The Polaris roared into the ranch house drive, all-weather tires gaining traction in bursts. Leif leaned on the horn, sending its high-pitched wail into the air. It'd been an installation Lena had made, the only girl in a family of boys. While not as impressive-sounding as it could've been, its utility had been of universal agreement, keening like the banshee of old.

Rather than undertake the standard gradual deceleration one would make, Leif pulled a bootlegger's turn. Only the somewhat icy terrain made it possible on a vehicle designed for traction. Despite the assist, the ATV shuddered during the sliding reversal like a spastic reaction. He hung on to the steering column, bracing his good knee against the storage tub underneath. That did enough to keep him stable during the maneuver, slewing into position just outside the front porch.

Leif yanked the keys free. Ice-laden wind had been blowing in his face for the past ten miles, kept at bay solely through grit and a balaclava kept inside the vehicle's storage. He wasn't sure the last time it'd been washed, but it had done the job.

The ranch door burst open as he hopped free. The stitches were intact, but at this point he was so cold there wasn't much pain anywhere.

Aredhel came flying out the doorway. "Larsen! What happ – your windshield? Roanette! Larsen is hurt!"

Leif flung his arm at her, waving it with manic intensity. "Get back! Shooters!"

The elf skidded to a stop, and then was promptly smashed aside by Roanette's adrenaline-fueled charge. A nimbus of dark hair flew about the centauride's face, concern written on every feature, ignoring the svelte woman, whom was already turning her backwards tumble into a rolling somersault.

"Leif!" she skidded to a halt beside him. "Are you –"

He made a futile effort at pushing her back. He might as well have tried lifting a cathedral. She hoisted his weight in one arm, running her other hand over his limbs as if checking for injuries. Leif was pretty certain there was no need to squeeze certain portions of his anatomy with such thoroughness. Was that a centaurian method of flirting? No – what was he thinking?

"Back Ro', back! Sniper!"

There was no hesitation. Roanette hugged him close to her body, wheeling around on two back hooves, running for the doorway. He had a brief moment before her front legs touched down again to recall the swiftness exhibited by the centaurs fleeing Gramps' a few days prior.

The sheer velocity involved felt as if the coat was about to be torn from his torso. There was a sense of bunched up muscles, and the pressure Roanette was applying, pressing him hard against herself; the security he could appreciate. Her willingness to protect him by placing her own body in between danger and himself was sacrificial in the truest sense of the word.

But was it necessary that she shove his face into her chest?

Aredhel was already scanning the perimeter. He glimpsed her face's expression, an almost terrifying rictus of anger and pain. Then he was inside, bundled towards the center of the house.

Aredhel ducked inside, slamming the thick door behind her. The bar, relic of ancient times, dropped into place. The crossbeams hadn't been well maintained – who would need such a thing in the modern era? – and Leif wasn't sure how well they'd hold. But for now it was a solid, thick-timbered door, braced by an equally solid support.

As soon as his feet touched the ground once more, Leif limped into the central hallway. Its length stretched half the house, rooms opening to either side. As the northern side of the house, it had been built with the cold North winds in mind; extra insulation and thicker walls. There were even shutters, although their original function hadn't been used in years outside of the infrequent blizzard while company visited.

'Gotta check on those,' Leif added to his mental checklist. 'Might need 'em this winter.'

"Leif," Roanette was shadowing him at close range. "What happened?"

Belated, he pulled off the balaclava, shaking out the itchy sensation from his hair. "Was out huntin', coming back from Grandfather's Shoulder. Something shot out my windshield from the back, took three shots. No accident."

Aredhel's hand shot to a slim device never before used inside Leif's home: a cell phone. Her fingers blurred across the touchpad before raising it to one long ear. "Agent Wesson? Aredhel Lithlinede. There was an assassination attempt on Larsen. Yes. We're just getting that now."

Without prompting Leif pointed back in the same direction he'd started that afternoon. "About three hours west, close to the southern border. Where's the map?"

Fanchon slipped in, holding the desired bit of unfolded paper. He'd have to think of some way to thank her.

"Thanks." He traced the route with a finger "Yeah. About here. Shooter had to be in this direction."

Aredhel craned her neck over his shoulder, then started reciting coordinates. She listened after a moment, and nodded. "Of course. His safety is our highest priority."

