"Not all who wander are lost."--- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord Of The Rings

There were those who entered Aubrey Parish with enough trumpets and fanfare to call the attention of the entire town. There were others who simply walked in with a pair of dusty sandals and a duffel bag, planning to figure it out when they got there. Until the arrival of Bryn Aeron, no one had ever tried to enter the Parish coming from the wrong direction.

Aubrey Parish was a simple place, with one somewhat paved dirt road leading into town, and the same one leading back out. Judging by the number of vehicles that were randomly parked on what was once grass and tumbleweeds, but had been rolled over enough times to now be called "the parking lot", there wasn't an awful lot of leaving.

That was exactly what brought Bryn to town, the rumour of a place no one ever left behind. For years, he'd been living in a series of run-down motels and the backseat of his trusty old sedan, which appeared to be half as old as he was and made an annoying clunking sound before sputtering helplessly on confusing terrain. The car had served him faithfully, so much so he had given it a name. He wouldn't go around telling people that, but he had a soft spot for the run-down old car, even if he could afford a new one. Bryn wasn't the sort to replace things just because he could.

Once a successful private investigator, he quickly grew bored chasing cheating spouses, biological parents gone AWOL, and evidence of who was blackmailing who and getting away with it. The problems of most people in the world were trivial and repetitive, and though Bryn Aeron was a talented investigator, his passion for solving mysteries went largely unfulfilled.

He didn't remember how it started, but he started to watch mysteries and documentaries on whatever channels the crappy hotel rooms had that weren't news, weather, or porn. Those who didn't care much about those three things, and Bryn did not, were often bored at midnight.

The Southeastern part of the United States was rich in legend and mystery. That was to say, the people who called that part of the world home were obsessed with ghost stories. Mostly everything had a legend attached, and no shortage of people willing to tell you the sordid story.

Driving through countless cities and towns with only a gas pump and a diner taught him everything was haunted, magic was real, and there were all kinds of monsters that lurked in the dark. Some wanted your soul, some your body, others your blood, and still others were cute, furry animals that worshiped the moon and would kill you if they hear your footsteps. It was unusually disturbing advice from people who lived in a world where imagination was alive and well. Between haunted attractions, there was invariably a church to offer sanctuary from the unholy ways of the world.

Bryn Aeron chose the monsters.

He ditched his suit and tie for a comfortable pair of jeans and lived the life of a drifter. Despite that, he was still digniified, well-groomed, and had enough money to afford the necessities. Bryn wasn't mistaken for a hobo or for anyone who belonged in the world he had taken it upon himself to study, but he had an amiable nature and handsome face that convinced people to talk to him. Even when he slid on a pair of elbow-length black leather gloves and black leather jacket to avoid touching anything that shouldn't be touched, nothing about him was intimidating. He rarely was the bad-ass cliche of a private investigator, not unless he needed to be.

He preferred to think of himself as an adventurer, a historian, an archaeologist, and a researcher, all in one. The more legends and stories he heard, the more determined he was to prove they were true. He wanted to come face to face with the nightmares of others, to learn the truth about the things that supposedly went bump in the night. Bryn Aeron, Monster Hunter, he thought to himself with a wry smile. They could make a television show about him.

It wasn't any great mystery that brought him to Aubrey Parish, but an e-mail from a woman who claimed to live in a small town on the Southern edge of Louisiana that wasn't just home to supernatural forces no one talked about. The town itself was made of supernatural forces, according to legend. It appeared out of nowhere, and many said that souls were counted. No one could enter Aubrey Parish until another soul had departed, and once there, no one ever truly left. The young lady didn't believe in "all that stuff", but was delighted to tell him about her creepy new home. Bryn didn't e-mail her back, but wondered why she didn't just disprove the stories by leaving.

A week of sleepless nights and researching the Parish had brought him to the point of getting in the car and driving to the true middle of nowhere. It was a two-hour trip down bumpy and dusty dirt roads and November-withered trees that still hung on to their leaves. The humidity and fog was heavy and oppressive. It easily beat his car's well-worn air conditioner. At some point, he noticed a dreary haze cloud out the sun. It didn't cool things off any, and he started to try to remove some extra pieces of clothing with one hand on the wheel.

When Bryn saw the Aubrey Parish sign, and the arrow that seemed to point through thickets of nature, he begrudgingly went the way the arrow indicated. Someone needs to learn to make clearer directions. No wonder no one ever leaves, he thought with a grumpy look on his face. It was hot and growing dark and he just wanted to find his hotel room.

It was at that moment that Bryn Aeron's fifteen year-old sedan went careening through brush and leaves, past trees and rocks, and unceremoniously rolled to an abrupt stop. As he looked out of the window he pressed against, he saw he was parked diagonally on the side of a cliff. Bryn opened the door delicately, attempting to quietly escape.

