Children of the Eighth Realm Cut and Extended Scenes

Children of the Eighth Realm was originally one-third longer than it ended up being. Yes, I cut one-third of the original story out! It was a bit unwieldy, to say the least. As the tale moves along on the blog, I'll post the scenes that were cut short or cut out altogether here. 

Cut Scene: Halfer Home's History

Like its creator, Halfer Home had lived many lives, few of them particularly happy.

The land it occupied was rocky, supporting little beyond the hardiest patches of scrub and weeds. Despite being in a valley that received an abundance of rain and runoff from the surrounding Upstate New York mountains that loomed over it, the soil was worthless for planting. Because the peaks cast dark, hulking shadows, only a small amount of the wan sunlight filtered in. Some hardy souls, as desolate as the landscape itself, huddled close to the foothills to live, but they were few and often anonymous.

The valley had grown a fine crop of headstones, however. The dates of the oldest reached back, had anyone been able to read them, well over a hundred years. The names on the granite markers had been scrubbed clean by wind, hail, and ice. The graveyard was several hundred yards from the Home, but a well-worn path between them had been drawn by a steady procession of feet. It had seen more use than the single lane of asphalt that led from the road to the Home.

Five stories tall, with an attached medical wing, the Home had started its existence as Peak’s Nest Sanitorium, the final stop for many during frequent outbreaks of tuberculosis. It was built to resemble a rambling family house, with large porches and stately columns. Many of its patients made up the farthest corner of the cemetery.

After Peak’s Nest Sanitorium came Calm Valley Asylum. It housed so-called hysterical women who wanted the right to vote or some other feminist rubbish. Their families sent them to the isolated valley to recover from their madness, far from the gaze of the society that weighed more heavily than individual lives. The women’s emotional breaks were mended via electroshock therapy, among other strong-arm treatments that weren’t always survivable. A number of them also took up residence in the cemetery to be forgotten as the years marched past.

Then came the Home for Hill’s Boys, named for the benefactor of the delinquent youths’ institution. The facility was dubbed by the locals as Hill’s Home. That nickname morphed into Hellfire Home when the boys continued the violence they’d been prone to outside the valley. The Home closed three decades later, after a turf war ended the lives of almost a third of its wards, most of whom were interred in the graveyard.

The Home sat empty for a few decades. The once-white boards shed their painted skin in scabrous chunks, and the window panes broke into fangs. It was said to be haunted. Desperate transients took shelter inside its walls, but only for a day or two at a time, unless they died—an occurrence common enough to make it necessary for local law enforcement to take monthly tours of the structure. Otherwise, the building was left to crumble, a forgotten memorial to past miseries.

Its salvation came from an unlikely quarter. In the late twentieth century, the elves who ran much of the country—most of the world, for that matter—no longer insisted on incarceration for those humans who were found guilty of intimately fraternizing with elves. Marriage between the species remained unlawful, and both elvish and human society frowned strenuously upon liaisons of any variety. Yet as the eldest elves, denizens of the Second Generation, died and made room for the next generation on the council, old restrictions died with them.

The last of the Second Ones clung to life decades after his contemporaries passed from this world. He was a being of great magic and power, and a tyrant to his own people. Under his unrelenting control, elves did not acknowledge the half-human, half-elf progeny that came from encounters between species, except under extreme circumstances.

The human side of the U.S. government found itself with a growing problem. It was the human parent’s responsibility to raise any offspring resulting from liaisons with an elf. Halfers were not the first of their kind, as such beings had been born throughout the ages despite the laws. They were, however, the first to survive their childhoods in any number.

While humans endured these hybrids in the wake of the elves’ new stance, they were hardly fond of them. Most of the nation’s unemployed, incarcerated, and homeless were made up of halfers. These creatures lived their lives on the margins, unwanted by any but their closest relatives—and organized crime, which sought out the small minority who had inherited useful magical abilities.

For those who lost their human parents, the statistics were grim. Halfer orphans were rarely adopted. If a family member was not to be found willing to take a parentless halfer in, then that child was sent to an institution. The elves, for all their newfound lenience, were in no hurry to muddy the esteemed bloodlines that were more precious than their stocks and bonds.

When the country needed a place to store its growing population of unfortunates, Hellfire Home came to the attention of a representative of that poorest of districts. He was no fan of halfers, or most children for that matter, but he saw dollar signs and jobs where there were precious few to be had. He and his advisors had no illusions that the old facility itself would be usable, but the land wasn’t worth much. It was as good a place as any to hide elf and mankind’s dirty secrets.

Building inspectors were greeted with a surprise when they came to discuss the destruction of Hellfire Home. Its ruin was only superficial cosmetic ugliness. Though it had not been used or maintained in years, the foundation of the massive structure was solid. The sagging roof had somehow not fallen prey to leakage, and the structure itself was sound. There were repairs to be made, but they would cost far less than building a contemporary facility.

The deal was struck. The Home was readied. Paint, windows, and a new roof were added, the walls repaired, electrical and plumbing updated. It was remodeled to include classrooms and a gymnasium. In less than a year, it welcomed its first orphans.

The building was re-christened yet again, given the pleasant name of Peak Valley Children’s Home. The locals, who caught glimpses of tots with pointed ears, continued to call it Hellfire Home. Its residents were more pragmatic, preferring to call it Halfer Home—or just the Home.

Most were simply children, no different than others, except in their mixed blood and marginalized status. A few—very few—were more. Yet their final fates were as established as their nonmagical roommates. Once they aged out of the Home, they had next to nothing to look forward to.

No matter how many halfers arrived, there was room. They grew up in the Home, they celebrated milestones, they cried bitter tears, they explored its reaches and beyond, and sometimes they died.

That last was of little concern. Like the Home, the graveyard always had space to welcome another resident.

Original Extended Scene: Sleepwalker’s First Trip to Dreamtime 

Sleepwalker’s earliest memories were not of Halfer Home, though he’d been brought before he could crawl. As far as he was concerned, he’d been born in the dreamtime, had spent entire lives there.

Of that early time, he remembered only vague impressions. Warmth on his face. Crying from the sting of the caregiver’s slap when he’d spit out the nasty strained peas she’d tried to feed him. The hurt had followed him into sleep, and when the hazy blue overhead and its golden orb brought him out of the darkness.

He knew he’d started off barely formed, because the Simgez—a race of small, humanoids—told him about it later when he grew old enough to understand. They’d followed the sound of his cries to the bank of a river, discovering the brown lump of flesh. A kind tribe which believed every event to be the workings of invisible gods, they’d accepted him as their responsibility.

“You were ugly,” Mamu informed him one day as she gathered nuts from a tree. “You didn’t know what it was you were supposed to be, so you were shaped strangely. You had holes for ears. Slits for a nose. A great chasm for a mouth. It’s good you grew smarter and changed to look like us.”

Sleep remembered figuring out he wanted to go places, to see things, to run free under the golden orb. He saw how the Simgez did it, on their skinny bowlegs. He wished to have legs such as theirs and they grew for him, little by little. When at last he had them and they were strong enough to hold him up, he propelled himself in all directions. Watching birds overhead, he developed wings and reshaped his body so he too could fly. He went up, up, up until he could go no farther that way.

That was all right. When he couldn’t ascend to the sun itself, he returned to the ground. He erased the legs, wings and arms for a time, imitating the serpents the Simgez caught and cooked over open fires. He enjoyed blades of grass whispering against his belly. He covered himself in scales. Later, he tried on fur and the four legs of the dogs that helped Papu and the other men hunt.

At last, he saw that none of those creatures were as smart as the Simgez. Wishing to be smart too, to be hailed for bringing the village the largest deer or unicorn, Sleep stood tall, bipedal. He was a boy.

Papu and Mamu applauded his growth. He was soon the fastest and strongest of the boys—and the most ruthless. He wished to be important. He wished for all to look up to him as they did old Papu, who led the village. Sleep saw how the others listened and obeyed Papu.

Sometimes, he missed being one of the other creatures, however. He lamented the loss of that creeping life and its simplicity. When he could get away, he went back and played as something lower.

The first stretch of dreamtime, he got as far as ten years. He was encouraged by the Simgez, raised as one of them, taught by them in their ways, in a village where they planted their crops and fished the streams and hunted the forest for sustenance. A simple, yet pleasant life. They laughed a lot and taught him through stories by the communal fires in the middle of the settlement. He became talented at tracking the animals that kept the people fed, and was even trusted to go on long hunts alone before he was waist-high to the men. He appreciated time on his own, because as much as he was accepted, there remained an aura that he was not the same as the rest.

“You will leave us. Maybe soon,” Mamu had told him with sadness many times over the years. “We have not seen the strangers from other places before you, but there are stories. You will come and you will go. It is the way of strangers.” 

She was right, but she’d not been able to warn him of what awaited when he woke in the Home, in the place where his body remained while he lived elsewhere. Once more, he was barely more than an infant. Horrified and confused because his still-developing brain isn’t quite ready to accept what he’d brought back, Sleep began to lose his grasp on sanity. Over the next year, he returned several times to dreamtime, growing more frantic to stay there with each visit. Yet it was not to be. He awoke time and again in the Home, the morning after he’d fallen asleep there no matter how many years he spent in the other place.

Over time, his starts in that dreamtime showed him a little older and in a different place. He discovered the Simgez were not the only race of intelligent beings in his dream existence. Some were more humanlike. Some were elvish. Some were awful. Some were beautiful. Some were vastly more intelligent and looked to science to guide them. Some wielded magic, as Sleep was able with his shape changing.

The periods of dreamtime went on long enough that when Sleepwalker was conscious of his existence in the Home, he detested himself. There, he was on all fours, clumsy and ungainly. His memories of growing tall and strong, of striding through that other place as a youth, weighed on his small, undeveloped body. It was an awful thing to live and then wake up to discover he was to do it all over again in a less hospitable environment.

Little by little, his form matured in the mundane world of elves and men and the unwanted creatures they’d created. The humans into whose care he’d been placed were already fearful of him by the time he understood they had charge of his well-being. His crib had borne traces of his travels when they came to fetch him for his bottles and diaper changes. Mud, grasses, blood-tipped feathers, shreds of parchment with illegible writing clenched in his little fists—there was no explanation for such things, so the nurses in the infirmary made things up so they could sleep at night. Pranksters were sneaking in and placing such items in the silver-haired baby’s grip. Rodents, birds, or the Home cats that were supposed to keep the population of the former two under control had brought them in and dropped them in the crib. Any and all theories, so long as they were rational, were granted full consideration.

By and large, however, they all agreed the white-eyed baby was a creature of nightmares. Even with pudgy cheeks and a dimpled chin, he could never be seen as cute. His gaze was too knowing, his outraged cries too close to forming understandable words. They cared for him to the utmost of their abilities, not out of compassion, but out of fear. More than one had nightmares of him creeping across the floor, coming after them to tear their throats out. A ludicrous idea, one they never admitted to out loud, even when cataclysmically drunk after their shifts ended.

 

Cut Scene: Sleep Stalks Large in Dreamtime

(This scene came immediately after the shower scene, in which Large attacked Enigma

The latest trip to dreamtime hadn’t been Sleep’s usual preferred sojourn. Not that he had anything to complain about; he’d shown up in his seven-year-old body and scored a kind family to live with. His adoptive parents had fretted about his lack of friends as he grew, but they had acknowledged he was mature for his peers. He’d enjoyed an unremarkable and pleasant life.

