A living skeleton plays a harpsichord in the corner of the ballroom, pale bone digits clicking loudly against keys of yellowed ivory.

Glass chandeliers dangle in rows from the ceiling, their golden light illuminating flocks of sharply dressed monsters chatting with each other over glasses of champagne, blood and spinal fluid.

Atop a wooden stage, a single spotlight shines down on a meatpacking machine, a grotesque device with a circular saw and a line of dangling meat hooks.

A velvet curtain at the back of the stage slides open Two Mothmen – the ones who shot at you from the local cinema’s film screen – walk out of the back room, silently pushing a gurney loaded with knives and surgical tools.

“How many monsters?” Mandrake Kayne asks you, speaking softly.

You peek over the marble railing, scanning the crowd of guests and auctioneers below––

You see more yellow-furred ghouls like the one Kayne killed earlier, laughing over some shared joke, tongue lolling from their snouts like Hyenas.

You spot a flock of willowy Aswangs, slurping champagne from fluted glasses with their prehensile tongues.

Near the stage, Baobhan Sith in flapper costumes dance and strut in time to the harpsichord melody, flirting outrageously with a pack of Redcaps…

You duck back down and turn towards Kayne. “Lots,” you tell him, a hollow feeling in your stomach.

“Ladies, gentleman and cunning Beasts!” Morgaeous Drake-Worm proclaims, leaving a trail of viscous goop behind him as he slithers on stage. “Welcome to the Bi-Monthly Morgaeous Meat Auction, for all your man-flesh needs!”

The audience of rich monsters cheers, bays, and howls.

Morgaeous coils himself around the lectern, resting his snout on top of the slanted board. “Be warned,” he tells his audience, winking with his eyelid and his nictitating membrane. “The front row is a splash zone. You will get wet!”

You look down. Son of a gun: the monsters in the front rows are wearing plastic ponchos! More to the point, everyone is holding round, numbered auction signs in their claws, pincers, and/or tentacles.

“Enough talk!” Morgaeous declares, squeezing the lectern podium with his is long, scaled, trunk-thick body. “Who wants to bid for some thinking meat?”

The audience of critters cheers again.

Gods, you think. You’ve no longer quite so concerned about what Kayne will do to these creatures.

Morgaeous Drake-Worm beckons to his minions with the tip of his forked tail. His Mothmen, dressed in cheap tuxedos, slam their hammers into honest-to-God brass gongs hanging from wooden frames. The gongs echo through the dusty warehouse, silencing the raucous crowd of beasts.

“First up on the chopping block!” Morgaeous announces to the silenced room. “Shipped straight here from the wastelands of Los—”

Kayne unfolds his pocketknife. Everything falls silent.

Mandrake Kayne points forward, then stands and strolls toward the ornate brass railing. You follow Kayne, quickening your pace so you stay inside his bubble of quiet.

You run your hand along the balcony’s railing, glancing down at the auction in progress. Morgaeous flaps his jaws up and down, buttering up his audience of anthrovores with sweet-sounding words, no doubt.

As he talks, his Mothmen draw back the velvet curtains a second time, wheeling out a reclining bed ripped right out of a hospital ward. A human male lies in this bed, eyes closed, clad in a ratty blue hospital gown. The plastic tube from a hanging IV bag snakes into one of his nostrils.

Your gorge rises. You clap a hand to your mouth, and look back up to stare at Kayne’s back.

Strange, isn’t it? All those man-eaters have to do is lift their heads to the right, and they’ll see you two, walking in plain sight.

But then again, what would they look up for? Ears evolved from the dynamics of predator and prey, sensory organs designed to detect threats and meals that can’t be seen. Without distracting noises, why would the monsters below ever look away from the meal being put on display?

Kayne knew what he was doing when he asked you for a spell of silence. He knows how to think like a monster.

Kayne crouches behind the edge of the balcony and beckons. Once you join him, he folds his pocketknife closed. Sound returns.

“This one’s a winner, pals!” Morgaeous Drake-Worm declares. “One large, strapping, thirty-five-year old advertising executive. Rich diet, balanced with a daily jogging routine. He’s been in a coma for a year’s time, just long enough for his muscles to get that soft veal texture you all love so much!”

