In town, Windston hopped from rooftop to rooftop when he could, jogged when he couldn't. This was, of course, to the distaste of most Zephyrians he passed, who were all dressed or almost there, hanging ribbons and tassels and otherwise making merry. He ignored them or tried to. One of them gave him the finger. Her young mother did, too.

  Town became more saturated the further in it he went. By the time he got to the circle, he found himself wading through crowds gathered around booths of sweets, home brewed ales and other goodies. A deep-fried pastry stand caught his attention. But he had no money. The chocolates looked good too. And the smoked brisket.

  At Bo's, he hopped over one final crowd and landed square on the stone pathway leading up from the gate to Bo's door. There, he saw Bo and others he recognized as people who bothered his father when he was alive and mayor. Actually, Bo used to be one of them.

  Bo saw him and raised his eyebrows and his glass before beckoning him over.

  “There he is,” he said. “Where is that... professor?”

  “Here I am! Here I am!” a very small man in a three-piece suit exclaimed. He had been inside Bo's house and was pushing his way out through a crowd of more dignitaries and business owners inside. “Excuse me!” he said. Excuse me! Excuse!”

  He was a little shorter than Windston, who himself stood just barely more than five and a half feet high. But he was round and moved with a graceless waddle. He had thick spectacles that hung low from a chain around his neck, and a very sparse comb of white and blonde hairs that crossed from one side of his rather large head to the other. Curiously, he tried to keep one hand over the other – the right over the left. It was to hide his thumb. Or, really, that he was missing one, and had lost it only recently.

  “Ah,” he said, bending forward from the top of the edge of the porch beside Bo, smiling at Windston. “Is this the specimen at last?”

  “This is Windston. Windston, this is Professor Wignof. He's come all the way from Galsia to see you. Made it just in time for the dance.”

  “Professor Vignof,” the professor said as he hobbled down the steps to grasp Windston's hand in both of his. He was smiling up at Windston in a way that made him look very hungry. His cheeks were flushed, his forehead perspired, and his tongue was slightly extended from his mouth and pulled back so that it pressed flush against his upper lip.

  Windston looked past him at Bo. “Bo Beeman! Mayor Bo! I've come to tell you about a possible monster boy!”

  The chattering nearby quieted. The professor seemed unfazed; he looked Windston up and down more than once, and even reached out to squeeze his upper arm, which Windston promptly withdrew with a scowl.

  “There is a boy. A blue boy!” Windston shouted. “And he could blow up this whole town!”

  “Windston!” Bo yelled.

  Windston stopped and blinked, withdrew his arm from the professor again and shoved him lightly on the shoulder. “Quit it,” he warned.

  “Keep it down,” Bo said, smiling, but wide-eyed. He cocked his head and nodded, his eyes brushing over nearby company. “We're having a good time today. Okay? And although I think I know what you're getting at, I'm afraid you might be... ill informed.”

  “What does that mean?” Windston asked.

  “It means you don’t know what you're talking about. Now...” He stepped off the porch and touched Windston's shoulder. “There are some very comfortable clothes inside. They're in your old bedroom, laid out on the bed in there. I want you to go try them on and come back down to see me. There's a lot I want to talk with you about. But later. For now... I want you to have a good time. Enjoy yourself.”

  Windston's eyes narrowed all on their own. They briefly met Wignof’s too before landing on Bo and what he was wearing. He wore a very frilly green shirt that looked like velvet. His shorts matched and had frills above the knees as well. His socks were white and covered his knees. His shoes were black with brass buckles. “You do?”

  Bo nodded and patted Windston on the back. He even scratched it, right on an itchy spot between the shoulders, which sent chills down his whole body.

  “Okay,” Windston said, taking a step backward from Bo, and even ducking under his arm to get away. “I'll go get the clothes.”

  Bo nodded. “Thank you, Windston. Really, thank you. I don't think we've thanked you around here enough.” He winked at him.

  “You haven't,” Windston said, brushing away the spot of beer that fell from Bo's cup to his arm. “But you're welcome anyway. It was... nothing.”

  Wignof chuckled but Windston wasn't kidding, and he let him know with a flashing glare.

  Up the porch steps with a single bound, he pushed his way inside without so much as an excuse me. Inside, he skipped up the stairs and barged into his old room, immediately scowling at the changes. Where the walls had been painted a tan beige to contrast the thick beams on the walls and ceilings, the paint was blue here, pink there, and yellow there with a sunrise over water and clouds painted on each. The bed was very large, too, taking up most of the room. And on it, wagging his tail when he saw him, was Doobear, Bo's creepy little dog. He was short and tan and bug-eyed with a curled tail and a smushed black face.

  Windston petted him before ripping off his shirt. There was a mirror on the wall behind him and he took a second to look at his back muscles, which were etched and defined. What drew his attention, though, was soot and a bit of crusty blood he'd missed when he bathed.

