His actions ignored inconvenient truths—that he wasn’t as good as she was with a bow, that modern art resembled nothing to him so much as two- or three-dimensional vomit, and that his late father had always hoped he’d attend one of the exclusive private colleges in Minnesota.

Wendy Williamson was worth it, he was sure.

A few months after arriving on the Twin Cities campus of the university, Hank was sitting with Wendy at a local coffee shop and decided to pop the question.

“Out?” Wendy replied with a furrow in her brow. “What, you mean like a date?”

“Yeah.” The spoon in his coffee swirled faster. “Don’t you think it would be fun?”

“Oh, Hank. I think I like us as just friends.”

The coffee spoon stood still. Hank had heard of the just friends phrase before, though it had never been used on him. Why, the dating landscape of the world was littered with the wreckage of young, brash male pilots who dared to fly their fragile jets of romance through the hurricane-force winds of female friendship. He refused to crash among them.

“I don’t,” he blurted. He caught her reaction and tapped his spoon on the coffee mug nonchalantly. “I mean, it’s not like I don’t like being your friend. I do. It’s more that I don’t like being . . . just your friend. I think we can be more. I think it would be chickenshit not to try.”

She rolled her tongue inside her pretty cheek. “So I’m chickenshit, unless I date you.”

He matched her cold tone with some chill of his own. “I didn’t say that.”

“Hank, I don’t think this is a good idea—”

“Why not try it? We have nothing to lose.”

“We have our friendship to lose,” she pointed out.

“If it doesn’t work out, we can always go back to being friends!”

Shaking her head, she licked her lips. “That won’t work. It never works.”

“How do you know that? Why are you afraid to try?”

“I’m not afraid! Why do I have to be afraid, or chickenshit, when I don’t agree with you?”

“What is this, if it’s not fear?”

“It’s common sense. We’re too different from one another. You’re younger; you come from an established family; you—”

“Different is good!” he insisted, arms stretched and palms up. “Different people have more to learn from each other! The more different someone is, the more attractive they are!”

She narrowed one eye. “So by that logic, I should seek out a tiny aboriginal man who can’t speak English, prefers Monet over modern art, and hates sociology and anthropology?”

“You should find someone . . .” He hurried to think of neutral descriptors that applied to him. “. . . unexpected, surprising! Maybe someone you weren’t originally attracted to!”

A nervous laugh escaped her. Instead of apologizing, she cocked her head with condescension. “Hank, you’re not making any sense. How can I be attracted to someone I’m not attracted to? You’re being ridicu—”

“I’m sharing my feelings for you!” he pressed. Forcing himself not to panic, he considered his strategy of last resort. Over the course of their friendship, he had gotten to know Wendy well. He knew she had difficulties forming relationships with men, abandonment issues with her father, and a general fear of living (and dying) alone. As her closest male friend, he had a privileged position in her life. And at this desperate point in time, he intended to use that position. Otherwise, he asked himself, what was it all for? Why strike up the friendship with her in the first place, if you’re not willing to do what it takes to get to the next level?

“I’m sharing my feelings,” he continued, leaning in with a harsh whisper, “and all I’m asking for is a chance. Friends give each other chances. They try new things for each other. They set aside their fears and reservations, and they stand up for each other. You say you want to be my friend. Fine, be my friend!”

Her expression softened. “Hank, be reasonable—”

“This isn’t about reason! This is about my feelings! Wendy, most people don’t get chances like this. It’s hard, I know—for both of us—to reach out to others. It’s something we share. It’s a lonely way to live. I don’t want to be alone anymore, Wendy. Do you?”

When he saw the mixture of fear and resignation on her face, Hank knew he had won. “I don’t see why we can’t stay just friends,” she attempted one last time, but it was already over.

Hank did not respond. He stared at her and waited for her to wrestle with herself. Eventually, she lost. “Fine.” She sighed. “We can try a date, I suppose.”