As luck would have it, the fifteen year-old sedan still believed in safety first. It was at that moment that the airbag decided to belatedly deploy, colliding into the investigator in a way that was not the gentlest of hugs.

Bryn didn't remember much after that, just a dream he was falling, and had become weightless. It was what he thought being an astronaut felt like. To his great surprise, he enjoyed it.

It was a peaceful dream, one interrupted by a surprisingly cold shock of water that felt like a hardened block of ice as his sweat-covered body made contact.

The past two weeks had been a punishment for many, but for Azzie and Dino, they'd been a gift. They were an unlikely pair, the free-spirited and eccentric Southern belle and the tough New York street kid. Beyond the surface, they had more in common than not, and the more Dino spent time with Azzie, the more he wanted to win her over.

It didn't take him long to see Azzie was a sweet, old-fashioned girl, the kind who put family and those she loved above everything. In a world that was often a cold and selfish place, she genuinely cared about people. Behind that, though, she was surprisingly tough. She wouldn't let anyone treat her like a doormat. Azzie was the sort of girl who didn't go looking for fights, but she'd definitely hang around and finish one. In his neighbourhood, they called it being "scrappy". In Aubrey Parish, it was survival of the fittest. 

Dino thought more than a few times how much his mother would like Azzie, except for the Southern drawl that was clearly not Italian. 

Most of Azzie's days involved walking, and so most of Dino trying to get to know Azzie  involved running after her. "Hey, Azzie? Why you always gotta move so fuckin' fast? I thought I was in good shape comin' here, but shit. I gotta fuckin' run to get where you're goin' and I'm feelin' like some pansy-ass boy for fuckin' chasin' you."

Azzie slowed down, just to turn her head to him. "No one told you to chase me. I walk fast because that's what I do here. Someone has to watch over the Parish and get Mr. Grimm his exercise."

Dino kept jogging behind her, moving through the length of the park. "Azzie, Mr. Grimm is fuckin' ninety years old. Fuck, he's gotta be tired. You're gonna give him a goddamned heart attack. And ain't that what we got fuckin' cops for, patrollin' the city? Shit, Azzie, you some kind of fuckin' undercover cop?" Dino freezes in his tracks. It was possible, the way she moved so quickly, walked around for no good reason. It explained how such a sweet-looking girl would break an innocent guy's nose for putting his hands at the wrong place. 

This time she didn't look back. "Mr. Grimm is 96, and the way he's going to make it to one hundred is lots of fresh air and sunshine. His body has gone through a lot so every day we make him stronger. It's called rehabilitation. Just because people are old doesn't mean they're anxious to die. Not like you, with those "hoagies" and plates of pasta that no one should eat if they want their arteries unclogged." 

Dino jogged more aggressively, slightly winded, but a huge smile is on his face. "Azzie, I saw you take a fuckin' bite of that giant-ass meatball hoagie when you thought no one was lookin'. You fuckin' loved it, so just admit it. Carrot sticks and cucumbers and whatever the fuck romaine lettuce is just sucks, even on a bad-ass hoagie." He noticed the way she evaded the question and broke a sweat. It was either because it was almost Thanksgiving and 85 degrees, or because the idea of her being a cop freaked him out. 

"Azzie, you didn't fuckin' answer my question. You a fuckin'  cop or somethin'?"

He was relieved when Azzie finally slowed down, the flowers and butterflies pinned in her hair starting to let tiny wisps of copper-red hair escape. They stick to her skin, the only indication that the exercise tired her out at all.

"No, I'm not a cop. You seem pretty freaked out thinkin' I might be, though. Are you running from something?"

Dino looked at the ground, not wanting to lie to Azzie. "Yeah, maybe. A bunch of fuckin' things. Like, it fuckin' sucks, but I dunno if I can ever leave this fuckin' place. If I go back home, fuckers might kill me or toss me in the fuckin' clink with my Pops."

He didn't lift his eyes, afraid of her reaction. Lying was so much easier. Azzie just nodded her head. "Good. I mean about the not leaving town part. I don't like to get too stuck on people, because they always say goodbye."

Dino smiled despite himself, though he couldn't miss the note of pain stuck in her voice. "You think you could get stuck on me, then?"

"I don't know. Maybe. You have to stop cursing so much and learn some other words. But yeah, I think you're mostly a really nice guy. You make me laugh. I'm glad you're not just here for a little while, that's all. Is that okay?" Azzie's shoe kicked dirt from the grass to the pavement. Dino could tell wherever the conversation was going, it made her nervous. 

