Father Young breathed the mist like a dragon, flaring nostrils shooting streams of white. He wore round dark spectacles like a blind man. Dew glistened on his balding head, smoky tufts of hair sticking out on each side. He held his cane nearly horizontal, one hand near the top and the other gripped the midsection. Quietly he oozed out of the fog.

Gazing at the dark lenses, Sebastian recalled the strange orbs, twin storms of dark bolts cracking golden orbs. They were inhuman eyes, monstrous. Watching Father Young leaving the mist behind, he recalled the words of Thomas. The Dunston Monster arrived with the fog. Father Young had the eyes of a monster, but according to Tabitha the killer fled elsewhere.

“Shouldn’t you be at university?” Father Young stood with his feet apart, hands on the cane as if ready to attack.

“Father Gustav sent me.” Pulling coat open, Sebastian revealed the gun at hip. “My studies are on hold.”

Father Young nodded. “Boy, you and I have an agreement. You tell Gustav you’re not your father’s replacement.”

“Did you have my father murdered?”

“Don’t be absurd, boy.”

Tabitha appeared with a teacup in each hand. She offered a cup to Father Young. Slipping his cane underarm, he smiled and took the cup. Sebastian accepted the other teacup. Stepping to the side, the Dunston woman watched the men drink their tea.

“A giant,” said Father Young, raising his teacup. “To some, an intimidating sight. Others.” He lowered his cup and grinned. “To others merely a big man. A helping hand carrying the heavy load.” He removed his dark glasses.

Sebastian peered at the golden jewels bursting with dark currents radiating from the center. He thought the orbs might appear more natural on a lizard.

Father Young raised his teacup again. “A beast to some and a friend to others.”

Sebastian breathed in the cold air recalling his arrival at Dunston, an isolated little town. They likely had never seen anyone very tall before. On Mary’s insistence, they had allowed him to take the quest, find their missing Tabitha. Thomas had made it clear that only success allowed his welcome. To them, his unusual size made him a monster.

Raising his cup, Sebastian nodded a salute. He realized that of all the people, even his own siblings, Father Young understood him best. “To monsters.”

Father Young drank. Sebastian emptied his cup, the floral tea filling him with warmth.

“I wonder,” said Father Young. His strange eyes made reading difficult, but he appeared to feign curiosity. “Did your father, Rhemus the Giant, hunt monsters so others wouldn’t hunt him?”

His father, taller and nearly brutish in appearance, had earned the title of Giant at a young age. “I’m not my father.”

“No. That is why I offer you another chance. A challenge. Fail and go back to university. Tell Gustav you want to become a scholar or a priest. Something civilized.”

“On my success, I will continue my quest to find the Dunston Monster. And you’ll tell me about my father’s killer. Those are my terms.”

“Agreed.” Father Young tapped his cane twice on the ground. “I have eyes of gold, I’m older than this country, and I’m my mother’s father. What am I?”

Sebastian gazed at the gold eyes, the gray hair, and wondered about Father Young’s age. Being older than a country seemed unlikely, not impossible. A ruse, he considered. Twirling through his head he pictured gold coins, rings, needles with eyelets. Nothing fit.

Thoughts turning back to persons, Sebastian considered Father Young’s grandfather—his mother’s father. A grandfather is a person. A position fits the riddle.

Then Sebastian considered that Father Young’s riddle was meant to be taken literally.

“No monsters here,” said Sebastian.

Father Young grinned.

Glancing between the men, Tabitha appeared confused.

“Your riddle is a message.” Sebastian tried fighting it, but a smile melted onto his face. “You are a priest.”

“That’s it?” Tabitha glared at Father Young. “A priest?”

“That’s the answer to the riddle,” said Sebastian, looking over at Tabitha. “But the message is that he is of high respect within the church. My superior.”

Eyes narrowing, Tabitha studied Sebastian as if seeing him for the first time.

“Maybe the others don’t know about his inhuman eyes, but I suspect a few among the church do including Father Gustav.” Sebastian studied the gold eyes searching for confirmation. The orbs were mirrors. “And my father. He knew. Didn’t he?”