“I’ll make sure every detail is perfect. I promise.”

She returned his smile, weakly. “This weekend?”

“Whenever and wherever you like.” He could afford to be magnanimous in victory.

In his mind, this made Hank her perfect match. She needed the sort of guidance he could give. When the first date worked out okay but her choice of restaurant had slow service, he pointed out that he could find them a nicer place for their second date. He found on the second date that he could make subtle comments about her hair and clothing, and she would change her style to match his preference by the third date. When he rewarded her by telling her how amazing she looked, it lifted his heart to see her smile. Hadn’t he just made them both happier?

He could tell her a few months later, after spending the night in her dormitory room and watching her practice her sword technique, that she looked a little rusty, leading to her missing classes and staying awake to practice for the next forty-eight hours. A year or so after that, he could tell her it was stupid to want to be a sociologist or anthropologist, since there was no money in it and her parents wanted her to move back to Winoka after college anyway, and her major was essentially a big mistake, just like her other naïve dreams for herself. Eventually, he could tell her he didn’t like her tone that much when she argued with him so hotly . . . and she began to back off. Piece by piece, he chipped away at her perceived faults until all that was left of Wendy Williamson were the parts of her that pleased him.

He had hoped he had seen the last of these events when Wendy graduated. As it happened, it wasn’t Wendy’s idea to return. It was Elizabeth’s.

“Lizzy wants to show her new boyfriend her old school. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing.” This was not completely true, since Hank found himself irritated at the thought of Elizabeth Georges with some dork of a boyfriend who would be impressed by a sorority party. “Why do we have to go along?”

Her smile wavered. She knew what she’d say wouldn’t be good enough. “Because you don’t show up at your old sorority by yourself, with a boyfriend! You have to bring someone!”

“So let her find some other chump. You outgrew that place years ago, before you left. I don’t even know why you were in a sorority to begin with.”

She tried a nervous laugh. “Hank, I was in a sorority to make friends. Women supporting women, that sort of thing. Some of those friendships you want to last a lifetime. Lizzy was in the same house. She wants to go back, and she wants me to go. I want to go.”

His jaw set. “Fine. Go.”

“You won’t come with me?”

“It’s not my sorority.”

“It could be fun!”

“It never was.”

She reached up and stroked his cheek. “Aren’t you the one who keeps telling me what a cold fish Lizzy is, and how she’s always too busy studying medicine to be a good friend, and how she never calls us to hang? Well, now she’s calling! We should go.”

“You should go. I’m fine staying home.”

“What have you got against going out? Don’t you want to get out of this apartment?”

“It’s not going out that bothers me,” he explained. “It’s going to that place—the same tired place we always went. Instead of asking what’s wrong with me, Wendy, why not ask what’s wrong with you? Why do you need to go back? What are you chasing? Are you so bored with me, with our life together, that you need something new? Do you need to go flirt and make out with some strange guy to make a spark happen, to make your life meaningful?”

She licked her lips and cocked her head. It was a very Wendy-from-a-few-years-ago sort of look, and he didn’t care for it. “Great questions, Hank. I suppose there’s only one way for me to answer them. And you’re right—my investigation will be more fun for me if you stay here.”

That got him to go with her, and he was glad he did. Wendy and Lizzy’s sorority had always been known as a magnet for athletic women, which in turn served as a full-spectrum beacon for every college-aged man within a twenty-mile radius.

“For a sorority, there are an awful lot of guys in this house,” he complained to Wendy within seconds of pushing through the sweat-stained crowd.

“Aren’t you glad you’re here to protect my honor?”

“That’s enough of the smart mouth.”

She sighed. “I wonder where Lizzy is.”

Hank had already looked around. “She’s not on this floor. We should try upstairs.”

“I’ll bet she’s in the basement, where the music is.”