A grunt waged a sudden war with Leif's voice control. It lost a miserable defeat as Leif felt Roanette move closer, a protective arm still resting on his shoulder. He reached up, squeezing her hand once, then letting go.

"Listen," he waited until Aredhel put down the device. "All of you stay here tonight. Plenty o' room, thick walls. Aright?"

There were no objections.


Certain facts concerning ongoing activities at his home had escaped the running processes of Leif's brain. There were lamia in the basement, courteous and willing to let him bunk there for the night, as well as a contingent of high-security specialists protecting what was by all intents a foreign dignitary. Two heavy transports sat in the yard's drive, no doubt chuffing at the very thought of their beloved potentate remaining in any proximity to danger.

That individual's presence had made no impact on Leif's memory. There was a vague recollection of visiting dignitaries, and a specific memory involving elves and the ambassador's e-mail. But the process eluded active thought, until facing him in his own home, glinting gemstones and expensive silks, covered in mink fur.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Larsen." The elegant, manicured hand was offered to Leif, palm down. "My daughter is most impressed with your conduct and character."

'That's her.' Leif stared at the woman, then down at her hand. 'The one that broke Gramps' heart. Don't know the story … but Gramps never let me down.'

"Pleasure." He reached out, gripping her hand in a firm handshake, pumped twice and released. "Miss Lithlinede's a good guest. Excuse me?"

He turned away, swapping hands to maneuver the cane better. Down in the basement there were sections of stone laid down in early days, but most was covered in a concrete base. The far more level material supported enough hardware to support a large family in the middle of Montana's more remote districts for years. Canned goods, cider makers, even an ancient washing machine dating back to the prior century could be found there.

"While my daughter is impressed, I must say I am not." The elf's withering tone ricocheted off Leif's attention like pebbles on his truck. "Will you not maintain polite discourse?"

Leif paused, and turned just enough to see the elf's visage. According to both Gramps and Aredhel, the woman had to be ninety years old at least, but could've pulled off the look of a mature thirty-year old. He ignored her features and delivered a hard glare, needing only to summon the irritation brought by life in the past few months. "Sure. I got two words for you: Ulfric Knudtsen."

He left her standing there, mouth hanging open, and kept going. A large table a dozen feet away was his goal, and sanctuary. Maps lay spread across its surface, satellite images emerging with agonizing slowness from a printer someone had installed; he supposed there should be some form of outrage, but almost receiving delivery of the infamous lead treatment put things in perspective. Without asking, two elves cleared a chair for him, in which he sat, studying the materials.

"Tracks have been located here and here," Fanchon pointed at the relevant areas on the closest map. Gone were her frilly dresses of lace and sheer fabric. Instead she wore jeans and … a flannel shirt? Leif wasn't objecting, but he was beginning to wonder where everyone was getting their fashion sense. "Neko squads with thermal cams have been deployed here. Two elf platoons are waiting at the barn, backed by a company of centaurs."

He dredged up old memories of combat history, and made a quick calculation. "A hundred and thirty soldiers?"

Fanchon twisted around the table. "Two hundred, in fact. Havre is on full alert right now, the Golden Hills Electronic Countermeasures group is working with Agent Wesson in present drone scans. M.O.N. has four helicopters in the air right now, and I believe it took Ms. Yidderman's influence to prevent a pair of fighter/bombers from performing a flyover."

Leif shuddered. He could hear the sounds of helicopters roaming about, even in the depths of a cellar built when people meant to keep things secure. Back when supersonic flights were common, the resulting boom could make the glassware rattle on the shelves.

"Anyone call the neighbors?"

Aredhel approached from the far side. "Not as yet, my Lord." Her meaningful look tracked above Leif's shoulder for an instant, before returning. "The current orders forbid contact until after the Exchange is given official sanction."

He restrained from more colorful language. "So … shooter's out there, and the neighbor's don't know."

"That is the decision as handed down." Aredhel set the next printout down. "I make no decisions, sire."

A low growl emanated from deep in his chest, quelled by the knowledge of witnesses. "Talk to Ro'. Tell her to get Alynette in gear. Earl's smart."

"I will seek her out in person." Aredhel made an elegant bow, slipping away as soon as his attention lapsed. He was still able to catch the elf's mother make a vain attempt to catch her daughter's eye. The two hadn't spoken much, in his sight.