The crowd of monsters whispers in excitement.

Morgaeous preens before his audience, forked tongue fluttering past his lips. “Now can I start the bidding at two thousand Teardrops? That’s two thousand Teardrops, starting bid!”

Kayne pulls a grenade from his pocket, a long green cylinder with a pin and a long safety lever.

A werewolf in the back row raises his sign, adjusting the monocle over his eyes with the tips of his claws.

Morgaeous clicks his jaws together. “We’ve got one for two thousand teardrops! That’s two thousand teardrops!” he says, rattling off his words at a machine-gun pace. “Can I get a twenty-two hundred teardrops? That’s twenty-two hundred teardrops! Going, going…!”

Signs shoot up from the crowd of auctioneers.

“Hmmph,” Kayne grunts, pulling the grenade pin out with his teeth.

Your hand closes over the grenade before Kayne can throw it.

“No,” you whisper. “That’s not what we’re here to do.”

“Let me go,” Kayne says softly.

You let go.

He raises his hand to throw the grenade again.

You slap it down again. “Dammit, Kayne,” You hiss. “We’re here to rescue the prisoners––”

You didn’t even see Kayne draw his knuckle dagger, a tiny little arrowhead clutched between his fingers. Regardless, he’s now holding that wedge of cold steel against your throat.

“Let. Me go.” Kayne says. You feel the knuckle dagger in his hand tremble against your Adam’s apple.

You let him go. He doesn’t remove his blade from your throat.

You choose your next words carefully––partially so your can better appeal to Kayne’s humanity, and partially so you don’t cut your throat open by accident.

“We can free their prisoners before the auction ends,” you say slowly. “We can save them from being eaten. That’s why we’re doing this, right?”

Kayne blinks a few times, like someone waking up from a long nap, and finally lowers his dagger.

“We don’t know where the monsters are keeping their captives," he point out, gesturing towards the auction stage below. He scowls at you: “I was going to tell you to search for the prisoners while I distracted them..."

You pull out the Heritage center map you nicked from the kiosk and gesture at a purple icon. "There’s a cafeteria right behind the main ballroom," you point out. "If I was an anthrovoric monster, that’s where I’d keep my human snacks."

"Hmmm," Kayne says thoughtfully.

You reach up pat the hilt of the sword sheathed over your shoulder. “Let’s keep out of sight on the second floor and cut through the ceiling to the kitchenetteMy sweetheart can cleaver through anything with the right enchantments.”

Kayne tilts his head to the side as he ponders it. “Too risky,” he says at last. “Cutting a hole in the ceiling would be loud. Those Mothmen would hear us …”

Kayne stops talking. He reaches into his coat and pulls out the Pocket Knife of Silence.

“Oh,” he says, sounding pleasantly surprised.

You grin and run a finger along the brim of your hat: “Yeah. Oh.”

“We won’t be able to extract the coma patient being auctioned,” Kayne points out.

“But we can get everyone else out,” you point out. You pull out your phone. “There’s a human friendly clinic in the area. They should be able to help us extract the prisoners.”

You type out a text message to C:

––––––––––––––––––––––––

「C」Contact

Saturday 11:35 AM

[Sorry. I saw the broken doors and

thought it was a home invasion.]

Diesel:

[Found meat trafficking shindig at Lizardman Center.

Springing captives. Need extraction by back door. Send Commune people with vans.]

––––––––––––––––––––––––

You put your phone away. “What do you say?” You ask Kayne. “Should we give it a shot?”

“Hmmph,” Kayne says. “Fine. I’ll play along with your scheme, sorcerer.” He thrusts a bandaged fingertip towards your face. “But don’t touch me again.” The tip of his finger wavers slightly. “I won’t warn you a second time.”

He turns his back on you, unfolds his pocket knife and blankets the area in magically enforced silence.

Hypochondria, you wonder? High-functioning autism? Or maybe this is the aftermath of the training he received? That would explain why he covers every exposed portion of his skin with bandages…

Maybe the ‘livestock’ aren’t the only ones who need help.