"Of course it's fuckin' okay, Azzie. I mean..why wouldn't it be? We all gotta have people who make life less shitty just for bein' around."  He grins and puts an arm around her lazily, almost stretching over to the back of Mr. Grimm's head. "Hey, Az? You wanna go out to dinner sometime with a kid from Brooklyn who swears too fuckin' much? Not for hoagies and smoothies or pizza. I mean, like a real kind of date."

To his surprise, Azzie didn't slap his arm away. "As long as I can get Damon to watch Mr. Grimm, and we bring something back for them. Oh, and we can't go to Mudbugs. But aside from all that, I would like that. Are you still going to say "fuck" if it's a real date?"

Dino laughed, a genuine trouble-free kind of laugh. "I'll try to say it fuckin' less, okay?" The smile faded a little. "Why can't we go to Mudbugs? I heard everyone goes there 'cause they got the best fucking chef. You got a man there or somethin'?" It occurred to Dino he had no idea if Azzie was single. He never saw her with anyone.

"Something like that. I mean, I did. I was thinking for a while I'd maybe end up marrying the chef there you were talking about." She looks up at Dino, her black eyes filled with sadness. "It didn't work out though. So it's just easier to stay away. Maybe that's not mature and grown-up-like, but it's easier."

Dino nodded his head, trying to avoid the gnawing feeling of jealousy that crept up. "So you're not seein' anyone now? I know it ain't the way people are these days, fuckin' around like it's nuthin' to nobody. It ain't how I was raised, though. If I fuckin' ask a girl out, it's just her I wanna be with."

Azzie laughed brightly, fortunately not appearing to notice Dino's complete embarrassment at the whole topic. "It's just me. I'm not like that either, the sleeping around and going on dates a lot, if that's what you mean. I don't do that. I don't even drink or go to bars. I guess I'm pretty boring to most people. They think I'm like an old lady. "

Dino stared at Azzie a minute, his heart making a sound that echoed in his ears. "I think you're beautiful, Azzie. Girls like you don't come around every day. And I'm fuckin' glad you ain't a cop." He grins, staring at the ground nervously. "So why you ain't married to the fuckin' chef? Now I'm gonna go there thinkin' he's a fuckin' prick if he wasn't good to you."

Her face turned a light pink, not used to being complimented. "He didn't understand that when you get married, family comes with. He wanted to be the only thing I'd ever care about. I loved him, but that was lonely. I know you're not supposed to say that stuff to guys, but I want to have a family to grow old with." 

Dino's smile grew ten times as big. "Family is the most fuckin' important thing, Az. You're the right kind of girl for knowin' that."  His heart flips around a few more times, and he lets her go, looking ready to start running. "You fuckin' comin', or what? We gotta jog all the way back for smoothies." 

Azzie laughed, following him as he takes off. "Maybe I don't want a Smoothie today!" 

Dino kept running, knowing eventually she'll catch up with him. "Too fuckin' bad, Az. Mr. Grimm wants a fuckin' smoothie. He told me so."

When Bryn Aeron opens his eyes, it's to find himself floating peacefully in a cold and refreshing river. There were worse places to be. However, instead of opening his eyes to a beautiful enchantress in gauzy silks and pretty jewels, he saw a pale man with piercings and tattoos over most of his body. His beard has chosen to grow downward instead of sideways, and is braided and tied every few inches with rubber bands. The man's black hair is slicked back in a rather unappealing way, with some kind of oil that looks repellent to the touch. Maybe that's the point, Bryn thinks to himself.

The man gives a hearty laugh, wading into the water and reaching a strong but calloused hand down to help Bryn up. "Ain't that just beat all for makin' an entrance. I know people go cliff divin' for fun, but can't say as I ever saw it happen into the river. Most're put off by the rocks and gators and crawdaddies." The man winks, clad entirely in black although it's the one colour that inhales the uncomfortable heat and occasional rays of sunshine. "I'm guessin' when you saw the arrow that said the Parish was that way, you followed it. The arrow's a little confuzzlin'. The entrance is about two miles down river from where we are now. That's where new arrivals get checked in. You're a new one, I'm noticin'?"  He holds out his hand in introduction but forgets to say his name.

Bryn shakes the man's hand, still dazed. He'd hit his head a little harder than he thought he would. "This is the place called Aubrey Parish, innit?" Bryn's voice is a healthy, melodic baritone, punctuated here and there by remnants of an accent most would assume was an Irish brogue. In fact, he was Welsh by birth, with the slightly tanned skin, sparking eyes, and rolling r's that went with it. When he mentions the Parish, the word seems to go on forever. "It's a beauty, except for the sign. Name's Bryn, by the by."

The other man claps him heartily on the back. "I'm Mortikai. I should be sayin' welcome to the Parish! We ain't got new people comin' to this part often enough. Everyone wants to live inside the city itself, but out here, you got nature and all the peace an' quiet you ever wanted. Come on. I'll show you to my place and we can figure how to get that car off the cliff and check you in 'fore the Sheriff comes wanderin' by. They like to know every single soul in the Parish, though Lord knows why." 

