Preface

“Mime is on the move, and he’s close.”

“I hear Warden caught Doctor and Carpenter.”

“Are you sure? Of course you’re sure. Has our situation become hopeless?”

“We’ve got to stay positive. We will beat this.”

“But who’s behind it all?”

“I do not know, but Tom believes the Judge is involved.”

The Artist and the Librarian jumped at the sound of the doorknob turning on the locked door. They readied themselves as the door creaked open.

“It’s me,” whispered a friendly voice from the door.

“Tom, you scared us. Get in here.”

“Sorry, Marie. Hey, Bookworm,” the Locksmith said, taking a seat.

The Librarian nodded, relaxing slightly.

“I got the new Naturalist through,” said the seated Locksmith. “He’s with the Felavaline. He doesn’t know what to think. But, at least he’s somewhat safe. He’s young, too. He’s younger than Locke.”

“Tom, is she all right? Is our child alright?”

“Yes, dear. I got her home safely. She’s pretending to do her schoolwork.”

“Good.”

The door crashed open.

A large man, lips sewn shut with black thread, rushed the small room before any of the three could defend themselves. The intruder wore a black steel breastplate molded to the musculature of his chest, marred and scarred as though from a million battles. The breastplate left the copper skin of his toned arms and back bare except where its leather straps ran or his long dreaded hair fell. He wore dark pants and no shoes.

The man of black pulled imaginary arrows from an imaginary quiver, placed them in an imaginary bow, and loosed them. The Locksmith was the first to go down, his green eyes already dimming. He clutched the left side of his chest and fell to the ground leaking liquid gold like ichor from the wound to his heart.

Another twang and the Librarian took an immaterial arrow to the throat. He bled black blood the consistency of inkwell ink on the table in front of him as he slumped over.

The Artist received the brunt of the attack as her body convulsed four times, her curly blonde hair trembling, while invisible arrows riddled her torso. Four different colors of blood poured from her as she was the last to fall.

The man of black with stitched lips did not smile or frown. He walked over to the man called Tom and cut his right hand off with an invisible blade. He then exited the small room.