He grimaced. The pounding, relentless beat was already threatening a migraine, and that was with the comfort of floorboards between him and the speakers. Fortunately, the lithe and blonde figure of Elizabeth Georges appeared at that moment. She peeled herself from between two burly frat boys to smile at them—or at least at Wendy.

“Wendy! I’m glad you’re here!” The two girls hugged. Then Elizabeth turned to him with flat features. “Hank.” She motioned to a tall, skinny fellow who had encountered difficulty navigating the crevices between frat boys. “This is Jonathan.”

By the time Jonathan finally got to them all and began shaking hands, Hank already didn’t like him. He was a scrawny thing—so not a beaststalker—and his goofy smile betrayed a nervousness Hank found unacceptable. If I had gone into Eveningstar years ago looking like this guy, he thought, they would have roasted me on a spit my first night there. Wendy seemed more accepting at first, but it didn’t take long for her to cool on Jonathan.

“So where are you from?” she asked this scarecrow of a man.

“Eveningstar,” the answer came. Even Elizabeth looked alarmed at that answer, but then she laughed. “Don’t worry about him,” she assured Hank and Wendy. “His family has roots in Winoka. Eveningstar is more of a seasonal home.”

“Really,” Hank spat. “What season would that be?”

Wendy smirked as Jonathan turned to Elizabeth. “I don’t get it. What’s wrong with Eveningstar? You guys have a high school sports rivalry with them or something?”

“It’s nothing, Jon.” Outside her new boyfriend’s field of vision, Elizabeth mouthed to the two of them: He’s okay, guys. Back off.

Hank couldn’t tell if Jonathan was genuinely innocent or theatrically gifted. In any case, he was gratified to see that Wendy didn’t warm up to him.

After some stilted small talk, Elizabeth tried to save the evening by suggesting they go downstairs. “Everyone’s dancing down there,” she pointed out. “And that’s where the kegs—”

“No thanks,” Hank interrupted. “I’m fine up here.”

Wendy scrunched her face at Hank. “I’ll go downstairs with you, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth considered the combination of Hank and Jon left upstairs together. “Jon, why don’t you show Wendy downstairs? Hank and I will reminisce up here where it’s quieter.”

This idea didn’t seem to go down horribly well with either Wendy or Jonathan, but Hank liked it just fine. “That sounds great. Wendy, get a beer ready for me. We’ll come down in a few minutes.”

Trapped, Wendy glared at Jonathan as he kissed Elizabeth, and then followed him downstairs. Elizabeth’s own features hardened as she watched her boyfriend leave; by the time she began talking to Hank, he wasn’t so sure he wanted this time with her after all.

“Hank. I wanted to talk to you about Wendy. I’m not sure she’s happy.”

“That makes sense. Her best friend’s boyfriend is from Eveningstar.”

“I don’t mean happy right now. I mean, happy anymore.”

“What, with life?”

“With you.”

Hank tried to look noncommittal. He had expected a challenge like this someday, though he had expected it from Wendy herself. “Wendy told you this?”

“No. We haven’t talked in weeks. Not before today.”

“So what are you basing this opinion on?”

“I know Wendy.”

“So do I. She seems happy to me.”

“It’s hard to judge a person’s state of mind while you press your heel upon their throat.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t play games with me, little Henry.” Hank winced as Lizzy’s tone darkened. “You may think your reputation for being a sneaky, manipulative little shit serves you well, but I wouldn’t be so sure. Wendy can do better than you. I’ve told her so, for years.”

Hank struggled to maintain his composure. “She obviously doesn’t believe you.”

“Yes, that’s her problem. She honestly doesn’t believe she deserves better. Tell me, when’s the last time the two of you went to an art museum together?”

“I don’t—”

“When’s the last time you bought her a book on ancient cultures, or flowers? Or just sat and listened to her for a while? Hank, I can see from your dumber-than-usual frown that I’m confusing you, so I’ll simplify: When’s the last time you did anything for her?”