Bryn follows Mortikai out of the river and up an embankment, where he's surprised to see a place where it appears people go camping. There are shacks and the occasional farm house as far as his eyes can see, some with lights in the windows, and some not even having doors or walls. Each area invariably has some sort of clothesline strung in the air with garments drying, rusted or splintered old chairs and benches, and a fire burning in the middle of camp. A few have old-fashioned children's toys, like tricycles and sprinklers, in the yard. Others simply have tires or what looks like non-functioning vans and automobiles a few decades older than his. "People come to this part of the Parish for camping out by there?" Bryn points a finger curiously down the river, even farther from the city. "I reckon city life be tiresome after a good minute."

Mortikai laughs, and shakes his head no. "You're a good sort, but ain't seen much of this part of the world, I'm guessin'. People who live here are poor as dirt, ain't got two nickels to rub together much of the time." Mortikai smiles almost apologetically as they walk.

"Nicest people you'll ever meet, but ain't much hope for this part of the bayou, not far as normal society says. Electricity is a luxury and those who earn money with a trade do, but ain't hardly enough. Some're criminals who'll rob you blind, no mistakin' that. Others choose to live like this, "off the grid", they call it. Like me and Izolda. We work jobs in the city, earn our wages, live out here where it's cheap and the only thing to answer to mostly is nature. But many live here because it's all there is."

Bryn looks surprised, obviously not expecting the scene he'd stumbled in upon. "No one can help? It's wrong, innit? I'm sure the city has all kinds of people with more then they need and out here, people starve. Everyone should get electricity and water, da?" He walks up to a house that is actually a house with walls and a door, though in an incredible stare of disrepair. There are clotheslines and strings of lights, the kind you see at Christmas, but bigger, plugged into what looks like an electricity-providing tree.

Mortikai clicks his tongue. "Wrong, yeah. Life definitely ain't fair. But we all learn to get by. Thing you won't believe is many are happier here than in any city. Here, we come together and live like a community."  He turns his head and shouts, though the door isn't far away. "Izolda! Come. Company's here to visit." 

Bryn forces his mouth closed when he realises the man calls for his wife in the same way Bryn would call for a dog to come home. The world here is different. There's a slight lump of self-consciousness in his throat as a young woman with long chestnut hair and jingling skirts approaches. She can't be more than twenty-five, but she already has the lines of time and age forming on her sun-kissed skin. 

Mortikai doesn't greet her or wait for her to speak, but says, "Bryn, this is my wife Izolda. She'll make you feel at home and get you fed before we figure out how to get that car down off the cliff. Or maybe up off the cliff. 'Course, you want to stay with us, it can just stay there forever." He winks, eyes pointing out the shells of hollowed out, deceased vehicles. 

With a small smile and a friendly acknowledgement in his eye, Bryn holds out his hand to Izolda. "Bryn Aeron. Right nice to meet you, Izolda," There isn't even a bit of the charmer in Bryn to match the brogue. He isn't the type for small talk and half-hearted compliments because it's what people say. Still, he wasn't lying. The bizarre people and their simple way of life intrigued him. 

Izolda was a petite woman with a delightful figure and strong features. Bryn wasn't the kind to particularly notice something like that, but Mortikai's eyes watched her as if they were issuing commands. Maybe she was some sort of robot thing?  Did she have to be told what to do?  This piqued his curiosity.

Instead of taking the offered hand, Izolda curtsies, lowering herself to the ground in front of him. The gesture is one that puts herself on display, down to a glimpse of the perfectly painted toenails she tucks underneath her body. "It is my pleasure to welcome you to our camp. Will you be visiting us for a while? I did not know we were expecting a new member of the family."

Izolda's voice is a soft, melodic one. "If there is any sort of comfort or pleasure we can provide, you need only ask. I can make you a bath if your journey has been long, and I will keep you company if it has been lonely. We also have special drinks and herbs to relax you, and food to replenish your strength."

Izolda's speech sounds lovely to Bryn's ear, although like a flight attendant for the strangest campground ever. Mortikai pats her head with what looks like approval. Bryn's head is reeling, as he may have hit it harder than he thought. "Ma'am, you're a right kind lass, but you don't have to sit on the ground because I'm here. I'm no one, just passing by." 

Izolda smiles, her eyes warm in the way they offer welcome. "Every visitor who comes to see our camp is someone of importance. If you don't feel particularly important, I can be of great help in making you feel better. I promise, you'll be smiling much wider in no time!"

Bryn's eyes are large in disbelief. Did the man's wife proposition him in front of her husband?  "I..am feeling very confused. I know it would make me feel less awkward if you'd stand yourself up, lass. I hit my head and am a little woozy. I'm sorry if I seem out of it. I wouldn't turn down dinner and a place to sit a minute if you can spare it."

