Feet stepped close, bringing Leif to full wakefulness. While not asleep per se, his watchful doze was of uncomfortable proximity to it. He listened, and could tell why the protective ring drew closer; the sound of a large vehicle was audible, and growing closer.

The sky was past twilight, but a touch shy of true night. His eyes were fully adjusted to the dark, which was why he shut them, turning away from the glare of headlights that swung into the driveway.

Leif eased to one knee, his Lee-Enfield aimed downward, but poised. In a heartbeat it could be raised to his shoulder, less than that for the safety to be removed. After a moment's thought, he switched the safety off. It was better to avoid making even small noises if possible, even if the large vehicle was grumbling enough to hide the presence of an entire mechanized infantry division.

The sound of tensing cables creaked behind him. He held up a hand in the universal wait gesture.

Aredhel lowered her bow, carbon fiber arrow easing forwards. One long ear flicked in his direction, then back to the truck.

Lowering himself to the ground, Leif sought the deepest cover, near the thick grass behind the bush screen. Any further forwards and he'd be in the clear section under the bushes themselves where the taller grass couldn't disguise his wiry build. But he could still see, if he was clever.

Functional brakes groaned to a stop, letting an oversized pickup shudder to a halt. Chains swung under the hitch in sullen arcs, linking an equally oversized cattle trailer that bounced to a halt. For a cattle trailer, it seemed lightly burdened to Leif's eye. Average shipments when maximizing carry count needed extra space to slow, and swung wide in any turn. A single cow could weigh near a thousand pounds, depending on the breed, making a full load weigh upwards of twenty-five tons.

If Leif's estimate was right, this trailer barely held a quarter capacity.

Lights switched off, leaving the yard in darkness. Over the throbbing rumble of the pickup's diesel engine, more crunching gravel could be heard, without the visual accompaniment.

Leif's hands tensed as he saw the same old sedan show up, followed by the quieter purr of the Chevy Avalanche. The sedan's muffler still needed work, and the Avalanche looked just as useless as before. Each pulled forwards, the Avalanche without lights, letting the sedan illuminate the path for the both of them, forming a triangle with the truck.

The Avalanche's door clicked open, well-maintained hinges gliding apart. From the low angle, worn shoes and jeans could be seen, stepping free.

"Here we are!" the upbeat female voice greeted. "Looks like we're ready."

A raspy voice responded. "Yeah. Let's make this quick. I have a few boys in the back, they'll keep them from running."

"Puh-lease," Brunhilda turned the word into two syllables, attempting to stretch it into three. "They've got triple-locks on 'em, chain-gang style. No way they'll get out of that, even if they're unnatural. I mean, how freaky can they get?"

A hoarse voice bellowed from beyond sight, Wesson's voice. But it wasn't the usual, fussy, city slicker quality he'd heard around the ranch, but a combat-ready shout.

"Eff-Bee-Eye! Put your hands in the air!"

Crunching boots hit the ground running. "Move! Forget the cargo. Move!"

Car doors slammed, the truck rumbling to life as the Chevy spun backwards. Leif heard the brief buzz of electric windows before a canister hit the ground, emitting smoke. Tires grated on loose gravel, accelerating towards the driveway; Leif knew there were low bushes on either side of the drive, but nothing strong enough to withstand multiple tons of metal. That was the prelude to something he'd never expected to hear in his lifetime, in Wesson's voice no less.

"Light 'em up!"

The boom of a sniper's greeting shook the air, the .50 Sharps firing from cover. Leif couldn't see the target, but the lead Avalanche's engine gave a shuddering lurch, before flames erupted beneath the hood. Sidearm fire, semi-automatics from the sound, chattered from the vehicle's windows, painting bright flares in the dark.

Aredhel rose to her feet, drawing the compound bow's full length in a single, smooth pull. For a moment her eyes glinted in the starlight, narrowing downrange. Then the bow made a quiet chonk sound, wafting a tuft of hair past her cheek, and eliciting a pained cry from the night.