  Dressed, he took a glance at what was an oddly unfamiliar face. His nose was bigger, and his cheekbones were broader, as was his jaw, than the last time he saw a mirror. His eyes were still blue, something he never thought much about, but his hair, which had always been a very bright shade of yellow, was more like hay in color, all messed up, matted with blood on one side, and in desperate need of a combing. His eyebrows, which had hardly been apparent in childhood, were coming in darker now, and thicker, and shapely, but he didn't know what to make of it.

  There wasn't a comb anywhere, so he used his fingers.

  Downstairs... he felt like an idiot. Women stared, and men, who wore frilly clothes themselves, raised their eyebrows at him as if to say, “Well, there's a pig in a suit.”

  Windston ignored them the best he could, but he wasn't very good at it. He ended up scowling back at one that just wouldn't stop staring, and leaned forward, teeth grit, until the man looked away.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Bo said when Windston walked out. “We match!”

  Unfortunately, it was true. They did match.

  “Hold on,” Bo said. “One minute. I'll be right back.”

  He headed up the porch and inside in a mock run.

  Windston watched but stopped when he noticed someone was stroking his head. It was that little professor. He swatted him away, this time hard enough to twist the little man's face.

  Bo came back wearing a wig with one in his hands. Wignof clapped and smiled, and the others looked on in utter disbelief as Bo set it atop Windston's head.

  “Wow,” was all Windston could manage.

  “We're twins tonight,” Bo laughed. It was clear that he was drunk. A woman with a tray of glasses walked by and Bo took one for him, one for Windston, and handed Windston his. “Enjoy,” he said. “And take this. This is a handful of brass coins, just for you,” he said, reaching into his pocket and coming back with a small sack fastened with a pull string of gold tinsel.

  “What's this for?” Windston asked, looking at the sack and handing off the beer.

  “Get yourself some barbecue,” Bo said. “Or some donuts.”

  “Okay,” Windston said. “I guess I will.”

  He left to do just that.

  Slowly, cautiously, he moved away from Bo's yard and through the gate and out into the crowd, suspicious someone somewhere was gonna come out with a big horn and blow it so that confetti would explode for the dunces and jesters to have something festive to jump out in as they surrounded him, pointing and laughing.

  None of that happened. But he did get awful glances from the few who still recognized him despite the attire.

  The BBQ was good, though. And the donuts. And the chocolates. And the chocolate drinks. He finished his engorging session with a spread of Bo's own Beeman honey-syrple on a bun, which was, frankly, the highlight of it all.

  After a bit of moseying and more impulse buys, Windston shrunk away from the crowds in town and found himself back at the old stump he used to hang around sometimes behind the mayoral mansion, near the water. There, he played with a knight toy he'd bought and flew around the stuffed dragon it came with for two pence more.

  That was when he noticed him. The blue boy.

  Well, first he noticed the rock. It skipped out, way out, bounding from one sprawling ripple to the next as it flew over and into the lake. Then he noticed the boy. He was changed into different clothes, an off-white set of hooded tunic and shorts, brown boots, blue tights and a very fancy buckled belt. He glanced at Windston and tossed another stone. He glanced at him again and tossed another. They skipped marvelously, each to about the same spot every time.

  Windston stood from his place on the stump and headed that way. He felt a surge of adrenaline, and his breathing quickened. But he also felt curious, and bored, and the boy seemed to be smiling at him.

  He was smiling at him. His eyes, which were slightly different than most, narrower and hooded, smiled too. He stopped and looked for more smooth stones, which lay about in abundance, grabbed a handful and tossed one underhand to Windston.

  “What are you doing here?” Windston asked.

  The boy smiled bigger, showing white teeth and fangs, and skipped another rock. “What does it look like?” he asked.

  Windston put his hands on his hips and watched the rock whiz off. “Skipping rocks,” he said.

  The boy nodded. “Exactly.”

  “I can do that,” Windston said. But the truth was he wasn't very good. He proved it.

  “Nice,” the blue boy said anyway, tossing Windston another rock. “Try it like this next time,” he said, demonstrating a slowed display of beautiful skipping form.

  Windston dropped the rock and crossed his arms. “Maybe later.”

  The boy straightened and tossed one of his rocks up and down before dropping the others and turning his back to Windston to pace slowly in circles.

  “What are you doing here?” Windston asked again. “Here to blow up the whole town?”

  “No,” the boy said. “Although I could,” he warned, pointing at him.

  Windston crouched, ready to fight. “Not if I can help it.”

  “Why are you wearing that?” blue boy asked.

  “Because. I don't know.”

  “Are you rich?”

  Windston relaxed, shook his head. “I never dress like this. The mayor made me do it.”

  “Mayor Bo,” the boy said. “Bo Beeman.”

  “How do you know his name?”

  “Because I read his mail.”