“Wh-what b-business is this of yours, anyway? Do you feel so insecure—”

“Don’t change the subject. Hank, we both know you’re a selfish little man who hasn’t stopped thinking and acting like a teenager. We also both know Wendy’s probably going to stick with you anyway, because her self-esteem is too low for any one friend to pull up. I don’t expect to break up the two of you right here or right now. I’ve only kept you up here for one reason: I want you to know I’m watching you.”

“Watching me? What is that, some kind of threat?”

“Henry Blacktooth.” Elizabeth Georges’s face lengthened, and her lips tightened. “Do you think you’re a tough guy? Do you think you can treat women the way you do forever?”

He staggered from the force of her words. “I’m not beating her up! I wouldn’t do that!”

“Not yet. You’re still beating her down. I recognize the type.”

“What type is that?”

“The type that raised us to be what we are.”

She was halfway across the room before Hank understood. So this is all about Glory Seabright? Putting a label on it made him feel better. He decided he should enlighten her. She’d understand, once she saw how reasonable he was being! She needs to hear the truth. She needs to know she’s wrong about me.

Elizabeth made for the basement stairs. Despite the awful flood of noise, he followed. He caught up to her at the bottom, where she was searching the crowd for Wendy and Jonathan. He spotted them first, and nearly exploded in rage at what he saw. Wendy was making out with the asshole from Eveningstar!

Before either of them could see him, he darted back up a few steps and held on to the railing, gritting his teeth and trying to keep his head from spinning too fast. He tried to process the information in a way that could be useful to him, that he could control.

He found he could not. Either I have to kill both of them here, or I have to go calm down.

Neither was possible. So he stood there, halfway up the stairs, gripping the railing as if the entire basement were sinking into the Mississippi River. A minute later, Elizabeth had disappeared from the steps and in her place was Wendy, tugging at his sleeve.

“You okay? You look sick.”

“I am sick,” he managed. “If we’re done meeting the Eveningstar twit, I’d like to go.”

To his surprise, she agreed. “No problem. I’ve had enough of this place already. I’ll call Lizzy later and apologize. You want me to pick up some medicine for you on the way home?”

And like that, Hank’s world steadied. Lizzy’s an idiot, he thought to himself as he gave Wendy a small smile, nodded, and began to walk back up the stairs. Wendy’s happy in our relationship. It pleases her to please me. There’s nothing wrong with that. If Lizzy wants to worry about a guy, she should worry about the one she’s dating.

He decided he would ask Wendy Williamson to marry him. He wasn’t sure why.

“Hank, don’t . . . don’t . . . yell at me. I had nothing to . . . to do with it.”

“You were right there!”

Wendy gulped, pressing her pregnant belly and rocking back and forth on the edge of her hospital bed. It was over a year since they had first met Elizabeth’s boyfriend, Jonathan, and already those two had gotten married (weeks before the Blacktooths did). Now they were having a child (again, weeks before the Blacktooths would). Instead of the happy occasion one would expect, it was chaos in Winoka Hospital. Wendy wasn’t due today—she had only come here for a checkup—but the way she was hyperventilating had medical staff buzzing around them.

“There’s nothing . . . nothing to . . . nothing to . . .”

“Nothing?! The window’s smashed in Lizzy’s room! So is half the medical equipment! Dr. Jarkmand isn’t talking. Lizzy and her kid are gone, and the mayor . . .” Hank trailed off. Did he care about what had happened to Glory Seabright? That depended. If the mayor looked like the train wreck Hank had caught a glimpse of because she had tripped and fallen over a gurney, then no, he didn’t care. But if she looked that way because of some creature . . .

“Mother’s fine, Hank.” She ignored the way he sneered at her use of the word mother. “Lizzy’s fine, and so . . . so . . . so’s her daughter. What I saw . . . I don’t . . . I don’t . . .” She winced.

“So you saw something! What?”

“Excuse me.” The nurse’s voice was stern. “Right now, this patient may be in labor.”