In the thickening smoke, Leif couldn't be certain of a target. He elected to remain low, scrambling backwards towards the cover of trees. Aredhel kept pace with him, crouching almost double. Once she seized Leif's shoulder, pushing him around a tree, but otherwise leaving him alone. The neko squad surrounding the pair were fading into sight as well, half moving forwards while the other half ghosted ahead, searching the forward path.

A loud chatter buzzed from the direction of the trailer. Aredhel lunged at Leif, tackling him to the ground, shouting. "He's good, I got him!"

One of the armored figures appeared out of the darkness, seizing Leif's foot, and pulled. Between the two, he was rapidly moved deeper into the underbrush, out of sight in seconds. After a tree of medium size was reached, the two let go with surprising gentleness. While irritated, Leif appreciated the gesture.

"Landlord is out of the box, say again: Landlord is out of the box." One of the other shadowy figures had a hand up to its head, acting as if listening. It paused a heartbeat. "Roger, Princess. Big Guns fire at will."

'Wait. Big guns?' Leif's mental imagery cut back to a certain centauride, and the hardware she'd wielded. Had that counted? Anything larger would have to count as artillery, and nothing would keep the locals out if they believed military-grade weaponry was going off.

A faint tremor shook the ground under his back. 'Criminently.'

Shouting, faint at first but growing louder, met his ears. It sounded like war cries, something he'd only heard one grandparent perform, and of course emulated by his siblings in the further reaches. 'Screeching like Comanches' it was considered. Where the term came from, as that tribe had stayed much further south than Montana, he had no clue. But the practice gave him some experience in listening.

"What the …?" he rose, checking the rifle. The safety was back on, reflex action when he'd hit the dirt. A good habit, that. Leif focused on the hills west, towards the town the centaurs had been building. "Hear that?"

The drumming sound grew louder, hoof beats like rolling thunder. The cries grew louder in his ears, punctuated by brief bursts of automatic fire. Emotion was possible to determine from the more audible cries now, ebullient shouts and energetic whooping that resembled the hollerings Leif sometimes heard in town outside the collegiate-frequented bars. It wasn't quite inebriated but it was of a certainty less than sober; spirited behavior more akin to undisciplined chaos than ….

Leif remembered something Roanette had mentioned in passing. About her species other gender, and how her father defied the average.

"Great Galloping – …." He didn't finish his sentence.

A tidal wave of heaving flanks and enough Kevlar to arm a battalion came into view. Centaurs crested a small hill, firing what looked like long guns skywards, tongues of flame accompanying the sharp cracking noises. Some wore grease paint, an odd contrast of green and gray against the more natural-looking hued hair. Leif could see at least two centaurs that were towing something massive, jerking it along at the tail-end of the charge, wheels bouncing at every rut.

"Huh. Cavalry charge." Leif lowered his rifle, still watching. "Don't see one of those every day."

"Look who is leading them," Aredhel murmured at his side.

Leif turned. In the front of the charge was a familiar figure, black hair pulled back in a professional-looking tie. At her flank was another familiar centauride, wielding the mini-gun-thing, which was impressive in-and-of-itself. But at the front, holding a banner so long its pointed end flapped well behind his tail, galloped the oldest Yidderman. In the gloom details were obscure, but his bared arms shone white in the sporadic headlights, and his bellowing cries could be made out over the entire herd.

"There they are lads!" the stentorian bellow overrode the engine noise at last. "They're running! No – by the ranks! By the bloody ranks you idiots!"

As one, the mass of horsemen accelerated, pushing the three leaders at a faster pace, beyond the reckless acceleration they'd already taken. Outer edges were already passing Yidderman, camouflage jostling upwards at every jolting stride. Even standard weapons discharging failed to catch their attention, what with all the gunplay they were doing already.

"There they go," Aredhel noted, watching the chaotic horde stream across the lawn. She edged a little closer to Leif, watching as their leader was carried along with them, bellowing orders and epithets in equal volume. "We better stay out of sight. Male centaurs can be … rude, if they see unattached women. Very rude."

Leif tapped his Lee-Enfield, and shrugged. "Once, maybe."

