I'm Mornhyng Dahnne.

(Morning Dawn. Hilarious, right?)

I get a lot of jokes.

I rue the day I was ever named. I'd change it, but I already have a reputation as Morning Dawn.

Surprisingly, I don't get much sympathy for this.

People think my name is pretty damn funny.

Except, of course, they never see the missing 'u' . . . or the missing 'h', but that doesn't matter as much as the 'u'.

I'm Mournhyng Dahnne.

Mourning Dawn. Elegant. Poetic. It sounds like the name of a ship and it seriously doesn't suit me. Dignified I am not.

What I am is a detective.

Lets start over again.

Hi. I'm Morning Dahnne.

And I'm a monster.

 

Do you see the shadow over there?

Do you see what slithers inside the shadow?

No?

Don't worry. It won't be there long.

Not long at all.

And Morning?

Yes, yes, he's a monster.

Just like me.

Who am I? No one, at all.

Shh. Don't tell anyone.

 

Sometimes I hear a voice in my head.

It tells me . . . things.

Things I never wanted to know.

But I can't shut it out.

It's useful, sometimes.

I ask something, and the voice replies.

The voice isn't my monster. I am. Pity me, for I sound pitiful.

So, the voice is just another monster I have inside me.

That sounded terrible.

Let's skip the whole My-monster's-bigger-than-yours thing, shall we?

Oh, God. That did not come out right.

Let's . . . move on . . .

I have a brother.

He knows about the monsters. He knows about me, too, just as I know about him. He knows what I am.

I have, after all, told him for the last seven years. He gets it.

Right?

I mean, he has to.

. . . Right?

Maybe not.

Every time I say, "You know, I am a monster," he replies, "You're not a monster, Morning."

Jeez, how much telling does he need?

Doesn't he notice the slightly sharpened teeth?

The changing eye-color?

The way I growl like an irritated wolf in frustration and then punch a wall to dust after he lectures me all about how I'm not a monster?

Sometimes I think he does it on purpose.

Or maybe probably thinks I'm wallowing in self-pity and delusions.

Nah, he's probably doing it on purpose.

 

I know Morning is a monster.

I'm his brother. How can I not know?

But he's not what people think a monster is. So I deliberately lecture him about not being a monster. It passes the time, and it amused me when he used to get arrested for breaking walls.

Now he no longer gets arrested unless it's a place he's never been to before.

His name is Mourning, if you leave out the silent 'h'.

His name could use some work. But then again, so could mine.

I am Daibraek.

I know. It's . . . not precisely the best name you could have, is it.

Some people were excessively sadistic, if our names are any indication.

And they are. They very much are.

Morning calls me Day.

Exceedingly better, and I don't have to show him how I dislike the longer version anymore. It was irritating. Particularly when Morning would go off into gales of laughter when he first introduced me and our new acquaintances would give me the same look all the others did.

Morning called it 'pityingly entertained'.

My brother the comedian.

I love him nonetheless.

 

And the story officially starts . . . Now!

 

I sighed as yet another man tried to pick a fight.

"You coward," he spat.

Hey, say it, don't spray it, buddy.

"Hey, say it, don't spray it, buddy."

The man, who's name I didn't even know, reared back, and punched me.

Or, at least, he tried to.

I caught his fist in my hand, then knocked his legs out from under him and looked down at him. "Who are you, anyway?"

He sputtered. "You stole my sister's virtue!"

I stared down at him as if he were insane. "What?"

"Are there so many that you don't remember her?" he growled, disgusted.

"Dude." I pointed at the guy who was sitting next to me. "You're looking for him. I don't even know your sister."

"Oh."

I left the bar, which was called the Knife 'n Neck, just as my virtue-stealing drinking buddy had started to gurgle amusingly under the guy's chokehold.

I walked across to the big, silver-colored building that stood on the other side of the street and looked up at the Doorkeeper.

He stared at me as if trying to figure me out. "What are you?" he said, his voice rough and gravelly.

I shrugged. "Eh."

"You smell . . . strange."

I looked down at myself. "Is that good or bad?"

"You smell of blood and shadows and a touch of insanity and terrible, inhuman things in the night."

"Not good, then."

