“What was that about?” I demand. “Who is Kasumi? What game? Who sent Eirdryd, and why?”

Averrich only laughs at my questions, seeming darkly amused. “If you don’t know already… well, you’ll learn soon enough. That is, provided you live to see the morrow. The big event will be the talk of the town!”

Argh, I hate this secret-keeping bullshit. Why is everyone in this world so keen on holding back information? I glare at the pointy-eared bastard and insist, “I don’t have a single clue what you’re babbling about. If you want me to swear my ignorance by the Weaver, I will. I was dropped into this world yesterday, and the past day has not exactly been conducive to information gathering. I just want answers. Please, just tell me what’s going on.”

The fae chuckles again. “No, no I don’t think I will. It’s much more entertaining to watch you squirm like a squirrel in a snare. But, I must say, it would be quite selfish of me to hoard this entertainment all to myself and my dear lieutenants. I think it’s time we brought in the rest of our audience, don’t you? Together, I think we can give them a simply wonderful show.”

Averrich rises from his throne to his full height, and he takes the time to adjust his cufflinks and brush back his mop of hair–which springs back into shape the moment his hand retreats. The elf snaps his fingers and immediately all the doors lining the chamber fly open to reveal a waiting crowd.

More reavers stream into the room in a disorderly fashion, all wearing their signature gambesons and carrying swords, spears, bows, crossbows, and so on. I see the owl from before perched on one of the reavers, and there are a few more of those ugly, hairless, too-muscular not-dogs with human eyes and oversized teeth. New beasts pad alongside them: a pair of wolves that look formed of creaking branches and wicked thorns, with eyes of burning green and cracks in thick bark that reveal bright green sap beneath. Cheshire points them out as they file in. “Goblin dogs and bark wolves. They’re homunculi of Summer, just like the owlbear.”

“That one’s an orc,” she adds, pointing to a man with gray-green skin and yellowed tusks, with salt-and-pepper hair and beard trimmed short and neat. The orc has fire-orange eyes that remind me of Eirdryd’s, and he’s wearing a black smock and heavy gloves. “Summer retainer, one of several types. He’s probably the forgemaster for the whole operation.”

The last to file in are a group of squat green creatures with sharp teeth, big eyes and ears, and flat, almost pug-like noses. They’re not wearing armor like the reavers, but they’re wearing normal clothing–no rags or dirty sack-cloth–and all have knives at their belts. The goblins–it’s obvious even before Cheshire calls it out–are wheeling in tall, thin, rectangular objects, each object covered in a sheet and manned by two goblins.

The goblins take their places on the right side of the room and remain by what they brought in, while the rest of the new arrivals cluster about the left side with Mahiri and Kado. When everyone seems gathered, Averrich sweeps his hands broadly and booms, “Friends and subjects, hunters of all stripes: welcome, welcome, to our moot! I have called you here because of this loathsome wretch you see before you. I tell you, friends, that one who is both demon and witch has strayed into our court.”

Again, I see a complicated mix of reactions from the assemblage: those who heard my nature already are able to control their expressions, but the rest are hearing it for the first time. A few of the reavers scoff or laugh, as if it must be a joke; their peers look nervous, eyes wandering, hands tensing. The forgemaster merely crosses his arms and narrows his eyes, but most of the goblins seem frightened and inch closer to each other.

I drink in the fear, and find that sensation surprisingly literal: I can taste the little shock of dread that passes through them all at the reveal of what I am. It’s heady and rich, almost decadent in its unexpected satisfaction. There are people in this room who are afraid of me–of me, the worthless loser nerd too frail to kill a bug just a few short days ago. There’s a trickle of mana, too, but that feels like dessert to the main course.

Averrich catches my gaze, and whatever he sees in me makes him smirk. I realize, then, that he’s paused in his speech, and he’s giving me a bit of air to contribute to the scene. In some strange, twisted way, I am his partner in this bit of theater. I wonder, briefly, how I can be so certain of that fact, but regardless it is undeniable. Alright, I’ll play.