  Windston laughed. “You do?”

  “I sneak over late at night. His mailbox is right by the road. I walk over, take some letters and read them. Then I stick them back in or throw them away.”

  Windston shook his head. “I bet you steal food too.”

  The boy shrugged. “Beats starving.”

  “That's a bad crime,” Windston said. “I could arrest you for that.”

  “But you won't.”

  Windston paused, staring at the boy, and then turned and paced himself before kneeling down and grabbing a stick to prod at wet sand. “I won't because... I hate Bo Beeman, and... I hate everyone in Zephyr.”

  The boy laughed.

  “What?”

  “He hates you too. They all hate you.”

  Windston shrugged. “I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I can tell,” Windston said. “They leave me outside to rot like a dog. Only they treat their dogs better. I wonder why he gave me all this money, and these clothes, and this stupid hat.”

  “Wig,” the boy corrected. “He's trying to butter you up.”

  “I don't know what that means.” Windston pulled out the sack. It was still half full of brass coins. “Check it out.”

  “Whoa. Can I have?” the boy asked. “Spare change for a hungry old soul?”

  Windston shrugged and handed him the bag. “Take it. I don't want it anymore.”

  “Really?”

  “I don't want it,” Windston said, arms crossed.

  “Good – I’ll take it. But I can't spend it on anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’d run me off.” There was a brief pause, one during which the boy skipped a rock while Windston dug into the dirt with that stick.

  The blue boy suddenly wheeled and faced Windston. “Hey, maybe you could buy me something.”

  “Like what?” Windston asked.

  The boy shrugged. “Food.”

  “There's tons of food around the circle,” Windston said. “But you have to wait in a long line.”

  “Could you do that? I'd do it but they'd probably throw rocks at me because I'm blue.” He chuckled.

  Windston shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “I'll do something really nice for you if you do,” the boy said.

  “Like what?”

  “Well,” the boy said. He stroked his chin and stared out over the water, at the sun, which was just about ready to set. “I could kill Bo Beeman for you. Blow him up into a million pieces.”

  Windston straightened at that, but he relaxed when he saw the boy was smiling.

  “Or,” he said, “I could... no. I couldn't tell you that. You'd probably tell everyone.”

  “Tell everyone what?” Windston asked.

  “Nothing. Just this secret I know.”

  “What kind of secret?” Windston asked.

  “The secret kind.”

  Windston stood up and adjusted his wig. “I can keep secrets,” he said.

  “Prove it,” the boy demanded, pointing at him.

  “How?”

  “Quick. Tell me a secret you know,” he said, still pointing. “That way I'll know you've been keeping one.”

  “Um,” Windston said, trying to think. Then he stopped. “No. I won't tell you any secrets because I don't tell secrets.”

  “Wow,” the boy said. “I can’t believe it; you passed the test. Fine. I'll tell you the first secret. But only if you bring me whatever it is they’re cooking over there that smells so good.”

  “Like what?” Windston asked. “They’re cooking a lot of stuff.”

  “Like... meat – I don't know. I smell meat. And bread. And potatoes.”

  Windston shrugged. “There’s more than that there.”

  “Sweets?”

  “Chocolates. Yeah. And other stuff.”

  “Yes!” the boy said, pointing at Windston. “And cakes.”

  “And doughnuts.”

  “Yes!” the boy said. He hopped up and down and clenched his fists. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!”

  “You want all that?” Windston asked.

  “Bring them to me, as much as you can, and I’ll tell you my name.”

  Windston slumped. “Your name?”

  “Yeah. If I tell you my name and you tell me yours, we can be friends. And then I can tell you really juicy secrets.”

  Windston narrowed his eyes at the boy and grimaced. “Fine,” he finally said. “But I already have a friend. He's my best friend and his name is Frank.”

  “The woodpecker guy?”

  Windston didn't say anything. He just stared at the boy suspiciously.

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  “What? I saw you guys. You were talking about me, and then that red star. Which is weird, and I can tell you why. But not yet as it’s part of a secret.”

  “You were spying on us?” Windston asked, teeth gritted.

  “Can we get back to the food thing?” the boy asked, wincing, a hand on his stomach. “I'm starving. Like, really starving to death.”

  “Fine,” Windston said. “But don’t freaking spy on me ever again. Or Frank. Got it?”

  “Fine, yeah.”

  He headed back for Bo's yard. By the time he got to it and through it, the sun had fully set, a voice shouted yeehaws, yippees and other things through a bullhorn, and the band began to play.

  The squat dance festival had begun. Lines and lines of dancers formed from the circle fountain, where water shot up higher than normal lit by torches in glass cases of red, orange, green, blue and yellow. The band, which was on a makeshift stage over the steps of town hall, strummed and drummed and fiddled and horned. And then the dancers were at it, one line squatting low, the other dancing in a pattern of squatting and dancing and squatting and dancing that would go on this way through the night. Partners exchanged and dancers bowed or curtsied. The festivities were at a peak. But the food stands were not so easy to get to anymore.