"What are you?" he growled.

"I'm the Tooth Fairy. Gotta dollar? I'm out, so I got nothin',"

His teeth grew sharper, as usually happens when werewolves get angry, scared, excited, aggressive, or sometimes, just plain bored. "What business do you have with the Lilter?"

"He hired me."

"What proof do you have?"

"What do you want from me, a secret password?"

He stared back stonily.

Tough crowd.

I gestured. "Just, you know, tell 'im with your mind-woo."

"My what?"

"Your mind-speak thing."

The wolf sighed, and fell silent.

After a minute, he looked at me and opened the door, moving to the side. "All right," he grunted. "Go on up." He eyed me distastefully, as if I was something on his (expensive, shiny) shoes that he wished to scrape off. "But if you try anything . . ."

I waved a hand. "You'll beat me up until I cry or I die, yeah. Whatever you say, Givon."

He stilled. "How do you know my-"

But I was already walking up the stairs.

The Lilter is old. Older than most, or at least older than most you meet.

He has a voice, a voice that can make you do . . . nearly anything. And the thing is, you'll want to do it, too.

No one's said much about what he looks like, though. Well, at least, not what he really looks like. There's all kinds of rumors about that. Almost none of them are true, though.

I stopped at a door. The words 'Shhh' were engraved on it.

I walked in and closed it behind me, then turned around and looked at the Lilter.

He was . . .

Not exactly the best looking guy I'd ever seen. He had scars. A lot of them, on his face, on his hands, all over. And I knew somehow, the way I always knew certain things, that he was especially proud of them.

Damn proud, in fact.

He probably adored them to distraction.

He looked to be in his late forties and had wavy, dark-chocolate hair with strands of silver and dark mocha eyes shot through with gold.

Pretty.

Of course, I'm not saying that out loud. Ever.

I have a reputation to maintain. A really scary reputation.

Grrr.

"Hello, Dahnne," the Lilter said liltingly.

His voice was like song and dance and mesmerizing music, along with the impression of something waiting in the dark, its eyes glinting, all mixed up into one beautiful, terrible voice.

"Hey, Denny," I greeted.

"I told you not to call me that."

"But why? Denzeknil's a wonderful name."

"Yes, it is. The nickname is not."

"C'mon, Denny. It's supposed to be affectionate."

"It is obnoxious and irritating and altogether a dark stain on humanity."

I tsked. "Always with the melodrama. Really, Denny, you need to get out more. Get some fun. Get less dramatic. Get laid. Preferably with your wife."

"Dahnne!"

"What? It's sound advice, Denny. Came from a real amazing guy."

"You?"

"Me," I confirmed.

Denny's jaw clenched. "Do you want to hear my proposal or not?"

I waved a blithe hand. "Propose away. Before you do, though, I have to tell you . . . I'm taken."

Denzeknil snorted. "By who? the Internet?"

"Ah, Denny," I sighed, "you know me so well."

"No, I don't."

"Well, no. I mean, we just met last week. But it was, you have to admit, a whirlwind courtship."

"What romance novels have you been reading, Dahnne?" Denzeknil said, disgusted. "You beat up a man and I helped."

"Ah, romance," I said, flashing a smile. "Can you ever get enough of it? Say, Denny-"

"Dahnne," the Lilter interrupted, "I want you to find the last Bloody Rose for me."

"Say wha'?"

"I'll pay you a million pounds to find it."

I choked.

The Bloody Rose was a relic, a legend. It was said that whosoever held the Rose could know, for at least a few seconds or minutes, a piece of the future and how to either avoid it or make it come true. Or you could See, Know someone, Who, What they are. The very center, the very definition, the very being of Who they Are. The Rose was blood-red, and, sometimes, in certain situations, you could trade something for something else of equal worth. At least, of equal worth to the Rose. Or whatever the Rose really was.

See, my job as a detective can't pay all the bills. Sometimes I work as a bounty hunter, too. My brother, Day, is always, always my partner.

We just started our detecting about . . . oh . . . three months ago. You can tell we're good since Denny hasn't tried to humiliate me yet.

"Why do you want that?" I managed.

"A certain problem has come to my attention," the Lilter said, his lips thinning. "A dilemma I would like to take care of."