The area he’d lived in had an eerie feel to it. It was peopled by humans who had never seen the world he’d come from, and they possessed what he thought of as American sensibilities. It was as if his native world had leaked into dreamtime—not just familiar beings and objects, but bits and pieces of similar history. The major difference was that the people in dreamtime didn’t hate him for his elvish characteristics. Common to other locations of his nocturnal realm, they accepted strangers occasionally wandered in.

It wasn’t the first time he’d encountered such a recognizable place. However, the resemblances were too similar for his liking. He came to dreamtime to escape humans and all they represented. To live among them, even in the kinder atmosphere of dreamtime, was rare for him.

He explored his surroundings throughout his childhood and adult years with an obsessive air. “Our explorer,” was his adoptive mother’s affectionate nickname for him. His probing questions about the territory was lauded as intelligence and encouraged. He was showered with books and documentaries to slake his insatiable thirst for knowledge.

He found what he was looking for after his thirtieth year. A professor he’d interviewed, a dusty creature ignored by his students, had been delighted to find someone to share his passion with.

“You’re searching for the Lands of Tableau!” he exclaimed in response to Sleep’s questions. “The frozen histories of the world, known and forgotten. None know the strange magic that has left them there.”

“Tell me about them,” Sleep pressed, pouring him a second glass of brandy.

“Strange places, where a man can walk in the footsteps of his forefathers,” the professor gushed. “Have you ever wished to wander Artuer’s Fortress when he was at the height of his power? It’s there, with his courtiers in the act of asking his favors, with the kitchen help frozen as they roast a pig and bake pies, with young boys posed like statues in the courtyard as they practice swordplay.”

“There are many such places?”

“Uncounted. I myself have seen Lady Rose Cathedral half built, rising proud as the workers labor to place the stones. I visited the moment Lords Villam and Hirol fired their pistols in that tragic duel, breathing their last before each shot hit its mark. The instant the Traveler sailed within sight of the distant shores of—”

“Wars. There are scenes of those too?”

“Of course! The fall of Teroi, with horsed barbarians crashing through the city gates. An early battle of King Piranid against the hordes of the Asnagons. Magnificent, but bloody.”

“I was thinking closer to modern times. Perhaps the First or Second Global War?”

The professor wasn’t impressed with the focus of Sleep’s search, but he divulged the locations of the half dozen sites fitting the timeframe. Sleep thanked him and left him to be overlooked and forgotten again.

The Lands of Tableau were as described. Resembling paintings come to life, Sleep thought of them as life-size dioramas frozen at a singular moment in time. They weren’t fully petrified, however. In the desert battleground Sleep investigated, the tanks stood still, as did their rounds, having been fired and suspended in midair. Yet the wind threw sand around, and small lizards scampered during the coolest portion of the day, when the sun rose and set.

It was the same in many places. Fighter planes hung motionless in a sky as clouds passed them by. A assailing soldier’s mouth locked wide in a soundless scream while birds alighted on his helmet and shat on his shoulders, as they would any statue. His comrades, dying or charging around him, fared no better. During the months Sleep remained in the area, animals came to feed on the bodies daily.

For two years, Sleep investigated the strange frozen world of days gone. He disturbed as little as possible. He saw no one beyond the static people who knew nothing of his presence. He moved in with his tent and camping supplies, watched for a while, then moved on, gathering fresh supplies before locating his next surveillance site.

At last he came upon a beach where bodies scattered like seashells across the sand. The waves washed over those closest to the sea when the tide came in. Sleep wandered among the bullet-riddled corpses for an hour, familiarizing himself with the scene. He disregarded the birds that came to feed on the dead and they ignored him in kind.

He set up camp on a ridge overlooking the beach, listening to the tide washing in and out, inhaling the salt breeze with pleasure. Over the next few days, he wandered the ridge, noting it faded into other locations a quarter of a mile on either side of his base. None of the sites he’d investigated seemed to extend more than a mile in any direction before altering into another setting.

As with other locations, Sleep settled into a routine: when he woke in the morning, usually at dawn, he scrutinized the beach from his encampment. With every morning, the scene was refreshed, offering the seabirds and crabs fresh pickings to feed from. It had been that way for all the sites.

After assuring himself that all was as it should be, Sleep cooked and ate his breakfast, followed by a walk. Upon his return, he’d check the beach again, then read one of the dozen books he’d brought along until lunch. The pattern repeated until dinner, after which he went to sleep.

Five days after his arrival, he woke as usual. The sun was just peering over the horizon, its light spreading across the land. When he stepped to the edge of the ridge and looked upon the sad spectacle of the dead on the beach, he saw a small form dashing across the sand.

Sleep sat down and watched the boy—an actual, living boy—run to a body, crouch, and jostle it a bit. Then he flitted to another to do the same. The child visited corpse after corpse, plucking at each. Though Sleep couldn’t see the boy’s face, he could picture the gleeful expression he wore.

He watched the youth until the sun crawled past the edge of the ocean. With an exultant grin baring his teeth, he fetched his drawstring bag and began filling it with sharp-edged stones.

Cut Scene: Large plotting

(This scene was prior to Enigma's and Demiurge's first meeting)

“Raid accomplished, sir. All crayons broken.” Weasel dumped a box of crushed colors on the floor before Large.

“What is wrong with you? Now you’ve made a mess of our barracks!” Large glared in disbelief at the other boy.

“Sorry. Sorry. I thought you’d want to see some of the casualties.” Weasel and his two hangers-on, Butt and Donkey, scrabbled to pick up the crumbled bits of crayons.

Large sighed. “What did the Arts do when you attacked?”

“Cried.” Donkey beamed at his leader. “Stood and watched while we stomped their stuff.”

“Weasel punched a couple of them for good measure,” Butt added with glee. “He might have broken Whiny’s jaw.”

Weasel blushed and tried to look modest, as if beating up Whiny was an accomplishment.

Still, it achieved the objective. Prism, leader of the Arts, would call for a meeting with Large to talk matters over. Accusations and threats would resolve into concessions made to the good of Regimental. Large had his eye on the hot plate and the toaster the Arts had swiped from the teachers’ lounge during Thanksgiving break. It irritated Large to no end that the Arts had gotten to the lounge first.

“Good job,” he said, feeling parts of the universe were righting themselves once more.

“The new kid saw us,” Donkey said. “Enigma? I hope he’s not a snitch.”

“He’d better not be. I’ll break his jaw too,” Weasel snarled.

“Forget the loser. Make out your wish list for whatever you saw worth taking from the Arts,” Large told his followers. “Christmas is coming a couple weeks early.”

Despite his seeming indifference to their concerns, Large’s good feelings dissipated. Blue-eyed, black-haired Enigma rarely strayed from Sleep’s side. They even showered together like fairy boys since Large had beaten him so badly. Large didn’t dare go after Sleep, but he hoped to get his hands on Enigma again. Maybe he could wrap them around the brat’s skinny neck. Snap it, but not until he’d heard Enigma beg for his life and watched him wet his pants.

Sleep must know how much I want to hurt that suck-up. It’s the only reason he would keep him around—to drive me nuts.

Since the rock-throwing incident, Sleep spared no attention for Large in the Home. In his dreams, however, Sleep appeared often, leering as he popped out in adult form to chase Large until the boy woke screaming.

Large needed to get rid of Sleep. For good. But how, when the hateful creature could hurt him in his nightmares? Perhaps even kill him?

I have to do it on this side. The problem was, the creep read minds and knew when trouble was coming. Then there was all the trouble Large would end up in with the law. They threw halfer kids in prison with the adults for murder.

There was also the fear of what the leader on the third floor would do. If Large killed Sleep for no reason he’d accept…

There had to be a way. If Sleep was keeping Enigma around because he liked him, the newbie could be used against him. Large only had to figure out how.

Cut Scene: Mother and Beast discuss Our Boy

(This came after the scene in which Beast and Mother tend the cemetery) 

Their first post-cemetery task was to change Our Boy. After that, Mother set him on Beast’s bed, where they cooed and made faces at their little friend. He rewarded them with a crooked smile and slurpy laughter. More laughter ensued when they tickled the flippers where legs and feet should have been.

“The air outdoors did him good. Look at the color in his cheeks.”

“He enjoys going with us. Especially when I get close enough for him to pull my hair out. Isn’t that right? Isn’t that right?” Beast tickled Our Boy until he squealed.

“We should take him with us to the cafeteria tonight. I’ll hold him in my lap while you feed him.”

“You’ll wear more of his dinner than he’ll eat.”

“Do you think he misses us when we’re not around?” Mother asked. “The way any kid would miss older siblings, I mean.”

“Who knows what happens in this guy’s head? I love that he acts as if we’re the best thing ever when we show up after we’ve been gone.”

“You’re not curious if he thinks as we do? He’s smart enough to pull you into dreamtime when he goes. Or is it because he can’t imagine going anywhere without you?” The envy in Mother’s tone was palpable.

“Maybe. Again—I’m not in his head. Sleep can’t navigate the images he picks up from Our Boy either. Most of what he visualizes is as skewed as his face.”

“He acts with intelligence on the other side, right? He responds to you, obeys your directions, reacts to his surroundings—”

“Like a pup. Instinct and training. That’s what I see over there.”

“Oh.” Mother considered Our Boy with a note of sadness. “I wish he had more.”

“He’s happy. He’s better off than we are.”

“How can you say that?”

“He doesn’t know what he’s missing out on. He’s content with what he has. He’s not aware people recoil because of his appearance.”

“Have you thought about what’ll happen to him when our eighteenths roll around?”

Beast frowned. As a mishmash orphan, Our Boy would be a ward of the state for his entire life. Beast and Mother would be turned out in a few years, leaving him behind. Since halfers rarely scored well-paying jobs and decent housing, neither would be in any position to become Our Boy’s legal guardian. They’d be lucky to keep themselves fed in human society, never mind a mishmash who needed constant supervision.

Our Boy wouldn’t have the comfort of dreamtime once his eighteenth arrived. He’d be herded to some other institution, far from the Home. Beast had visions of him abandoned in a crib, forgotten except for feedings and diaper changes. Despised, should any of his whatsits appear and die in his eager, clutching pincers. The thought of Our Boy living with no joy and no one to care made Beast’s stomach clench.

“I’m not leaving him alone here,” he told Mother.

“You can’t take him with you.”

“Can’t I?” He stared hard into the other’s eyes.

Understanding lit Mother’s face. “Oh.” He was quiet for a few seconds, bouncing Our Boy on his knee to the little guy’s delight. “I suppose that would be best.”

“Are you sure?” Mother was protective of Our Boy. Beast approved, but Mother’s protection could be dangerous. Beast intended to live his full eighteen years.

“Aren’t you certain? Can you see any other way?” Mother’s tone was bitter.

“Not at all. Except—”

“What?”

“Sometimes I think about living wild in the woods somewhere. I wonder if I could make it work for him.”

Mother considered. “I could get a tent. Keep him while you roam. You could hunt for us. Getting clothes and diapers though—it would be tough.”

“We have a while yet. We’ll talk about it more, try to figure it out.”

Cut Scene: Large confronts Sleep

(This happens just before Beautiful's arrival)

“Is this blackmail?”

Sleep’s tone was mild. He kept his expression calm, though Enigma would have spied the truth beneath his surface tranquility.

Large was no Enigma. He was nothing, though his jaw jutted outward, giving him a bulldoggish aspect. His gaze held Sleep’s, as if he had every right to confront the Home leader as he sat on the railing of the back porch.