  Windston tried jumping over a few lines, but quickly darted off for the opening away from the fountain when it looked like he'd be trampled during an exchange. He tried to move around the dancers, but crowds of onlookers and would-be participants blocked the way.

  Without putting in too much thought, he leaped up onto a nearby oak with low branches and scurried longways across a limb. Twigs and pedals twirled down onto the dancers. His wig got stuck on a stick. People booed and one even splashed a drink upward at him.

  The band missed a beat, but they played on.

  With another leap, he landed where he wanted, only a bit too close. His hip bumped the grill, and he jostled it, spilling beans in the BBQ. Somebody cussed at him – a big fat guy in line – and the cook yelled at him to wait his turn.

  He did.

  He was cautious about getting to the doughnut stand, and even more careful getting to the chocolate. With all the items in hand, he made his way back through the crowd and past Bo's yard where he found that the boy had moved and was lying down with his back propped up against a boathouse just north down the shoreline.

  He stood, excited, when he saw the plate and baggies. He snatched them from Windston and took a quick seat crisscrossed applesauce with a plop.

  “Frem,” he said. “That's my name. Now don't wear it out.” Pause. “No fork? No spoon? No knife?”

  “I'm Windston.”

  “I know,” Frem said before plucking bits of meat with the tips of his claws.

  “How?”

  “That's what the second secret is about.”

  “Hey; I thought it would be about the star?”

  The kid shook his head. “That's for even later. That's if you join my cause. What it said in the letters I read about you is so messed up. These were letters to and from Bo Beeman.”

  “About what?”

  “I'll tell you, but only if you....”

  “What?!” Windston snapped.

  Frem laughed. “I'm so thirsty.”

  “Drink your spit,” Windston said. “Why didn't you ask before I left?”

  “Hey, that's a good idea; I would if I had any. Ugh. My mouth is so dry. And I didn't ask because I needed to save it for another secret.”

  Windston crossed his arms. “Do you know how hard it was to get all this? I'm almost out of money.”

  “No, I am; you gave me the money – remember?” Frem said. “But that’s what I want. So… go get it.” He smiled.

  “No.”

  “Be a good little boy and get me a beer. Hurry now.”

  “A what?”

  “A beer!” Frem yelled.

  “I'm only fourteen years old!” Windston shouted.

  “You're fourteen? You look more like thirteen, if that.” He was scarfing everything down, so his speech was a garbled mess. “I'm fifteen. That makes me your boss.”

  “You look twelve and sound like you’re ten,” Windston said – and it was true; Frem’s voice hadn’t changed. “And that does not make you my boss. No one is my boss. Nobody nowhere.”

  “Come on,” Frem said, changing his approach. “I've had beer before. I stole a whole keg once, like, two towns back. It was kinda gross, but... I don't know. It was kinda cool. I drank it all in one long slurp, right out of the tap. I really liked it.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  “Fine,” Frem said, rolling his eyes, his mouth full of meat. “Get me a pipe and something to smoke in it, then. But not feathers,” he said with a laugh. “And bring me a water while you’re at it.”

  “Make fun of Frank again and die!” Windston warned.

  “Fine, fine – sorry. But come on, bring me something. Water. Juice. Whatever. Baby bottle milk if it makes you feel better. Whatever you want me to drink.”

  “Why do I have to do all this stuff for you just to get you to tell me things? If you were really my friend you’d just tell me.”

  “That’s not true. Friends don’t tell each other everything. Besides, these aren’t just ordinary secrets. These are special secrets kept just for you. Believe me, you want to know my secrets. You do. You really do. But I can't just give them out for free. They're valuable. I worked hard getting them.”

  “As hard as it would be to get you a beer?”

  “No, harder. Do you know how hard it is to sneak up on woodpeckers? Not that hard. But hard.”

  Windston laughed. “I'm not getting you beer. But I'll get you cider. I think I saw apple cider next to the chocolate milk stand.”

  “You'd get me beer if we were friends.”

  “Sure,” Windston said. “If. But we're not.”

  Frem looked up at the sky and simply stared, his plate balancing on his knees, his arms drooped to the ground palms-up. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll tell you one more real quick. Mayor Bo agreed to send you with some creepy scientist to Galsia; he wants to study you and your sword. Happy now?”

  “What?” Windston asked, wincing.

  “Yeah,” Frem said, taking another bite. “Pretty messed up. But whatever. One beer, please.”

  Windston stood there frozen for a bit, digesting what was a truth he actually found difficult to swallow. His eyes watered a bit, and he turned to leave, and that's when he saw a slumped silhouette in the darkness between the lake and the town.

  “I thought I'd find you back here,” Bo said.

