two of us drove over near the university, to a quiet residential neighborhood that was split evenly between single-family residences and crowded houses shared by students. As we pulled up in front of a narrow two-story home in need of a new paint job, Kiyo frowned.
“That microbus looks really familiar,” he said, eyeing the driveway.
“Really?” I asked innocently.
We got out of the car and approached the house. When we’d cleared the microbus, Kiyo paused to look at its slew of bumper stickers. Question Authority and Roswell or Bust! were only a few. He gave me a sharp, accusing look.
“Eugenie, did Wil Delaney move?”
“Nooo,” I said slowly. “But this is a friend of his.”
Kiyo groaned. “If I’d known this, I would have stayed home. That guy is insane. And wait—did you just say he actually has a friend?”
“A friend with a legitimate problem. And you can always go wait in the car.”
Kiyo said nothing, merely steeling himself as we approached the door. Wil Delaney was a former client of mine. He was a conspiracy theorist who almost never left his home and whose sole income depended on a blog he ran that furthered his ideas on the government, aliens, mind control, genetic manipulation, and a whole host of other wacky premises. He was quite possibly the most paranoid person I’d ever met.
He was also Jasmine’s half-brother. It was how we’d met. He’d been the one to hire me to go find her in the Otherworld, long before I’d known anything about Storm King and the prophecy. Apparently, Wil and Jasmine’s mother hadn’t been so virtuous and had cheated on Mr. Delaney a lot—even with gentry warlords.
About a dozen locks unclicked before we were allowed into the house, which was almost as many as Wil had at his own home. The person who greeted us was a woman, a very young one. She was short with plump cheeks, cropped brown hair, and pink cat-eye glasses. “Is this her?” she asked.
A moment later, Wil’s head peered around the doorway’s side. He looked the same as last time: pale blond hair in need of cutting, glasses, and skin that never saw the sun. “Yup.”
“Who’s the guy?” asked the woman suspiciously.
“Her boyfriend. He’s cool. Cairo.”
“Kiyo,” I corrected. I held out my hand to her. “You must be Trisha.”
“I prefer to be called Ladyxmara72,” she said. “Because really, we’re all just anonymous faces in this society, as far as the government is concerned. Plus, Ladyxmara72 is one of my World of Warcraft character names. Ironic that a virtual society like that can be more honest and egalitarian than our own. Or maybe…” She paused dramatically. “It’s not so ironic.”
Wil stared at her adoringly. Beside me, Kiyo made some sort of strangled noise.
They led us inside a home nearly as dark as Wil kept his. I guessed Trisha—I refused to call her Lady-whatever—worried about the same issues with radiation that he did. Her home was neater, however, and bore slightly more feminine touches, like furniture that matched and a few scented candles. The candles appeared to be homemade, undoubtedly so they wouldn’t poison the air with artificial scents or be laced with trackers that the government could use to listen in on Trisha’s conversation.
“So,” said Trisha as we entered the living room. An episode of The X-Files was paused on the TV. “You’re here to take care of the alien problem.”
“I’m here to—what did you say?” I looked back and forth between Wil and her.
“Aliens,” she said. “My house is infested with them.”
I peered around, half-expecting to see E.T. hanging out on the loveseat. All was empty and still. “I don’t really understand. Didn’t Wil tell you what I do?”
“We don’t know for sure that they’re aliens,” he said hastily. “But there is something here.”
“Of course they are!” she exclaimed. He cowered a little under her glare. “I’ve seen them looking in the windows—just like on that documentary.”
Immediately, his chagrin turned to outrage. “Oh, come on! You know that’s a hoax. The evidence is overwhelming.”
“The hell it is! There’s no way anyone could fake that kind of—”
“Um, hey, you guys?” I said. “Can we just get this taken care of? Tell me more about the ali—whatever. Have you both seen them?”
They nodded. “They’re short with big eyes,” Trisha said triumphantly.
“But they wear paisley suit coats,” added Wil. “And they do chores at night.”
“Doesn’t sound so bad to me,” murmured Kiyo. “Why get rid of them?”
“Kobolds,” I said after a moment’s thought. “You’ve got kobolds.”
“There is no known planet by that name,” argued Trisha.
I sighed. “Just take me to your basement.”
Trisha led us through the house, and Wil drifted over beside me. “Isn’t she amazing?” I swear he was on the verge of swooning.
“Your first girlfriend?” I asked.
“How’d you know?”
“Instinct.” Engaging Wil in conversation was always dangerous, but seeing as he never left the house or had much social interaction, I just had to ask the next question. “How’d you guys meet?”
“On a forum. We were both in this thread and kept arguing about whether there was a government connection between the overdoses of Marilyn Monroe and Heath Ledger, and then we—”
“Okay,” I said, grimacing. “That’s enough. Really.”
We reached the basement door, and Trisha started to go down. “Don’t,” I warned. “You guys need to stay up here.” I gave Wil a stern look. “Don’t let her down there until we’re done. You of all people know I’m not fucking around.”
Wil blanched further—if that was possible—and gave a hasty nod. Wil had traveled with me to the Otherworld and fully understood the perils of my job. I could hear Trisha arguing with him as Kiyo and I descended the stairs, yet somehow, Wil managed to do his job and keep her away.
“I never thought it was possible,” said Kiyo, once we were out of earshot. “He’s found and fallen in love with someone exactly like him. I guess there really is someone for everyone.”
“She’s a little more assertive than he is, I think.”
“Good. He needs it.”
“On the bright side, this’ll be cake. Kobolds aren’t an issue.”
Kiyo nodded his agreement but wrinkled his nose when we reached the bottom of the steps. “They’re bad-smelling ones, though.”
The