Despite the seeming assertiveness, Large shifted from foot to foot. His hands couldn’t figure out where they wanted to be: now tugging at the beltloops of his pressed jeans, now smoothing over the freshly laundered sweatshirt, now plucking at his cuffs. Had he been deaf to Large’s thoughts, Sleep would have nonetheless spotted the other boy’s nervousness.

Deepening his voice, Large repeated his demand. “It’s a warning. Leave me alone in my dreams or I expose you to everyone. Including the press.”

A little squalled on the playground, having fallen from his swing. A younger child, a real child, who’d never gone over. Sooner or later, Sage would take care of that.

Still a babe, the little sat on the dirt and cried. The others in the yard ignored him. His wails tapered to whimpers and sniffles.

With the tot quieting, Sleep addressed his adversary. “The admins are aware I can pick up their thoughts, but they’d bite off their own tongues before backing your story to outsiders. They have the sense to fear me.”

“That could be, but you’d be picked up by the mafia in an instant if they had any suspicion of what you are. Or the elves. Those bastards still kill certain types of mimics.”

“You have sources among the elves?” Sleep all but laughed in Large’s face.

“You know they hate halfers with magic. No matter how the elves are changing their tune toward us, they won’t allow a mindreader to live. You’re too dangerous.”

“A fact you apparently have forgotten.” Silvery glints from Large’s chest won Sleep’s regard. “That collection of dog tags is growing again. Where are you getting them when I’m not around to guard the dead from your predations?”

The other youth paled. He set his jaw again. “I told you, leave me alone. Stop chasing me, or there’ll be hell to pay.”

“But we have so much fun over there.”

“You torture me for pleasure, you sadist. It’s going to stop, though, unless you prefer I rat out the rest of your society and their secrets.”

“What secrets would those be?” Sleep pretended interest, though he’d picked the entire desperate plot from Large’s mind.

“It would be a shame if your pet dog was shot next time he goes running around the valley. Or if anyone knew where the nightmares come from when the pretty boy gets upset. Or the crazy freak who only we see. Then there’s your buddy Enigma, with a power so similar to yours, he’d be under the same death sentence—”

“Instead of telling me what you could do, remind me why I shouldn’t kill you next time you close your eyes.”

Large’s face drained of all color. He blustered past the wash of terror, earning what was available of Sleep’s respect. “I put it in writing. All of it.”

“Then you hid it in Head Dull’s desk after he left for the day.” Sleep offered him a slow clap of congratulations.

“As I will every day. Being his junior assistant means I have access to his office—and you don’t. Even Enigma can’t get past the alarm on that door.” Gaining momentum, Large drew himself up tall and stopped rocking from foot to foot. “If anything happens to me while I’m asleep, that note will be found. Your secrets will be revealed. The human authorities or the elves will come for you.”

“A disturbing outcome.” Sleep sighed theatrically.

“Stop invading my dreams, and I’ll keep quiet. Every morning, when I disarm the security system, I’ll tuck the letter in my pocket so Head Dull doesn’t find out. It goes back in the desk every night, for my protection.”

Sleep pursed his lips and pretended to consider. Large began to fidget again, caught himself doing it, and stopped.

His desperation, fed by nonstop flight and sleepless nights, was so acute that Sleep fancied it had a flavor. An almost overwhelming sweetness verging on the kind of tart that puckered the mouth. The Home’s leader drank it in, relishing the tang of Large’s terror.

Meanwhile, Large wound tighter and tighter, a rope twisted so taut, it threatened to break. Sleep was tempted to let the silence spin out, to discover if his prey would indeed snap. How messy would it be when he tore apart?

Sleep wasn’t ready to let that happen, not yet. Not when his prey provided the delight he did. With a shrug, he said, “All right, Large. We have a deal.”

“We do?” The relief, muddy and cloying, replaced the zest of fear. A surge of triumph, less appetizing still. “I mean, smart move, Sleep. I’m glad you could see it my way.”

Puffed up, he left Sleep sitting on the rail. He darned near strutted into the Home. Sleep waited until the back door banged shut behind Large before allowing an outburst of chuckles to break through.

(In the scene in which Enigma and Sage sneak into  Head's office to steal Beautiful's file, they also claim and destroy Large's 'evidence' against them.)

Altered Scene - To Do's Introduction

(In the original version, To Do reflects on his stays with the various societies,)

To Do’s stay in Regimental was coming to the end. He had maybe a week, no more than two, before Large kicked him to the curb. He was no mindreader or empath, but after being shoved out of other societies, he’d figured out the warning signs.

Where would he go? There was only one society he hadn’t been shuffled off to, and he had no hope of survival there.

Regimental. Brains. Jocks. Arts. Elites. If he counted his stint in Psych—and most would—he’d run through six of the Home’s seven societies in just under a couple of years. The future looked grim. Large was growing furious with To Do’s tics.

To Do stood in his usual corner of the gymnasium, where the upperclassmen of the Home had Phys Ed together. Not that there was a real class in progress, not since that lunatic Sage had scared off Coach Seven two weeks before. Pelting the poor teacher with a barrage of golf balls had finished the guy, who’d run shrieking straight to his car and never returned.

To Do had wondered where the goateed Mimic had found so many golf balls. When he asked, no one would answer him. Instead, they’d gaped at him with undisguised horror. An Elite had even crossed himself, as if To Do had spoken the name of a demon.

Creature Teacher, the biology instructor, was stuck chaperoning them for the hour. He sat in a metal folding chair reading the newspaper, picking his nose and ignoring the boys.

Left to himself as usual, To Do squatted on the floor, leaned against the concrete wall, and wondered what would happen when Large demanded he leave.

Knowing the Regimental leader, To Do’s first order of business would be a stay in the infirmary. What came after that was the question. No doubt, Head Dull would assign him a berth, but nobody wanted To Do around. He couldn’t blame them.

He’d hoped to make Regimental last until his eighteenth, when he could escape the Home and its demented societies. He’d done his damnedest to stay under the radar. Regimental had seemed custom made for someone who relied heavily on schedules and routine. Large ran a tight ship, along with his charges’ lives. Every minute of the day was planned for the group’s members. Surprises were not tolerated. Had To Do been allowed to pick his society when they’d let him out of Psych, he would have chosen Regimental without thinking twice.

He glanced morosely at the Brains, sitting against the wall opposite from his, scratching pencils in composition books and consulting with each other. That society had been his first, and it had nearly driven him back into Psych. Endless games of hangman, tic-tac-toe, dots and boxes, and too many more to be conceived were the obsession of the Brains. They sat up all night to play, choosing to sleep during class. It had screwed horribly with To Do’s need for structure and meaningful productivity. He’d lasted all of a month and a half with the Brains before their leader Bass had told him to leave or have a pencil shoved through his eye socket.

The Jocks were no better. Like any reasonable thinking person, To Do had expected to find athletes of all stripes among a society named as it was. Being an avid soccer player, he’d hoped for likeminded athletes among his new dorm mates. However, the Jocks preferred to play darts and pool, lift weights, and bet on games. No team sports, though the society had a propensity for stealing the gym’s athletic equipment. They enjoyed swiping basketballs that could be thrown from their third-floor window to bounce among the rocks outside. They were a surly group, given to loitering and muttering near the lounge door until their assigned hour to watch the ancient television. They gambled on whatever they could find on ESPN, including the types of commercials that would air. The Jocks had been as bad a fit for To Do as the Brains. Worse, since they hadn’t merely threatened bodily harm but carried it out.

The same scenario repeated twice more. Members of the Arts didn’t share his interest in photography—only in scribbling with their crayons in an endless supply of coloring books or cutting random shapes from paper—and often cutting themselves as well. They used the blood as fingerpaint to decorate the dorm walls.

To Do had witnessed only one boy drawing original work. Nail Biter had created pictures of monsters eating people on two occasions. They’d been summarily ripped up and burned with great ceremony by the Arts’ leader, Prism. “We do not remember that place,” he admonished in his emotionless drone after the first infraction. When To Do asked what place they weren’t to remember, the Arts had fixed him with mindless stares. He didn’t ask again.

The second occasion Nail Biter had drawn his hellish depiction had been his last. That night, he’d died. “Stopped breathing in his sleep,” the doctor told Head Dull after a quick examination. “Probably a genetic abnormality. That’s what I’ll record it as.”

To Do had been uncomfortable with the rushed diagnosis. More uncomfortable had been the image his mind conjured: a pillow pressed over Nail Biter’s face, the rest of the Arts holding him down as Prism suffocated him. It had been a relief when Prism had told To Do to leave the dorm a few days later.

With the Elites, To Do’s bad table manners, forgetfulness when it came to saying please and thank you, and hatred for ironing his clothes (including underwear) would have spelled doom, if his rages hadn’t done so first.

Now his time was ticking down in Regimental, and he still had a year to go before he could leave the Home.

To Do looked at his dorm mates and former dorm mates, fighting to keep his gaze from moving to the sole society he’d not been forced into. The Mimics lounged on the bleachers just to the right of his position. It had been a dumb place for him to hunker down, so close to them. It begged for trouble, and he was in plenty of that already.

When his resistance crumbled, threatening to send him into overload, To Do bowed his head and shook his hair forward. He peered through the strands, holding his breath.

His gaze was drawn like a magnet to Beautiful. Merely glancing at the Mimic was dangerous. Fortunately, Beautiful’s attention was riveted on Sage, who was searching through the infinite supply of pockets in his ever-present trench coat.

Awarded the chance to stare without getting an eye punched shut—thankfully he’d endured only a single such interaction with Beautiful—To Do took full advantage of the rare opportunity. He admired the photogenic shaggy black hair, through which pointed ears poked. The inky tresses framed chiseled features, formed with the perfect mix of grace and strength. Even Beautiful’s five o’clock shadow, which never varied no matter what time it was, was just the right amount of scruffiness.

To Do bit off a sigh, afraid of being heard. The object of his scrutiny surpassed elven perfection. The mere sight of the vicious creature hurt the heart.

“Where is it?” Sage’s cry broke into his contemplation. The gym went silent at the aggrieved wail. Creature Teacher, oblivious to the change in the atmosphere, rustled his newspaper and shifted his chair.

To Do forgot Beautiful. Sage, whose pointed goatee and wild aura made him resemble a satyr more than an elf, was a disheveled mess. His clothes beneath the trench were stained, the mass of reddish-blond braids that crowned his head were in desperate need of re-plaiting, and his bright green eyes were more hectic than usual.

To Do shrank into himself, as most of those present did. Only Sage’s fellow Mimics reacted mildly, if at all. Beautiful watched his companion with interest, no doubt hoping mayhem was at hand.

“I can’t find my yo-yo!” Sage shouted, his face flushing bright red.

Oh no. Please no. To Do shrank harder against the wall.

Creature Teacher joined the abrupt exodus of Arts, Brains, and Elites, his expression panicked and confused as he shouted, “What’s going on?” Not waiting for an answer, he shoved past the nervous Jocks, leaving the slower students to fend for themselves.

“Where is my yo-yo?” Sage bellowed, spittle flying. “I want it found now!”

A stampede. The Jocks were hightailing it out too. Only the Regimentals remained in place, partly because Sage was between them and the door—and partly because he was glaring in their direction.

Though To Do fought it, the sensation of a breeze passing through him couldn’t be denied. Through his tear-blurred gaze, he watched a yellowish-green yo-yo, the kind that glowed in the dark, roll from around the side of the bleachers straight to Sage. It bumped against the enraged halfer’s tattered sneaker.

