The sun, after an unusually face-melting day, started finding its way towards the ground as it set later that afternoon; the sky was now bursting with bright violets and deep blues mixed with fiery reds – the best colours in the sky in some peoples opinion. The air was now saturated with the voices of all the population of Watsonford attempting some of the excessive volume of stalls on offer. The favourite, by a long shot, was both the steam-gun target practice and the bicycle-shifter; the latter being a person cycling as fast as possible to lift someone on a seat into the air through manual power alone. Although, there was a small area of stillness within Minister Square’s park which ignored the chaos. Sitting there was both Rigel and Hern.

They both sat on recently cut tree stumps glaring at each other, and between them, placed delicately despite its rigid strength, was the scale. The two had spent the rest of the small hours of daylight left fighting over who would get to use it for the apparent luck it gives for the festivities, which culminated in them agreeing to see who the scale would list towards in the light wind; it was flat sided, after all, so should take well to wind. And they had found out that it somehow reflected everything on its ice-white surface back out in a vibrant purple colour.

Their eyes were firmly locked on each other’s in the mightiest of stare-offs, not daring to take their line of sight off the other just in case they were to try and take the scale.

A drop of sweat made its way down Hern’s forehead.

“You’ll break eventually, mate,” Hern taunted, tilting his head slightly.

“S’that right?” said Rigel slowly. He drifted a hand close to the floor and a sarcastic goading expression found its way onto his face. Hern’s eyes did not leave Rigel’s but a burning glare most definitely formed.

“Try it and you’ll be getting ruined,” he growled.

Rigel suppressed a laugh and brought his hand back.

“So we gonna just sit here all night?” Rigel asked, stretching out some stiff joints.

“If it takes that long.”

“Oi, it’s my birthday present to begin with,” said Rigel angrily. “You’re the one that’s in the wrong.”

Hern cracked his knuckles.

“Matter of opinion. ’Course I’ll give it back eventually, but I’ll be the one using it tonight,” he told him.

Rigel found himself growing more and more bored sitting waiting for Hern to move, especially when his current form of entertainment was watching the residence have fun in the stalls. Rigel knew that he would eventually give up the scale and just give Hern it, but so far he was fighting a brilliant internal scrap with himself. He let his eyes drift behind Hern and he could see some people taking part in the Pie-Throwing contest. From experience, he knew there were only a set number of pies to be thrown before the place shut down and the owner moved on to have some fun of his own, and you better believe Rigel didn’t want to miss it, nor did he want to miss the Vine-Run which was, for Rigel, one of the highlights of any celebration. Alongside target practise, of course.

“You ever woke up and just been like, absolutely numb and not able to move?” said Hern airily.

Rigel thought for a moment. He knew Hern was trying to get his mind off the scale but he didn’t let it bother him.

“Yup. You remember three years ago when we had to help Anderfil with those scalderberries?”

Hern nodded once and said, “That when we had to lift all those logs and stuff?”

“Exactly. Woke up the morning after it and couldn’t move, back was killing me,” said Rigel, unconsciously scratching his spine.

Hern tutted at the memory.

“Yeah, I remember coming round that day. You were a right mess.”

“Cheers. Felt a mess, too.”

“Y’telling me.”

Of course they were referring back to when Anderfil had returned from a hunting patrol round the western edge of the Watsonford’s Farming Lands with a basket full of scalderberries. Now these berries, for people who didn’t know them, can be a real nuisance. They weren’t deadly, unless eaten in vast portions, no, these berries caused the bottom half of the spine to burn and grow stiff, and they made it feel like you were scalding you’re back against a burning radiator or similar, hence the word scalder. Rigel had the unfortunate tendency to run before he could walk and decided to eat seven of the berries before Anderfil could warn him. He was bed ridden the next day and Hern loved every second of it.

Rigel gave a slow blink, his eyes starting to hurt from the constant staring, and Hern rubbed his hands just waiting to win.

“I’ll be sure to save you some cider,” came Florence’s voice as she cantered happily past both boys and off towards a stall selling drinks. Rigel watched the witch out the corner of his eyes longingly.

“Old-scruff seems to be enjoying herself over there,” said Hern plainly, watching the witch chat merrily with other people from the town. She had a way with words that simply stopped anyone walking past as they were overcome with a strong urge to listen.

Rigel went back to giving Hern his full attention for a moment, before he finally relented with a sigh and held up his hands.