Rhemus the Giant had hunted Father Young’s kind, a revelation by the priest at their last meeting. Sebastian recalled his childhood listening to Father Young’s weekly sermons. Had the priest ever lied? Father Young’s blindness had been an unspoken lie.

Sebastian took a deep breath. “Did you order my father to hunt your own kind?”

“Dear Tabitha knows your father’s killer. Her brother knew him very well.” Father Young’s grin faded. “Please escort the lady back to town.”

Sebastian watched the priest disappear into the fog. “Another time then, Father Young.”

Fog drenched the air moistening evergreen trunks, leafless bushes, and flowers. Sebastian marveled at the late autumn flowers blooming on the mountainside above Dunston. They seemed to relish the cold moist air. Everything was wet: his hat, his coat, his trousers. Wetness even crawled his skin beneath his clothing. The forest licked him constantly.

After the shotgun welcoming, Sebastian had only asked a few questions, enough to get him started. Thomas had assured him that Myrtle Ridge was the most likely location to find the Dunston Monster. Nobody hunted here. None of the Dunston residents ever came here. According to Thomas, the ridge was cursed and the best place to start searching for their missing Tabitha.

“Two dead and one missing,” said Sebastian, going over his mental notes. An apparent miscount stopped him in his tracks. The sheriff was also missing. The city of Jefferson was the county seat. He supposed Thomas had only included Dunston residents, and other matters likely occupied Sheriff Haas. Sebastian kept the missing count at one and prayed the dead count remained the same.

The game trail veered up over slick rocks into a tangle of branches clawing at Sebastian. Roots reached out snagging his boots.

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Late evening air held its breath. An ammunition round popped into shotgun barrel freezing blood. Menacing eyes glared down the length of the barrel. Oozing around legs, fog licked the gunman.

Sebastian followed the instruction, he raised his hands in the air. His heart beat faster. This was not the first time he faced someone threatening his life, a hazard of being so big, but experience didn’t make it easier. His gaze swept the road. Lights glowed within the fog: a nearby lantern swung gently in an unseen hand, a candle illuminated a window, and deep within the murk a wriggling glow of a fire sparked. He could make out the dark shape of a second man, a boy maybe, a few feet behind the gunman. The others he heard, a murmur among boots shifting in the muddy road.

Another barking order, and Sebastian found himself taking a step closer, boot squishing mud. Even with his long coat closed tight, he shivered. His revolver pressed against his hip, beneath the coat, beyond reach.

“Look at the size of him,” said the boy. Sloshing mud, he scrambled back, fog consuming him.

Sebastian grinned, a reflex pulling at muscles. Whenever he found fear in the faces of others, a warm smile put everyone at ease. He reminded himself that the people of Dunston feared a menace. They needed reassurance. His smile burned fog from his face. His heart raced on.

“Why ya here?” The gunman’s voice sounded old, worn. His aim drooped to the giant’s legs.

“The church,” said Sebastian. The truth was his shield, and he prayed it held strong. “Father Gustav sent me.”

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“What’s the matter with you?”

Fred winced at the familiar query. Crouched, he held the paintbrush tight. He knew what came next. It never failed. Dipping the brush into the can, he sloshed white paint onto the fence.

Leaning on her walker, Mother Dove stood on the porch glaring across the yard. “Have a hole in your head?

Paint slapped on wood turning mottled gray white. Bristles splattered paint on Fred’s face. Frowning, he continued on pretending the old woman was dead

“After Labor Day,” said Mother Dove. “The yard can’t wear white.”

“Yes, Mother Dove,” said Fred. The old woman was never quite right, but it seemed the accident had stolen more than her hip. “But the fence is a blight.”

“Fred, my boy, paint the fence red.” she said. “It will go with the leaves. Might as well, you’ll not rake them anyhow.” Mother Dove turned, moved her walker clunking across the boards. She leaned on the handles, and her feet waddled a rump-rump sound. Clunk-rump-rump she went back inside.

Snatching the pail, Fred stood wondering how he put up with her. “Love,” he said, “it’s all that matters now.”