“Oh, here it is.” Sage bent and picked it up. He grinned at To Do and winked as he walked the dog. “Thanks, finder.”

Shit.

Large stampeded straight to To Do, powerful in his rage now that Sage no longer searched for a victim. There was a crash of thunder and lightning that left To Do splayed and gasping. His ears rang a constant, high-pitched peal.

Having delivered his judgment via a storm of punches and kicks, Large stomped off. “I knew it! He’s one of them! Well, that’s it, that’s it, that’s enough! Get out of my society, freak!”

To Do had no reply. He was too busy admiring the shooting stars that flashed beneath the steel beams and corrugated metal of the gym’s ceiling. It was better than focusing on the pain splitting his skull.

A hand clutched his. It pulled him to his feet and steadied him while To Do remembered how to stand up straight. He looked up to thank his supporter and fell into the twin black holes of Beautiful’s eyes. The air left his lungs. A fatal eternity passed before he was able to jerk his gaze away.

A low, deep chuckle. A pat on the back. Then lurching steps as Beautiful limped away, leaving To Do somehow alive.

Unsteady, To Do turned to the concrete wall and pressed his temple against its cool surface as he listened to the gymnasium empty. When he was sure he was alone, he knuckled the tears from his cheeks and finger-combed his hair forward to hide the swelling. Though he no longer had a dorm to call home, he didn’t want to spend the night in the infirmary. The doctors and nurses were worse than any society.

He trudged to the second floor, keeping his head down, his gaze on his sneakers. He traveled toward the dorm he’d been deposed from to gather his belongings. He halted when he stepped on a math book with his dub written on the tattered cover.

To Do looked around. All he owned—two dufflebags’ worth of schoolbooks, Home-provided clothing, and the bags themselves—was strewn outside Regimental’s closed door. Everything except the picture he kept on the stand next to his bed and his whiteboard with its carefully arranged schedule.

His chest tightened. His fists clenched.

He stumbled to the dorm’s door and grasped the knob. Locked. They’d locked him out and his schedule in, his schedule which kept him in control, which offered the little sense left to his life. Along with the picture. He had to have them both.

Rage swept through him, birthed by a helplessness so profound it had to be destroyed. In an instant, fury eclipsed any hope of restraint. He let it take him, swirling and howling in its red-tinged wrath. It burst through him, blasting hard enough that he felt his guts would go with it.

Cut Scene: Mother's Dreamtime

In the original version was an entire scene about what Mother did in dreamtime. As in the Home, he was a giver. As much as I loved seeing his activities on the other side, it had little bearing on the plot, so out it went. 

Mother’s Dreamtime

Mother wandered the dirty alleyways of the city, taking in his surroundings while trying not to be obvious he did so. People with few scruples might be among the dingy buildings and squalor, though it was the middle of the day. It was that sort of neighborhood. Many were sleeping off last night’s drunk, as the open windows of the tenement building asserted by leveling its inhabitants’ snores at the world outside. Others were abroad, making deals with eyes peeled for cops and informants. Or any fool who smelled of victimhood who could be shaken down.

Mother thought this area, labeled Prosperity on the maps and named Purgatory by the locals, could have been a neighborhood in an American city during the early 1900s. Dirt streets for the most part. Filthy children in tattered clothes. Brazen rats nosing through stacks of refuse. The forlorn shuffled in their rags, picking through other people’s garbage for better rags. Prosperity’s five-mile stretch boasted a few sparkling gems of architecture, but most of the buildings were grimy boxes between which lines of laundry strung like dingy necklaces. Horses and carts bumped along the main thoroughfare. On rare occasions, a buzzing contraption that was the dreamtime city’s version of a car trundled through, hurrying between the more affluent neighborhoods of Pleasant Hill and Lake Front.

Dreamtime had prettier places boasting wide open fields and gorgeous vistas, shining mansions and even the occasional unicorn, bays and inlets where frolicsome mermaids might grant a young man strange pleasures—or drag him into the deep to drown him. Mother had visited many fantastical locations, but he was drawn to the skid rows of the cities. He spent lives where dreams stumbled, cracked their skulls against the crumbling brick tenements, and died.

Keeping his gaze firmly on the littered walkway before his worn shoes, he hurried to the neighborhood’s sole oasis of hope: Prosperity Kitchen and Shelter. The closer he got, the more often he was hailed by those who recognized him. He’d been on this particular jaunt in dreamtime for five years, and he’d become a familiar fixture.

As if his arrival summoned them, the empty street abruptly thronged with toothless men. The strength of their body odor betrayed how long it had been since they’d dragged themselves into the shelter for a shower and a night on a cot rather than in an alley. Straggle-haired crones, their sad faces etched old before thirty, stretched skeletal hands in his direction. Gaunt children, snot bubbling festively at their nostrils, offered broken toys for him to fix. Mother paused to greet each person and remind them care was available in the shelter. He allowed the littlest denizens to tug on his pointed ears as he reset toy car springs, attached broken parts using the roll of tape in his pocket, and joined decapitated dolls’ heads to their bodies.

With the rabble sated, he entered the shelter. The Kitchen was marginally less seedy on the outside than the tenements surrounding it. The interior was clean, if spare in its furnishings. A few derelicts sat at the long, cafeteria-style tables, sleeping their way toward the dinner hour since the dorms were off limits until sundown. The man who ran the Kitchen had rules against people loitering between meals, but he had a soft spot bigger than the rotund belly that preceded him wherever he went. When some unfortunate dragged in, too exhausted to do any more than slog through the chow line and slurp a few mouthfuls before folding his arms on a table and giving in to the kinder world of slumber, it was overlooked. Times in Purgatory were rough.

Mother went into the prep area of the Kitchen and found a clean apron. Minutes later, he was brewing coffee and putting together a simple but nutritious casserole.

“Hiya, Angel.” The manager greeted him with Purgatory’s dub for Mother.

“How’s it going?”

“Same old, same old. Caught a break on some packaged cookies. I know, I know,” he chuckled at the face Mother made. “Came out cheaper than you making them from scratch, though they won’t taste half as good.”

No doubt the cookies had “fallen” out of the back of a cart, courtesy of a light-fingered squeak hoping to score a nickel. “You have to take the bargains where you can.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” He turned to bark at the dishwasher. “Hey Scrub, ain’t you finished cleaning those serving trays yet? Gonna need ‘em pretty quick.”

Lunch was served on schedule. Dinner came a few hours afterward. At both meals, the regulars complained about the cookies, making Mother feel good.

“You spoil them,” the manager sighed. He couldn’t complain, though. Mother spoiled him too.

The halfer headed home as the sky darkened. He arrived at the apartment with the stained walls as Marjorie was stomping out, his rucksack in her hand. She hadn’t bothered to shut it, and his few clothes and toiletries were spilling out.

“What’s up?” he asked, as if he couldn’t tell.

“You were supposed to take today off. Spend some time with me, for a change. But no, you went to serve lunch and dinner to the riffraff.”

“Mucky was down with the flu. He couldn’t help out today.” Mother gazed at Margorie with sadness. He hated it when relationships didn’t work out. Once again, he’d failed.

“You’ve worked twelve days straight. Twelve!” She burst into tears, her face red with fury.

He considered patting her shoulder or taking her into his arms. He was afraid she’d leave him with bloody stubs. She had an incredible temper. “I’m sorry. You’re important too. It’s just—there are so many. They need me.”

“Yeah, well I need you too. You’re never here for me. Maybe if I was jobless, filthy, and starving, you’d care.” She drew up, knuckling the tears away. “Go. I deserve better than this. You’re a good man, but you stink as a boyfriend.”

“I’m sorry.” He meant it, but it was too late. They were done.

He considered the situation for a few minutes on the sidewalk in front of the apartment building, his rucksack zipped up and no longer bleeding his belongings all over the place. The Kitchen would give him a bed until he figured things out. He’d be near the dozens of derelicts and unfortunates who gazed at him with gratitude. He could be on hand for breakfast service in the morning. It would be the smart move.

Instead, he walked in the opposite direction, toward a nicer part of the city known as the Gardens. The apartments were mostly middle class. The streets weren’t full of garbage and were lit at night.

He went in a white building, apartments with an actual lobby rather than a bare walkup. He climbed the stairs to the third floor and knocked on a door.

It was impossible to tell which of the twins answered. In his head, Mother referred to them as Sister One and Sister Two. Sweet ladies, brunettes who worked as nurses at the nearby hospital. He’d met them a few times when he’d visited Kitchen regulars who’d been beaten by gangs or run down by horses. The siblings had often entreated him to stay with them, though he’d been frank about his relationship with Marjorie.

“We were raised to share,” Sister Two had smirked. “Wasn’t your Marjorie?”

Despite the appealing vision, Mother had never brought it up to his girlfriend. She was very much the hoarder, wanting him all to herself.

He offered his most winning smile as he came face-to-face with a vision of loveliness. Sister One or Two, whoever she was, squealed to find him there. “Angel! What a surprise! Come in.”

He followed her into a clean and cared-for apartment, where the other sister hurried up to kiss his cheek in greeting. He hugged her, reveling in her softness. “I wished to thank you for caring for the poor wretches I feed who end up in your ward. And to say goodbye. I’m moving on, unfortunately.”

Cries of “No!” rang out, pleas that they’d barely gotten to know such a wonderful man, and why would he go?

He explained he’d lost his home, that maybe he should start new somewhere else, take stock of the errors of his life. He was eloquent in his admission of inadequacies, that Marjorie had been right to toss him out, neglectful lout that he was.

The twins wouldn’t hear of it. Drawers and a section of closet space were cleared for his use. His toiletries joined theirs in the small but tidy bathroom. He was encouraged to leave the Kitchen behind in favor of an orderly’s job at the hospital. There, he’d care for hundreds of the sick, rather than dozens of the destitute. The sisters were adamant they would put in a good word for him.

The next morning, having allowed himself to be convinced to stay for a little while, Mother prepared breakfast for the ladies before shooing them off to their shift. Basking in their smiles and adoration, he promised himself he’d try harder to ensure the success of his new relationship. Surely he could manage it until he woke again in Halfer Home.

Extended Scene: Christmas

This scene was truly too long in its original form. It's missing the gift from To Do's uncle, but there's a whole massive gift exchange between the Mimics that was cut because...who cares? If you do, enjoy reading.

Christmas

Eight months until departure

To Do lay in his tent, reading his history textbook, which was at forty years out of date. It didn’t matter. It helped distract him from the grief that crept up on soft kitten paws to knead sharp claws into his heart.

Mother and Beast whispered to each other over Our Boy’s bed. They were like an old married couple with a child to fret over, To Do thought. Forever worrying over their mishmash. It was sweet, but with old hurts springing to fresh life, it left him more despondent.

He was startled when Mother’s shadow loomed over his tent. “To Do, could you come out? I realize it’s a couple minutes early, but I have something to ask you.”

To Do glanced at his schedule. He frowned at what Mother had written was to take place in five minutes.

Christmas Crafts and Shopping?

He was too bewildered to be thrown by the premature summons for the project. He put his book aside and scrambled out to face Mother and Beast.

Mother smiled encouragingly at him, and To Do’s confusion settled. The other boy’s ability to calm was forever a welcome influence. The panicked anger that came with interruption made no appearance.

To Do returned the smile, pretending the moodier Beast wasn’t lurking behind his pal. “Hey. What’s this about crafts? And shopping?”