"Den-"

"A million pounds, Dahnne."

I left a few minutes later, after I'd agreed to take the job.

I stumbled out the doors the Doorkeeper guarded.

My inane mumbles of, "Million, yeah. Pounds. Million pounds. Whada. Million . . ." could be heard only by the Doorkeeper, who didn't even bother to ask, as my answer would have been to look at him bewilderingly and say, "Mmf. Millin. Millin pffs. Wha . . ." anyway.

 

I have strange eyes. They change color. Sometimes it depends on my mood, others . . .

Others, the color just swirls, at times pale blue-gray, other times blood-red or completely, untouchably black. Sometimes just random colors.

Yes, it is exactly as cool/intimidating/completely weird as it sounds.

I opened the door to the apartment Day and I were staying in and closed it behind me.

And cold metal touch the back of my neck.

"Aw, come on," I complained. "Really? Don't you have better things to do than to behead people?"

Day pulled back the knife and frowned at me. "It might not have been me, you know that."

"Of course I knew it was you."

"You 'felt' me, as you say?"

"Yeah." I gestured. "I felt your . . . you know . . . Day-ness"

"Very detailed, Morning. Thank you."

"Hey," I murmured as we moved to the couch and sat down, "I live to serve."

"Oh, if only."

The apartment was . . . normal.

No pictures except a small one hanging from a wall. It was of a sun that could almost be described as disturbingly cheerful, a blue sky, and a field of green grass. We kept it there to mock. Or insult. Or play darts with knives. You know. The usual.

The kitchen wasn't big, but it wasn't small, either. A table stood in the living room, surrounded by four sufficiently comfortable chairs. Two big, almost too comfy chairs were put slightly to the side, waiting for just the right moment for an unsuspecting bystander to sit down so they could eat them.

What? Oh, fine, I exaggerate. But it could still happen.

"So," I said casually, "you busy?"

Day looked at me warily from one of the chairs at the table. "I know that tone. It's your Danger! Danger everywhere! But don't worry. We'll still get paid if we're not dead by the end of it! tone."

"I didn't know I had a tone like that," I said, delighted.

"I am calling it the Imminent Danger tone."

"Good call," I said, impressed.

He threw a knife at the cheerful sun picture, piercing right through the middle of that same disturbingly cheerful sun, and turned to face me.

We'd gotten fairly good at darts, since getting that picture.

"Now," he murmured, "tell me how we're soon to be in danger and tell me why."

"Money, big brother," I replied. "It's all about the money."

"How much money could anyone pay us-"

"A million pounds."

He trailed off, then muttered, "A million . . . million . . ."

I nodded sagely. "Yeah. I've been through that phase, too."

He snapped out of it. "Why would anyone pay us one million pounds? Who would be paying one million pounds? We're not doing anything that involves dead bodies, a young girl or explosives, Morning?"

"I'll get back to you on those explosives and those bodies."

"Morning . . ."

"Okay, okay." I paused. "The Lilter's paying us."

"The Lilter? Why? What does Denzeknil want?"

"Well," I drew the word out. "He wants us to find the Bloody Rose for him."

"The Rose? I thought that was just a legend."

I shrugged. "Could be, could be."

"Then why . . ."

"Millin pffs, Day," I urged.

"What?"

"A million pounds. Just think of it. We won't have to beat up the creditors anymore."

"You're the only one who does that."

"Okay, okay," I consented. "I won't have to beat up the creditors anymore."

Day sighed. "I suppose . . ."

I grinned at him cheerfully. "I'll get the blunderbu-"

"No."

"Aw, Day-"

"It's gone, Morning."

I stopped. "What do you mean, gone?"

"Gone. Not here anymore. Departed from our lives forever."

"You killed my baby?" I said, disappointed.

"I may have beaten on it slightly."

I eyed him suspiciously. "How much is 'slightly?"

He lifted a shoulder. "There were only a few hundred pieces of it when I was done."

"You murdered Harry?" I gasped, horrified.

"Do cease naming your weapons, Morning," Day murmured, not at all sorry. "It does get on my nerves."

"Harry doesn't even have nerves anymore!"