  Windston hurried and looked back over his shoulder, but Frem was gone.

  “Who were you talking to?” Bo asked.

  “No one,” Windston said. He shook his head, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “I do that sometimes. I get lonely.”

  Bo sighed, looked up at the sky, and briefly winced at the red star before adjusting his glasses. Windston, of course, couldn’t see him do that, but he felt something in the pause. “That's probably my fault,” Bo finally said, his words heavy with remorse. “At any rate, your company is wanted back at my place. You've actually been wanted for a while, but we couldn't find you.”

  “Great.”

  “I figured you'd go out and get something to eat and come right back.”

  “Yeah, I hate it there,” Windston admitted.

  “That's okay. No problem. Just... we do need you back, now. We have some very important things to discuss, you and I.”

  “Like what,” Windston said, though he thought he knew.

  “Like... just do me a favor, Windston. Don’t give me a fuss. Just come with me and find out. Will ya? Isn’t that the easy way?”

  “Fine.”

  They headed back, Windston behind Bo and checking over his shoulder here and there to make sure Frem, who had crawled back out and was squat dancing in the moonlight, wouldn't get himself caught by being stupid.

  Back at Bo's, Windston found that the crowd in the front lawn had gone, probably dispersed into the crowd watching the dancers. Those of the few who did remain at the mayoral mansion were on the porches, mostly the top one, which was a narrow wrap-around balcony one could get to either by clambering out the near floor to ceiling windows of the four front rooms, or heading out the back door from Bo's mayoral bedroom. Bo and Windston did the latter.

  Two men with droopy blonde spikes for hair were there. They were tall and thin, their faces sullen. They looked like twins. There were others Windston recognized as the richest men in Zephyr, and with them were their wives. There was also the commerce conductor and the head policeman. And then there was Professor Wignof, who was cradling Bo's dog like a baby and blowing him kiss after kiss after kiss.

  Bo and Windston headed past the others toward the professor and took a seat. The dog squirmed when he saw Windston, but only because his hands still smelled like BBQ.

  “Found him,” Bo said, leading Windston forward with an arm around the upper back.

  “Where have you been, my beautiful boy?” the professor asked. “I have been longing to speak with you all this time.”

  Windston didn't say anything.

  “Looks like we lost a wig,” Bo said, ruffling his hair.

  The professor touched his arm, and Windston shuttered and made his way to the railing, where he leaned his back away from them, to keep them from touching him.

  “We were just enjoying the festivities,” Wignof said. “And I am thinking, where is this wonderful boy with the wonderful sword Bo speaks about?”

  “My sword?” Windston asked.

  “Yes,” Wignof said. “Your sword.” He had dropped the dog, who sniffed Windston's empty hands before skittering off and clicking his claws down the stairs. Now his hands were clasped, and he was leaned in, staring at Windston.

  “I think the sword is still downstairs,” Windston said.

  “It is,” Bo confirmed. “Right there in the closet where you left it.”

  “We might have to change this,” Wignof said. “Soon. Very soon.”

  “Change what?” Windston asked.

  “The location of this sword. It seems to me that maybe it is better in your hands. What do you think?”

  “I think you're right,” Windston said, and he would've smiled if it wasn't for how creepy the two adults had been acting.

  “Good. Because I have this proposition for you. It feels as though I travel all the way from my humble town in Galsia to ask you. This, of course, is not the case. But it feels like it is. That is how important it is that I am learning of you and this sword.”

  Windston didn't say anything.

  “Will you come back with me, back home, so I can study your sword with you?”

  Windston looked at Bo, who raised his eyebrows and nodded. “It's okay with me,” he said. His nod became a head shake. He chuckled. “I think everyone’s okay with it.”

  Windston didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything.

  “All I need is for you to pick up that sword and carry it here to my handsome friends. And then you must come with me at first north, and then back south, back home.”

  Windston shrugged.

  “This Galsia,” he said, “my home… this is your home, too, you know. Look at your yellow hair and your blue, blue eyes. This is where these features come from. Do you know this?”

  “I don't care about that.”

  “The sword belongs there, Windston. For the sake of science and research. You do care about this, yes?”

  “I don't,” Windston said. “And I don’t like you. In fact, I’d never go with you. Anywhere.”

  The scientist laughed. Bo cracked a smile.

  “Ever,” Windston said. “Ever, ever, ever.”

  “Even with your sword?” Bo asked.

  “Even with,” Windston said.

  “But why not?” Wignof asked, and he made a quick look at one of his creepy guards.

  “Because.”

  Barking. Barking, growling and a squeal.

  The squealing continued, along with crashing. There was a definite commotion downstairs. At least two men and a woman were involved; there was a shriek followed by raucous noise and yelling. And then there was a very abrupt, “OUCH!”

  Wignof snapped a finger and the Galsian guards burst through the window and headed downstairs, much to the disapproval of Bo and the policeman, the latter drawing out and blowing his whistle at them.