“Christmas is a couple of days away. We trade gifts in this dorm.”

“Oh.” To Do scratched behind his ear. Last Christmas, he’d been with the Elites. They’d not exchanged presents, only contributed a dollar each for some teabags and cheap cookies as a kind of celebration. To Do had suffered a breakdown at the pathetic excuse for holiday cheer, running out of the Home in hysterics. He’d raced down the road that led out of the valley. It had taken five counselors to catch him, sedate him, and drag him back for a couple of weeks in Psych.

Good tidings to all.

“Nothing outrageous or expensive,” Mother said. “Just little tokens to commemorate the occasion. For example, last year Beautiful gave me some stones painted with funny faces. He got the idea from hearing about a fad. Apparently, people once kept pet rocks.”

“That’s better than Sage’s presents,” Beast sighed. “Last year, he broke into the pantry and gave us canned goods. I didn’t know fruit cocktail came in cans that big.”

“Better than the green beans he gave me,” Mother snorted.

To Do tried to wrap his head around the bizarre gifts. “Why the pantry? He steals better stuff from the snack bar all the time.”

“He wanted to give us something we hadn’t gotten before. ‘Extraordinary and unique and distinctive, gifts we wouldn’t receive from anyone else.’” Mother’s uncanny imitation of Sage’s breathless excitement made To Do snicker.

“If you’re good with crafts, I can help you collect materials such as branches, leaves, rocks, anything natural,” Beast offered. “Even fur scraps.”

To Do didn’t want to think of where Beast’s fur scraps might come from. He concentrated on the kindness of his roommate’s charity.

“There’s plenty of fabric from old torn clothes if you sew. Or if you’re artistically inclined, drawings. A nicely presented poem has served me well in the past,” Mother encouraged.

Seven roommates. Seven presents. Two days. To Do was overwhelmed. Why had they waited so late to inform him of this tradition?

A wave of peace went through him. Mother put a hand on his shoulder. “There’s the commissary if you prefer to buy.”

To Do thought of the candy bars available through the commissary. Those would be nice, but he only had two dollars and some change. Not enough to cover seven people.

“Even something as cheap as pencils or erasers or packs of gum would be appreciated.” Tranquility continued to flow from Mother, keeping To Do from an explosion.

“A gesture, that’s all. It’s the thought that counts,” Beast agreed. “Don’t lose your mind over this, okay? It’s not supposed to be a big deal.”

“We just wanted to be sure you weren’t left out,” Mother said. “You’d be upset if everyone gave you gifts and you had nothing for them in return.”

“Unless it’s canned goods nobody wants to eat in the first place.” Beast pulled a face that was ludicrous for his usual grave demeanor. To Do managed a tiny chuckle.

He sobered quickly. “What in the world do you give Sleep?”

Mother and Beast found his question hilarious for some reason. “Let’s figure out what you can manage,” Mother encouraged him, pulling him to his bed where they could sit and brainstorm.

* * * *

Christmas dawned as awful as the last. To Do arrived in the cafeteria with the rest of the Mimics for powdered eggs, a choice of bacon (burnt or undercooked), toast (burnt only), coffee and milk. The sole bright spot was grocery store powdered sugar donuts, one per boy.

Drudge arrived dressed in a raggedy old Santa Claus suit, pulling a wagon full of small wrapped gifts, which he handed out. It was the same as the years before: the littles received candy canes, dollar coupons for the commissary and snack bar, coloring books that would somehow find their way into the Arts dorm before the week was out, crayons (also soon to migrate), and plastic dinosaurs from the discount store. The older boys received an allotment of candy canes, two-dollar commissary and snack bar coupons, middle-grade chapter books, socks, and puzzle books. Afterward, they were sent out with falsely cheerful cries from the admins: “Happy Holidays!” “Merry Christmas!”

Had the roof fallen in on them in that moment, To Do would have welcomed it. From the looks of the other boys, littles and older kids alike, they would have been fine with that too.

It can be arranged. He ceased his grim contemplation when Sleep shot him a look.

There was some fun to be had. As soon as they returned to their dorm, Beast poured over the books with excitement. “What did we score? Oh, I’ve read these two. Not this one, though. Or this. Two out of eight not seen before. That’s great!”

“We pool the books and make them the dorm’s community property. That way, Beast can read them all without begging to borrow,” Enigma whispered to To Do. “You’re a big reader too, right?”

Beast must have overheard him. “Take first pick, To Do. What’s your pleasure?”

To Do hadn’t read any of the collection yet, so he chose one that Beast had claimed to have already read, a fantasy tale with a black-armored knight fending off a dragon. “Is this good?”

“Kind of fairytale-ish for my tastes. But not bad.”

To Do tucked it in his tent, wishing he could crawl in and start reading. But Mother had written in his schedule that they’d have a decent snack to make up for the crappy breakfast. After that, they’d retire to the basement movie room to watch a pile of Christmas DVDs until the next disappointing meal.

To Do was astounded at what constituted a “decent snack”. He gaped as Mother laid out platters of baked goods and fresh fruit far better than what the cafeteria ever boasted. “Where did you get this?”

Mother grinned and darted a look at Sage, who gave To Do an innocent look that meant he was guilty as sin.

To Do was aware of Sage’s ability to instantly access any area he wished simply by walking through a random doorway. It had never occurred to him that Sage might go somewhere beyond the Home’s property. Yet such treats, their boxes bearing the name of a well-known grocery store chain, had not come from the pantry or commissary. 

To Do’s anguish over another Christmas without his family eased. He joined in with the others in grabbing for the food. Mother made hot chocolate on the hotplate too, the real thing with milk.

It was too much enjoyment to last. To Do ducked his head so no one would notice him fighting tears over the indulgence. He wanted to be grateful, and he tried his best, but remembering how those beyond the valley took for granted things such as coffee cake and turnovers and muffins and fruit not on the verge of rotting—

“To Do, you make me glad I never lived outside the Home,” Sleep snarled. “To be so spoiled that you can’t appreciate something nice when it comes along is pathetic.”

Beautiful jostled To Do’s arm as he reached for a blueberry turnover. An accident. Maybe. However, Sleep’s cruelty was no accident. It never was. To Do raised his gaze to the other halfer’s.

“Fuck you,” he whispered, staring straight into Sleep’s eyes.

The group froze. Sage’s mouth opened. Enigma, pale as snow, kicked him in warning. The moment spun out.

At last, Sleep drew a breath and closed his eyes. Opened them again. The tension between his brows eased. “If you knew how loud you are in my skull, you’d not fault me for losing patience. No matter how many barriers I put up, your grief crashes through. It robs me of the joy of moments like this.”

“Yeah, well I got robbed too. I’m dealing with it as best I can. I’m sorry that my efforts to pretend I’m an unfeeling robot aren’t up to your abilities.”

To Do sneered, baiting Sleep. Practically begging him for a reason to lash out. Rage was part and parcel of the chaotic power building within him. His rational mind screamed deep within, looking for an escape before he broke apart and laid waste to everything.

“I don’t expect you to be emotionless. It’s just I can’t escape the constant battering of your upheavals when you’re around. The differences in our pasts leave me ill-suited to cope.”

“We all have our struggles. It’s best if we don’t downplay the losses we’ve each endured just because they have no resemblance to what we know.” Enigma was ever the consummate diplomat.

“You’re right, of course.” Sleep gazed at To Do with an expression that wasn’t friendly, but it wasn’t antagonistic either. “You’ve been cheated, as have we all. I won’t discount that again. Okay?”

It was a pinprick of a gesture, but To Do realized it was probably as much as Sleep could muster. More importantly, it eased the pressure in his head. It allowed the desperate waves of peace emitting from Mother to wash through him.

“I’m trying not to project. It’s a tidal wave when it hits, though. Certain days are particularly hard.” To Do swallowed. Certain days were more than hard. They were impossible.

“I get that. Believe me, since meeting you, I get it.”

The others chuckled, softly. All eyes were on To Do. He nodded and managed a hint of a smile. The storm blew over.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. The usual lineup of movies played until a lunch as disappointing as breakfast was served. None of the Mimics minded the poor fare. They had gorged on the goodies Sage had snagged.

The afternoon had the option of more movies, but To Do went to his tent instead to read. Mother and Beast went out to the cemetery to lay arrangements on the graves. Beautiful talked Sage into going down to the game room for a few games of pool. To Do had no idea where Sleep and Enigma took themselves off to. Our Boy alternated between looking through his new picture book, making and destroying whatsits, and napping.

Dinner was late, but To Do made a point of not letting his issues overwhelm him—and irritate Sleep. He sat close to Mother to take full advantage of the boy’s calming influence. He needed it when Beautiful sat on his other side.

“Make sure you don’t eat much. You won’t believe what Sage brings for our real celebration, after lights out,” Beautiful whispered.

To Do peeked at Sage’s beaming face at the other end of the table. Since Beautiful had spoken to him first, he dared to reply. “The good stuff, I hope. I heard about the canned food from last year.”

Beautiful snickered. “You should have been here when he handed out women’s underwear.”

“He did not.”

Beautiful was giggling in a decidedly non-Beautiful manner. “It wasn’t even sexy underwear. I stuck the white cotton bikinis he gave me on his head and threatened his life if he took them off until the next day. He gave Sleep a fuschia nylon horror big enough to replace your tent.”

To Do covered his mouth to keep from braying laughter. He almost looked at Beautiful but managed not to.

When he’d recovered, he decided to push his luck. “Why doesn’t he bring in decent grub more often?”

“We’d eventually be caught with stuff from beyond the valley, then Sleep or Enigma would have to jump through hoops to fix it. That kind of power is what we don’t want Head Dull or the rest figuring out. It could make life difficult.”

He had a point. The small powers, such as finding lost belongings, weren’t a big deal. But someone who could leave the Home at will and show up wherever he wanted? The humans would lose their minds. New laws or not, the elves would come after Sage.

You have to be careful, his mother’s voice whispered.

The food at the late celebration was every bit as astounding as Beautiful had promised. With their door closed and flashlights offering lighting, To Do stared in wonder at the feast laid out on blankets in the middle of the floor.

“How?” He couldn’t keep from asking Sage.

“Oh, a little here, a little there, whatever I could sneak in and grab.” He beamed. “Happy holidays.”

When Mother shoved a plate in To Do’s hands, he gripped it hard. Enigma guided him into the line that snaked around the many offerings and pushed him forward.

Several to-go bags and boxes from various fast food chains held burgers, fries, fried chicken, overly breaded fish, and more. Overwhelming amounts of lo mein, chow mein, egg rolls, rice, sweet-and-sour chicken, sesame chicken, General Tso’s chicken, wings. Deli platters of sliced ham, turkey, salami, cheeses. Bags upon bags of every snack chip To Do had ever heard of and a few he hadn’t. Plastic trays of cookies, the kind offered in grocery store bakeries. Cupcakes. Cakes. Pies. Candy bars. Pudding cups.

“Won’t need your rotgut tonight either,” Sage told Beast, indicating the rows of beer and wine bottles on a shelf. “They should be cold. I grabbed them out of the refrigerated section.”

“Good. The latest batch of pruno is still fermenting, thanks to the cold snap.”

To Do loaded his plate and looked wistfully at the dishes he had no room for. Enigma patted his shoulder. “We won’t run out. There’s plenty for second—and third—helpings.”