"It never had nerves in the first place."

"But- Harry-"

"Hush, Morning. We have a job to do."

"My Harry . . ."

"Is dead and gone. Get over it."

"Okay," I said amiably.

He paused. "Okay?"

"I mean, I've still got old Gretta here. Day? Why are you banging your head on the wall? You'll get a headache. Day? Where are you going? Wait for me, Day. Hey! What are you doing with Gretta? No! Not the Demon of Death Washing Machine! Day! Gretta! No-"

 

"It was just a gun, Morning."

I glared at him. "Gretta was far more than just a gun, Day. She was like the mother I've never known."

"That is one odd mother."

"You owe me, Day. When this is all over, you owe me a Lara."

"Not if the world imploded."

"How about after the world implodes, Day?" I snarked. "How about then?"

"Are you twenty-four or twelve, Morning? Because it seems to me you are decreasing in age dramatically."

"You never understood my true loves," I said sadly. Then I held up a knife. "But at least I've still got Sharry."

"What is this, Morning?" Day said, exasperated. "Have you even named the microwave? The stove?"

"Hally and Mai," I said promptly.

Day put his head in his hands.

I patted his brown hair. "Don't worry about it, brother. At least I haven't named the walls and ceiling yet."

"'Yet'?"

I shrugged. "Hey. Desperate times calls for desperate measures."

He lifted his head and looked at me. "Sometimes I wonder how we could ever be siblings."

"Don't worry," I assured him. "Sometimes I wonder that, too."

"That's not helping, Morning."

"What do you want from me? A psychiatrist?"

"Please."

"Sorry. I'd kidnap one for you, but I don't think you'd appreciate my efforts sufficiently."

"No, Morning, I can safely say that I would not."

Suddenly, a woman with long blonde hair and big blue eyes (big other things, too) sidled up to Day. "Hey, handsome," she purred in what she obviously thought was a suggestive and seductive way.

It was plenty suggestive, but she sounded strangely like an old man.

Day glanced down at her. She barely came up to his chin, and had to tip her head back to bat her eyelashes at his face instead of his collarbones, which I'm sure would be flattered if they knew.

The woman could tell he wasn't interested, and moved on to the next victi- ahem, lucky guy, muttering beneath her breath all the way.

I glanced at my brother.

Day was tall, nearly six-foot-five. He had silky chestnut hair with highlights from being in the sun and sharp gunmetal-gray eyes. He had perfectly good cheekbones, looked as if he should have been in one of those movies where the fit, confident guy was the handsomest thing in there, and when he moved, was as graceful as a natural born dancer.

All in all, I couldn't tell what the woman saw in him.

Maybe next time I'd pretend like Day was an asylum inmate. That should be fun.

I felt myself smirk, and hid it from Day. He'd just know what I was thinking. He always knew when I thought things like that.

Then I felt my eyes change color. I always knew when they did that.

Right now I was feeling very . . . blue. Don't ask me what that's like. It's kinda hard to describe. Let's just say that it feels like I just got a cool shower on a hot day.

It really disconcerted people when I felt white or gold. Sometimes silver. Others yellow. You know, like a cat. Yeah, everyone always yelled at me to look away when they saw my eyes were yellow.

It's a hard job, freaking people out, but somebody's got to do it.

Day never paid much attention to the changing colors. It was normal for him. And me, of course. Mostly me. I mean, I'm the one who's gotta live with it.

Sometimes, I feel the color change to crimson, or scarlet. It doesn't happen often. I'd have to be almost impossibly angry. Most of the time they never change completely to red. Maybe a purplish-red. I've always thought it would do it if I'm ever scared, too.

Or really, really irritated.

Like now.

'Cause-

"-ning. Morning, are you listening to me?"

"Well, I am now, Mr. Screech," I said testily.

"I wouldn't have to, as you say, 'screech', if you paid attention to what I'm saying, Morning."

"What do you expect me to do, Day? I can't be with you all the time," I said patiently. "Come on, do you want a sweet? I'll get you one."

"Morning, you are seriously making me want to stab you in the eye with the nearest sharp object right now."

"Ooh," I whistled, holding up my hands. "I see we're meeting Mr. Violent-Impulses-Man today."