She flashed him a grateful smile. "Thank you, milord."

"Not you too," he groaned. "Ro's enough already. Too much in fact."

She arched a shapely eyebrow at him. "You know we will obey direct orders, milord. Will you order us to be silent? In a lordly fashion, perhaps?"

Leif stared at her for a moment, then dropped his gaze, shaking his head. "Crazy. You are all crazy."

He didn't see the satisfied smile appear on the elf's face for a moment. It stayed for a heartbeat. "What next, milord?"

A deep sigh answered her. She might have grinned; he couldn't tell. "Stay out o' the way, and get ready to talk, I guess."

"Flank them – I said – just circle around the far side!" the annoyed voice bellowed again. "By Dobbin just stop there! Halt! Company halt!"

The yelling redoubled, some high-pitched tenors counterpointing a baritone cacophony. Thumping metal joined the chorus, squeaking of a trailer hitch and shock absorbers, growing louder until a groaning crash filled the air.

Leif pushed through the last of the shrubbery, rifle pointed downward, safety a hair's breadth from making the lethal metal length live once more. He gazed at the end of the driveway, slowly shaking his head.

"What is – druids riding a bicycle!" Aredhel came to a stop just behind his left.

Less than a quarter mile away, the trailer had been completely overturned. Red taillights shone into the darkness, illuminating the mass of bodies surrounding it, and the stranger's vehicles. The Avalanche was nose-down in the five-foot ditch, a massive centaur that looked part Percheron doing an apparent jig on its rear hatch. The pickup attached to the trailer was moving, but over a foot off the ground as dozens of muscled arms heaved it up and away.

More gunfire went off, causing Leif to duck down – only to realize the centaurs were celebrating. A small group had overturned the Olsen's sedan, plucking out its single, screaming, female occupant.

Leif frowned. Her cries weren't the terrified screams of a woman confronted by imaginary monsters. It sounded closer to when someone was frustrated, and caught in a bad place.

"Hold!" Yidderman's form cantered into sight, flag drooping now that his speed was less. The centaurs ignored him, breaking the metal parts from the trailer, laughing as they did so. The group holding Brunhilda started to move away, tugging off her jacket.

The chief centaur stabbed the flag's pole into the earth. "Or I'll cancel beer night!"

Dead silence rang just as loud as the hubbub their chaos had caused. Even from a distance their hurt, betrayed looks could be seen. Leif brought up a mental comparison; on a scale between a wet kitten and a dejected calf, the entire group placed far beyond either. It was like their mental maturity stood on a very low mesa, stuck on a plateau of immediate gratification, and Yidderman had called them out. It made him shake his head, witnessing grown men shuffling like boys caught with a hand in the cookie jar – unbelievable.

"They're mostly like that," the elf commented, as if reading his mind. "The males, I mean. At least, the combat-oriented males. The rest remain behind, a custom I believe started after the Roman Empire fell, and the regulations with it."

Leif closed his mouth, clenching it when the dispirited centaurs righted the trailer in a casual display of strength. Their oversized forms made the task look easy, a few getting behind the metal roof and leaning their weight into it while others pulled down on the nearer edge. Metal groaned, rolling into place, settling the entire trailer down on its wheels.

Quick, firm footsteps came into hearing. Leif started turning, but Aredhel already had her bow up, an arrow nocked. A few feet back and over towards the trees, Agent Wesson held up his hands. "I come in peace?"

"Oh," the elf lowered the bow, easing the wire back. "My apologies, sir."

"Think nothing of it," he rubbed his hands together. "I am glad to see you getting along so well with Mister Larsen. A splendid operation don't you think? Small fish of course, but I am certain the source will be unveiled in time."

Leif plucked a grass stem from its knobby sheathe and chewed on it. The refreshing taste of prairie greenery – even if it was mostly dry – helped calm his nerves. He made a pointed look at the mobile artillery dragging around the centaur group, and the youngest Yidderman's massive weapon. "Lotta guns."