  Windston jumped off the edge of the balcony just in time to see Frem burst out through the shattering side window of Bo's office. He was carrying something under his arm; it looked like a rolled-up rug. It was a rolled-up rug, the one Bo said was from Mannley, but there was something aglow inside it.

  “Hey!” Windston yelled. “That's my sword!”

  “Yeah!” Frem laughed. “I got it! Let's get outta here!”

  Without hesitation, they did. They ran, Frem giggling. They ran, Windston laughing. They ran and ran and ran toward the beach. And then they ran up along it, north.

  After a bit, Frem threw Windston the rug, which he very quickly tilted to dump out his sword.

  There it was. His sword.

  “Yes!” he yelled, holding it overhead, staring up at it.

  Something whizzed past and stuck into the side of the boathouse. It was a dart. Another flew at Frem, and then one of the Galsian guards looked as though he exploded fire from his back and flew into Windston like a rocket, ramming him hard with his shoulder.

  Windston flew into the building, the outer wall bursting into pieces. Inside, as he climbed to his feet, he saw, in the darkness, moonlit dust rising around the silhouette of a man with droopy spiked hair like limp bananas.

  It was difficult to consider this thing a man because, frankly, it didn't look any more like a man than it did a woman. In fact, even bodily, it was ambiguous. Neither the shoulders, nor the hips, were too terribly wide. There wasn't much muscle mass. In fact, Windston wondered if it was a living thing at all, based on how it moved.

  And how its eyes glowed.

  It approached quickly and he sliced at it, cutting off its hand.

  It didn't yell, but it gripped its wrist and looked blankly at a single leaking tube sprouting out from it among sparking wires.

  There was a noise from outside. It was a pop, and it came with a flash. Limbs clattered against the walls and ceiling, and a foot flew inside.

  Frem grunted and a torso fell into the one Windston had cut. It fell beside Windston and met his eyes with one of its own. It was missing half its head.

  Windston jumped on instinct and burst through the top of the boathouse in a spatter of wood. Frem was down below on the shoreline, sticking up his middle fingers and chuckling, mocking whoever it was he was looking at off in the distance.

  Police whistles screamed everywhere in town, and Frem didn't hesitate to blast the boathouse to oblivion now that Windston was clearly out and above it. He threw a volley at whoever he'd been taunting as well. Screams filled the air as Windston broke his fall with a roll in the sand.

  “Come on,” Frem said. “There's more coming.”

  Windston nodded.

  They headed north into the woods as fast as they could. For all they knew those things could be out by the dozens, combing the area.

  Frem led the way from the sky. They headed this way, Windston trailing with leaps and sprints just behind. And then they cut a quick right and headed northeast for a bit. They moved this way mile after mile after mile until, finally, Frem swooped down and landed on the side of a cliff Windston knew all too well. It was a waterfall fed by a waterfall. Between the two was a pool of rapids over smooth stones. It was very loud, very misty, and very private.

  It was also Windston's favorite place to bathe. Unfortunately, it was out of the way. Bathing there was a rare treat.

  “I think we're safe here,” Frem hollered down to Windston. “Or, should I say, those things are safe from us.”

  Windston hopped up to the ledge. He dusted himself off before taking a seat on the boulder he usually sat on to take off his shoes for a bath. “I come here all the time,” Windston said. “I love it here.”

  Frem nodded. “It’s nice but I’m beyond ready to leave.”

  “How come?”

  “I'm trying to go north, but those birds...” Frem said. “They won't let me go that way. That's what I was doing this morning. I was trying to go west, and then north. They showed up right when I cut north. It's like this place is booby trapped.”

  “Weird. I’m always looking for them but never find them.”

  Frem shrugged. “I don't usually hear them until they're right on my trail. Funny thing is, they never follow me back here. It's like... I don't know. On purpose or something.”

  “They wouldn't come up here anyway.” Windston said, admiring his sword in the moonlight. “Not unless they saw you jump up here.”

  “You're welcome, by the way,” Frem said. “That stupid thing. It zapped me.”

  “It zaps anyone who isn't me,” Windston said. He shrugged. “I guess maybe you aren’t strong enough to use it.”

  “That doesn't make sense,” Frem said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I'm probably a lot stronger than you are.”

  Windston laughed.

  “I'm not kidding,” Frem said. “I probably am. I'm the strongest kid I know,” he said, a thumb at his chest.

  “Yeah? Well, I'm the strongest kid I know. And I know you.”

  Frem shook his head. “You’re not. I am.”

  Windston stood, puffed out his chest, smiling. “I can pick up this boulder and throw it at you if you want me to prove it.”

  “Go ahead. I'll just catch it.”

  Windston smiled bigger, his eyebrows raised. He turned, squatted, and wrapped his arms around a narrow part of the boulder. Groaning, he stood back up; the boulder came up with him. “Ready?” he asked, his face smushed against the side of the rock, which dripped soil from ripped roots.