"I want to shoot you in the knee and throw you in the path of a speeding vehicle."

"Thank you for that statement of wistful savagery, Day. I'm sure we can all appreciate the sentiment."

"'We' had better."

"Get thee behind me, Satan," I muttered beneath my breath, and was ignored.

We walked down the crowded sidewalk, dodging people as we did so.

"Morning?"

"Hmm?" I said casually.

"Do you know where we're going?"

"What? That's not my job. C'mon, Sherlock, work with me here."

"Does that make you Dr. Watson?"

"No, it makes me James Moriarity."

"Fitting, unless you count the piercing intelligence of which you seem to lack."

"Aw, you just don't want to believe that I can be as smart as you."

"'Can' being the key word."

"Fine, fine. So where're we going?"

"We don't know the first clue as to where the Bloody Rose is, Morning. We're going to Ashra."

"Ah. The psycho."

"She's not a psychopath, Morning," Day said disapprovingly, frowning at me.

"Really? How do you know?"

"Morning . . ."

"That, Day, is what I like to call the Am I Going to Have to Get the Whip? tone. G.T.W., Get the Whip, for short."

"Thank you, Morning," Day said dryly. "I'm certain I'm worthy of the name."

"Oh, you are, Day, you are."

"That reassures me to no end."

They walked on in silence.

Then, "But Ashra, Day? Really? You know she's got a fondness for matches."

Day gave me a Look. "And your fondness for naming your guns and knives and household appliances?"

"Now really, Day, that was just low . . ."

 

We went to the shop called Sing & Read. Day opened the front door, and we went in.

The Sing & Read had shelves and shelves of books and CDs, as the rather unimaginative title suggested.

A CD was already playing, and someone sang along.

"We're locking up the sun," she sang, "the light of reason's gone, and hope has been successfully undone. The question's burnin' on, where is it comin' from? No one seems to know the monster born . . ."

"Ashra?"

A brown-haired head poked up from all the books surrounding her. "Huh? Wha?"

"It's Day and Morning," Day said politely.

She waved a hand. "Oh, I know that."

Day tilted his head at her. "How could you?"

A scornful look crossed Ashra's pixie face. "Please. What kind of me would I be if I couldn't See?"

I shot Day a Look that said, I told you! But did you listen? No! No, you did not!

Ashra frowned at me. "Stop that. I know what you're thinking, and I am not psychotic. I'm mad, not crazy."

"There's a difference?" I muttered.

She glanced down her nose at me disdainfully. "I am a professional. Don't waste my time with your absurd questions, lowly peon."

"We wanted to ask if you would like to accompany us on a case we've just gotten," Day interrupted just as I'd opened to say something no doubt brilliant and unbearably witty.

She looked at him curiously. "What say you, gray knight?"

"The Lilter has requester we find a relic, the Bloody Rose."

"The Bloody Rose," Ashra murmured, tapping a finger on her chin. "But of course. How very . . . very fitting. Like varying ribbons in the pool of reason . . ."

"So . . . are you going to answer us?" I said, gesturing with a 'go on' motion.

She sniffed. "Fine. But there'll be a price, just like faery favors."

"What is it?" Day asked.

She turned to me, lowering her voice to a hush. "When you lay against the dreaming, remember the worlds you impede."

I glanced at Day. "You want me to fall asleep?"

She smiled cheerfully. "Dream the Truthfinder's dream, Morning, and no doubt you'll see what you never thought to know, never thought. Never even thought to think . . ."

I stared at her, slightly disturbed by her obvious mental instability and her habit to talk in the language of the inane and unintelligible.

She turned back to her book pile, singing to herself, or perhaps to them. "As much as it hurts, ain't it wonderful to feel," she sang beneath her breath. "So go on and break your wings . . . Follow your heart 'til it bleeds . . . as we run towards the end of the dream . . ."

"Ashra," Day sighed. "If you would tell us of the Bloody Rose?"

"But do stop a moment to gather your sanity," I added.