“Right, fine! You can have it. But I want to test it out at some point, all right!”

“Damn right I get it!” shouted Hern, throwing a fist in the air. “You’ll get it sometime, trust me,” he added before reaching forward and getting the scale.

Both boys then stood up and surveyed the entire square, deciding where to go. They both knew that it didn’t matter which stall they started off with, they would get round them all and it would be a competition between them both either way. Such was life with these two.

Hern caught his eyes being dragged to the pie contest, specifically the shockingly low content of pies left and the fact that one of the town’s welders, Arthur, was the target. He grinned.

“Think we can give big Arthur a face full of pie this time?” he said, pointing towards the stall.

Rigel looked and pursed his lips.

“Dunno … can we?” he said at length.

“Get yourself together,” ordered Hern, “we’re going in.”

And so both boys set off for the stall. Said stall was like most others you would find in the world: it involved a person putting their face through a piece of wood or some sort of wall and then the competitors standing a couple meters away and throwing any and all things at them. It was customary for everyone to participate in being the victim at least once in this game, as long as it didn’t hurt them, of course; a rule which Hern suspiciously forgot on his last birthday.

When the boys reached the stall, Parcey Henderson was busy have a turn. She was a year younger than the boys but had a fierce personality that just screamed listen or run. She was a little taller than Rigel but shorter than Hern, and she had the long version of the standard hair for the town: brown, or brunette (depending on one’s opinion on hair colour). She considered herself to be a very strong individual and aspired to be like the Minister for Banifell, Jacqueline. Anyway, she was just finishing up hurling a rather large loaf of bread covered in honey at the sweet-shop owner, Sten, who stood on a box behind the wooden wall for height. She missed, unfortunately, though just barely.

“Ugh … no,” drawled out Hern, “too bad there, Parsley,” he added, patting her on the shoulder and using the common name he and the others had given her due to her name sounding rather like the household herb.

“I’ll get him soon,” she rebuked, not bothering about the name.

“Well I’m just terribly and most undoubtedly sorry about you missing dear Sten there,” he leaned closer to Rigel, “whom I’d personally love to hit square in the face myself, AHEM! Yeah, well it’s our shot now,” he added, slowly pulling Parsey out the way. She glared at Hern and looked at Rigel for a reason.

Rigel shrugged.

“Sorry, Parsey, but old Arthur over there has a distinct lack of pie around his face,” he told her, nodding to the round man not far from them.

Parsey ran a hand through her hair in annoyance and said sharply, “Well if you get your shots on target then it’s worth it-”

“Expect every shot to be just that, then” said Hern through a condescending smile. “And I am positively dying to see Rigel here get out of those vines later on, so we’ve got quite a schedule to keep.”

“Sure thing, Hern. Maybe you can actually beat him this time,” Parsey sang with a grin. Hern always got in a state whenever anyone mentioned himself being slower than Rigel at the Vine-Run. “Happy birthday, Rigel!” she chirped before skipping away, knowing her work was done.

Rigel looked sidelong at Hern; he was glaring at something and it didn’t take a mind reader to know what.

“Whelp!” Rigel began, slapping him on the back, “sixty-three seconds to beat.”

“See if that bloody bush keeps me longer that a minute, I’ll set it alight,” Hern said resentfully, glowering at the small shrub. The shrub in question? A large conglomeration of vines. Though, they weren’t just your normal vines like ivy and such. No, these vines were of an abnormal branch of the species called motus vines. They weren’t deadly in small numbers, like the ones they had in Watsonford, but they certainly weren’t a friendly bunch. If one were to so much as even skiff their foot against a large group of them, they’d be lucky to see the light of day ever again. Motus vines had a nasty habit of latching on to whatever happened to get a little too close to them, and never letting go. Obviously, being the people they were, Watsonford decided it made for a fun game of life or death.

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” said Rigel quickly.

“What d’you mean?”

“Gordon. He’ll rile them up before you go in just to make it tougher.”

“Shut up, Rigel, he can’t do that,” Hern said, though his voice wavered slightly.

“Oh, yeah – completely,” said Rigel putting emphasis on the word completely. “They’re malleable like you wouldn’t believe. I heard one guy built a bridge out of them-”

“Get out?!” barked Hern.

“Yup,” confirmed Rigel.

“That’s ridiculous. I can’t believe – wait, Hern stopped, thinking hard for a moment before suddenly slapping his forehead. He stared under low eyebrows and gave Rigel a flat stare. “You’re a funny guy, Rigel. I’ll kill you last.”