  Frem didn't say anything. He just lit his hands aglow.

  “You can't do that,” Windston said.

  “Why the hell not?” Frem asked, his hands darkening again.

  “Because that's cheating.”

  “How is that cheating? I was gonna blast it into smaller pieces so I could pick them up.”

  Windston laughed and set down the rock. It went mostly back in place, but it was wobbly and crooked now.

  “You ruined it,” Frem said. “It'll take years to sit snug again, and all because of your big fat ego.”

  “I don't have an ego.” But the truth was, he did, despite the fact that he wasn't sure what an ego was.

  “Okay, buddy,” Frem said. “Anyway, who cares who's stronger?” Frem continued. “I could flatten this whole forest if I wanted to.”

  “That'd be a waste. The trees are the only good thing about this forest.”

  “I'm not saying I would. But I could. You couldn't.”

  Windston shrugged. “It's hard to blast anything without any arms.”

  “It's hard to cut arms off without any sword!” Frem yelled, his hands lit before Windston could do anything more than hold his sword in front of his face.

  But he didn't blast him. He was just kidding. He fell backward laughing. And he kept laughing while Windston scowled in disgust.

  “I don't think you could hurt this sword anyway,” Windston said.

  “Oh, yeah?” Frem asked, still on his back. He was about three feet from the water's edge, close enough so that little splishes splashed his left arm and leg, and part of his torso. “You wanna put that to the test?”

  “How?”

  “Let me shoot it.”

  Windston narrowed his eyes at Frem, who had lifted a leg and rested its ankle on top of his other knee. “Maybe,” he said. “I kind of wonder what would happen.”

  “Set it down, then. Against that rock. I'll hit it with a little one first.”

  Windston smiled and set the sword down while Frem squirmed so that he could see the rock and sword.

  “You can't be mad if it blows up.”

  Windston stroked his chin. “I'm not worried about it blowing up. But it might fly off somewhere.”

  “That's true,” Frem said. “Maybe you should hold it?”

  “Better not shoot me.”

  “I won’t. I've been doing this all my life.”

  “Fine,” Windston said, grabbing his sword and holding it out to the side, away from his body. Closing his eyes tightly, and his mouth, he turned his face as far away from the blade as possible and gripped the sword with all his might.

  “Ready?” Frem asked.

  Windston nodded.

  There was a whirring sound, a sound of simultaneously rising and falling pitch, and then a steady hum. Windston cracked open an eye and saw a small ball floating above the palm of Frem's right hand. He had one eye shut, and he was bouncing it despite that it never touched his skin. With a sudden jerk, he clasped the ball in his hand and tossed it like a snowball, right at the blade.

  It was a direct hit, and there was an immediate pop. The pop, however, was interrupted by a loud crack, followed by a hiss. The ball looked magnetically stuck to the side of the sword, and then its expansion began shrinking as the blade shone brightly, first on impact, and then all over. The light grew brighter and brighter until the ball was gone, and then it all shot into Windston's hands, causing him to let go.

  “Whoa,” Frem said. And then he said, “Ha. Made you drop it.”

  Windston cringed and looked at his hands. The palms were pink, like the blade, and glowing. “Ow!” he finally said. “That hurts!”

  Frem laughed again. “I guess it's a draw. That’s a really badass sword, though.”

  “It is,” Windston agreed, nodding. Carefully, he reached down and touched the pommel. It was fine. He picked it up and looked the whole thing over. “Looks fine to me.”

  “I bet your hands hurt.”

  “They're buzzing. Feels weird.”

  “That's crazy,” Frem said. “Speaking of buzzing,” he said, and he headed over toward the one single oak that grew up on the ledge of that cliff-side waterfall. Behind it was a bag, and he fetched it. “And speaking of crazy… check this out.” He tossed Windston the bag.

  Windston looked inside. The moons were bright, but, even still, he could only see what looked like jagged shreds of paper.

  “Fish around in it,” Frem said. He was back to his spot by the water, staring up at the moons. “I'll tell you something while you look,” he said, staring at the red star. “I'll tell you that other secret.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one I was gonna tell you if you got me beer. You didn't, but who cares. It's probably nasty anyway.”

  “I knew you never had one.”

  Frem shrugged. “I wish. That guy. The woodpecker guy. He was talking about his dream. He said he met a guy with a swirl for a face.”

  “He said that,” Windston agreed. “He saw one, anyway.” He had found what felt like a large nut or seed. It was smooth as polished glass between what were evenly spaced bumps. He pulled it out and looked at it.

  “Well, he wasn't lying.”

  “I know that,” Windston said. It was dark; he couldn't see the color.

  “There's more in there than that,” Frem said. “Find the blue one.”

  “How will I know it's blue?” Windston asked, fishing again.