He went back to studying the maps, searching for a shooter's hiding place. There were too many of them, far too many. But there was a chance his knowledge could rule out the least likely positions, or highlight spots more likely than others.

Just as he finished marking up the last segment, he became aware of a presence. Looking down, he saw large, soulful eyes peering up at him.

Sighing, Leif put the pen down. "Sorry girl."

The Border collie's tail thumped.

"Yeah," he rubbed her ears, tousling the short hairs just behind them. "Interestin' day."

Agreement shone in the dog's eyes.

"Eugene and Scheherazade all right?" Leif straightened, looking around the basement. "Ah."

In one corner, the other two dogs were sitting on what could only be described as miniature thrones, made of pillows. Two of the three lamia seemed to think it their purpose in this existence to massage the canines, to which there seemed no disagreement. The appearance of their lolling tongues, half-closed eyes and furiously wagging tails brought a smile to his face. 'Haven't been giving them enough work to do lately.'

"So." Another presence hovered at his back. By now he'd learned to recognize the individuals by species, even if the specific person was a little harder to discern. This presence hovered a touch farther than the usual suspects, and only one person had addressed him since descending into the basement. Leif made a quarter turn, fixing the elf with a neutral look. "Need somethin'?"

This time he took the time to examine Aredhel's mother. As he'd observed before, her appearance could've passed for someone far younger – an interesting point to bring up with his guest at some point. This woman's height looked similar, violet eyes and a more golden hue to her hair than Aredhel's, but the body was similar. If he hadn't known better the woman could've passed as Aredhel's older sister.

"Finished yet?" she arched an angular eyebrow at him. "I am not one of your cattle, Mister Larsen."

If she'd meant the honorific as an insult, it slid over his awareness. He'd never say it, but the thought did cross his mind. 'If I had one as contrary as you, she'd be off for Hamburger Helper.'

"Good."

"I am aware of your association with Mister Knudtsen," she hovered as if preparing for a vicious rebuttal. Receiving none, she continued. "In time, would you be willing to hear my side of the event before passing judgement?"

He shrugged. "Don't know you. Not impressed so far; not disappointed either."

That was half a lie – but didn't count. Disappointment was a mild euphemism for the disgust held deep behind mental shields. 'Not lying, bein' diplomatic.'

"That is all I ask." She gave a sort of regal half-nod. It was unlike the deep formality her daughter had evinced before, but the basic similarity was present, as if between a superior and her underling. She gave the sort-of curtsey one of his older aunts had been fond of using, and backed away. "I will inquire after the progress of this distressing event."

With her departure, Leif was left alone at the table, watching the lamia pamper his dogs. Meanwhile, Dunyazade stayed at his side, leaning into his uninjured leg. He rubbed her back absentmindedly, wishing there was a window. Such a thing would negate the value of cover, in a structure dug before cellar windows became popular. Outside the sun had fallen hours prior, leaving the fields drowning in shadows from the partial moon, which meant supper and bedtime under normal circumstances.

He closed his eyes. Hunger held no hold over him, even slumber's attractiveness was muted to near intangible qualities. Rubbing his eyes, Leif pulled another map closer. If he wasn't going to sleep, he'd need to work.


Hours after he heard a stamping in the entry overhead. It sounded as if a clumsy, if miniature, giant were approaching.

It took a moment before Leif realized a human was descending the stairs. 'Really? Is the difference that much?'

He listened again. The sound of patent leather shoes had a recognizable sound, unlike the soft noises of the neko, and entirely different from how elves tended to glide around. A centaur would clop, rubber-shod or not. This meant human, and the most frequent human visitor was Wesson. Unless it was Gramps, improbable though that might be for the moment.

He focused on the maps once more. A pair of compasses rested on the table before him, both the magnetic version and the old set once used someone's geometry class. Beside them rested a notebook, filled with his neat, precise handwriting. Equations filled its visible pages, dark ink outlining multiple figures and sketches.

"Larsen? Got a minute?"

He waved at a chair pulled against the table's far side. "Sec."

Leif's peripheral vision caught movement as the agent slid into place. But his concentration rested on the paper before him. With one hand he tapped out a numeric sequence on an old calculator, recording the numbers on the paper. He double checked, then cracked open a book resting beside him to a marked page, refreshing his memory. 'Tangent over angle. Right.'

