Always pushing to make sure the next generation was better off -

And even when the fifth power came against him it wasn't enough - five hulking powers, heavy and mighty, that attempted to crush him...to stomp and smother his flame.

Because Weston smelled the grass, the earth they owned - it wasn't just where he came from, it was the man that he was going to be, that he was still growing. It was fishing, fighting for what was his, fighting to be better - it was doing the right thing, having friends and having fun, discovering unexpected love in this land, this life, in -

That Jared had continued to tear the pages, to rip and send thorns against him, they didn't land, incinerated in his inferno before they reached, that the book in his hands was over half Westons - the Font was changing, the stone becoming simple gray, and the torch light was flickering, fading, every time he ripped a page the fountain seemed to slow, to cough, the gurgling water became a trickle -

"Put down the book, you are not strong enough to stop me." Weston demanded, "Return the lands of my family, or I will rip them from you."

The puny man stared in disbelief, in confusion - and Weston realized he had misunderstood something, because the next page Jared ripped didn't wrap around his hand - and the man looked utterly panicked, mumbling - "No, no, no!" He was having a tantrum - How could this man wield five powers and be such a pathetic -

Another power hit Weston.

"I will make you bleed!" Jared shouted, and Weston understood then, as he watched horns began to grow over Jared's body like protruding thorns - and the man closed his eyes and slapped his other hand down on the book -

That was when Weston realized he hadn't been fighting the man at all, that those powers against him - they were something else, somebody else - because the power that hit him next was strong, not Hickory strong but he could have beat it...but now? Against so many?

Weston did bleed -

He felt the power wrap around him like a snake slithering up his arm, slow and heavy - a constrictor as it continued to climb and wrap his chest, that it was only the brightness of his crown that saved his face, the rest of him not so enflamed and resistant - and then he felt sharp thorns protrude, begin to pierce his flesh -

He couldn't fight them all, they were overpowering him, that he wasn't even fighting back, attempted no control, only to burn it all!

- it still wasn't enough -

Because how long could he hold on? Weston felt it - the cuts, small right now, the teeth, but he was going to bleed to death, they were going deeper, they were all over his body - he was desperate, barely holding on, not even attacking, just defending and being drained of his life, of -

Blood -

'Beating, feating, now entreating - wombs connected, foes selected, bound together, birds of feather, feel this tether, neath the leather, us united, us decisive, hear my call, my enemies fall - My Blood -'

Weston's concentration nearly shattered - as the words from that strange book crashed through his mind in a sudden symphony, as he reached to fight for his family, for their very foundation, for the sacrifices and contributions and successes of every generation that had led to this moment - as his mind focused on them, when he knew he was about to fail, about to die -

That he beseeched them to forgive him, for while he would fail - he wanted them to know that he would die here proudly - that he fought true, on his feet until the last, tall and mighty, outnumbered by foes, against an entire Font - by himself -

Just as Grandpappy would have done, had done -

For them -

"That ain't my heart." Hickory said putting his hand at the beating organ, "It's just mostly there, it's everywhere, there's something inside of me."

No, it wasn't a heart ache, what if he had worms? Did people get those? Like dogs? Heartworms?

Cause maybe it started right there, but it was wiggling down and away, wiggling through his whole body, inside of him, along every inch -

And wouldn't that just be funny, that he'd been using worms near all his life for fishing - only for him to be ended by 'em?

"I reckon that would be fittin." Hickory nodded, "Like that whole circle of life thing, I use the worm to catch the fish, I eat the fish, then the worm eats me. We all just worms in the end."

There was something to it - that line of thinkin' - that everything was some sort of whole, that Hickory felt a part of something bigger -

He didn't understand it, but he didn't have to to know it was a good thing, to be involved in just such a way, to be connected, and that line of thinkin he could follow - like fishing line -

He could follow it because he felt it tuggin him, needing his help - and Hickory wasn't the type of person to not help when he was needed...

That it reminded him of that time his book had gone white, that he'd gotten all worried for no real reason at all, but at the time it was bad - that he was about to lose a piece of himself, and then he wouldn't have been able to give May that lovely handful of fish scales she'd liked so much, she wouldn't know that he'd caught the biggest fish.

Back then he didn't really know what he was doing when he'd been attacked, he hadn't been ready, but now?

Now, maybe he did? That he didn't just react, he didn't just slap at it like a mosquito, like he was surprised to be bit, now he sort of thought about it. Thought about how he didn't like nothing coming after anything that was his -

Hickory wound up, he didn't hold back, he didn't aim for the gut. He punched -

Weston's knees were shaking, he felt the gorge of vomit rising in his throat, his body slick with blood - he heard the gunshots, six quick reports splattered across Jared's bubble - the chaos, the screams -

He felt pain - felt his blood, and his failure - felt like he was a part of a web, connected, long lines, like the red that dribbled from the holes across his body, his thighs, his chest, his ass, his arms - and then something changed.

One of those lines shook, it trembled - and Weston reached for it like a life line to hold onto, and he felt a connection. Felt a vast presence - it felt like the Font, his Font. Somehow - it came to him, simple and pure and it seemed to pause, a long heartbeat, an indrawn breath -

Jared's head exploded.

The bubble popped, Weston heard it like a balloon, then the sound of a ripe grapefruit thrown against a brick wall, splattering, and Weston was back to fighting just the weaker powers arrayed against him, the thorns were gone, the headless corpse collapsed -

He'd never seen somebody die -

He jerked his hands back in surprise, shocked, and because the other powers were still against him, fighting him - the Font stopped bubbling around him, Jared died, that man died -

Weston looked at the corpse, then down at the Font and saw the book, floating in the water.

He reached for it, there was no resistance, not in that second, the book simply became his - the drinking horns vanished, the Font began to melt into simple stone, he'd done it.

Then the world went black.