Bryn's head swims around as Mortikai motions for Izolda to rise. She does, her look a bit huffy at both men, but she goes to fetch dinner. Bryn is slightly stunned as the man in black claps him on the back companionably. "Don't mind her. She ain't so used to ways in this world yet. Izolda is one of those Romani. You know, the gypsy people. They're a closed society with a shit ton of weird quirks. Some say they're a cult sorta deal".

Mortikai grins. "Guess it makes me the knight in shinin' fuckin' armour for rescuin' her. The Parish has a few like her. Once you leave that way of life, you can never go back. They call themselves "familia" even though most aren't actually related. More like two or three families got it in their heads to set up camp together.

Bryn presses a hand to the side of his forehead. "Why did she sit on the ground like that? It makes it look like she's offering--um, the wrong kind of things. Men are bound to mistake her intent."

Mortikai laughs, and explains calmly. "Ain't no mistake. A new male in the family is greeted by a woman, usually the daughter closest to marryin' age,  who offers him whatever he wants. Great tradition for the guys, I guess, but a lot of the women run. We call 'em "refugees". Most'll still give you whatever you want, they just learned to charge. Fuckin' capitalism works out for everyone."

Bryn stares, a blank and befuddled look on his face. "You need to stop her from doing that. That's your wife. She needs protection and respect. Her reputation---"

Mortikai strokes his beard, and shrugs. "Ain't nothin' much to me. Izolda works over at the Red Question. She feels pretty, brings home good money, treats me well enough. Ain't the Middle Ages, though it looks like it. Reputation don't get you much."

The Welshman is thoughtful, the chivalrous part of him wanting to take the woman far away from the twisted and perverse kind of world Mortikai is describing. Mostly, though, that's the world for a lot of people, including him lately. The world isn't as pretty with no coins in your pocket. "The Red Question? What do you do in town, if you don't mind the asking. I'll be needing work here, a way to make some honest wages."

There's a tsk-tsk sound from Mortikai. "You ain't gonna want to work with me. I work afternoons at The Tat Cat. It's a place for piercings, tattoos, body mods. I see you ain't into that. Nights, I work at Mudbugs. I tend bar there but it's mostly security, cause not many customers late at night. It works out well 'cause Izolda and me finish work 'round same time and walk home."

Mortikai stretches his arms out loudly. "Plenty of businesses and work in town, though, specially if you ain't picky. Red Question is a club for music, strippers, an' all kinds of other things besides. Izolda could introduce you to some people, maybe get work as a bouncer." Mortikai leans in, a talkative wealth of information.

"They could use security. The owner, Russian son-of-a-bitch that never had a kind word for no one, got himself killed in front of his own bar. Poor bastard. Now people are sayin' it's a broad who runs the joint. Things you never thought you'd see."

He stretches, slapping Izolda's rear in a playful way as she returns with some kind of stew. Bryn doesn't dare ask what it is. "Thank ye both. Been a while since I ate anything didn't come from a clown's mouth and a greasy bag."

Mortikai unscrews a jar of what's clearly moonshine, taking a healthy swig before passing it to Bryn. He shakes his head, and Izolda sits on the ground between the pair, taking a slightly smaller sip. Bryn looks at her with curiosity. "Your husband tells me you're Romani. Maybe you can be some help to me. See, part of me exploring here, it's not by accident. I got some e-mails from a girl. She's the same, or was. I don't know the right word for it."  Bryn shrugs a little helplessly. "Her name's Iona/ I'm hoping I can maybe meet up with her once I get to town."

There's a snort from Mortikai. "What do I always say? Behind any kind of trouble is the broad that caused it. You're good-lookin' enough, but you best clean yourself up before meetin' Iona. You come here just to meet her?" Mortikai inhales another breath of moonshine before sharing with his wife, who he pulls closer. "Boy, I'd stay far from that mess. 'Round here, we call her The Ice Queen. Frigid and sharp-tongued as they come."

Bryn's eyebrow shoots up. "No,no--I didn't come to meet her. I decided to come here and she e-mailed me a few times. It was about life here, and you know, stories. Spooky stories and legends. I'd like to meet her, but not for personal reasons. Just maybe a new friend."

Izolda finally speaks, her soft musical voice rising in the silence. "I know Iona. She used to be part of the familia, a long time past. You couldn't even tell now. She totally remade herself like she was born with a silver spoon. They let her go pretty easy because she was born gifted. Gifted women spook them. Now her sister's in town, too. It's like day and night, those two. Helena, she always felt like she didn't mean much because she's not gifted but prettier---"

Bryn gives Izolda an look of sudden interest, not aware he's interrupting her story. "Gifted. What's that mean, gifted? She's the brilliant mind kind of person, or she does something special?"