"Yes, well," Wesson looked embarrassed. "It was pointed out to me that the armaments present are, technically, on embassy soil. How they reached that soil is another matter altogether, and one I'll be directing resources to investigate as soon as I collect my satellite phone from my counterpart. At the moment however, I cannot deny their effectiveness."

An outcry came up from the four-legged group surrounding the trailer still. It rose and fell, then rose again. Leif turned again, scanning the area, but could see nothing in the near darkness.

"One moment," Wesson stepped onto the drive, his leather-soled shoes grinding on dust and gravel. "I shall return."

A moment later, after the government man had moved out of hearing, Aredhel gave a gasp of surprise. "Sire, did you say what these men were smuggling?"

Leif shrugged. "Nope. Rustlers do a lot out here, sheep. Cattle. Illegal immigrants. Let the cops deal with 'em."

An older voice, worn with years and sounding exasperated. Gramps, moving as silent as only a trained veteran, born in hunting country, could achieve. "The idiots were smuggling lamia. Idiots. As if they wanted to draw any more attention to this? It's almost winter for cryin' out loud. What were they going to store them in, a chicken coop?"

More victory cries rose, the centaurs whooping over the tumult like the overpowering aura of the rising sun. As yet more gunfire went off, Leif felt a sudden impact ram into his upper thigh, spinning him around like a top. He hit the ground, stunned. Pain blossomed from his leg, throbbing in greater bursts of pain at each beat, worse than a mule's kick.

He knew all about that. There were no mules on his ranch now for good reason.

"Milord!" the elf dropped beside him, hands making frantic motions just above his body, seeming hesitant to touch. "Sire!"

Out of the shadows three armored individuals converged on their position. One skidded to a kneeling halt at Leif's side, faceplate flipping open. Feline features peered down at him, slit pupils dilated wide. It turned aside, pointing at one of the other shadowy figures. "Landlord is down, repeat: Landlord is down!"

Leif gritted his teeth. Physical pain was fine. Getting crowded by strangers? Not fine at all. But he wasn't an idiot – or he tried to avoid being one as much as possible. Another wave of pain launched through his left leg like an echo. "Missed the artery. Flesh wound."

"If you don't mind," the whiskered face retorted, "I'll be the judge of that. Allen Kissasen, Team Medic. Pleasure."

"If you say so," Leif remained stoic as a massive knife appeared in the cat-person's hand, twirling into sight. "What are – oh."

The knife ripped through the denim jeans, slicing fabric in a clean cut. The cat-person's gloves slid off, allowing his near-human hands to probe around the injured flash. Leif reacted, clenching his fist, nails digging into the palm. Against his will, a faint gurgling escaped his throat, hissing at the stabbing pressure.

"You're hurting him!" Aredhel grabbed at Kissasen's hand, only for the felinoid to evade her swift reach.

"He's been shot," his dry tone didn't waver. "A painful experience even if I didn't check for a through-and-through. Should you not be contacting his associates?"

Leif grimaced.

"I am to stay at his side no matter what. Such was my agreement." Aredhel clutched Leif's shoulder. "I'm not leaving."

"Then keep calm and help me get him ready for moving. His home is less than two miles away, but I can have an ambulance here in two minutes."

"No – need." The rancher hissed through clenched teeth. "Won't – be necessary."

Kissasen's voice turned soothing. "I understand your feeling my lord, but you must have immediate attention. These bandages will not hold long, and I prefer a stable environment for better treatment."

"Dumb. Cat." Leif tried to sit up, grunted at the pain, and fell back, caught by Aredhel. He pointed at the low-slung ranch house less than three hundred yards away. "Zakapenko's. Keys – under – mat. Full kit."

The cat man reared back. "Oh. Oh. Good. We'll still need to move …" he glanced around, then his shoulders slumped. "Contact the Chiron. We shall need his aid."

"Call Roanette," Aredhel suggested. "Caleb can keep the peace. And see if you can get … Gramps involved. He is able to control the herd if need be."

From her lap – and wondering how he'd reached that position – Leif hissed a pained laugh. "He's tough. Old."