  “You'll know,” Frem said. “Anyway, I saw the swirl faced guy too. And the worm. I saw both with my own two eyes. It was probably around the same time as your friend. But I'm thinking maybe after.”

  “Frank,” Windston said. He found another couple of seeds. They were all different shapes and textures. One was rough, like sandpaper. Another was barbed, like a cat's tongue. One had jagged fins on it. One had spiky pokes. They were anything from completely spherical to oblong.

  “I say that because there was a very troubled woodpecker headed back north down the trail. It flew north as if it had been deep south. That is, it was tired, and speeding, as if on an urgent quest. And that's, of course, when I noticed the star. I craned my neck to watch the bird. The star caught my eye.”

  “Uh-huh,” Windston said. He found the blue one. He knew he had. It trembled in his fingers. And it was difficult to move it this way or that. That is, it felt stuck in the air, and then, when moved, carried the momentum of something much heavier.

  He pulled it out and looked at it.

  “Let go of it,” Frem said.

  “What, drop it?” Windston asked. But he did before getting an answer. It was suspended in air. It moved, too. Ever so slightly, very slowly, it moved north. “What the heck?” Windston said.

  Frem rose to his feet. “It's a dragon egg. Or so they say. I think it's more of a seed, myself.”

  Windston stared in wonder at the egg. Or seed. It was directly in front of the moons, covering the red star. “Looks more like a seed, I guess.”

  “Well, I actually have reason to believe this,” Frem said. “Of course, it's small, like a seed. I mean, how could a dragon hatch from one of those? But, more importantly, I've got experience.”

  He headed Windston's way and snatched the seed from the air. “You see, you take it,” he said, pacing toward and then stopping at the rock. “Where it goes. And then, whoosh, it flies up on its own in a beam of light and shoots into the ground. I've done it. Twice.” He wheeled and looked at Windston, smiling, winking, a thumb up; he grabbed Windston's hand and slapped the seed into it.

  “How many are there?”

  “Nine, total,” Frem said. “I've planted two, so we have seven.”

  “We,” Windston said, making a face of surprise and resistance. “Who said I want dragon seeds?”

  “I said,” Frem said. “I can tell. This is your kind of thing. You’re a dragon guy. Like me.”

  The truth… this was Windston's exact kind of thing. In fact, he'd been just dying to form a group of super strong kids for the past two years – if only he could find any. They'd call themselves the Super Kids, and they'd travel the world fighting evildoers. “Okay, so what if it is? Where do we even plant this thing?”

  “Where it goes?” Frem said, and he knocked on Windston's head and made a hollow sound with his mouth. “It's going north. That’s why we’re going north. How easy could it be?”

  “Oh,” Windston said, and he was suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of butterflies. “That is easy,” he said, and he couldn't not smile.

  “So... I've rescued you not only from the evil Bo Beeman, but his creepy little doctor friend with his little robots. I got you your sword back. I've confirmed your friend's crazy story with a matching story of my own. I even let you do me favors so you don’t overly owe me or anything.” He shrugged and tapped his chin. “Definitely seems like I’m friend material.”

  Windston smiled. “I guess,” he finally said.

  “You guess?!” Frem asked, his eyes suddenly wide, his fangs bared, and his hands outstretched, glowing white and crackling.

  “Whoa,” Windston said.

  “I'm super powerful!” Frem yelled at the top of his lungs.

  “So am I!” Windston yelled too, only he was ignored.

  “With nine dragons of my own by my side, I'll take over as king, as ruler, as emperor of the world!” He fell to his knees and gripped at nothing in tight fists beneath his chin, staring skyward. “And you can be my royal advisor,” he said to Windston.

  “Bodyguard,” Windston said.

  “Bodyguard,” Frem agreed. “You are kinda strong, I guess.”

  “The strongest kid in the world,” Windston corrected him.

  “The strongest kid in the world,” Frem repeated, shrugging. “But I am the most powerful!”

  “No, I am,” Windston said. He stepped forward and faced the tree. “I can punch really hard!” he yelled, punching the tree. It shook violently as hole after hole after hole was punched into its trunk. Bark and splinters sprayed out of the other side, and apples fell by the bushel.

  “Well,” Frem said, “can you blow up trees?!” he asked, charging a massive ball of energy between both outstretched hands. There was a sound, a tone ascending and descending all at once, and then whirling and hissing. Everything went blank as the world became nothing and the bright white light became everything; there was an explosion that spelled doom for an entire acre two acres away. Dirt and wood and pedals and ash fell all around them as a fire blazed and smoke rose. Frem laughed diabolically, veins in his eyes, bulging arteries in his neck.

  He looked at Windston and heaved in and out. “What say you? Shall you be my friend?”

  Windston, who was staring over Frem at the cataclysmic mess he'd made, said, “Yes. Yes, I will.”