Mortikai suddenly turns a glare to his wife. "Izolda, be silent. No one cares for idle gossip."  She drinks from the container, lowering her head as if properly chastised. "Iona owns the newspaper in town. You want to meet with her, get into the city and get cleaned up. Yeah, gifted as in she went to school, got a shit ton of those degrees no one uses. She lives a pretty little life. Cold bitch."

Bryn finishes his stew with the gusto of a starving man, and looks s up to the sky. "It's pitch black yur." Darkness seemed different out here by the bayou than it did anywhere he'd ever been before. His accent felt out of place in this scene. "How are we going to get the car up to the city? Right black kinda sky fer that. "

Mortikai gives a guffaw. "We ain't doin' that tonight. I like not bein' dead and the animals eat you alive tonight. Guess you got no choice but to bunk with us,friend. Get a little drunk, tell campfire stories, let Izolda fix you up for the night. It's a good life out here most times, old boy. Ain't the most exciting, but it's good. Least we got electricity so it's safe."

Nothing in Bryn's plan had prepared him for this. "I can't drink and I must decline the pleasure of getting too close to the lady by your side. Marriage is a special union, yeah? The campfire stories, that I'm keen on hearin'. Why would animals attack? Other than the food, this many people in one area would scare 'em away."

Izolda offers an answer in her gentle, almost haunting tone. "Nature follows the phase of the moon. I wouldn't go for a walk tonight, not if you like being in one piece. I made that mistake once. Some mistakes, you learn  fast to never repeat."

In the glow of the dim light, she turns her arms over, revealing pale white scars in the shape of razor-blade shaped lines from her wrists, working their way down. "The men don't seem to mind. Usually, no one can see. I won't forget, though. Walking through the woods, a black bird kept following. Raven, crow, one of those. When the moon is gone, the forest thirsts for blood."

Bryn couldn't help but stare at the marks that dotted her arms like hyphens. In a strange way, they made her even more interesting.

Mortikai stands, gathering bowls and utensils. "Speaking i'which, we should clean this shit up before unwanted visitors get the smell of meat and come this way. Izolda, come. Time for dessert."

There is the melodic jingle that permeates the air as the woman rises, and Mortikai can see the kind of shock in Bryn's eyes. He fell into a world where women obey better than dogs and actual dogs were killers depending on the phase of the moon. He almost felt sorry for the guy, but it was another stroke of luck for Mortikai. Life had been full of unexpected gifts for Mortikai lately. First, the drunk girl in Mudbugs  a few weeks back and the masked man who threw nearly a thousand his way just by pretending to be in a trance. Between what Mortikai stole from the register and took from the girl, plus the overlooking the possible crime in progress, he made a killing.

He thought this man would be the same, but so far, he didn't have shit to his name. "What am I supposed to do with this fucker? Nice enough, but so what?" His voice is a whisper but he lashes out at Izolda as if the whole scenario is her fault. "He lives like a monk and he's in town because of Iona, of all people. I thought he was a lost tourist with some cash in his pocket. He looks like he hasn't eaten in a week."

Izolda stood quietly, her face clearly echoing the fact she wasn't sure how any of this came to happen. "I have some damiana left. Put it in the pudding I have for dessert and let him wander around until he collapses in the bed. Then you can take whatever you want and we get him to the gate tomorrow morning. We're doing him a favour, keeping him safe here tonight.

Mortikai moves behind his wife, pushing her skirt up to her hips, enjoying the rhythmic jingle. "No. I have a better idea. First my dessert, and then his. Every time I watch the show you put on, kneeling for company, it's a fever in my blood. " Izolda lowers her head as her husband grabs her wrists, the white scars now forgotten.  His lips graze her ear, and then he allows her to feel the fear of the familiar sharpness against her neck.

It is one of two days each month his teeth shift to become as pointed and destructive as a vampire's, though he is no immortal. He'd learned to admire those creatures so many years ago, when he first experienced the capacity for pain and arousal those beings held. Unlike them, he could provide no euphoria, no sense of forgetting, only pain.

Izolda is no unwilling victim, though she acts the part well enough to please both of them. They are perfect for one another, in the fucked-up, damaged sort of way people often are. Lately, life feels intense all the time. Mortikai knows he hasn't been himself lately, not for almost a month, though he is trying hard to hide it.

The sadistic streak already awake within his psyche demands suffering and brutality from the world around him. He can't explain the change, but he sometimes worries. Izolda never seems to mind. In fact, she desires him more than ever. He tries to remind himself it's just a game, and it keeps them happy. Deep inside, though, he fears for her safety.