"About middle-aged, by my guess," Aredhel corrected. "He's younger than great grandpa, but he still has color in his hair, if you know where to look."

Leif gave her a strange look, to which she shook her head, sending loosened blonde strands shaking. "Later."

Thundering hoofbeats announced the arrival of an agitated centauride. "Milord? You are injured? Fie! A curse on my brethren for their carelessness! Is it bad, sir neko?"

"Ain't heard of anyone shot good," Leif ground out. "Just a flesh wound. Someone just get me to the house, I'll take it from there."

"Nay," Roanette sidled around, presenting her flank to the group. "Let him ride upon me. I shall render such aid as I can, yon dwelling is not sized for those such as I. From there you must care for his needs."

The elf looked up. "Not that I don't appreciate this, but you are acting more formal all of a sudden …."

"Stress." Kissensan muttered, adding another cloth to the wad surrounding Leif's thigh. Gauze wrapped tight upon its diameter, firm but not cutting off circulation. "Centaurs fall back on formal language under stress. Medieval upbringing and all the joys that go with it. Can you get his head, elf?"

With Aredhel lifting Leif's head and torso, the other three neko were able to lift his lower half into an awkward side-saddle position. Leif had to lean against Roanette's upright back, clutching at her shoulder to keep from sliding off. Two of the cat people held his leg in place, while Aredhel helped steady him from the other side. Between the five helpers, quick progress was made, transporting the injured man across the hardpan drive's gravel surface.

"Sorry Ro', Leif muttered. He tried easing back on his grip on her shoulder, felt himself slip, and redoubled its strength. "I can hop. Didn't want to do this to you."

The centauride refused to turn her head enough to face him, but her upright ears told him enough. When a horse held itself in such a way, it was nervous. Interested in something, but nervous. "N-n-nonsense milord. You are no burden."

He would've sighed if the pain were any less. The girl had it bad.


Wesson – contrary to Leif's expectation – did not burst into the Zakapenko dwelling. Instead he failed to appear for hours, during which Leif had to put up with a professional suturing and receive multiple admonishments to avoid extraneous movement. Advice from a professional was one thing, but to receive the same repeated instructions from a cat-folk, an elf, and a centaur, the concept became less than novel. After the first two hours, Leif was finally able to convince his volunteer caretakers to allow him access to the phone – which was outright refused until a long enough cord was located to bring the wall-mounted unit to him – where he was thenable to call his own home, relaying the situation.

"Let me get this straight," Earl responded after his lengthy explanation. "You went out there armed for bear, three squads of the cat-ladies to watch your back, Gramps with his cannon, and a troupe of attack cavalry ponies – sorry Aly – and they winged you with a celebratory shot?"

Leif said nothing, giving the darkened window a sour look.

"On the other hand, is it a wicked looking scar? The ladies love that, or so I'm told. No I haven't been seeing anyone else Aly. Why do – nevermind I'm on the phone with Leif. Sorry, Aly's a bit anxious. Are you going to be all right?"

"Just peachy." Leif ignored the hovering figures in the background. "Back to work in no time."

"Yeah, that sounds like you," Earl's voice overpowered the negative susurrations erupting around Leif's seat. "I'll give the guys a call, tell them to stand down before they get trigger-happy; sounded like the Little Bighorn was on again. Anything I can do for you while I'm here?"

Leif shrugged, then remembered it couldn't be seen on the line. "No. Just leave the door unlocked. I'll feed the horses in the morning, clean the stalls."

All three Border collies raised their heads, turning towards the door. Leif interpreted the move and made a conclusion. "Gotta go, someone's coming."

"Right then. See you later Leif."

Aredhel accepted the handset, carrying it back to the portion resting on the wall, a light frown on her face. She hesitated, one hand rising to tuck a stray hair back. "Milord, are you certain of your plans for tomorrow?"

"Aye," Leif had to concentrate. The morphine injection had him feeling a little … woozy …? Was that the correct term? It was interesting, the floating sensation that diffused the room into a happy-ish glow. Was it causing the itching sensation – no. He had to stay on task. Reality did not change even if sensations didn't. "Work needs to be done."