“She’s not due for two weeks!”

“Newborns aren’t commuter trains. They arrive when they arrive. Are you the coach?”

“Coach?” The word struck him as foreign. “I’m her husband!”

“Sir, are you going to help your wife with this delivery?” This was the doctor now, who had rushed into the room and begun checking Wendy’s chart.

“I’m not . . . We never talked about help . . .”

“Then I’m going to have to ask you to leave the room.”

Hours later, Edward George Blacktooth was born. When the nurse handed Hank his son, his first thought was, He looks good.

His second thought was, Maybe a little too skinny. We’ll have to work on that.

He spent the night thinking about ways to improve his son, and never thought again about the strange circumstances surrounding the birth of Jennifer Scales . . . not for years, anyway.

Wendy didn’t look up from her book. “I find them interesting. I always have.”

The reminder of her academic interests in college irritated him, so he turned back to the military history program on the television. “I can’t see why.”

“It never hurts to learn about different cultures, Hank. Not everyone is the same. Not everyone should be. The differences are what make us human. Interesting. Special.”

“Flawed,” he added. The black-and-white footage on the screen showed rank after rank of marching troops, all saluting an unseen commander.

“Listen to this. According to the Sioux, the Unktehila were huge, reptilian water monsters. They were destroyed in time by the thunderbirds, who only left behind small snakes and lizards. The thunderbirds protected the Sioux.” When she looked up at him, her blue eyes were shining. “Doesn’t that sound familiar?”

“Why would that sound familiar? I don’t know shit about the Sioux.”

“The first beaststalkers, Hank! This was probably their story!”

“The first beaststalkers were thunderbirds?”

“I hate it when you act stupid to embarrass me. You know what I mean.”

“Mouth,” he reminded her. On the television, books burned.

“The first beaststalkers could probably summon birds, like we can. Over time, stories with large ‘water monsters’ evolved from beaststalkers to large birds doing the killing.”

He kept watching the program. Several old guys sat in fancy chairs, nodding at each other while the narrator droned on about false treaties and imminent aggression. Finally, his nose wrinkled. “Aren’t you going to change him?”

Sighing, she slammed the book shut and hoisted herself off the couch. It took some effort, and she had to right herself on the thick, upholstered arm with one hand. She peered over the couch into the portable crib they had set up. “He’s kicking around in there. Practicing, I suppose. He’ll be a world-class fighter. I’ll bet Glory will want to train him.”

“Glory’s not touching him,” he hissed.

“What, you don’t think she’s good enough?”

“I think I’m good enough.”

“Thanks for including me in that statement. You’re ticked off because of Lizzy.”

He didn’t answer. Columns of tanks and swarms of planes buzzed across the screen.

“You think they should be raising their daughter here in Winoka, not in Eveningstar.”

Truth be told, the news that Lizzy was living in Eveningstar with this Jonathan character had roiled him since long before any kid of theirs came along. He assumed Glory had assigned Lizzy to a mission not unlike his own. He therefore assumed that Glory now found Hank’s own intelligence unsatisfactory . . . probably outdated.

And whose fault is that? he seethed. Not mine. Hers. She sold my work to a fucking bug, and he did nothing with it. Lizzy’s wasting her time, too. We’re all wasting our time, reporting to Glory Seabright. No son of mine will ever do that.

“Hank.” Dawn Farrier’s voice was still strong, even though the shell that spoke the words seemed barely to rise above the surface of her bed. “I thought you had forgotten me.”

“I could never forget you, Mom.” Hank reached out and slid his fingers over her thin, graying hair. When he reached the end, he didn’t know what else to do . . . so he plucked one out.

“Ow! Hank, what are you doing?”

“Hurting you,” he answered. “Like Dad hurt you. Remember, Mom?”

“He did hurt me. He tried to kill me, Hank. But you were a good son.” Her smile was faint but genuine. “You protected me.”

At this point, he told himself, she probably believes it. “Who’s here to protect you now?”