“That’s right,” Sage agreed. His plate contained nothing but buffalo wings, a mountain of them. “If you do miss out, I can grab more. Especially if it’s from a grocery store. I wish we had more than a hot plate to cook with. I could do some real damage then.”

“You’ve done a great job,” Sleep told him. “This is better than last year’s spread. It’s been ages since you scored Chinese.”

“There was a big order sitting on the counter when I walked in. The staff was busy in the back, and I didn’t set off the little bell on the door. Won’t they be grumpy when they have to cook all that again!”

The Mimics ate. And ate. And drank. As they did, they talked about eating and drinking.

“Ugh, what’s this healthy grilled chicken crap? Has anyone noticed how many chicken dishes we have? Oh, fully loaded cheeseburger. Score.”

“Is this from the same fried chicken place as before? It tastes better. Note it, Sage.”

“Noted. Mother, did you have to sit Our Boy next to me?”

“He’s not bothering your mountain of wings. He’s got his pudding cups.”

“But he’s naked.”

“Well, duh. He’ll end up covered in pudding. Easier to hose him down than wash his clothes.”

“I fetch decent meals for birthdays too,” Sage told To Do. “Cake and the honored’s favorite food, if I know where to find it.”

“Cool. I’m dying for pizza.”

“Consider it done.”

They were gluttonous and reveled in it. To Do refused to think of other Christmases, those before the Home. He forced himself to appreciate this treat. When memories tried to surface, he shoved them down.

They ate until they were groaning. With the exception of the cookies, chocolate, and pudding cups, which could be hidden, and the beer and wine, which the Mimics were determined to drink, Mother and Sage packed the remainder of the feast in their containers. Despite the boys shoveling food down their throats, there was quite a bit left over. To Do was sorry to see it go.

Laden with boxes and bags, Sage walked through the door and disappeared.

“Where does he take it?” To Do had a vision of Sage emerging in a dumpster and returning with a banana peel and assorted refuse on his ginger head.

“He knows a place where homeless halfers congregate. They’re seldom welcome in shelters or soup kitchens. That’s why he brings so much in, so he can share.” Enigma sipped his third beer with an air of contentment.

When Sage returned, ruddy cheeked from the cold, he clapped his hands together. “Presents!”

The Mimics scattered to their beds and nightstands, gathering their offerings to each other. To Do cradled the items he’d made for his dorm mates, sure he was about to be flayed alive for the stupid, last-minute things they were. Even a massive can of green beans had to be better.

However, Sage crowed with delight when he glimpsed the colorful triangles in To Do’s hands. “No way! Those are the shit, my boy! Do we pick, or did you make them specific to each of us?”

“They’re labeled with your names and the year.” His face burned, but To Do took his place in the circle where they’d gathered. “Yours is red and green, for your hair and eyes.”

He held out the yarn-wrapped cardboard triangle, an approximation of a Christmas tree, with a looped bit of yarn on the top so it could be hung as an ornament. Tiny blue-painted stones glued at intervals were the tree’s ornaments.

To Do hurried to hand out the rest before he lost his nerve. To his relief, pleased grins greeted his offerings. White and silver for Sleep, red and dark blue for Enigma, yellow and green for Beast, two shades of blue for Beautiful, silver and blue for Mother. The fraying sweater he’d taken the yarn from had offered enough of a variety so none were the same.

A lollipop he’d bought for Our Boy with his limited funds finished his gifting. He ducked his head, basking in the appreciative comments. Even Sleep expressed more gratitude than politeness demanded. The Home’s leader located a piece of cord, strung the ornament on it, and wore it as a necklace for the remainder of the night.

Relieved at the reception, To Do was able to enjoy the party. He found pleasure in the exchange, not comparing the gifts to the expensive presents of another life.

Everyone gave Our Boy a can of soda or a treat from the commissary, with Mother taking custody of the items to parcel out to the mishmash over the next several days. Sleep handed out exotic-looking shells, many of which To Do had never seen during forays on beaches. His was a purplish conchlike shell, a lovely decoration for his bedside table.

Enigma’s gift to To Do was fascinating. Rusted, worn bolts had been glued to a small board, with carefully painted names and numbers beneath them. 2-8-4 Berkshire, 2-6-2 Prairie, 4-4-2 Atlantic, and others.

“From old steam locomotives,” Enigma explained. “I have a fascination with them.”

“That’s an understatement,” Sleep said.

“What do the numbers mean?” To Do traced them with his finger.

For once, Enigma appreciated being asked questions. “It has to do with the wheels on the locomotive. You have pilot wheels, driving wheels, and trailing wheels. The names that follow them are their class. I can show you pictures sometime, if you’re interested.”

“I am. Thanks, Enigma.”

“My gifts are boring. I wasn’t feeling it,” Beautiful sighed. He passed around tins of mints and packages of gum, no doubt bought or stolen from the commissary.

“It’s the thought that counts,” Sleep, Enigma, Sage, Beast, and Mother chorused. Laughter followed the proclamation that had apparently been spoken many times over the years, along with thanks for the presents.

Beast had carved small animals from bits of wood he’d gathered. The curled, sleeping cat he gave To Do was half the size of his palm and astonishing for its detail. “That’s an amazing talent you have,” To Do enthused.

“Took a long time to develop it. Ages.”

“You must have started young then.” Beast was only sixteen.

“No, I actually—” He stopped when Sleep cleared his throat and Mother nudged him. “Sorry. My brain went on a trip. Yeah, I started really young.”

Mother reached for the pile of what appeared to be bedding behind him. He tossed a pillow to To Do. “There. Happy holidays.”

“Thanks.” To Do grinned at the pillow, which had been pieced together from worn, ripped tee-shirts Mother had collected and meticulously cleaned. “Another artist. Hey, my shirt from the Seven Goats concert is part of this! I was so bummed out when it ripped down the back.”

“It’s found new life. Enjoy.” Mother handed out more pillows and wrapped Our Boy in the quilt he’d sewn for his favorite Mimic.

Sleep crooked a brow at Sage. “All right. Let’s have it. What odd delights have you brought us?”

“Ah, I see the doubt in your eyes. The confusion over what constitutes an appropriate gift is over. I’ve figured out the exchange of mementos and am ready to embark upon successful presentations.”

“Oh boy.” Beast closed his eyes and waited for what was to come.

“Deep breaths,” Mother whispered while Beautiful snickered.

“No, these are all the rage! There were tons to choose from in the grocery store where some of our feast came from. If you don’t like what you receive, trade it with someone else. No offense taken.” With that, Sage handed out magazines to each of them, beaming a one-thousand-watt smile.

“Fabulous at Any Age,” Beast murmured, staring at the middle-aged woman staring proudly from the cover of his magazine. “Thanks, Sage. There’s an article that will tell me all I need to know about mastering menopause.”

“Guns and Guts,” Enigma read from a soldier of fortune periodical, the camouflage-wearing model grimacing fiercely and gripping an automatic weapon big enough to splatter an elephant.

“Swap with me, Mother.” Beautiful waved a copy of Baby Talk.

“I don’t know that I want to. Dream Teen has a quiz where I can find out if I’m pop star Malcolm Morton’s true love.”

To Do gazed at the Twisted but True cover, depicting a drawing of an elf with horns and a pitchfork and blaring “The Real Origins of the Elves! Satan’s Minions and Their Power Over Your Life!”

“What did you get, Sleep?” Beast snickered.

Their leader held up his magazine. Computers and Technology. “Perfect for the halfer who sends electronics to their graves at a distance of three feet,” he remarked drily.

“Good, huh? I scored this time.” Sage’s satyr face glowed with accomplishment.

His fellow Mimics exchanged looks. Then, as one, they recited, “It’s the thought that counts.”

Extended Chapter With Cut Scene

The appearance of the Door was a great deal longer in the first few drafts. Many details of the remaining scenes were cut, and an entire scene that revealed Mother's second, stronger ability was taken out. Here is the original version of Part 2, Chapter 8:

Five and a half months until departure

The full moon poured in through the window, sending a spotlight into the dorm. All was quiet but for the soft snores of the others. Yet Sage had bolted awake to find the silvery beam blasting the room with too much light. More brilliance than the dratted morose sun spilled into the valley.

Sage scooted so he was propped against the iron rails of his headboard. A most uncomfortable spot. His pillow was not thick enough to keep the spindles from digging into his back. He sat there just the same and considered the beam, streaming from the huge beacon hanging in the Stygian sky. How was it that the moon was tiny at times, and at others, it was so large as to seem within reach? Surely it was atmospheric, but science held no interest for Sage. He found it limiting.

Magic was more fun. Freer, with no boundaries if one knew what he was doing. While Sage couldn’t lay claim to full understanding of supernatural powers, not even his own, he had enough of a grasp to marvel at magic’s unlimited breadth.

He glanced at the sleepers sharing the room with him, sentimental over their powers. Beast, the great, shaggy boy who could become great, shaggy creatures. Funny he was abed on the night of a full moon. Well, if one believed in werewolves and that sort, anyway. Werecreatures existed, but they were different beings than Beast, who remained himself no matter the skin he wore. The real deal lived in a separate realm. Beast would be as alien to them as to Alpha Centauri.

Our Boy snuffled in his crib, and Sage smiled with affection. Such an uncomplicated lad, maker and destroyer of whatsits. A treasure who asked little of those around him, save a dry diaper and the occasional braid to pull. In Sage’s opinion, the Seventh and Eighth realms would be happier with more Our Boys roaming about.

Mother was a huddled lump beneath his covers. Another tender soul. He was the family man, never missing a chance in dreamtime to find a woman to love, to make babies with her, and to dote on his grandchildren when he was allowed to stay on the other side long enough to enjoy them. Sage had come to the sad conclusion that endless lifetimes would not begin to fill the hole in Mother’s wounded heart, but he couldn’t help but hope for his friend.

Beautiful curled in his bed, his long hair splashed over his face. No doubt he was still gorgeous under those snarled tresses. Sage adored Beautiful. Admired him, as much for that surface splendor as for the unpredictable bedlam that waited to burst forth.

Sleep slept. Dreamtime was forever open to the Mimics’ leader. Was he there now? Or did he slumber for real, his telepathic mind receiving the nocturnal images of his fellows, weaving their fancies into his own? It would be nice to think so. As well as fascinating. The youth was a world unto himself, as alien to his own kind as Beast was to real werecreatures.

Next to Sleep was his sole link to reality, the only person who could ground their leader to mundane concerns of the Eighth realm. Enigma slept with arms and legs flung wide, his black hair spreading wings upon his pillow. Enigma would have been a better leader of the Home, had he possessed the ambition. Yet he was content to follow Sleep, to act as a buffer and translator, to play along with his leader’s rules—except when he didn’t. The youth had grown more and more contrary since his seventeenth, no doubt feeling the world outside the Home encroaching.

Finally, in the bed next to Sage’s, hidden under his low tent, To Do. Poor, wretched, amazing To Do, blessed and cursed in equal measures. An unexpected creature whose potential couldn’t be guessed at.

Unfortunate bastard.

He couldn’t contemplate To Do. The youth drove Sage crazy with frustration, hope, and despair. Half the time he wanted to push the other boy into the insanity he teetered at the edge of. Often, Sage wished he could set him free and see what he made of himself. Then there were days he wanted to drag To Do up to the Home’s roof and pitch him to his death.

Sage allowed himself the whisper of a sigh. The night wasn’t getting any earlier, and the moon called, reminding him to put the next element in place.

First, chalk.