"Milord," Roanette interjected from her position on the opposite side, scowling. The ceiling was brushing her ear-tips it was so low on her "You cannot expect to maintain the same level of fitness during impairment. I am fully capable of performing mundane tasks for you."

"As am I," Aredhel added smoothly, returning to stand by the centauride. "I am also well-versed in medical care; changing dressings, basic surgery, physical therapy –"

A stomping hind-hoof boomed on the floor. "Physical therapy is my specialty, thank you. Milord may ride me to his destinations, and incorporate vigorous exercise at his discretion."

Leif's eyes followed the exchange like a poorly refereed ping-pong match. There was something going on, a dispute over territory, if he was reading the situation aright. But they were young – they'd get over their mutual crush in a matter of weeks, or a month at the outset. Or so he hoped. Sometimes he just felt old.

"Of course," the elf delivered a polite smile. "Your expertise in the outdoors is undisputed. After all, a centaur's inherent mass is incapable of performing the more delicate tasks remanded to domestic locales."

Roanette's ears went back – and would have probably delivered an equally disguised retort, except for the front door opening.

Leif glanced at the dark opening, then down at his dogs. All three were tense, hackles going up along the entire length of their necks. Their heads lowered, a faint growl emanating from Eugene as a faint grinding noise made its way towards the doorframe. Muscles bunched as Wesson stepped inside. He took off his hat, wiping leather shoes on the door mat, and continued into the room, leaving the door open.

"Mister Larsen, I pray you are in good health?"

He gave a shrug in response, still watching his dogs. "I'll live."

"Good to hear," the Asian didn't seem to hear his answer. "There is … well … a bit of a problem. You see the, ah, cargo being carried by the poachers was not what we'd anticipated. In fact, I can say there was no way to predict what we didfind – have to speak with Intelligence division about this. If I may?"

'Great.' Leif took another look at his dogs, who had not looked away from the doorway, ignoring the government man in their intensity. 'Not going to like this, am I?'

"Excellent, thank you." Wesson concluded. He turned back towards the doorway. "Ladies? You may come in now."

Leif heard more grinding, scraping sounds, and then nearly had a heart attack as what appeared to be the largest snake in Montana – if not the world – slithered over the doorsill. Red and green scales covered her back, winding their way up to cream-colored underbelly, which itself terminated unto a ragged skirt. The skirt ended a good handspan below the tatty halter-top shirt, which appeared to be on the verge of shredding under the stress it was undergoing.

Moving upwards, smaller scales made an appearance around the upper neck, making a small diamond pattern on the sides of the snake-folk's face. Cone-like ears angled outwards through a mass of unkempt brownish hair, framing a pair of predator's eyes that stared out at him with an undisguised curiosity.

Leif reacted, basic instinct hurtling him over the back of the sofa. On the way over he managed to snag the Colt 1911 lying on the end table, dropping to the bare floorboards. Such an impact knocked the wind out of him, sending a painful jolt through the recent injury on his thigh. Using his good leg, Leif shoved himself further back behind a dividing wall, placing two large objects between himself and the oversized predator.

On the other side he could hear the dogs come to full attention, assessing a major danger, worthy of baring teeth and emanating the sort of rumbling growls that deterred wolves and bear alike. It sent quiet screams in reaction, from the massive snakes direction.

"Larsen!"

Leif checked the chamber, shoving the slide back into place while popping off the safety. The barking increased, along with the thunder of hooves and faint footsteps. The light floaty sensation was wreaking havoc with his sense of balance, but Leif managed to get against the wall, leveraging himself to a sitting position. Then he stopped, trying to think. His face fell as realization made its weighty arrival.

"Call off the dogs Larsen! They're harmless!"

Aredhel appeared from nowhere, just as Roanette thundered down the narrow hall at his back. He held up a hand at both of them, stopping their approach. He focused, pursing his lips. A hoarse sputtering came out.