“You make it too easy!” Rigel laughed. Hern didn’t appreciate the humour and shoved him. Rigel started at the sudden movement and pushed him back. Hern pushed Rigel again and this resulted in both boys scuffling with each other. Other people just walked on by without even a second glance; they were quite used to seeing such things coming from the two of them.

“Just give up, you proper carpet muncher,” growled Hern, grappling with both of Rigel’s arms. Rigel showed no sign of letting his friend get the best of him. But just when it seemed he was going to lose, a very bright idea raced through Rigel’s head. An easy escape, sure, but a win nonetheless. His eyes sharpened, getting ready for the reaction of a life time.

“WHAT THE ACTUAL, THAT BEE’S HUGE!!” Rigel bellowed. He felt Hern’s arms vanish and he witnessed his friend flinging himself to the ground, darting his head around for the apparent bees. Rigel burst out laughing at his friend’s reaction, they always proved to be exceedingly hilarious.

“Where is it?!” yelled Hern. “Where is that fat yellow piece of death.”

“Must’ve flew away,” said Rigel casually, slowly subduing any more laughter. He turned away and started for the pie toss. “Come on!”

“Hold on, there,” snapped Hern while getting up. He cracked his neck and stretched his arms out in front of him. “I think the vines are calling my name. Sounds like they’re just screaming for me to beat your time.”

“But, the pie?” said Rigel, sadly pointing at the stall.

Hern shrugged.

“Away with that, Vine-Run’s the name of the game!”

And with that said, he spun round and headed off to the other side of the square towards a large fenced off area. The vines were contained in a small quarantined zone where they couldn’t spread out. Vents at the top of the fence screamed out hot steam keeping the vines from latching on to the side and climbing over. Florence also helped by putting some wards around the fence, further containing them, though the steam was more than enough.

Rigel rubbed his neck remembering last time he had tried it; nearly cost him his head.

On the way there, the boys were intercepted by three people in very quick succession: the first was Sten, complaining about nearly getting hit by Parsey. Sten usually closed his shop extra early whenever a birthday arrive; he absolutely loved the stalls. Though, being the source of some of the fun was sometimes annoying. The second was Mr Frivil, one of the workers from the steam house. He had indefinitely-stained black finger tips due to handling coal every day, hauling out the imports out of monolithic carriages or shovelling them into the multitude of steam fires themselves. He started telling them about the coming power shortage due to the winter months, months which normally seen everyone using double the amount of coal or hot steam for heating which stretched the steam plants demand. After that, the next and last of the three was the enormous form of Angus Borden. He didn’t particularly do anything for the town but he was part of one of its founding families and therefore had as much right to laze about and do nothing as Rigel did. Angus was normally referred to as the gentle giant of the town; his high stature gave him a looming presence, but it was just that – a presence. He asked about the Pie Toss and was curious about how Rigel had done. Said boy told him that, thanks to Hern, they hadn’t done it yet. Hern looked around everywhere and avoided Angus’s eyes.

After, the boys finally came to the Motus enclosure. It was a large deep rectangular area that had thick copper fences with criss-crossed metal surrounding it. Rigel could couldn’t really see the vines thanks to the thick wall of hot steam and a slight blurring thanks to Florence’s ward. A small door, however, situated in the dead centre acted as both a window and an entrance.

The boys stopped outside the door and to their left, the only person mad enough to stand guard over the whole enclosure, was Gordon Linn. Gordon was a little taller than both of them and sported a leather jacket and several knives dotted about his person (For keeping the vines in check). He had a long carving sword that leant steadily on the pipes just in case anything went wrong.

Gordon was one of the people who emigrated to Watsonford from the bigger cities. Gordon came specifically from St Vaulen in Skylan. There, he was a normal plant caterer and seen high amounts of business. However, he specialised in rare forms of plants and his produce became widely known before he finally shut up shop to live out in the smaller town.

His jaw, which was set at a permanent crooked angle, lifted in a tilted smile.

“Here to set the record again, boys!” he barked merrily while clapping his large hands together. His voice sounded something akin to gravel getting thrown around in a large hollow barrel.

Hern nodded once and punched Rigel’s shoulder.

“Gonna wreck his one, for sure.”

“As if,” muttered Rigel, silently confident.

Hern scoffed.

“Talking like it’s not already been done, I’ve already ruined it completely, you watching?!”