“It’s true,” I tell the assemblage with a wicked grin. “The Abyss swims in my veins, and the Demiurge herself has taken a special interest in my existence. My name is Maven Alice, and I am a monster unlike any you have ever met.” The taste of fear deepens, but only a little; I don’t exactly have much more than words to back up my claim at this juncture. Still, every little bit helps.

“Monster indeed,” the elf says. “A monster that one of our own has already fallen victim to. She trespassed our territory and hunted within our grounds, glutting herself upon a figment at one of our clubs. By acts of malignance, has she not revealed herself to be a true beast?”

The question is obviously leading, and the crowd is happy to oblige: jeers erupt from the reavers and goblins present, though not all. For my part, I curl my lip and protest, “My trespass was an accident! No insult was meant to you and yours, Goblin King. I arrived in this city yesterday, and my supposed guide was more interested in getting rid of me than explaining your borders and conventions.”

“And yet,” Averrich says, “those borders were still disrespected.”

“How was I to know they existed?” I ask with clear exasperation. “There was no marker of ownership, no indication that a boundary was being crossed! You claim malignance, but my trespass was purely accidental.”

“Oh? And was it an accident, too, when you murdered Shane Murtagh?”

Murtagh. His name was Shane Murtagh. I will remember that. “That was no murder,” I protest with more confidence than I feel. “It was an act of self-defense. I didn’t have a choice. He didn’t give me a choice.”

“And what were you defending yourself from, witchlet? What terrible fate had my reaver promised you?” Averrich’s blue-green eyes shine like sunlight hitting water, and I hesitate to answer, so he keeps talking. “Ah, that’s right: it was this very conversation. Shane Murtagh sought to bring you to me, and for that you took his life. Tell me, Maven Alice: do you still justified in killing that man?”

His gaze burns into me and I wilt away, my voice wavering and soft as I tell him once more, “I didn’t have a choice.”

“There is always a choice,” the elf chides me. Then, to the crowd, he booms, “This blackguard’s insult shall not go unanswered! A crime against any of my hunters is a crime against all of my hunters, this I swear to you as your rightful king.”

Mahiri is glaring daggers at me, but the rest of the reavers are harder to parse; they make some noise for their leader’s proclamation, but do they believe it? Am I looking at a pack of loyal marks taking in every word, or are they humoring Averrich because they don’t have a choice?

I flicker soul sight and peer into Kado’s soul, ink and charcoal bleeding away to expose a beating heart of calm blue. Measured, steady, purposeful. He, too, is playing his part in this performance, following his lines as the Goblin King wrote them. For what?

“Though the demon-witch has vast potential for growth, she is yet a mere fledgling before the powerful.” Averrich’s continued speech snaps me out of soul sight, and I look at the elf with my physical–or faux-physical, I should get used to thinking–eyes. “I could slay this whelp with but a word… and yet, that hardly seems fair, now does it?”

He cracks a grin, and he lets his people cheer and jeer. Mahiri’s hand tightens around the hilt of her shiny new sword. Imlashi huffs. Kado watches, calm and measured.

“Who would I be,” he asks rhetorically, “if I were to hoard all this glory for myself? This demon will make a truly excellent trophy for some worthy hunter, and I would not dare deprive my followers of the chance for such a hunt. No, I think striking her down here would be entirely the wrong decision. But what say you? Shall we give the demon a chance to play prey?”

This time, the whole crowd roars their approval, and I see hunger in many eyes. Hunting trophy. Cheshire told me that’s one of two ways that Summer makes artifacts. They want to hunt me down and forge a magic item from my bones.

Averrich laughs with delight and sweeps a hand toward the goblins. “Well, I think that’s quite clear. Goblins, unveil the mirrors.” Six sheets are pulled from six tall mirrors, and immediately my tension ratchets up another notch. “All ye gathered, I call a hunt: five volunteers and one wretched demon will step through these mirrors and fall into a specially-prepared dream bubble. There, the reavers will seek their target, who seeks to escape, and all six must avoid the seeking gaze of the Reveler which makes that maze its home.”

