They walked in silence, treetops interrupting the emerging sun’s light. She’d put him back in her cleavage, but he didn’t complain this time. It was practical. The pillowy texture was a bonus.

Muggy air pressed against his skin, making it slimy, and fallen branches crunched beneath Salia’s feet. Birds tweeted nearby. Droning insects darted about, keeping clear of the birds. Scents of oak and maple mixed with her distinctive musk—sweet and earthy, tinged with sweat.

She muttered to herself. He glanced up, seeing her face scrunched, and thought better of saying anything. He’d let the gears finish turning before he tried to wind them.

They’d trekked all night, no stops, but she didn’t falter. An endless sea of trees had surrounded them. Occasionally, her scalp popped through the canopy, which amused him. He didn’t laugh, though. It felt wrong.

Leaves rustled as a breeze cooled them. Huffing, Salia dropped down, sitting against a willow. “Do you think that’s far enough?”

Pursing his lips, he surveyed the area. They’d stopped in a clearing flanked so completely it felt walled, and wide enough for Salia to spread out. Tough shrubs dotted the soil, flecking dreary brown with green. He wiggled around, turning.

“Nah,” he said. “Maybe another league or so, to be safe.”

“Do you even know what a league is?”

An old-timey mile?

Salia frowned, hugging her knees. “Do you think so?”

“No, I’m… I was joking. Never mind. Are you alright?”

“I don’t know,” she said, cradling her brow. “It’s not like I wanted to go back and hide, but I still feel this pit in my stomach. Like something’s been stolen from me.”

He nodded. “It’s always nice to have somewhere to go back to. When it gets taken, it hurts.”

She tilted her head. “You sound like you know.”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling wistfully and thinking of his office. The patched sofas stained with whiskey, the perpetual stink of coffee, and his laptop that sounded like a chain smoker with a lung missing.

The pair of idiots he couldn’t get rid of.

“What’s it like?” said Salia.

“Nothing special,” he replied. “Small. Simple. Falling apart in places, but it’s home.”

“Are you describing the office or yourself?”

“It sounds nice.” She met his gaze. “I wish I could have that without people trying to murder me. How am I supposed to make them understand I’m not a threat?”

“I dunno. When people get scared, they stab first, ask questions later.”

“But why?!” she said, clenching a fist. “Why do they have to be afraid? If they’d take a moment to listen, they’d know they have no reason. I’d at least like someone to say hello before slinging fire at me!”

“I get it.” He rubbed his scalp. “Really, I do. It ain’t fair. But the world ain’t just gonna change for you. It’s big and cold and it don’t care. All you can do is stand up and try to change it yourself.”

Her legs snapped straight, and she grinned. “Okay, then I will. I’ll change it!” She stared at him for a second. “How?”

“Excellent job! Aren’t you going to answer her?”

Are you just gonna be unhelpful all chapter?

“Essentially.”

Sighing, he shrugged. “No clue.” His gut twinged as her features fell. “We’ll figure it out.”

Her smile returned, and she touched his back. A delicious shiver ran down it. “Thank you,” she said. “What do you think we should do next?”

“Rest, maybe,” he said, stifling a yawn. “Keep a lookout for anything weird or out of place. Might help with my problem.”

“Like that?” She pointed behind him.

He craned his neck. A door, built into an oak that towered over even Salia, occupied the clearing across from them. Next to it was a sign with white letters, reading ‘Magic Beans Sold Here’.

“Yep,” he said, “that’ll do it.”

***

The sky was red as Lydia descended on the village. Her examination of the beanstalk had taken most of the day, and her eyelids grew heavy, but she’d power through it. Once she’d asked her questions, she was sure she could find a bed.

A thirty-foot windmill rose from the centre of wheel-and-spoke paths, each lined by primitive constructions with thatched roofs. These appeared on the verge of falling down. A wooden wall ringed it all, its spiked top spelling death to invaders. It meant nothing to her, though.

One structure across from the windmill had two stories. A crowd had gathered there, surrounding a bundle of sticks and straw at the base of a tall stake. She cocked an eyebrow. What was all this for? Some kind of festival, or ceremony? She smelled smoke, but it was more like a smithy, or overcooked food.

The atmosphere was cool and light. Still, something hung over these people. As she approached, she heard snippets of conversation, talking about ‘capture’ and ‘monsters’. Hence the bundle, she supposed.

It was a pyre.

Giants weren’t her area of expertise—‘how giant?’ was a philosophical question she couldn’t answer—but the stake looked too short. What were they roasting?

She landed on their fringe, next to the pyre, sending dust and dirt swirling. A few pairs of eyes darted to her and widened.

“Hello, peasants,” she said.

Before she could finish, both arms were locked. Two stocky men grabbed them, one each, both wearing the same shirt and suspenders. Both had thick brown hair and similar jawlines. They were likely related. The biceps threatening to burst from their sleeves also seemed genetic—she was helpless.

A man in a tunic ran toward a white building with a cross on the door. The church?

Not good.

“That’s ‘er,” said a woman, stepping to the front of the assembly. She had braided pigtails and a light cloth dress. “‘Short, mouthy, dressed like an ‘ore’, that’s what Fergus said.”

“Fergus drinks too much,” said a short man, round and ginger and shaggy.

Lydia twitched. No more reminders required—this was a dark age. Not a reenactment, or terrible daytime TV movie, but the real thing.

And she’d been throwing magic around like it was going out of fashion. Which it had, she supposed.