“Yeah, sure,” Rigel chuckled while rubbing his temple. He gestured to the plants. “On you go-”

“How ’bout we toss a coin for it?” said Gordon, pulling out a copper coin and completely missing Hern’s assumption. The boys looked at it, then at each other before both nodding; the old ways were sometimes the best. Gordon smiled and said, “Take your sides-”

“Tails never fails,” said Rigel instantly.

“Heads it is, then,” shrugged Hern.

Gordon nodded and fiddled with the small thing in his giant hands. Eventually he got it set and gave a quick countdown. “Three, two, one.” He tossed the coin high into the air. Rigel watched the coin spin faster than he could make out before it landed back in Gordon’s hand. “Rigel wins!” he announced.

Hern deflated, but he held up his hands conceding acceptance.

“Fine, go at it, Rigel,” he said empathetically.

“Cheers, mate,” Rigel remarked through a smirk.

Gordon fiddled with a few buttons outside and the steam stopped on a rickety copper door frame, and Gordon slowly opened it. Rigel peered through and could see the vines clear as day. Like looking through a rectangle door in a cloud, he could see the things snapping and grabbing everything menacingly. They often grabbed other vines, misunderstanding them for people. Rigel tentatively crept forward while Gordon stayed rooted at the entrance, ready to leap in if worst came to worst.

Rigel couldn’t make out how many vine were in there but it looked like a lot. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Get on with it, or getting melted!” blabbered Hern outside the cage.

Rigel gave him a blank look … before leaping straight into the centre of the plants.

Immediately branches, vines and twigs wrapped round his limbs and waist and neck; anything they could get there green fingers around. They weren’t too tight, but they made him rethink his life choice to do this. He let them get a firm grip before looking back at Gordon.

“All right, Rigel,” said Gordon, holding up a very golden watch for time-keeping, “sixty-seconds to beat. You can start … now!”

Once the words left Gordon’s lips, Rigel pushed his legs as hard as he could, hauling himself forward and trying to output more strength than the vines could manage. He wouldn’t let these bloody plants get the best of him … not when he had both a record and his friend to beat. Unfortunately, the motus vines held firm their grip almost to the point in which they could be mistaken as living iron. Now, it came as no surprise to find out that Watsonford was actually the only town that allowed such a game to occur. The other towns and cities held a great distaste of the plants and burned any that came close to their boundaries. Of course, they were completely within their rights to do so, motus vines were a hundred times worse than weeds. A case of them recorded up in Gordinston, which was another town not far from Banifell, saw the vines completely overtake a house and, like a watermelon with a hundred bands around it, snapped the house in half. So it comes as no surprise that there was actually only three separate individual vines in the cage with Rigel, any more and it would become a little too dangerous.

Rigel growled to himself. He had only sixty-seconds to get fully out of these things, and he had already spent ten of them just thinking. It was time to put this thing to rest. Reviewing his last escape, Rigel remembered that the vines couldn’t distinguish whether or not they were gripping themselves or a different person when they were otherwise preoccupied. With their grip strong, his arms almost pinned, Rigel slowly started to push the vines holding his hand onto another identical vine. Quick as a flash, the vine whipped round and snapped itself off him and coiled round the other vine, letting free his hand. He did the same with his arm and then his other and soon enough he had both arms free and ready to go.

“Thirty-six seconds past, Rigel!” He heard Gordon yell.

“You’re gonna lose!” He heard Hern shout through to him.

“Shut up, you!” Rigel yelled to himself as felt the quickening feeling of adrenalin run through him as he carefully untangled and fooled the motus vines off his right leg. It was looking good but as soon as things started going right for Rigel, something snapped behind his back. Turning his head wearily, he could see an enormous vine that had held a grip on a branch which was so strong that it split the branch clean in half, and it was now free and nearing his neck. Rigel quickly stuck his arm up to try stop it reaching him but it was too late, the vine only grazed his neck before lightening-quickly coiling round it.

“Seems dear Rigel is having some amusing fun,” commented Florence as she came up to observe the hassle within the cage.

“Only if he beats the record – forty-five seconds, Rigel!” came Gordon’s booming voice again.

Rigel thought fast, he now had both his legs and arms out but his main concern was the now rapidly tightening trunk-like vine round his neck. Rigel tried to get its attention by repeatedly hitting it with his right hand and it seemed to work, for the most part: the vine loosened slightly but paused, as if it knew that something wasn’t right about Rigel’s attempted trickery. Rigel precariously managed to get a hand under the plant and gripped it as hard as he could. Quick as possible, he pulled at the vine and it slipped off – free at last!