Another quick calculation and he was able to return to the topographical map, laying down the protractor to make a tiny mark in pencil, following it up with a light line sketched onto the map.

Finishing he straightened, leaning backwards, lifting his shoulders to corresponding crackles of vertebrae. "Right. What you need?"

Wesson sat there, glancing down at the collected books sitting on the table, beside a box of ammunition and calculator. "Larsen, what are you doing?"

He stretched out an arm, working the kinks out of the shoulder. "Fixin' to see where that shooter was."

Wesson raised an eyebrow. "How?"

"Waelp," Leif paused. "Right. I'm no forensic specialist. But I know a bit. See, I know I was shot goin' over a ridge here, here and here," he pointed at bright red markings on the map. "And that's the altitude. Plus, most common shot out here is three-aught-eight, for big game. Best range around three hundred yards, bullet drop sixteen inches maybe? But this is at night. Maybe half that."

Wesson's eyebrow was rising higher, joined by its partner. "So you're calculating … original location."

Leif moved back to the map. "I was headed this way. Shot went back to front. Maybe more shooters, maybe just one. Put a cone out from the three points …" he gestured at the markings on the map. "Put the shooter inside five hundred feet, hidden at my altitude or a bit lower, and I found a few places he might've been hiding."

The agent brought his hands together in a slow clap. "Bravo. Better be careful though, all that brainwork might force Miss Lithlinede to jump your bones if you're not too careful. Aredhel – you're drooling."

Puzzled, Leif looked back to see an affronted looking elf wiping her mouth, then catching his glance and turning red. It was a mortified expression but also … focused. Very focused. Like the chess match they'd shared during the blizzard, only amplified by factors he didn't want to consider. Underneath the embarrassment she gave him a burning glance.

Leif spun back in his seat, and flipped the notebook shut. Somewhere behind and to one side, a large set of lungs let out an amused chuff. He ignored that too.

"I'm surprised you haven't gone out there guns blazing," Wesson leaned back in the chair. "You have enough firepower in this house to arm a squad at the least."

Glad of the distraction, Leif snorted. "Stitched up, dark out, someone taking pot shots? Not a dang fool."

"Of course." Wesson agreed. "And … having a centauride standing in front of the staircase, armed to the teeth does nothing either?"

Another quick glance showed the sable haired centauride standing at the base of the stairs, arms folded. At the top of the stairs another set of four legs could be seen, gun belt trailing into view down the stairs. He hadn't known such lengths were available for public use.

He hunched his shoulders, head dipping. It took a long moment before honesty won out. "Maybe."

The agent's eyes crinkled at the corners. Thankfully he said nothing. "Well, it turns out you're right. We found shell casings on a spot about two hundred feet from that first rise, and tracks leading back to a dirt bike. There's three choppers set up on a search pattern, and I have an entire clan of kobold running down the trail."

"Kobold?" Leif hadn't heard the term before. "They new?"

"Well, to you maybe." Wesson found a glass beer stein of something bubbling at his elbow. "Thank you."

Fanchon delivered a slight bow, and retreated.

"Best analogy, werewolf without the angst." The beverage in the agent's beer stein frothed as he took a long draft, leaving foam on his upper lip. "The usual order of species introduction is shot to hell, but they were up there on the list. Great trackers, strong believers in physical prowess. Plus the nose they got is better than anything but a bloodhound – easier to talk too, too."

Leif edged to one side, making room for the female neko as she approached him from behind. The tankard she handed him was filled with a fizzing liquid that lacked the same alcoholic properties he could smell from across the table. "Thanks."

"It looks like a part of the group smuggling the lamia." Wesson raised his beer stein to the three sitting across the floor, all looking in his direction. "With the information we got from the coyotes earlier, plus what we found from the esteemed Mr. Olsen, there are wheels moving."

One of the lamia, larger than the other two, scarlet hair trailing to her waist slid closer. "Your pardon. But you are saying that the people that took my sisters and I are hunting us still?"

Wesson rose, a comforting smile promising much. "They seek Mister Larsen, actually."

"Who is protecting us, a favor which cannot be repaid," the lamia – Rica Leif remembered – gave a low bow in his direction. "But if our presence is causing a threat to the community, we should find other grounds."