He flipped back the sheet and scratchy blanket and swung his bare legs so that his feet landed on the wooden floorboards. He scratched the pelt on his chest with pride. Beast had the thicker beard and chiseled pecs, but Sage had the hairier chest. No matter how cold the nights became, he slept shirtless to show off.

Sage’s beloved trench coat hung from a hook next to the bed. He searched the many pockets, wondering where he stashed the chalk, stolen from math class. First, he dug into the ones he was almost positive he might have stuck it in. Then he poked about through the pockets that were second most logical. When that failed to turn up the prize, he glanced wistfully at To Do’s silent tent. The finder only had to hear an item was missing, and it would show up in his vicinity. Such a beneficial talent—when he was awake to use it. When Sage wasn’t doing something in secret.

Sage hated performing tasks meticulously. He was a by-the-seat-of-the-pants kind of guy. Yet with over a hundred pockets of various sizes, most of which would accommodate a slender half-length of chalk, diligence was called for. He pulled in a steadying breath and began his quest in earnest.

Ten minutes later, he found it in a pocket he’d checked during the initial pass. How unpleasant. How uncalled for that it had hidden itself from him. Typically, Sage would have vented his rage by ripping off the pocket. Or breaking the chalk in tiny pieces. Or both.

Instead, he returned his attention to the moon. It hung, a searchlight beacon, spotlighting the wall as it had when he’d woken. Surely it should have moved up farther, more toward the ceiling. But no, it had frozen, centered between the door to the hall and Beast’s bed. Waiting for him.

Sage executed a deep, respectful bow to the orb, both for its tolerance and for shining better than that selfish sun.

He tiptoed to the wall where it glared. It was so bright that Sage had a difficult time discerning the lines he drew, though the white chalk should have been easily seen on the gray wall. He grew concerned about the shape. Who would have ever guessed how rough the wall’s surface was? The chalk bumped uncertainly over it as he drew a vertical line from the baseboard up over his head—past Beast’s height, he hoped—and moved it to the right on a horizontal path.

How wide? Sage squinted to see where the first line was, and finally made it out. Again, Beast was his projected model, being the broadest in the shoulders. Sage sketched the door one-and-a-half Beasts wide, just to be sure, before drawing a second vertical line down to the baseboard.

A plain, unadorned rectangle. It would have been nice to have drawn it prettier. It deserved to be decorative, something that announced grandeur. However, Sage knew himself to be no artist, even if the moon hadn’t gone all out in its blinding excitement. Fancy would have to excuse itself in this matter. Functional ruled the roost tonight.

Even a plain, functional door needed a knob. Sage considered which edge he should put it on—left or right? How high? As it was his door to open, he’d suit himself.

He bent to peer at where the knob should go, having lost his view of the rectangle’s edge. It wouldn’t do to draw the knob on the outside of the door’s outline. He tossed a glance over his shoulder and waved his hand, as if to tell the moon to turn itself down a bit so he could see. Instead, she beamed proudly on, delighted with her vast illumination.

Shaking his head at such conceit, Sage inspected the wall until he found the chalk line he searched for. With a flourish, he drew a circle to serve as his doorknob.

It was done. It was his turn to beam, grinning at the moon as he did so, glowing in her light.

He followed up the drawing by eating the chalk so it wouldn’t show up at an inopportune time or place. It crumbled into powder and gritted between his teeth. The taste was not to his liking, and he ended up rushing to the bathroom to drink from the sink faucet to wash it down.

He was halted by the sight of white vapor curling from his nostrils—he was breathing out the chalk powder. Delighted with the effect, he put up with the flavor and dryness on his tongue until the mist stopped. Only then did he turn on the faucet and rinse out his mouth.

With the chalk gone, Sage crept back to the dorm. Two minutes later, he was asleep, a pleased smile stamped on his lips.

Sage wasn’t so pleased when he woke to daylight and saw how his door had turned out. The chalk outline was shaky, at best. His vertical lines tilted inward. The top left corner was at least five inches lower than the top right. And the doorknob? Not so much a circle as a teardrop shape. A pathetic drawing, which saddened him.

If his artwork was embarrassing, at least the reaction from his roomies lifted his spirits. Eyelids peeled apart and gazes riveted on the door, as if drawn by a magnet. The boys sat up. They stood. They approached and paused in a half circle before the chalk door. Sage joined them.

“Where did it come from?” Beautiful’s hushed voice registered awe.

“Drawn by a hand attached to a warped mind,” Enigma said, his tone dark. Sage could barely restrain a gleeful smile or the urge to hug him.

“What I want to know is, where is it supposed to go?” Beast asked. Mother nodded agreement.

“Away.” Sage announced. He regarded it with as much astonishment and concern as the rest—the mood was catching.

“Away.” Sleep reached forward, as if to touch. An inch from doing so, he pulled back. “That looks like chalk, and it’ll smear.”

To Do clutched at Mother’s sweatshirt sleeve. “Is the dreaming world on the other side?”

“For some,” Sage said, and regretted speaking. He mustn’t give the secret away, not yet.

“Will it open?” Enigma stared at the teardrop knob, his fingers twitching.

“When it’s ready.” Had Sleep taken the thought out of Sage’s mind? If so, he didn’t glance his way. His white eyes remained trained on the chalk door, his tongue snaking out to wet his lips. His expression could only be described as lustful.

“Soon,” Enigma prodded. His gaze was one of desperation. “It’s got to be soon.”

* * * *

Classes were a nightmare that day. No one wanted to go. They wanted to sit and stare at the door. Even To Do ignored his whiteboard and tent in favor of sitting on Sage’s bed to watch it, as if it would suddenly swing wide on nonexistent hinges. Mother brewed no coffee, but he did manage to change the chirruping Our Boy’s diaper.

It took Drudge barreling in to get them moving. “What are you guys doing? Breakfast is half over, you’ve got class in fifteen minutes, and you’re not even dressed. Jeez, Beast, put some pants on. And a shirt. You look ready to star in a porno.”

Sage, almost as nude as Beast, jumped up and performed his version of a sexy grind. “Bomp-chicka-wow-wow,” he shouted, thrusting his hips in Drudge’s direction. The Mimics blinked as they remembered the real world moving along without them.

“All of you, get moving. Now!” Drudge stormed out.

“No time for a shower,” Enigma muttered, his gaze again arrested by the chalk door.

“Too bad. I need to wash the image of Sage’s dance out of my head.” Sleep also stared at the door as he dressed.

The group trooped out slowly, watching the chalk door until they couldn’t see it any longer.

Disruption was the theme of the day, resulting in each Mimic being thrown out of class, one by one. To Do, off his routine, was the first to lose control. Bookie had no sooner called for the boys to solve the equations he’d written on the blackboard when To Do shrieked and began beating his fists on his desk. His notebook went flying, as did the notebooks of those who sat near him. Bookie dived behind his desk and shouted for Beast and Mother to take their dorm mate away. The teacher refused to creep out until To Do’s yells receded upstairs on the second floor.

Beast and Mother returned halfway through language arts, just in time to witness Beautiful threaten Elite society’s Enough. Their teacher Blabber took more umbrage at the profanity Beautiful spewed than his threats to gouge out Enough’s eyes, though the warning was detailed with graphic imagery of blood and gore. Sage was impressed with the gorgeous verbiage of Beautiful’s intimidation and applauded it. Blabber wasn’t forced to toss Beautiful from school. The menace stormed out on his own.

Enigma stunned everyone by being the third to blow his stack. He’d turned to Sleep to mutter something in the middle of World History. At the teacher’s reprimand, Enigma told him to shut up and mind his own damned business, which was apparently putting his students to sleep. Seconds later, he left.

Beast shoved a Jock’s face in his food at lunch. An expressionless Sleep gave the class the finger and walked out of science. Mother drew penises in art.

Sage had never enjoyed school so much. He wrapped things up by tripping everyone in the gym until Creature Teacher bolted, thus dismissing the students for the day.

Having contributed his part, Sage raced upstairs to sit on his bed with To Do. With the rest, they stared at the crude but exciting chalk door. When the dinner bell rang, they drew lots to see who would fetch food for the dorm. Beast and Beautiful lost and raced down to terrorize the cafeteria staff until they slopped that night’s horror—hamburger steak, garlic potatoes, and peas—into Styrofoam containers and screamed at them to go. Drudge and other counselors yelled until they were pelted into submission with a fusillade of hard, burned rolls. Beast and Beautiful ran back to the dorm. The Mimics had a picnic at the foot of the chalk door.

It didn’t open that day. Or the next. Or the next.

The excitement waned. Longing, venerating gazes continued, but the youths realized wishing wasn’t going to reward them any time soon. Discussions about where the Door would lead became fewer. They settled into waiting and hoping and wondering if they could do anything to open it.

Word of the Door spread throughout the second floor. The halfers of other societies peeked in the Mimics dorm and gaped with the same hope and desperation as their magical peers. A palpable fear rose among them. Sleep told his society the dull boys worried they would be left behind when access to what was beyond was granted.

The hint of disdain in his expression disappeared when Sage said, “Of course the rest can come along. They simply have to survive long enough to see the Door open.”

* * * *

Mother knelt on hands and knees, scrubbing a foaming tide across the dorm floor. Soapy water, the brush in his red-chapped hands spewing fibers in its wake, the ache of his back, the throbbing lip Scary had punched—this was the world he’d retreated into.

Erase the stain of my sins, O hallowed Home.

It could not. He had to face his guilt. His judges. He was good at that. But what price would his sentence exact?

The dorm was empty. He wasn’t supposed to be in there, not with the bodies still warm, not with the cops rambling about, satisfying curiosity about the untouchables more than searching for clues. It didn’t matter. There was penance to be done, his society to care for.

A potato chip bag lay under Enigma’s bed. How had he missed it? Mother fetched it and at last granted himself the pleasure of straightening and stretching his back. The cool breeze from the nearby window ruffled his chameleon hair, cooling his overwarm brow. Carrying the sound of murmuring voices from outside. Notes of excitement, consternation. Accusation?

Of course not. Only two people had the ability to figure out what had happened. They wouldn’t appreciate him adding suspicious reactions to the mix, leading to questions.

He couldn’t fall apart. He’d messed up. He would bear his transgressions and the resulting execution with stoic bravery.

Mother flipped the chip bag toward the wastebasket he kept close for such discoveries. Gripping the brush again, he sent another current of soapy water ahead of him. He scrubbed harder than before.

The arrival of four sneaker-clad feet, just beyond the sudsy border, came sooner than he expected. Mother wasn’t sure why he was surprised. Sleep couldn’t make doorways work for him the way Sage did, but he had his methods of getting where he wanted to go without anyone noticing. He’d brought Enigma along.

“Stand up, Mother.”

Sighing, he did so. Hunched from the pain of washing the floor, he still towered over the pair. Yet he felt small. Under the glare of white and sapphire eyes, Mother felt very small indeed.

“We talked about this.” Enigma was stormy with anger.

“I know. I was upset, and it slipped out of my control.”

Sleep’s demeanor was more frightening for the chill. “You risk exposing us. Three Regimentals, all committing suicide in spectacular fashion in separate places. Now the police are sticking their noses in our business, looking around, asking questions. Head Dull has been glaring at me all morning.”

Mother hung his head. “Four Regimentals. Dog must have hidden before doing it.”

“Shit.” Enigma paced the floor, darting furious glances at Sleep. “This could get the attention of the elves.”