Rigel almost flew away from the motus vines and towards the door where he slammed his hand onto the gate and Gordon stopped the clock.

“How … was … that?” said Rigel breathlessly, using the gate for support.

“Well, y’didn’t beat it, I’m a-”

“YES!” roared Hern, jumping around slightly.

“Hush, you,” growled Rigel, “so what was my time, then?”

“You got sixty-five seconds so it’s not so bad, if you ask me.”

“Not so bad?” snapped Florence, knocking on the fence with her cane.“People can barely retrieve themselves from falling in a bush three-quarters that size. Though, having said that, wild Motus vines have had a terrible amount of practise with holding things still.”

“Whelp, guess I’m gonna be one of the few to do it in under fifty-nine seconds,” said Hern, as he strutted into the enclosure. He patted Rigel on the way past. “See you on the other side.”

“Careful, they’re strong,” warned Rigel, rubbing his neck, but Hern was already at the bush.

“Gordon! Get that clock, if you please!”

“Gonna get himself killed,” sighed Gordon as he reset the ticking clock. Hern was raring and ready to beat his friends score. he had done it thrice before and he could most certainly do it again.

Rigel watched his friend for a moment before turning to Florence.

“Do you know where mum is?”

Florence, who was trying to mentally figure out Hern’s chances of beating the record, spoke distantly, “I think she was seated at a table with the Burlist’s and some others over at the Copper Tent.”

“And Meliya?” asked Rigel.

Florence pointed over to the pie stall and he could see the ghoul getting taught how to play the game by the daughter of the mayor, Lily. Maliya seemed to be having some trouble getting to grips with throwing something that’s meant to be used for eating purposes at someone’s head. That being said, she had a very good aim and she hit her target first time dead on centre. Though they soon ran out of pies to throw.

“On an adventure with the locals,” said Florence humouredly.

Rigel chuckled a little. You see, it’s not often someone or something comes to Watsonford for the first time with zero knowledge. Everyone that comes here always has prior skills and know-how’s about the town, so they would never really be at a complete loss. And because of that, the town’s residence never really go the full astonishment treatment from any travellers or tradesmen. But to have Meliya here for the first time was a treat within itself; both a ghoul and a novice.

Rigel looked back into the enclosure when Hern’s voice loudly surfaced.

“Get someone to take the reins of this trip, because I’m about to do some serious record breaking,” Hern yelled from within, just yards away from the motus’. He turned to his audience and cracked his knuckles.

“Careful, Hern,” warned Florence.

“Don’t worry, Florence, I’ve got this oneeeAAAHH!!” Hern jumped about five feet into the air. “It’s fine. Just one of them,” he told them breathlessly. “Touched my ankle.”

Rigel heard Florence coughing beside him, no doubt hiding a laugh.

“Love the bravery, Hern,” said Gordon mockingly.

“Shut up, you.”

“Hern’s right, Gordon!” called Florence. “I wouldn’t use brave to describe him. Maybe timid. Or scaredy-cat.”

Hern looked like he was about to explode.

“See you! Go speak cryptic witch language somewhere else,” he bit with a glare. Florence seamed to only get more amusement from Hern’s apparent whining.

“All right, Hern,” ushered Gordon, fixing him a serious face, “take your place. You have sixty seconds to beat. Get that and you’ve got the record. Now, are you ready?” He got a nod after Hern planted himself in the centre of the vines. “Right. Three, two, one, go!”

Hern started his escape effort. Rigel watched with interest and slight worry. The length of time Hern would hound him about holding the record if he won would be unbearable.

“You think he’ll do it?” Rigel asked Florence, but he was met with stark silence. Rigel turned and saw that the witch wasn’t standing where she was a second ago. In fact, she was nowhere to be found.

“Oi, Gordon, you see where Florence went?” he asked the large man.

“What?” said Gordon, not taking his eyes away from the struggling Hern. It was quite obvious he had no clue where the witch had disappeared to.