He can feel her trembling, and he whispers in her ear. "You know what comes next, don't you? You can feel it already, deep inside. One sound, and I'll fuckin' kill you." Mortikai's hand clamps firmly against her mouth as he thrusts into her, her body shaking as the sharpened teeth rip open her skin as seamlessly as a razor blade.

The traveler was right, after all, Mortikai thinks to himself. Marriage vows are sacred. He gives Izolda her freedom. Twice each month, Izolda gives penance for the countless times she chooses to dishonour those vows, each time bearing a mark that would last a lifetime. It pleases them both immensely.

Outside, Bryn paces and paces. The idea of being stuck out in the middle of God-knows-where with some strange people on a night when animals thirsted for blood was one that roused his spirit of adventure, along with a little fear. He'd be lying if he said the scars on the poor woman's arms didn't make him wonder. Now that the initial curiosity had worn off, a feeling of panic sticks in his heart.  He didn't have money, weapons, and a world full of pain could be coming his way if he wasn't careful.

The side of his head still throbs from the fall earlier and it makes thoughts harder than they should be. After about fifteen minutes of being left alone, Bryn moves closer to the house, peeking into an open window. He stares at Izolda's slight figure, her skirt pulled up to her hips. The hand across her face is not a kind one. Bryn is outraged for her, ready to fly into the house and pull her away to somewhere safe, wherever that is.

Mortikai's short nails, once painted emo-black, have become talons ready to cut across the woman's flesh. His instinct is to run in that house and save her, but the way her hips move despite the rest of her body standing abnormally rigid keep him from intervening. It didn't occur to him to think that she likes being the damsel in distress. He sighs. People and their games make the world harder than it needs to be.

Oh. Right, then. Bryn backs away, his head finally comprehending that Izolda doesn't need or want saving, even though her husband's nails can turn into the sharp talons of a bird. He doesn't need or want to see whatever they're up to, so it's a good time to wander again. It's a bloody weird lot, innit, people?

"Walking through the woods, a black bird kept following. Raven, crow, one of those. When the moon is gone, the forest thirsts for blood. " Bryn remembers Izolda's words as his feet start to take quiet steps away from the house. It presents itself as a sanctuary in a dangerous part of the world. His breath catches in his lungs as he realises it is the danger. Everything around him is potentially a danger. Bryn had arrived in the worst part of Aubrey Parish on the worst night he could have chosen.

His feet move faster, carrying him through the darkness. Every sense is has is hyper-aware, but he stays by the banks of the bayou. As long as he can feel the water, he knows he's making progress. It won't be long before they notice he's gone, so his feet move faster and faster, until he's going as quickly as he can without running.

I'm not sticking 'round to play their sick games. Bryn is fueled by a sudden rush of adrenaline, knowing  the city in the pitch black night is a long way off. No telling what people like that would do for their kind of fun. Torture and dying, not fun. He considers climbing the cliff up to his car, but it's just as likely he'll run into a bear, if he can even find it. It wasn't the smart way. Bryn understood survival in the woods better than surviving people. If he wanted to get to the city, it would have to be on foot. It was only two miles, two and a half? It isn't really that far.

Each time he sees a house with lights on, a wave of relief washes over him. There's a place to go for help, he thinks, only to remember that the ones who seem the most helpful might be the kind of monster he was hunting. He didn't know much about this place. What if everything  and everyone was a monster but him? I'd be happier with my gun right now. 'Twas stupid leaving it behind.

Bryn's legs carry him rapidly down the river for fifteen minutes, then twenty. After a half hour, the muscles in his legs burn like hellfire and he is thirsty. He realises no one is chasing him, but fear and paranoia grasp him and don't let go. Bryn doesn't usually feel too much about danger, he sort of looks for it. He wonders if the stew had those weird mushrooms that make you think things are other things.

He tries to be reasonable and slow down. Bryn can't explain why every shadow is danger and the call of every bird is the memory of Mortikai's sharp talons across Izolda's sandy flesh. Not a thing had even come near him. After about thirty-five minutes, Bryn starts to see lights, a lot of them. The embankment that held his car hostage flattened out as he kept walking.  At least I got a lot of stories out of that man, he considers. Gypsy cults and gifted women no one liked and a strip club where the owner got killed made for a book of horror stories or something. Men filled with too much hate turned into angry birds. It didn't sound real.

He breathes a sigh of relief when the long journey looks like it's winding down. His head hurts and he has just enough money to put it on a soft pillow. He isn't trapped and there is a city. Bryn has no idea what he'll do when he got to it, but he'll be alive. He is so involved in looking for shadows and lights and moving one foot in front of the other, he doesn't notice when he is no longer alone.

"Do you need help?" The tone is cheerful and upbeat, but Bryn almost jumps out of his skin. He definitely didn't expect company. He's slightly annoyed to be pulled abruptly from his thoughts.  Looking closer, he sees the someone is a pretty and fresh-faced girl with a complexion like milk and coppery curls that fell to her shoulders.