“Why did you do it?” Sleep stared at Mother with a narrowed gaze. “All this over bullying? Or was it that they invaded our dorm?”

“Of course not.” Though he was in the wrong, Mother bristled that Sleep could think so little of him. Twenty Regimentals could have jumped him, and he’d not have retaliated without his leader’s leave.

“I’m going to look.”

Mother nodded and concentrated on the disintegrating bubbles on the floor while Sleep rifled through his head. He imagined what he found there: Mother hurrying into the dorm for his math notebook, having forgotten it when he’d left for class. Surprising the knot of Regimentals in front of the Door. Dog, Scary, Lovie and Itch, skipping school to rub the chalk off with a dirty cloth.

Sleep scowled and turned from Mother. He appeared to stroll, but he made it to the Door before Mother drew a full breath. Enigma took three times as many steps and twice as long to join him.

“It’s intact,” Sleep said. “No more awkward than before.”

“They were trying to destroy it?” Enigma’s threat had diminished. “Large must have ordered it.”

“Why did he send them?” Mother dared to ask, though common sense told him he shouldn’t draw attention to himself. “What does erasing the door get him?”

“It’s not what it gets him. It’s what deprives us. The idiot has nothing beyond jealousy to motivate him. It’s his raison d’ete.” Sleep shook his head. “I can understand you losing control in this case. But Mother—”

“I know,” he interrupted, sensing forgiveness might be on the horizon. “I’ll be more careful. I promise. Tell me what I can do to help.”

“What you do best, of course. Keep everyone calm. Soothe the atmosphere. They’ll understand it’s no big deal, just juvenile halfer freaks who would have someday aged out and committed crimes against humanity. A suicide pact is regrettable, but not so bad in the overall scheme of things.”

Enigma added, “Maye it won’t make the papers. Chill these bozos enough, and the elves will never catch wind of it.”

“The death squads were supposedly dismantled,” Mother reminded him.

“Supposedly is the operative word. I don’t believe for a second that they’d forgive halfers possessing certain powers. Especially the kinds that kill. Keep it under wraps, Mother. We’d hate to lose you.”

Mother accepted his warning, happy to be off the hook. Happier they didn’t think he’d blown the lid off, sending instant death swooping down on them. Though the North American elves had a new leader who was making noises about accepting their half-human progeny as valid members of their tribes, no one believed they’d changed their ways.

“Get to work, Mother. We’re counting on you.” Sleep patted him on the shoulder.

All was well again. He was still welcome, still needed. He returned to scrubbing after they left. As he labored, he drew hard on his ability, sending out a flood of serenity.

It washed down the hall, down the stairs, enveloping everyone in its path. Mutters of potential foul play dwindled before the soft urgings of Mother’s peaceful tidal wave, turning to suspicions of a bizarre cult compact. The eventual discovery of Dog’s vomit-covered body in the basement, the stench mingling with the bleach he’d somehow managed to chug, was greeted with little more than shakes of the officers’ heads.

Mother pumped out tranquility all day, especially when he was near the authorities or administration. Despite the circumstances, an almost Zenlike peace held sway over the Home. Lunch was served outside on the porch and wherever else the orphans could find a spot to sit and eat. It was a quiet affair, not out of any great sorrow for the loss of four youths, but from the abiding calm that enveloped the residents. Large found space from the usual rage that made his brain a crackling oven to feel regret over what had happened to disposable members of Regimental. He offered a gentle remembrance of the fallen, finding at least one nice thing to say about each. Even the Mimics quietly applauded his eulogy, basking in the goodwill of Mother’s power. When the bodies were carried out nestled in black bags, borne like fallen heroes on silver gurneys, the halfers stood with mute respect.

The police were touched by the display. The investigator in charge decided it would be best for these poor, isolated children if the events were kept as quiet as possible. The reporter from the nearby town’s paper was admonished to leave the boys to mourn in peace. “A pathetic and tragic cry for attention. Don’t give the others a reason to follow in the victims’ footsteps,” the investigator appealed. “Be kind. Leave them to work through this with those who care for them.”

The reporter agreed. The affair was barely mentioned in the local news.

Days later, new graves appeared in the cemetery. The Home’s residents listened to a short prayer for each, were reminded of the names the dead had been given at birth, and trooped back to the Home afterward. There were no reporters in attendance. The police did not return with follow-up questions.

Mother had cured the crisis he’d caused. He vowed he would set off no further drama.

“Not without my counsel, at any rate,” Enigma said. “Or Sleep’s. There could be an occasion, when the reward outweighs the risk.”

* * * *

“Sacrifice.” Sage rolled the word around on his tongue, enjoying how it tasted. The feel of it. He licked his lips. “Human sacrifice.”

That was even better, if inaccurate. It got their attention, aimed their gazes in his direction.

“Good use for humans,” Beast snorted.

“Have you ever noticed how much they love the idea of human sacrifice? All the stories? The legends and myths that speak of how their gods demand they spill each other’s blood?” Sage gestured to the pictures taped over Beautiful’s bed. “Agamemnon and Iphigenia. Abraham and Isaac. All those wacky Aztecs.”

“Virgins and erupting volcanos. A busty chick and King Kong.” Beast laughed.

Beautiful waved him quiet. “Yeah, so what about it? Why did they do it?”

Delighted that someone had asked, Sage dove in. “To appease an irate deity. Or to gain his favor. To make stuff happen, my man.”

“Did it work?”

“Often enough that some cultures kept on doing it for a long while.”

“They accepted coincidence as the will of the gods.” Sleep swiveled his legs off his bed and began to put his shoes on.

“Sure they did. If you sacrifice people every few months to make sure the crops grow or keep the volcano quiet, and the crops grow and the volcano doesn’t toss lava at you, then it’s done what it’s supposed to. Human sacrifice is a valid system in that scenario.”

“Why do you start these weird conversations?” Mother groused.

“Because we listen and participate,” Enigma chuckled. “Is there a point to this, Sage?”

“Sacrifice happens because it must.”

Sleep’s eyes were chips of ice. “It happens because someone thinks it must. If situations are left alone, they’ll work themselves out. No worthless acts required.”

Some guys refused to see what was in front of their faces. “Why does the Home do what it does, Sleep? When did it start doing those things? What do you think will open the Door in the end?”

Sleep snarled, his usual calm cracking before their eyes. He exited the dorm.

“That’s our Sage, chasing off everyone he meets,” Beast snickered. He buried his nose in his encyclopedia. In his quest to read the entire set of ancient volumes, he was up to B.

Meanwhile, Enigma stared at the empty doorway Sleep had rushed through. After a second’s hesitation, he disappeared too.

“Sacrifice,” Beautiful mused. “Human sacrifice. Why is that so important?”

“In many cases, mystics thought the power of blood, life’s elixir, was so potent that it held a power of its own. The blood of an innocent was the most effective.”

“An innocent?”

“Sure, say a child or a virgin—are you listening, To Do?” Sage blew kisses toward the motionless tent.

“Leave him alone,” Mother warned. “He’s studying so he can retake that geometry test tomorrow. It’s on his schedule.”

Sage scowled. He offered illumination, and everyone rebuffed him. Even Beautiful, who’d seemed fascinated for all of two minutes, had risen and wandered out of the dorm.

Maybe he spoke to deaf ears, but he had to speak. “The most important sacrifice is that of self-sacrifice.”

Not nearly as fun to say. In fact, Sage gagged slightly to spew such drivel. He drew a deep breath and continued.

“Self-sacrifice. An ideal that pertains to saints and doting moms. Mother, you are the picture of it, taking care of us no matter how little you feel like doing so. Though I doubt you’d throw yourself in front of a speeding bus to save me.”

“Most definitely not. If you’re stupid enough to stand in the road, you deserve what you get.”

“That’s fair. But there are heroes who go beyond brewing coffee, sweeping floors, and killing those who pick on Our Boy. Who lay down their lives for the benefit of others.”

To Do’s tent twitched. With Mother’s back to Sage as he organized his coffee supplies and Beast hiding behind his tome, the ginger-haired orator directed his comments to that gray swath of cotton.

“It is often those who have borne the greatest hurt who take on the mantle of savior. Who martyr themselves so that others may go on. Who toss themselves on the altar to receive the death blow.”

Sage realized he might have laid it on too thick. Damn his mouth, always taking off ahead of his brain. Who wanted to contemplate self-sacrifice when he made it sound so damned awful?

“They are the true heroes. Those we remember forever and thank daily. Life would not be what it is without such selfless people.”

“What about when they fail?”

The thin voice beneath the gray sheet was so wispy, it could barely be heard. Sage slithered off his bed to sit on the floor next to it. “Then it was not their sacrifice to make, my darling. They have been put aside for another great deed instead.”

No answer. Sage’s fingers crept to the edge of the tent, gripping it. The urge to slip inside with To Do, to encroach on his den as Sage so often did, was overwhelming.

Mother chose that moment to come over. He flicked his hands at Sage, as if chasing off a cat. “No, you don’t. Go away. Go!”

Sage hissed and scurried to his own bed, where he glowered at Mother. The other youth glared back until Sage left the dorm in a huff.

No one appreciated good advice anymore.

* * * *

Enigma caught up with Sleep on the back porch. The Mimics’ leader sat on one of the rickety wooden chairs. His face pointed toward the playground, where the littles ran about, shoving each other. However, Enigma doubted Sleep saw them.

The screen door slammed shut behind Enigma. For the few seconds that it had taken him to barrel down the stairs, he’d been in a furious rush to demand answers. Now it occurred to him that ignorance had its perks. It allowed him to keep the few friends he possessed.

Sleep spoke without looking at him. “I did it.”

Turn around. Go inside. Don’t ask for clarification. Pretend you don’t understand what he’s talking about.

Enigma almost obeyed that inner voice. But it was too late.

With feet heavy, as if they’d been encased in lead, he trudged to the railing in front of Sleep. He sat on it, facing the young man who’d been like a brother to him. “Why?”

“You know why. Damn that Sage. He just had to run his stupid mouth.”

Enigma’s lips had gone numb. It took several tries to get the words out. “I want to hear it from you. Tell me why.”

“The answer is all around you. Halfer Home was Demiurge’s gift to us. While he was alive, he made it a haven for mimics. He gave us access to dreamtime.”

“How did killing him make it any better?”

Sleep snarled at him, as he had Sage. “It didn’t. I have no idea why he insisted I take part in it, except he had some stupid notion that blood sacrifice would somehow give us permanent entrance.”

The old grief, which Enigma thought he’d left in the past, welled up as if Demiurge had just died. The world wavered as he fought for breath.

When he was somewhat stabilized, he found Sleep gazing at him with emotions he’d rarely seen on the leader’s face—misery. Fear.

He thinks he’ll lose me over this.

It was possible. He wouldn’t have been more horrified if Sleep showed him the bloodstained razor blade he’d used on Demiurge’s wrists.

“He had access to more magic than the rest of us. I didn’t have a choice, not if there was a chance he was right. He planned to kill himself anyway.” Sleep met his gaze as he spoke, sincerity rolling off him.

Enigma ducked his head. He refused to allow loyalty to muddle his thoughts. “I need time to absorb this.”

“I know. He meant a lot to you.”

“So do you. That’s what’s screwing with me.” Enigma stood. Still not looking at Sleep, he asked the question that he least wanted the answer to. “Did you enjoy doing it?”

After a long pause, Sleep replied, “I regret it. I hope you believe that.”

Enigma left, walking the path to the graveyard.