She inspected her outfit. She’d discarded her jacket, so was left with jeans, boots, and a tight red blouse.

Scoffing, she said, “What part of this is ‘dressed like a whore’? I’m barely showing any skin.”

“What about those massive bags of sin on your chest?” said the ginger man.

“Yours are bigger, and you don’t see me complaining.” She grunted when one of her captors wrenched. Needles pierced her neck, an explosion brewing in her belly.

“Jezebel,” said the girl. “We know what you are, we do. You’re a witch!”

“How dare you! Do I look like I live in a hedge and play around with lamb’s blood, hmm?”

“You look like a devil’s minion!”

She harrumphed. “I only met him once, and I was by no means a minion.” They jarred her again, and she yelped.

“See! You do consort with Satan.”

“Perhaps, but is that really a reason to kill somebody?”

“Yeah!”

“Look, I need to find my friend, so—”

“The only thing you’ll find is eternal damnation, my dear.” A bald man in black robes strode through the crowd, who parted instantly. He wore a wolfish expression, a shining cross swinging from his neck.

Lydia gulped.

“You’re a priest,” she said.

“Joshua,” he replied, leering. “And you are the witch I was told of. Imagine the witchfinder’s glee when he arrives to see his quarry already removed. The peace in the heart of the hunter as he sets out on his quest. Truly, we begin to see a new dawn. A new crusade.”

She smirked. “Is there any reason your new dawn happens at dusk, or do you simply dislike regular trends?”

One of the goons punched her, and she retched. Her stomach curled and recoiled. The thump reverberated through her midsection, disturbing her ribs. She coughed, knees buckling.

“Save your pathetic retorts for the demons,” said Joshua.

“That hunter,” she said. “What is he hunting?”

“Perhaps God shall tell you, if you choose to repent.”

She spat. In her experience, He wasn’t fond of answers. But whether she got them or not, there was always a way out. She had one job. She’d sooner grovel than allow these to stop her.

Several people communed with the priest, and the crushing weight of history bore down on her. Nothing said ‘authenticity’ like a good, old-fashioned witch-burning.

Joshua turned, motioning to the pyre.

“Bind her.”

***

Clattering rang out from the HARDON, Dr. Wen slapping the side of the console. They’d reopened the window, but it didn’t stop smoke filling the room, so pungent she could taste it. The other three conferred on the sofas. Hannah leaned against the back of one, arms folded.

She stared at the cursing scientist. Why had his stupid invention chosen that moment to break?

She’d definitely been too harsh with Lydia before. Sure, she’d acted on impulse, but her intentions had been good. Hannah saw that now. This was the woman who, regardless of her own safety, had infiltrated Satan’s camp and stopped Armageddon. She’d saved her and Jack from van Hellsong. So many times, she’d been there when it counted.

She was good, and Hannah hadn’t cut her enough slack. Usually, she’d apologise and tell her how she felt.

But she couldn’t.

First Jack, now Lydia. When she’d finally started progressing, too. After an eternity blending with the background, she’d found a place to fit in. A place where she was noticed. Where she stood out.

Where she was special.

Suddenly, that place felt vast and lonely.

Dr. Wen emerged from the phonebox, clearing his throat. “Okay, that should do it…”

“What’s the problem?” said Hannah, perking up.

“I’m not sure. She was just sort of phasing in and out…” He rubbed the HARDON. “Perhaps it’s an occupancy issue.”

Her heartbeat quickened. “What do you mean?”

“Well, she was originally designed to carry Violet and me, no others. So it could, hypothetically, be possible that her current ‘performance issues’ are due to being, how would you say it? Overstuffed.”

“So basically,” said Lizzie, leaning back over the sofa, “ye cannae go anywhere wi’ more than one other person?”

“That is correct, yes.”

Lizzie sucked her teeth. “Pains me to say it, but looks like we’re sittin’ this one oot.”

Hannah slackened. Wonderful. Her two best friends’ fates were on the line, and she had no role aside from sitting on her thumbs.

She was powerless.

***

Jack scrutinised the door, his brow furrowed. Salia studied the bark next to him. He frowned.

“Well, this ain’t suspicious, is it?” he said.

“Why?”

“Exactly what we need, exactly when we need it?” Edging back, he gripped Razor instinctively. “Has to be a trap.”

Shaking her head, she palmed her face. “Or it could be a helpful coincidence.”

“Maybe,” he said, relaxing. “Who’s buying magic beans in the middle of a forest, though?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “But I was thinking—when you want somebody to like you, you give them things, right?”

He stared at her. “Uh, I guess?”

“So you’re aware, that’s called love bombing and it’s toxic.”

I’m not gonna dignify that with a response.

“You just did.”

“So,” said Salia, “if I plant the beanstalk and give the beans to any nearby humans, maybe they’ll think ‘what a nice Giant’ instead of ‘oh, scary thing, let’s destroy her’.”

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You wanna bribe them into not attacking you?”

“Well…” She fiddled with her hair. “Yes! Do you think it’ll work?”

Stranger things had happened, and people were greedy. Ronan’s box of riches proved that. He shrugged. “Worth a shot.”

She beamed, opening her mouth to speak.

Creaking wood cut her off.

In the now-open doorway stood a tiny old woman, grey hair curling to her shoulders in wisps. A flowing blue robe adorned her, along with a pointy hat. This drooped as she spoke.

“Do you intend to chat out here all day, or will you come in?”