She is a small girl, no more than five feet tall, if that. She has decorated her hair with flowers and her face with lipstick that matches her hair. For a minute, Bryn imagines he is safely back home. There are a lot of girls who look like this one back home, and none of them turn into monsters or offer their bodies as welcome gifts. "It's not safe to be out here tonight. If you're lost, I can help you. " 

Bryn inhales deeply, staring at her with a sort of trust. It is strange how the fact she looks helpful and kind makes him want to open up to her. "Um..so, right. I'm wanting to find the city. The city part of Aubrey Parish, I'm meaning. There was a sign, but it was wrong, and my car crashed into a cliff-type deal and I fell into a river. I hit my head a fair bit hard, sorry to say. Some people were going to help me, but I think they were going to rob me or kill me instead. I'm pretty sure one went from being a person to being like a bird. Not the nice kind. The throat-ripping kind. I'm sure you could say I need help. I've been walking forever and it's bloody dark out here at night.."  

The words tumble out faster and faster, though Bryn has no idea why. "If you know it's not safe, why are you out here alone?"

The girl listens, her head tilted like she is interested in his story. "My name's Azalea Rose Parker, but everyone around here calls me Azzie. I'm usually never alone, but it's too late for Mr. Grimm to be out. He's sleeping." She taps the lantern she carries in one hand. "I am the Watchkeeper. What's your name?"

Fantastic, Bryn comments to himself. Another nutjob standing in a river offering to help. He is beginning to think this place doesn't understand "help".

"Name's Bryn. Bryn Aeron. Azzie Parker, eh? Any relation to Peter?" He makes an attempt at a lame joke to break the insanity.

"I have a cousin Peter, but he lives far from here." The girl's reply is issued with a straight face, and he can't tell if she's serious or just really funny. "Come on, keep walking this way. It goes river, cemetery, town square. I'll walk you to the gate because it's illegal to be here without being checked in. Don't worry. Being checked in is easy and doesn't hurt."

Bryn follows Azzie reluctantly, her footsteps quick in pace but not as fast as he'd been walking. "Eh, Azzie, then? What's the Watchkeeper?"

She has a delightfully girlish laugh, and it's comforting to Bryn in the darkness. "I like your accent. I reckon you're from England or someplace far away. People around here will think you're interesting, for sure." Azzie's merry laugh and lantern guides them closer to the city. "The Watchkeeper makes sure every soul in the Parish is in the proper place. When one isn't, someone is usually lost or hurt. I help guide them to where they belong. I could tell you weren't where you belonged, so I'm helping. "

Bryn notices that the dirt, rock, and sand has changed into slightly less muddy grass, and he has a sudden urge to fall down and hug it. "Aren't you scared? You're a tiny slip of a thing to work security late at night." That is, at least, what he takes away from Azzie's description of what she does. "I'm glad you do, though. Sometimes people do need help. I'm glad I might be interesting. Really, I'm not. Never been one for telling stories and jokes at pubs and all that malarkey." 

As they walked through the cemetery, Bryn sees Azzie's eyes are pitch black, like the night. So far, everyone he'd met had unusual-looking eyes. The gene pool had gotten away from plain brown in this part of the world. "No, I'm not scared. This has been home my whole entire life. I think I know every inch of this Parish. It's dangerous going so far down the river like you did, though. Even the police and paramedics think twice about it." Azzie's lantern switches off.

The side of Bryn's temple pounds, but the lights of the city reassure him as they stand in what he guesses is the town square.  "This is the town square,"  Azzie announces, almost reading his mind. "If you ever get confused about which way something is, come to the middle here, and you can figure it out. You probably see that we don't have any cars here, just emergency vehicles. People leave theirs in the parking lot at the Welcome sign. Come on, let's walk you to check-in."

"Right, then, check-in. I think my car made its own parking lot." Bryn quips in a friendly tone of voice, and is rewarded with a little giggle from Azzie. It makes him feel good to hear it.  He follows her past a long street of shops and an area closed off by the sort of mechanical arms that let cars in and out of parking garages. In the middle is a toll booth, where a man sits, reading. He looks incredibly bored.

Azzie walks around, so he does too. "Azzie, did we just leave the Parish? You know there's this weird rumour about this place. People say once you enter, you can't ever leave. I guess that one's not so true."

"People say all sorts of weird stuff. You know, ghost stories and legends that couldn't possibly be true are fun here. Truth is, it's a small town and things can get dull. You can leave anytime you want. You just did! Now you've got to go back in." With a laugh and a toss of her curls, she spins him around, pointing to the sign.

Welcome to Aubrey Parish. Population: 8,999 Souls.