She broke off. "Right, right." She pulled a nearby chair over and plopped down. "Listen up, kids. We're gonna learn something new t'day. The story of the Bloody Rose," she said ominously, then returning to her normal tone, "is one not well known, but one you would most certainly want to know. Who can tell if you're going to need it for long awaited woes? And so, my lovely, unveritable friends, this is the legend of the Bloody Rose."

"The Bloody Rose first came from a being called the Bloodsmith. His name, lost to time but not to us, was Slace Kallascer. And oh, how they all hated, envied and feared him . . .

"The Bloodsmith was frightening. Powerful and dark and so, so beautiful. Like . . . smoke, twisting and changing and elusive. No one, no matter how they tried, could find him. No, you didn't ever find him. He found you. He always, always knew if you wanted to make a deal, to bargain, or perhaps to fulfill a contract to take him out of the game. Not a game, but a life . . .

"We all knew we could never take him. He was too strong, too him. And they tried. They tried. Never succeeding, but still trying. If you stabbed him with a knife, with anything, he didn't bleed. Not because he didn't have blood in his body, but because he didn't let himself. Or perhaps not just him, but his blood itself. He didn't need weapons like swords or guns. He didn't need bombs or daggers. He had himself. He manipulated his blood, controlled it. And, I think, it helped him, the blood. Didn't want him to die, didn't want him to fall. And he didn't.

"Until he did. He was felled by the Deathtaker. The Deathtaker's name is not just lost by time, but lost to us as well. The Deathtaker was called so because of his ability to somehow take death, his and others, and give it to other people, as if giving a gift that, inconveniently, has no return. He could imbue something, such as a sword or a scythe or some such, with death, too. And he did so with a dagger called the Dagger of Expatiation. The Dagger was supposed to have been buried somewhere at the bottom of the Soulless Sea, the sea that covers most of the world in the Dimension of Salt and Tears. Not many have heard of it, and it's not easy to get there, much less to actually touch anything like the Soulless Sea. Something much like steam rises from the Sea, but it's not hot. It's slightly warm, but it's not hot. The steam wisps upward, swirling, and engulfing anything or anyone who dares to try and take anything from its Sea. We call the wisps Devouration. Don't ask why we've named it such a thing. You won't be able to sleep. The Dagger was supposed to have been buried at the bottom of the seemingly bottomless Sea by an unknown person. And not many remain unknown to Seers, but when a few of us tried, we went madder, and it wasn't in a good way. It was . . . like watching a mad person find out just how very mad one can ever get.

"The Dagger doesn't look like such. It's longer, sharper, and, far, far more dangerous. It's called of Expatiation because of what it can do, what is. And what it is . . . is something you never, ever want to know. It's called a Dagger.

"It's not. It's not anything nearly so human, so unthreatening. But let's get back to the Bloodsmith and the Deathtaker, shall we? I'm getting multiple headaches just from thinking about what the Dagger is.

"The Deathtaker rewrote the Dagger. The Dagger's easy to rewrite, for that is a part of what it is. When you hold the Dagger, when you connect with it, there's a space in your mind, a room. The room's empty, the only things there the walls and no door. It doesn't need a door. It's in your mind. In the room you write on the walls, perhaps with a pen, perhaps with your fingers. The room's full of writing, scribbles and lines and things that make no sense. You see it first, then it's gone. It's not from your mind, therefore it's not yours. You write what you mean for the Dagger to do, perhaps even what you want it to look like. It can look like anything, after all. All you need to do is write it. The room is not limitless, it's just a room. A normal room in your mind that doesn't look different from any other room you've visited. The walls are slightly gray-blue, but that's it. You . . . reprogram the Dagger.

"The Deathtaker did. For him, the Dagger had taken the form of a black glove on his right hand. No one knows why. The Dagger quickly changed, moving as if made of some kind of strange matter, and the Deathtaker held a long, slightly thin knife that had a platinum handle with obsidian lettering that none of us could read. Not Seers, not Knowers, not Translators. The blade was strange, silver, but not, with the same black lettering crawling up.

"The Bloodsmith tried to stop him, but the Deathtaker thrust the Dagger through his heart. They'd fought long and hard, the Bloodsmith with his blood and the Deathtaker with his Dagger, but even immortals can get tired, and the Bloodsmith was so . . . so tired. The Bloodsmith's blood didn't seem to be able to listen, and the Bloodsmith died.