She didn’t understand the question. “Well, the nurse checks in from time to time. But it’s so lonely, Hank. Everyone here is so much older than me. I don’t belong here.”

He looked her over. The injuries that had led to her visit here had happened a few short days ago—a couple of weeks after Eveningstar burned. It had been at her home. She had entered the small armory in her basement, where she still kept the dozens of weapons she loved to practice with. There were swords of varying lengths in there, and axes, and scythes, and knives and razors and maces—all hanging from specially designed racks, which were set up throughout the room like closely set bookshelves. Unfortunately, the support for one of the racks had failed, tipping it over. Like dominoes, the racks had crashed one into the next, and Dawn Farrier had not been quick enough to get out of the way of the last one.

Her faithful son, who dutifully told the authorities that he had heard the crash while installing some new carpet upstairs, thought she was dead when he discovered her body and called 911. Yet she had miraculously survived. So Hank Blacktooth became a bit of a hero again. This was what everyone told him, over and over: You’re the only reason she’s alive!

He didn’t argue with them, since it was true: Had he done a better job weakening the rack supports in that armory so that the first one would fall faster when he shoved it from his hiding place in the shadows, it was quite possible his effort to kill his mother would have succeeded.

As it was, he was not satisfied. Her legs were broken, her left foot and right hand amputated by her own weapons, her rib cage crushed, several internal organs pierced, cheeks smashed . . . even the Blacktooth Blade, which had a place of honor in that armory, was found lodged in her lower abdomen deeply enough to sever her spine. Yet her heart continued to beat, as calmly and coldly as ever. The doctors said she would recover well enough to return home, though she would require the services of a live-in nurse and would never wield a weapon again.

It was almost enough for him to regret what he had done, though he saw some justice in her pain. Hadn’t she gotten him sent on that useless mission to Eveningstar? Wasn’t she the reason why, as the town burned and dragons scattered to the four winds, everyone gave credit to an army of insects, instead of to him? Wasn’t she the reason his life had led nowhere at all, and he lived in fucking Winoka with his irritating wife and shadow of a son?

“Hank, are you listening to me?”

He considered finishing the job now. It would be more a mission of mercy than an act of anger, but no less justified. The problem was he would never get away with it. Glory Seabright probably already had the town’s police triple-checking that basement armory for any evidence that what had happened to her protégée was not an accident. He was confident they would find none. However, with Dawn Farrier expected to survive, sudden death within the confines of the hospital would surely rouse suspicions.

“Hank, I’m talking to you . . .”

“Everyone thinks it’s terrific to have Lizzy Georges back in Winoka,” he spat. He didn’t think he was talking to her—he wasn’t looking at her—but he didn’t mind if she overheard. “Even Wendy’s thrilled to have them next door. ‘Ooh, now Eddie has a playmate!’ she says, as if that matters at all. He’ll have no time for playmates, if he’s going to train properly. He’s still too scrawny, he can’t hold a blade, a dagger lies flat out of a limp wrist.”

“He’s young,” Dawn tried to interject. “Give him—”

“And I still don’t like this Jonathan Scales!” Now he was pacing with his head down, bullying his own feet. “Why would Lizzy go to Eveningstar with him? Were they spying on dragons, like I did? If so, why aren’t they taking credit for it? Why aren’t they in parades? Why weren’t they leading a beaststalker charge, instead of letting the fucking bugs take care of it all?”

“Hank, I don’t—”

“I’ll tell you why,” he told the reflection he caught in the room’s mirror. “Glory. She doesn’t let anyone take credit for anything. She keeps everything to herself, controls everything, wants everything her way! She’s so happy, with her perfect Lizzy returning home. She’s happy, Lizzy’s happy, this idiot Jonathan’s happy, Wendy’s happy . . . Everybody’s so happy, so satisfied!

“Except me,” he finished, walking out the hospital door, ignoring his mother’s call.