Shaking his head, Leif stuck a pair of fingers in his mouth, trying again. This time a piercing call rang through the house, stilling the frenetic barking, and incurring the scrabbling sound of claws against polished concrete. In a heartbeat the three dogs were at his side, pressing themselves against him. Scheherazade in particular was shaking in fear, whimpering as she tried to wedge herself between Leif and the wall. Silence filled the room.

Calculations went through Leif's brain. Less than what could've transpired, but more than his drugged reflexes appreciated.

'Fact: big snake came in my new house – although the paperwork hasn't gone through yet.'

'Fact: Wesson invited them.'

'Fact: he talked about cargo and surprises.'

A heavy sigh shuddered through his frame. 'Fact: you just bunged up some kinda First Contact.'

He let out a groan. "Ro'. Help me up?"

"Sire," the centauride reached down, hefting his wiry bulk with ease. She kept an arm around his shoulders, holding him up. "Lean on me."

"Right," Leif propped himself up with her support, gritting his teeth. "Red, think I tore the stitches. Would –"

"I'll get the kit," she walked off without waiting to hear the rest.

He shook his head. Having the same cat-person do it again would've rested his mind, but she had claimed competence. Best give her a shot – not as if the thing would hurt any less. "Help me to the sofa."

Hopping on one leg, Leif managed to reach the back of the sofa, across which Wesson was standing, face buried in one hand and three snake women frozen in place. The foremost individual was coiled up around herself, a look of near-terror on her face, the other two were not much better, bunched in defensive postures emphasizing their mass.

"Sorry," he clicked the safety back on, lowering the 1911. Roanette took it from his hand, reaching to place it on the end table, sending a wave of relaxation through the new group. "Long night."

Wesson revealed his face once more. "Very well. May I … good heavens man, you're bleeding!"

"I've been shot." Leif deadpanned. "Newcomers, Agent?"

"You have to sit down – is the Neko delegation still here?" the other man scanned the room as if expecting a hidden figure to pop out of nowhere. Given the night, it might've even been a reasonable thought.

Leif raised his chin, putting the same tone in his voice that he used on recalcitrant dogs. "You have brought me guests, Agent. Who. Are. They."

Jaw agape, Wesson could only stare for a moment. But when Leif began to limp around the sofa's perimeter, he shook out of it.

"Your pardon, um. Hang on a tick." he made a sweeping gesture, while taking a deep breath. A tiny bit of paper appeared in his fingers, at which he glanced. "Right." He cleared his throat, making a theatrical gesture. "These are the lost members of Clan Memnon, the Eastern Goddesses of the Orient. Their clan is famous for their masteries of the subtle arts, sought far and wide. Should you desire something so banal as an elixir of slumber or a balm for your foes, Clan Memnon is prepared to offer the finest aid in the world."

Leif gave him a look, then transferred it to the snake-women. Their tentative smiles exposed pointed canines, and a forked tongue in one case. He shifted his focus back to Wesson.

"Who are they when they're at home?"

A short burst of startled looks went around the group. But Wesson rallied. "In order, may I present Miss Jen'il, Miss Sarah, and Miss Rica."

Thoughts of solitude wound a wistful sensation through Leif's mind. He put them aside; he was hardly in any condition to retreat again. An injured leg, a centauride clutching his shoulder like he'd fall over if she let go, an elf coming his way with a pair of scissors, a medical kit and a determined expression … then there was the scared-looking snake-women, Wesson and the dogs that still were huddled behind the sofa, refusing to look at the newcomers.

"Make yourselves at home," he gave up. "Fridge is a little light, but there's plenty in the freezer. Feel free."

The resulting exercise in obtaining freedom came in the form of a trio of appreciative, hysterical relatives of the python, involving what some called 'glomping,' but others considered a predatory form of prey acquisition passed down to more sentient beings. All Leif knew was that it was dark; soft and hard things were simultaneously pushing against him at all angles, and Roanette was screaming bloody murder. By now he was accustomed to sudden loss of mobility but as of yet, he'd devised no means of achieving liberty at his own volition.

'That's next on the list,' he promised. 'As soon as I get free. Again.'