Is that the right way to think about it, though? Should you even try to…?

#

You swung your machete twice, splashes of ink flying forth like throwing stars. The rotting door broke into pieces.

You strolled into the old stone mausoleum, blade at the ready, the white strings in your hand ready to bind and cleanse.

The crypt had everything you’d expected: the gargoyle statues on the walls dripped with condensation. The red candles and camping lanterns placed around an open sarcophagus. The sleeping vampire inside the coffin, a youthful redhead whose open mouth and exposed fangs were caked with blood.

The frost burns on your left leg ached something fierce. Your lungs burned for lack of breath. You didn’t have stakes, garlic or any of the other special sauce needed to slay occidental vampires. But your machete was still sharp, the ink within it even sharper.

You could do this, you realized. You could bag a monster’s head.

You drew your arm back to strike the ginger vampire’s head clean off, imagining the pleased look on your father’s face, and the begrudgingly respectful look on Somchair’s…

A black blur tackled you to the ground.

Dammit, you thought: of course the Vampire would have a guardian! What was the first thing Somchair told you before entering the haunted mansion? Check the corners, you dolt! And like a damn fool, you blew him off!

The black cloaked figure seized you and started tearing into you...

...not with razor-sharp claws, to your surprise, but simple, ordinary human fists. It wasn’t even a proper rending: more of an awkward pummeling––

––Your attacker jabbed you in the nose. It stung.

You grabbed a slender arm and threw your attacker back against the side of the coffin. You swung your Machete, launching a strand of razor ink.

The servant pulled out a hand-mirror, an antique silver-framed looking glass that glittered with argent light. It repelled your magical ink, which splatteredonto the stone walls, stone ceiling and the cuff of your shirt-sleeve.

You lunged low with your machete, trying to stab her.

She yelped and stumbled back against the stone coffin. Her black hood fell back from her head, revealing red curls, a nose and ears studded with piercings, and cheeks thick with freckles.

She grimaced and drew a small knuckle dagger from the necklace around her throat.

And then she saw you and froze…just as you froze the moment you realized your enemy was a person.

“Jesus on a stick,” you heard the Necromancer whisper. “You’re so bloody young…”

“…you took the words right out of my mouth,” you said to her. “What are you, some kind of mind reader?”

“Mmph,” the Vampire said, rising up from his slumber and rubbing his eyes. “What’s going on, ‘Sis…?”

He spots you.

“Janice!” He shouts harshly. “Put that knife away! I already told you! No killing!”

#

As you hack away at the museum’s floor with your magic sword, you finally reach a decision:

Mandrake Kayne may not be interested in what you have to sell, as far as world views go. But like any good door-to-door salesman, you ought to make the pitch anyway.

You make one last slice with your jian, pull the sword free, and stamp down on the floor. The ring of floor material crumbles inwards, falling and silently shattering against the ground of the room below.

Kayne brushes past you and drops into the jagged hole like the fearless action hero he is. You descend more cautiously, feet balanced on the flat side of your flying sword.

You land gently right between the cages––thick cages made from steel rivets and plexiglass panels studded with air holes.

The people inside those cages––a cop and a construction worker––don’t look up as you land. Unsurprising, you suppose: you landed in complete silence, and they don’t have any reason to be curious about their surroundings.

You flick your fingers and summon your sword back into your grasp.

You turn around to see Kayne slitting the throat of one of the Mothmen guards. He tugs his dagger across the Cryptid’s neck in a rough, brutal fashion, like someone scrubbing grout from the tiles of a shower.

The Mothman struggles against Kayne’s dreadful embrace, refusing to die even as blue fluid gushes from its throat. Kayne pulls his smoldering dagger free from the cryptid’s throat and stabs it in the ribs.

The Mothman convulses once and then goes limp. Kayne tosses its corpse aside and looks down at his blue-stained pocket knife with distaste. He pulls out a cloth and wipes the blade clean before folding it back closed: sound returns to your ears with a faint ‘pop’.

“Clear,” he says.

“Good,” you tell him, for lack of anything better to say.

It’s dark. Your fingers fumble at the wall behind you, eventually stumbling on a metal box with a switch.