Reveler? Where have I–oh, fucking hells. It’s one of the Mourner’s siblings, AKA another version of the bastard that nearly ended me before I met Cheshire. The catgirl in question grimaces. “Throwing his own hunters into a Reveler’s maze… is he mad, or is there another layer?”

Mahiri steps forward and raises her chin defiantly. “I will answer the call, my king. I shall hunt the beast, and anyone who wishes to steal that prize will have to take it over my dead body. I will claim the demon’s head.” Mahiri looks at me with such naked loathing that I almost flinch.

Yeah, kinda saw that one coming. Is this just about the eye, and her wounded pride, or did she have some affection for Murtagh? Four more reavers step forward to volunteer for the hunt, though none of them are as dramatic about it as Mahiri was. There’s a woman with a spear, a man with a crossbow and a dog, a woman with a bandolier of knives, and a man with a sword and buckler.

I size up my opponents, and they do the same to me. One of them, the man with the crossbow, smirks at me and says, “I’ll try to make it quick and painless, darlin’.”

I smile sweetly and reply, “I make no such promises. Overconfidence is a slow and insidious killer.”

He just huffs and hefts his crossbow. The others don’t talk, merely eyeing me speculatively. I wonder how much Mahiri has told them of our encounter in the nightclub.

Averrich claps his hands together and declares, “We have our volunteers! Brave hunters, everlasting glory awaits the greatest of your number–but remember: though you are all part of my Carnival, only one of you can claim the trophy of this hunt. Now… mark your prey, and we can begin.”

As one, the five reavers look at me and say, “[Hunter’s Mark].” I feel no change, but I can hear the strange tonal indicator of a spell being cast.

“Tracker spell,” Cheshire tells me. “Probably how they found us after the mall, come to think of it.”

For a moment I grit my teeth in frustration, but then the colder, more rational voice in my head speaks up. This represents an opportunity. We have to get the sequencing right, obviously, but there’s the potential for significant gains here. We leverage what we know about Averrich and his game to petition for an evening of the playing field, and then we pull out our ace.

Averrich is speaking again. “The prey is marked, the maze awaits! Prove yourself in this hunt and earn this demon’s trophy.”

I laugh scornfully. “Earn it? Hardly. I see what kind of hunt you’re really interested in: no test of skill or cunning, but a fox hunt: no risk to the hunter, no chance of failure, only the baying of hounds and the laughter of the lazy. Are you really going to stack the deck in your favor so openly?”

The elf cocks his head and grins. “Bold words, but they lack bite. Am I to believe a demon witch has no means of punishing the hunter and their hounds?”

I spread my hands and lean toward him. “If I was at full strength, maybe, but I’ve had a rough few days. If you want this hunt to be worthy–if you want this show to be entertaining–then we have to even the playing field a little: a last meal, to give me the strength to make your hunters work for their trophy.” I bare my fangs and run my tongue across my teeth.

Averrich makes a show of considering the idea, while a few of the reavers and goblins look between the two of us nervously; they must be wondering if he’s going to offer one of them as that last meal. When he speaks again, it’s not to me but to his right-hand imp. “What do you think, Imlashi? Does the girl look starved to your sight?”

Imlashi quirks her lip. “She’s a demon, Averrich; they’re always hungry.”

The Goblin King laughs, this one deep and booming. “Yes, yes I suppose so. Well, demon,” he says, turning to me, “I’ll let you have your meal. Let it never be said that I was unfair in the calling of a hunt. In fact… I’ll even let you drink from my very own veins.”

His grin is wicked as he holds out an arm and pushes back the sleeve. A single glimpse of his bared wrist is enough to get the hunger rising. What does fae blood taste like? Would it give me more mana?

Cheshire steps in front of me, expression urgent. “Don’t, Alice; the madness you saw in him might be infectious. This is almost certainly another trap. Push for the lycanthrope instead.”

I was right! Werewolf! The woman in question is back by the throne, having slipped back into the room when I wasn’t paying attention. The thought of drinking werewolf blood has me salivating even more than fae blood. Can I become a vampire werewolf!? Is that a thing!?

I glance back at Averrich and say, “A generous offer, Goblin King, but I’m afraid your blood wouldn’t agree me. I’d much rather have a taste of that woman at your side, actually: the lycanthrope.”