Rigel spun round and looked through the hoard of people in Minister Square for the black suited witch. And, after a moment of furious searching, he found her. She was chatting with his mother, who was, as Florence has said, sitting with the Burlist’s in the Copper Tent. But what stopped Rigel from watching Hern again and continuing his hoping for his friends loss was the next thing that happened: his mother gained a confused face as she stared at the witch and Rigel couldn’t make out what they were saying. Florence bowed her head slightly and she walked off, but she didn’t come back to the crowded square as Rigel thought. Instead, Florence was heading in the opposite direction; out of the square. Now, normally something like this could be put down to a simple conclusion: she could need some peace and quiet from the constant nagging sound of the crowd, or perhaps she just needed a moment to herself or she may even have forgotten something in the house. The only thing that said any different, however, was the expression the witch held. Rigel didn’t pride himself on his eyesight, but he could plainly see the brooding, shadowed face she held even from this distance.

Rigel steeled himself for a moment, wondering what could possibly spook Florence so and decided he wanted to know. He turned back to see Hern, who was nearly finished freeing himself from entanglement in the motus vines, wrestling as much as he could. Rigel knew he would still be, quite literally, wrapped up for a while longer so he made a decision and turned quickly and made after Florence.

“Tell Hern I’m over at the Copper Tent, Gordon,” he told the plant keeper. He got a wave back and took it as a yes. Rigel then made his way over to said tent.

The Copper Tent gained its peculiar name from the roof it held; it was dusted lightly in copper, giving it a sheen that held in the heat nicely. Within the tent was a barrister style coffee café which also stocked some wine and beer, so it was packed to the gunners.

Rigel fumbled his way over to where his mother sat while thanking those wishing him a happy birthday, and his mother smiled at him when he arrived.

“What was that about, mum?” Rigel asked, trying not to sound too iffy.

“Hello, Rigel!” shouted Mr Burlist before his mother could. He was a little red in the face from wine. “Hope you’re enjoying the evening! The wife and I planned out some of this, you know,” he said merrily, pointing a finger between himself and Mrs Burlist.

Rigel smiled quickly at them.

“Could not have hoped for a better night,” he said favourably. Mr Burlist grinned and started throwing back the rest of whatever was currently in his mug.

Alison smiled softly at her son and said, “She was checking to see if the front door was still open, son. Why?” She took a calm sip from her water, coughing a little after.

“No, just wondering.”

He got a flat stare from his mother.

“Rigel. Dear, I know my own son. What’s wrong?” said Alison, with a little more force. Rigel held a wooden look, trying his best to keep a poker face. But it was for naught, because an uproar from behind them signalled the start of the dancing. Rigel thanked his lucky stars for the specific interruption.

“Never mind, mum. I’m going to go find Hern. I’ll see you in a little bit,” said Rigel quickly.

Alison studied him for a moment but nodded and Rigel slipped away as his mother’s attention was drawn back to the Burlist’s.

Rigel eventually came to the edge of the square and took in a fulfilling breath. Half the battle was getting through that darn crowd; at least eleven people stopped him, some who weren’t at his house that morning wishing him a happy birthday, and some whose sight must’ve been a little hazy at best because they wished him a happy birthday for the second or third time.

Eventually he came out and stepped onto Origin Street, which led straight to his house. He could see, faintly in the darkness, the outline of Florence far in the distance. If Rigel wasn’t such a curious person, and capable of blatantly disregarding ethics, he would let Florence have her privacy and return. After all, privacy is a given for all people. But when someone just screamed ’follow me’, it was rather hard to obey that simple principle. Rigel was an extremely curious person at heart and that drove him to carry on with the soul thought of what could possibly make the witch so … worried?

He lurched to a grand halt when another shadow suddenly appeared from nothing and joined the witch in the distance. He caught his breath and saw that it was just Meliya, which made him wonder if it had something to do with the ghouls, and if the two had planned this little escapade from the start. Rigel slunk into the side of the street and hurried along, keeping as close as he dared.

He held a constant battle of morals in his head, too. A few times he just about turned around and thought, I’ll just leave it, but alas his curiosity was strong.

The shadows he used to conceal himself were frail, thin and in small quantity. Jammed up at the side of the houses, he hissed to himself when his legs touched the either freezing cold or boiling hot pips along the corners. Of all the nights to have a full moon, he thought. Said moons light seemed to be like a sun when he was trying to hide.

“Screw it,” Rigel mumbled to himself. The moon be damned; if he was caught he was caught. He carried on following the witch and ghoul when a sudden thought struck him: was he being paranoid? Maybe. Clearly he was in the wrong here, both morally and ethically, but Rigel was willing to bet that something was up. And he thought to himself that if they didn’t want to tell him then yes, maybe he shouldn’t be following them. But the look on Florence’s face, from what he could tell from the distance he was at, was grim. That just screamed trouble.