"The security provided for his ranch is in its infancy, and only growing as time progresses." Wesson approached closer, a rocking motion in his step Leif hadn't seen before. But it seemed to reassure the lamia as much, or moreso, than his words. "The centaurs and elves are on high alert, and the full resources of the Inter-Species Initiative are dedicated to the punishment of these criminals."

A second lamia joined the first, brown hair still ragged ends. "They are pretty words, but our people are often the target of exploitation."

Though curious, Leif refrained from asking questions.

"True." The agent's expression didn't change, but his bearing looked … sorrowful. "Your skill with drugs is second to none, your beauty unmatched and the connection you share with cold-blooded masters of the ground encourage underhanded tactics. But where else would you suggest you stay? Lord Larsen's home is ancient and strong, protected on all sides by an army that will have the power to work in the open within days. Can you go elsewhere and receive the same protection?"

Rica's tongue made an appearance, forked end tasting the air. "Truth, you speak, and speak well for us you have. But … you know our nature. We are a caring race, a people that do not mind sharing our mates."

Leif froze.

"Lord Larsen would be a good mate. Strong. Brave. Indomitable and with such handssss …" the sentence drifted into a sibilant-heavy vernacular that seemed to amuse the other two.

Wesson laughed with them and hissed something back.

Rica sank lower, reducing her height to look up at the agent. "Yesss, had we been here earlier that would have been possible. But we can see he is shy. We can see his heart is taken. But he helped save us, deliver us from ssslavery? No. We will not cause dishonor by seeking his essence. Of course, if he should asssk …."

Somehow Wesson managed to look regretful while Leif felt closer to a statue. "Do you have any requests? I believe waiting until the Exchange is open would suit both purposes well, before moving."

"Yes," Rica rose again, giving Leif an apologetic look. "While the comfort here is wondrous, a good lair with many luxuries, we wish to see if the Doctor would host us."

"Doctor?"

"Nilsson." Leif supplied. It felt good to act normal, even if it didn't feel that way. "Lives on the edge of town. Good man. Smart, too."

"If you would, Lord." Jen'il made a smooth gesture he gathered meant something in their native culture. "Would you tell us of Doctor Nilsson? Is he a warrior? An athlete? We wish to know of his hobbies before making a decision."

Leif picked up his tankard, hiding his lower face behind its translucent depths. "Best ask him."

"We tried!" Jen'il wailed. "But that pointy-eared killjoy kept blocking us!"

He looked over at Aredhel, who had the grace to look abashed. "She stopped you?" he made a show out of looking over their extended length. "Stronger than I thought."

"She made us promise to not push." This time Rica spoke up. "But we cannot make an appropriate overture without knowing anything about him. Please? We cannot ask any other humans; Agent Wesson keeps saying we're abusing his authority."

Leif shot the Asian a dirty look. Wesson smirked back at him.

"Right." Leif took a deep breath. "Don't know much, but here you go. The Nilsson's moved here about forty years ago …."

Telling stories fell outside Leif's comfort zone. Talking for extended periods of time tried his throat and his patience. But the lamia were excellent listeners, asking intelligent questions and taking notes. It was then he had a spark of perhaps a bit of pranking genius.

"Of course," he gave a long sigh. "That's if you can get him to stop working."

A look of interest flared in the lead naga's eyes. "How so?"

"Well, you heard him that morning?" Leif tilted the chair back, watching them. "He'd been up all night, and stopped by on his way back to work. The man's a machine."

"Realllllly …?" the word was drawn out, almost like a song.

"Yah." Leif looked up at the ceiling, then down at the trio of sparkling eyes. "One time I saw him hauling lumber. Fifty pounders maybe a hundred. Helpin' Missus Weatherby stock up firewood for the winter. He's too big for drivin' all the time, so they asked him to haul. Thing is, they were gonna give him a wagon, but he just started liftin' logs like they was nothin', and didn't quit. Kept goin' for over twelve hours before taking a break."

"Twelve hours?" Rica whispered. "How can he do that?"

Leif shrugged. "He's built tough. Another time, I saw him facin' down a bull. Course, he was kinda new then, just back from doc school."

"Yes? And?"

"Well," he took a slow drink, building the tension. "There was a bull the O'Kelly's owned a few years back. Ornery cuss. Over a ton, prize stud, only reason they kept 'im."