The werewolf narrows her eyes at me, but Averrich seems to take no offense. He says, “Picky eater, are we? I’ll allow it. Gretchen, what say you?”

Gretchen curls her lip and I catch sight of some very lovely fangs filling her mouth. “If she thinks she can handle it.”

I don’t wait for further permission; I dart over to the werewolf, brush her mane of hair out of the way, and sink my fangs into that powerful neck of hers. She doesn’t stop me, but she doesn’t give like Lena did, and there’s something unnervingly satisfying about that moment where my fangs meet resistance, slow, and then push through.

Lena was ecstasy like red-burning life and tender, juicy meat. Her blood was like the pulse in my veins and the beating of my heart, and her blood was the energy that suffuses my whole body when I got lost in a manic episode. Her blood was life and joy and desperate, loving hunger.

Cameron was a duller taste, like meat still soft and tender but dried of its savory juices. His blood was no true crimson but an imitation shade, and his blood was the hunger you feel after a meal that doesn’t quite fill you.

Gretchen’s blood, though, is primal need and the acid burning in overworked muscles. Her blood is the iron taste of bleeding gums and the scent of rich earth. Her essence flows into me and I feel more than anything the urge to rip and tear with fang and claw.

I bite down harder, my jaw begging to clench harder and pierce deeper. I want to rip out a chunk of her throat. I want to swallow her flesh and keep going. I want to devour her whole. I want–

She’s pushing me off, bloody gash in her neck, that wonderful taste lingering in my mouth and on my lips. I stumble back and catch myself, deep breaths, eyes wide and wild. My gaze is still locked to the blood dripping down her neck, enticing me, singing to me. It was a messy feed, this time, messier than my first.

The lycanthrope growls at me, and I have to laugh. It bubbles out of me like all my manic laughs do, and I grin. “Fuck, you taste good. After I kill all your friends, I’m going to enjoy coming back for seconds.” I wipe the blood from my face with my hand, and then I catch sight of that vibrant red and can’t help but lick it off.

Hahaha, you look like a fucking psychopath right now. What the fuck is wrong with you? I lap up the last of the blood and laugh again, this time bad enough that I nearly double over.

I look up at Averrich, the would-be king watching me with clear interest, and match his smirk with one of my own. I pull Shane Murtagh’s dagger from my throne world, hold it up, and name it, “[Hunter’s Marker].”

See, I think I know why I got the [Swarmheart] wrong: it was all about the resonances. Eirdryd shot flaming arrows from his bow with supernatural agility, and my Gift took that and gave me a burning dagger that made me a bit faster. I spam-summoned bugs and made them eat each other, so my Gift gave me a rock that made more bugs and then ate them to empower a single survivor bug.

This time, the resonance is clean and clear: five instances of the same spell, all doing the exact same thing, all doing exactly what I want my new artifact to do. I focus all my attention on the man standing in front of that throne, and I will the dagger to become a compass pointing to my marked quarry.

As I speak those bolded, bracketed words, almost immediately I can feel with some new sixth sense the location of the Goblin King. It’s like there’s a tickling in the back of my mind, a strange navigational instinct that points right where Averrich is standing. I’ve marked him as my quarry, and now I can find him from anywhere.

For a moment, I see a flicker of surprise cross Averrich’s face. He masters it quickly and resumes that mocking smirk, but now I know I’ve done something he didn’t predict. “Ah,” he says, voice low. “So that’s the kind of witch you are.”

“That and more.”

Averrich considers me for a moment longer, but then he claps and applauds me, “Bravo, demon witch. You’ve claimed two prizes for your trouble, and given us all an excellent showing. There can be no doubt that this will be a fair and worthy hunt.”

I glance doubtfully at the five people chosen to try and murder me. Yeah, sure.

“Now enough delays: let the hunt… begin!”

The five reavers each walk to a different mirror, and I reluctantly walk to the last one left. There’s no point in trying to stop this; my best chance of survival is to enter the maze, kill all my opponents, and escape from there.

I step through the mirror, and it begins.