“Oi!” came a voice from behind Rigel. He jumped round from his prone position and found a very cross looking Hern staring at him. Said boy quickly grabbed his arm, “What are you doing!?”

“Shut up!” Rigel hissed, slamming a hand over Hern’s mouth. “Keep your voice down. I’m following somebody,” he told him plainly. “Don’t get so worked up. Did you beat the record?”

“Nearly, but no. Five seconds late,” Hern pouted. He did indeed try his hardest but it didn’t do him any good. He shook his head and glared at Rigel. “Never mind that! Who you stalking?”

“Following,” said Rigel quietly. He pointed down the street to his house. “Florence and Meliya are looking a little too innocent.”

Hern looked where Rigel pointed and saw the two and his eyes narrowed.

“The ghoul did seem a little shifty at points,” he muttered. “Probably thinking about something else.”

“D’you think this has anything to do with her trying to get Florence to go to Endoll before?” asked Rigel curiously.

“Mate, what else could it be?”

“I was planning to go find out. You coming?”

“Rigel, dearest,” remarked Hern in a polite voice with a grin, “whenever have I not come along when something this tasty rears its lovely head?”

Rigel turned back to see the end of Florence’s cane vanish into his house with a slamming door following.

“Right, let’s go,” said Rigel.

They both slid down the corner of the street, making sure to stay as well hidden as they could. They felt like thick thieves as they snaked their way up to the house. Crouching under the front living room window, Rigel snapped his fingers and pointed up to it. Hern nodded and they peaked over the window ledge slowly and carefully … and Rigel found his temper rising slightly while Hern scrunched his face and sighed to himself; they were staring blankly at white satin drawn-closed curtains.

“Talking no risks.”

“Your room door unlocked?” asked Hern.

Rigel clicked at the idea and quickly ran round the side of the house where he looked up at the ledge his room window sat, high up on the house. Thankfully his house was built half into a tree and his room windows opened straight onto a balcony in said tree. That, and the tree provided a great means of climbing.

“I think so,” Rigel wondered aloud. “Mum hasn’t found a reason to lock it yet so it should be. And we can let the tree keep us hidden.”

Hern took a step back and examined a larger area of what was in front of him and, true to Rigel’s words, the tree blocked out almost all the moonlight cast near them. And best of all, the back window to Rigel’s room, which was more like a doorway leading in from a balcony than anything else, was well hidden.

“Let’s get going, then,” said Hern quietly. For reasons lost on Rigel, Hern decided to take the lead. It seemed he was feeling rather brave with himself when he lunged into the closest branches he could reach and started scurrying up the tree. Rigel hauled himself up a little more carefully than his friend and the ground ever so slowly crept away from them both. Now, it’s safe to say that they weren’t athletic climbers in the slightest, and they wouldn’t have gotten anywhere if there weren’t any branches on the tree, but they certainly made their way up faster than normal. Rigel silently thanked himself for convincing his mother to keep the lower branches on the tree and letting it grow normally.

It took the boys about three minutes to ascend to Rigel’s fifth level bedroom doors. They were a set of wooden-glass double-doors set carefully into the tree and they had criss-cross black stripes all over them. Hern went to open it but a hand on his shoulder stopped him dead. Rigel had a contemplative look about him.

“When we get in there, not a sound comes from either of us,” Rigel ordered.

Hern scrunched his face and said in a low scoff, “That’s common knowledge for this sort of thing, idiot.”

“Seriously, though. We need to make mice sounds like dragons.”

“All right, then. Speaking of dragons, here’s that scale of yours, might give us some luck,” said Hern, handing Rigel the white scale before resuming his approach to the house. Rigel took the and shoved deep into his pocket before following. Hern slowly slid the handle of the windows down with learnt experience – they often left the house locked and ended up having to climb in, you see; and boys their age were easily able to do so.

Hern growled to himself several times as high squeaking noises came from the door every time he moved it. After much slight movements and many curse words, the windows were open and Hern took a last glance back at Rigel. Rigel, in turn, took one moment to rethink if they should be doing this, but he was stopped when Hern waved at him.

“What?” Rigel asked in a loud whisper.

“Get your head on. Not another sound,” ordered Hern, and he took his first slow and calculated step into the dark room.

Next Chapter: Chapter 5: Black-Star Residue