All three gave him an eager nod.

"So this bull gets loose and here comes Nilsson, after a long night. Bull stands in the middle of the road, won't move. Starts bellerin' at him like he owns the whole dang thing, won't let anyone get past. So Nilsson gets out, and walks up as bold as brass. You know what he did?"

Leif flashed a wide smile as the lamia bunched closer. "He hauls back and socks the doggone bull. Right in the nose. Shouted 'Bad Cow!' too. Thing was so startled it started backin' up. Then he grabs the thing's ear and starts twisting."

Another chuckle was amplified by the tankard as he took another drink. "After that, whenever the O'Kelly's started havin' trouble with that bull, they'd call Nilsson. Soon as he showed up that bull'd be on his best behavior."

Light laughter echoed through the basement as he finished. He pulled back, sensing the trio wished to discuss other topics. 'Good. Positive spin. They seem to like the physical side, or funny stories. He's big, and knows more jokes than a congressman's aide.'

"Larsen," Wesson murmured. "I believe it is safe upstairs for you. Could we talk?"

He sighed. "Sure. If my body guards let me?"

Roanette and Aredhel didn't pretend to have missed hearing. They exchanged a look, filled with conversation that flew over Leif's head. Then they both turned to Fanchon, who stood off to one side, out of the way. Her ears fluttered in surprise, but steadied. After a heartbeat, she gave a firm nod.

"Very well." Roanette stated. "But he will stay very close to us, and will return to safety should any sign of danger be presented."

"I agree to your terms." Wesson responded in grave tones. "Then, by your leave, Mister Larsen?"

In answer, Leif pushed away from the table. The notebook he flipped shut and dropped on his chair, noticing only from the corner of one eye how Roanette managed to pick it up by dint of body-checking Aredhel's lightning reflexes. 'Eager to clean? Or … no. Better not think about it.'

Getting back up the stairs took longer than normal. His left leg, stiff from exertion, refused to function at full capacity, but served well enough. He received a helping hand from a demure Sophette, whose armament had changed from the massive generator-powered monstrosity to a much more reasonable weapon four feet long, trailing ammunition belts when she lowered it too far. One of the German light machine guns, at a guess. Leif was no gun nut after all. Or so he told himself.

"Up we get," her bright smile encouraged Leif, as he gratefully took her extended arm. Holding the sixty pound machine gun in one arm seemed a trifle, considering she'd hefted his own not inconsiderable weight one-handed. But then her head swooped close, lips just outside Leif's ear the better to murmur something unheard by others. "If you should need your morale improved, give me a look and I'll wait in the barn."

The low groan Leif let out could've been interpreted as eagerness, despair or something in the middle. He let it sit and stepped up from the entry into the kitchen, where dishes were being sorted into cabinets by a group of alert-looking elves. Two neko stood there as well, overseeing the operation … although why there needed to be a task group to put away dishes was a mystery.

"Agent Wesson needs to speak with Lord Larsen." Sophette stepped away from Leif to the further corner, LMG at rest.

As one the elves hurried to finish, sliding everything into place in seconds. Such cleanliness and swift skill put his own housekeeping to shame; Leif hadn't done the laundry yet. Which was something he'd have to do whether there were snipers or not. His shirts supply was running low again.

Over to one side, sitting at a side table, was Aredhel's mother. She had a cup of tea, and just watched. Her presence was put out of Leif's mind as soon as possible.

Wesson entered next, followed by Aredhel. Long moments passed, much tramping and stamping coming from the stairs, along with muttered exclamations in some dialect Leif didn't recognize. Then Roanette made an appearance, trying to look as if a quadruped of her mass hadn't just climbed a flight of stairs designed for humans half her size.

He appreciated the effort. She hadn't needed to accompany him below – her loyalty and dedication would be missed once she grew out of her crush. The thought sent a strange sensation through his chest, ignored as the trio gathered around the kitchen table.

"As I said, the immediate area is clear. Kobold search parties found trails leading into the next farm over, and their handler is following in a Jeep." A tray of pastries appeared on the table, soon followed by mugs once more. "Thank you Fanchon." Wesson picked up a doughnut and took a ferocious bite. "There were two guns used, both .30 caliber rifles, hollow point rounds. We found the scent on a ridge about four hundred feet back up the hillside, and the casings so there's that. We also found a camp sitting in the trees on what you call Grandfather's Shoulder. It had been there about a month we suspect."