Click.

Fluorescent tubes buzz and flicker to life on the ceiling, providing dim, barely sufficient light.

You orient yourself:

You’re standing in a wide-open bistro area, the sort of kitschy space where mom and pop bring their bawling kids to eat after a long afternoon of touring exhibits. The floors are crisp linoleum, the walls covered with painted murals of dinosaurs and flowers, the open kitchen and  buffet station to the left of the wall forged from stainless steel.

The cafeteria tables have been folded up and pushed flush against the walls, all to make room for many plexiglass cages and their many occupants.

You see mostly human beings, men and women, old and young. Some are unshackled insides their cages, some strapped to hospital beds and some are dangling from meat hooks, wrists worn raw by their leather cuffs.

There are non-humans as well; kobolds and chupacabras, nymphs and fish-men. They’re shackled to walls, restrained in cocoons of duck tape and floating in ancient-looking water tanks.

None of these captives look particularly well off, but few look starved. They’re healthy...plump, even.

You think about the story of Hansel and Gretel and suddenly taste acid in your mouth.

"It’s okay!” you hiss, holding your bronze sword behind your back. “We’re here to help!”

The prisoners in the room reply to you with mixture of moans and screams muffled by their gags.

Kayne scrapes his flame dagger against one of the folded up dining tables, orange sparks falling like raindrops. “Quiet,” he says without raising his voice.

The prisoners go quiet.

“Hmmph,” Kayne says, crouching down by the dead Mothman and rifling through their pockets.

You go over to the nearest cage and rap gently on its plexiglass surface.

“Hey,” you whisper. “Can you hear me?”

The bundle of rags and blankets in the corner of the cage stirs.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. “I know the guy with bandages might be a bit scary…but we’re here to help.”

“…who are you working for?” The pile of rags whispers (A woman’s voice, you realize).

“We’re the good guys,” you say to her. You think about your experience with Mandrake Kayne so far. "Mostly," you amend.

The dame in the cage throws aside her blanket and totters over to you.

She looks so thin, you think: arms and legs thin as sticks, a sweat-stained shirt hanging limply off her shoulders. She’s the perfect picture of a famine victim…

…which doesn’t make sense. All the other captives look well fed, especially the unconscious folks in beds with feeding tubes....

“Everyone likes to think they’re the good guys,” the captive points out, resting one of her hands against the transparent wall of the cage. “And you still didn’t answer my question.”

“We’re trying to save you all from becoming monster chow,” you tell her with a huff. “Is this really the time to complain?”

“Do you know how modern slaughterhouses work?” the Dame asks you softly. "What they do to keep the livestock under control?"

"I’m..." you start to say.

“They lead the cows and pigs down a long chute with curved walls," the gaunt woman explains, "a circular chute that muffles the loud noises and hides what’s ahead. It keeps the cows calm, sedate, passive. Until…”

She raises a finger to her head and flicks her thump down. “Thunk,” she says, mimicking the sound of a bolt gun.

You feel your gorge rise.

“I’ll ask you one more time,” the Dame says, looking at you with dull, dark eyes. “Who are you working for?”

You open your mouth to tell her the truth.

A familiar voice echoes from the back of the room, cutting off whatever you were going to say:

“Sooth, I shall unveil this knave’s secret master. This cunning man is taking the coin of a lanky withered old fart, a shriveled, senile geezer, too addled to leave well enough alone!”

You tense up. “Give me just one moment,” you tell the skeptical Dame.

You step away from the cage and follow that familiar, insolent voice towards its source.

It doesn’t take you too long to find Philip Lynn, the runaway Ogre, changeling son of Felix Lynn.

He’s been restrained and left next to a bright red gumball machine, bound to a gigantic X-shaped cross that was probably purchased from a...grown-up novelty shop. Cold iron chains are wrapped around his limbs, bruises and burn marks rising on his flesh wherever the metal chaffs against his wounds.

"Hello again,” Philip says. “I’ve a bone to pick with thee, you shitty little punk.”

Next Chapter: Episode Ten: Gingerbread Warehouse (Revised)