Hi, all! Annabelle Hawthorne here with another exciting installment of "Sex and Property Damage: the Musical." For those who might argue there's no music, you were supposed to read the whole story like a beatboxer doing freestyle on the streets. (Maybe I should have mentioned that 110 chapters ago...)
New reader, hail and well met! Now that I sound like a stereotypical Baldur's Gate 3 NPC, I am tasking you with a quest to go back to Chapter 001 of Home for Horny Monsters and start there. Naturally, you don't have to listen to me, but you are likely underleveled and jumping into the main quest after skipping so many cutscenes is going to leave you lost and confused. But hey, if lost and confused is your kink, then you may want to sit on a towel before diving in.
Returning reader? Welcome back! I've been hard at work doing all the writerly things on my end, so I hope the wait hasn't been too painful. The wrist is doing better, but I am working on re-teaching myself how to type appropriately. I may have cheated in my typing class in High School by using hotkeys to copy/paste my way to 60 words per minute. To be fair, cramming forty kids in a room and having us peck out the same paragraph over and over again for 45 minutes really was a waste.
To anyone who wrote me, thank you so much for taking the time to drop a line and let me know you're enjoying the story, even if recent events have been stress-inducing. In my journey as an author, I've been working hard to better capture genuine moments with my characters, both good and bad, and there will definitely be some genuine, high tension moments in the chapters ahead. For those of you who can't stand waiting to see what happens next, the final installment of Book 7 (not the series, just this book) will be Chapter 116.
As always, don't forget to leave me some stars on your way out to help others find the story. I couldn't be where I am today without you, and will continue to do my best to improve my talents to be worthy of your time. Some say I do it for the fame, others the money, but the truth of the matter is that I'm treating writing just like a business these days. I suppose you could just call me
The Company Man
Cyrus walked the long halls of the underground installation, his hands tucked into his pockets as he moved with the grace of a man his age. Maybe it was the lingering dampness, an old back injury, or perhaps the weight of the world on his shoulders that had him moving at a snail's pace. He had only been at the secret base for a few hours, but was already well aware that some of the others referred to him in hushed tones as The Fossil.
That was fine. They could call him whatever they liked. Right now, in this moment, nothing about himself actually mattered. He had received word nearly an hour ago that two assets had been seized and were on their way. In his hands was a file folder with a picture of Callisto Radley, taken at a park near the house. The boy was actually a centaur who had been taken from his tribe, which had been hidden away in the magical greenhouse.
The other asset was a young child who had been with him in the centaur village. Nobody knew her name or if she was even important to Mike, but that hadn't mattered. Darius had somehow led an assault on the centaurs by himself that had yielded rewards and created more than a few questions in Cyrus' mind.
Every moment up to this point no longer mattered. Cyrus continued his exploration in slow motion, hoping to come up with a plan. The ventilation system was far too small for even a child to squeeze through and monitored by a laser grid. This whole facility had been designed once upon a time by someone else for the capture of the cryptids in Mike Radley's home, and no expense had been spared.
The hallway he traveled now was like a tomb, eerily devoid of sound. He stopped every so often to lean against the wall as if to stretch. In reality, he was probing the walls with his magic, an old trick he had learned from a mentor long ago. What had his name been?
"Fredericks," Cyrus muttered, pulling at that thread. "Master Fredericks, during my field studies. Short man, black hair, had a scar from a vampire on his left cheek...no, wait, that was Brother Blake. He was there for the field study, which was taught by Master Fenton, not Fredericks. Fredericks was the name of...someone. Hmm." He let his fingers linger on the wall, the mana penetrating about six feet deep with no results. Cyrus had a last name once, but he couldn't remember it. Back when he was a child, the Order had told him that last names were better off forgotten. That way, no being could gain power over them by using their true name.
He wondered what his last name had been. It started with an E...right? It felt strange to have forgotten something so important, but he had been young when the Order had scooped him up from the orphanage. Getting three square meals a day and being able to sleep through the night was a far better deal than waiting to starve to death in a Russian gulag. What sort of life would he have led if he had somehow managed to survive?
In all honesty, he probably would have died. Many from his hometown had simply ceased to exist. That's what happened when you were poor and unimportant. It was like everything about you was simply folded up on a piece of paper and tossed into a fire.
In the grand scheme of things, that had actually happened the moment Cyrus had joined the Order. Sure, people knew him or of him, but he would eventually become little more than a name in stories that others told. It wouldn't be the same as being remembered. For decades, he had held onto the belief that he was part of a giant family, one that looked out for each other. Thirty years ago, this was probably true. He fondly remembered the names and faces of so many men and women who had come before him, of listening to their tales with eager ears and lots of questions.
Maybe it had been a family back then, but not anymore. The winds of change had carried away fertile soil, leaving behind only sand. That was the problem with growing older than everyone else. You got to be alone with nothing but memories in the end.
He sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. His sinuses were a mess, and they didn't make the headache that had formed any better. A dull thud had appeared between his eyes, and it almost felt like he could hear it echoing off the walls.
"Cyrus?"
He turned to see Sister Laurel standing behind him, her chin lifted slightly as she regarded him with open disdain.
"That's Master Cyrus," he said.
"Not anymore," she replied. "Last I checked, protocol dictates that proper titles are to be used with--"
"Oh, please. Don't quote your protocols at me."
Laurel regarded him coolly. "Any active members or former members who are in good standing," she continued. "And as far as I can tell, you abandoned the current mission to take a job with the SoS. Until I hear otherwise from the Director, I consider you to be in poor standing."
"Then let's talk to him." Cyrus almost smiled at the idea of learning how to get a message out. "Right now, if we could."
"Radio silence for the next 72 hours is mandatory. I don't care how much the Sons are paying you, I refuse to call you Master anymore. This may just be a job to you, but my job is a calling for me."
Cyrus snorted. "I used to feel the same way. All it took to dissuade me of my own importance was a simple fall from grace. You are never more than one bad situation away from becoming an outsider. If the Director had seen what a mess you were only yesterday, you'd already be out the door. I seriously doubt he would have agreed to transfer you here."
"It's okay to admit that you need help." Laurel sniffed. "While those moments weren't my finest, I own them. As for my presence here, you have Darius himself to thank. He specifically requested me and my team."
"What do you want, Laurel?" Cyrus watched in satisfaction as the young woman's nostrils flared.