Leif stretched to pick up a Danish, taking time to inhale the sugary goodness covering its preserve-covered surface. It smelled like strawberries and cream cheese, and felt fresh. It was still warm in his hands. "Prisoners?"

"Two stragglers," Wesson admitted. "They're nobodies, but knew a few places they'd been before. The kicker is that they had a bag with clothes, which have scents all over. Right now there are teams scouring the countryside, following the smell. I've forwarded as much information as I've got to analysts back at Headquarters, and they're looking at money trails. We have credit card numbers, receipts and some good intel that can be followed up on."

"Good." Leif took a bite. The flavor melted on his tongue, flaky crust crumbling around the tart strawberry, softened through the mellow flavor of cream cheese. "How long?"

"Ordinarily, I'd say a few weeks to a few months," Wesson folded his hands, interlacing the fingers. "However, you have three major organizations working in your favor here. M.O.N., the Centaurs, and the Elves." He spared a quick look at Fanchon. "Not to dismiss the Neko delegation's capabilities, but their presence in the United States is minimal at the moment."

"At the moment," she agreed.

"For now," Wesson continued. "I'd like to continue in business as usual. There are a few people I'd like you to meet, and perhaps suggest installing a security system?"

His first instinct was to refuse. The word was on his lips – but something jogged his memory. 'I promised. Partners. My land, but can't make a decision on safety without … damn it. What have I done?'

Leif's mouth snapped shut. He hesitated, then straightened. "Ro'. What're your thoughts?"

The centauride sidestepped closer. "Muh – me?"

"Yah." Leif looked up to meet her eyes. "Promised, didn't I?"

Her cheeks pinked. "Thank you, Leif. About the security?"

He nodded again. "Yah."

All hint of levity faded. "I believe you need more security than you have at present. You are no longer a farmer in Montana. You are the supervisor of a multi-national group. Their security relies on working with a known quantity: you. If something happens to you, especially at this juncture, the entire effort could be damaged for years. We would need to work with your successor, or in the worst case scenario, move location. A great many resources have been invested in your stability, sir. We just want to keep you safe."

Leif felt the weight of the world settle on his shoulders, like a leaden harness. 'Is this what draft horses felt like?'

He massaged at his temples, where the pressure seemed highest. "Red?"

The elf stepped into sight. "I agree. At this stage I would suggest moving you to Havre, where every embassy could participate in your safety. But I believe the danger is low enough to mean you may be safe out here, with precautions."

Leif considered. 'Their safety too. Not about me, not really. I'm just a linchpin in their organization. What did Da' call it? Like a money launderer; essential, but not permanent. But still, their safety first.'

"What 'bout you, Fanchon?" it took great self-control to avoid smirking at her surprised squeak. "Thoughts?"

"I believe zat you should be safe," the neko started. She looked down, pensive at the floor. "Zis is not what I had expected, coming here. But … I would like to stay. But I would also like to stay free."

The last comment struck Leif as a trifle odd, but understandable. 'Might have some kinda contract thing. Have to talk later. But … if it walks like a duck ….'

Once more it felt as if the ground were shifting beneath his feet. The world was changing; what could a man of the earth do but adapt?

"Right then." He turned back to Wesson, who was looking at him with an almost astonished expression. "Nothin' inside the house. No cameras, no microphones, no nothing. But if you want to rig some gizmos outside … guess it might be smart to do that now."

For a full ten seconds the agent just stared, jaw working in silence. Then he started, and shot to his feet. "Thank you, Mister Larsen. I will get started on that right away. Thank you!"

Leif pursed his lips as the government man hurried towards the door. "Just a second," he called.

Wesson turned, a look of frustration clearing from his face. "Yes?"

"Call me Leif." The rancher felt a twinge of amusement at the agent's gobsmacked expression. Perhaps not everything about the city folk was annoying. Time would tell.


A/N: And here we are at the point where my backlogged chapters are all used. I'm writing fast, but not fast enough, sadly. Next chapter will be posted at the end of the month, I hope. Side note: Bad Cow is a term borrowed from a certain popular children's series of books, before they went ... modern.