"But not before having the last word. He somehow came apart, like particles of . . . something. He disappeared, and the blood he'd left behind in his death crawled together, twisting and morphing, until finally it settled on the shape of a rose who's stem was utterly crimson, complete with red thorns. The Deathtaker, for reasons unknown to us, to the Bloody Rose and buried it like any other. Perhaps . . . for the Bloodsmith. For him.

"And that, my dear malleables, is the story of the Bloodsmith's Rose."

We all sat in silence for a moment.

"Ashra," Day finally spoke.

She looked at him. "Hmm?"

"Perhaps you could tell us where it is?"

"Ohh, right!" she said, thumping her fist in her palm. "So that's what the merry was missing!" She tossed her hair. "Well, the Deathtaker apparently didn't want nobody disrespecting his li'l friend and using it to try and take over the world and dumb things like that, so he buried it on the other side of the Black Bridge."

The Black Bridge. No one ever crossed the Black Bridge. Not anyone who wanted to continue on in their normal state of mental stability, anyway.

The Black Bridge of Lost Expectations was also commonly called the Bridge of the Void. It stood over the River Shaust, or Shattered Hopes.

The River Shaust was a clear crystal blue, almost unusually so. But the moment you stepped onto the Black Bridge, it felt almost as if . . . the river below was stealing your soul. And if you made it over, you weren't the same.

For one thing, you had slight Sight, a little Sight that showed the truth of whatever you looked on, and if you looked in a mirror . . .

So no one went over the Bridge. Oh, they tried to destroy it, but nothing worked.

They tried bombs, but the things never even detonated. They draining the River, but it didn't go down. They tried curses, but those didn't do anything. They tried a lot of stuff, and it never worked.

So then they just left it there with a sign that said, 'Do Not Cross. Immense Danger Of Losing All Sanity And Getting Something Back That Will Most Certainly Do You No Favors. Ever.'

That seemed to do it, anyway.

"And?" Day prompted.

Ashra started. "Oh. Yes, it's just something that I've found. It's not much better when the teller of it was one of the few who crossed the Black Bridge and got back slightly unhinged and not wearing underwear anymore."

"We didn't need to know that."

"Yes, you did. Now don't argue. Mama's talking. Anyhow, the Bloody Rose is wanted by many and sought by few. I mean, mental stability. Once you've lost it, you can almost never get it back. And if you do, you're still a bit mad. But, hey. Who isn't? The seekers of the Rose are powerful, Major Players. If you get it and they hear about it, they're gonna come after you like Hell in a speeded-up Ferrari. With machine guns on the sides and flamethrowers on the back. Get it? Prick up your ears, kiddies. Getting the Bloody Rose will require immense mental stability, or the lack of it, patience, or not, and guts, preferably on the inside, not the ground, where you won't get them back by saying, Hey, guv. Lend a hand or three?"

"You frighten me, Ashra," I said, blinking.

"Good," she praised. Or not. "It means you're not completely devoid of all self-preservation and intelligence. You know. Not completely."

"We really could've used you in World War I and II," I remarked.

"Well, why didn't you just say so? I could've used me then, too!"

"Ashra," Day said, "what I want to know is how hard it'll be to get it."

"Like taking candy from a baby."

"Oh, good."

"No, you don't get it. Babies are stubborn. They whine and they fight and they throw tantrum after tantrum and they like matches. And fire. It's pretty and destructive. It's something every baby inherits, but loses after the age of seven or doesn't lose at all. Then they cry. Loudly and at anyone in their immediate vicinity or tristate area. Demonic creatures," Ashra muttered. "They're like vampires. Scary and bloodthirsty and mean. Why didn't we make them into robots when we got the chance and it wasn't against the law? Robots don't cry. Why, huh? Why didn't we?"

Day glanced at me, giving me the signal for, Let's go before something explodes.

I got that often.

This was, however, one of the very few times it was not used in reference to me.

I waved a hand as we went towards the door. "See you later, Ashra! It was nice seeing you! I'll go and dream or whatever! Byye!"

"They're demon spawns, I tell you!" drifted to us. "Demon spawns!"

We escaped