After finishing the fence, painted burgundy, Fred looked over the yard. The lawn needed mowing, the flowers demanded water, and rot threatened the eaves. He mowed the grass, even raked up stray blades from the flower garden. The yard appeared neat even without white.

Ladder leaned against the house, Fred climbed, a trowel in hand. Digging into moss and murk, he cleared the eaves, scratching away years of neglect. He heard the door open, and he paused.

Then it came, a clunk-rump-rump. “Fred?” said Mother Dove, moving her walker, a clunk-rump-rump. At the edge of the porch, she looked up. “What’s the matter with you? Have a hole in your head?”

Oh, Fred thought, how I wish her dead. He peered down. “The eaves,” he said.

“No leaves in them eaves!” Mother Dove stomped her walker on the boards. “It’s nap time as you’re well aware! Boy, let the eaves be. I have a new birdbath, didn’t you see?” A clunk-rump-rump, Mother Dove dragged her bad hip back into the house.

Fred climbed down the ladder and headed into the garage. He stood staring at the birdbath. The stone structure stood half his own height. “The birdbath will look great beside the oak tree.”

Grabbing the wide basin, he swung the pedestal out landing with a thud. His shoulders ached, but his love for Mother Dove carried him on. As quiet as he could, he walked the birdbath thudding between his soft steps across the lawn.

Positioned between the oak tree and rose bushes, the birdbath was a sight. All it needed was a splash of water. Turning around, he spotted the old woman on the porch leaning over her walker.

“Fred, have a hole in your head? That’s the north end!” Mother Dove shook her head. “Everybody knows birds bathe south for winter. You’re as dull as the dead!” A clunk-rump-rump she went into the house again.

Hands clenched, Fred stormed across the lawn, stomped onto the porch, and through the open doorway. He loved Mother Dove, but the wreck had stolen more than her hip. Reaching behind the door, he grabbed the baseball bat and swung. The sound meeting his ears was not the expected crack, more like a thunk of a melon. No more rumping and clunking, she slept in her own blood for more than an hour.

The sun down, town asleep, Fred turned off the porch light and crept, shovel in hand, into the garden. He scooped the petunias and begonias aside. He dug a hole. Twice he paused to listen, but not a sound met his ears. Finished digging, he returned to the house. Hefting the portly woman over-shoulder, he took the walker in hand, and stomped outside. He dumped the old bag, walker and all, into her grave.

“See what I did? No hole in my head.”

Petunias and begonias back in place, there was only one more thing to set everything right. Fred carried the birdbath, thumping across the lawn between his steps, and plopped the stone monument among the flowers.

“South side it is. Just like Mother Dove said.”

Returning to the house, Fred threw the door shut and took to the sofa. Arms sore, legs weary, he leaned back for a well deserved doze. Hands folded over belly, he closed his eyes.

A clunk sound broke his repose.

Sitting up, Fred gazed at the closed front door. It came again, a clunk on the porch. What could it be at this late hour? He already knew, and a rump-rump confirmed it. Another clunk-rump-rump, and the door flew open. Mother Dove, covered in dirt, leaned over her walker.

“Fred my boy,” said Mother Dove. “You never been right since the smash-up.” Clunk-rump-rump, she walked into the house spilling a cloud of dust. “A hole in your head, isn’t that what I said?”

Fred scrambled to the mirror, and there he saw it within his mess of hair, a circle of red. “I have a hole in my head,” he said. “All along since the car accident, we’ve been dead.”

Looking at the girl, Nyx found a face wrecked in worry. She noted the clasped hands, thumbs working flesh.

Nobody ever asked anything of Nyx besides her swift departure. Men huddled by the fire or hid in their homes. They never faced her. Nobody ever did, not until that early morning the young girl came calling.

Removing her hat, Nyx peered up at the glimmering stars. Considering the request, she ran fingers back through her dark hair. The moon smiled, but face half illuminated it appeared more like a sneer. Looking east, she saw the red embers reminding her of a kiss.

The request came again in a burst of tears.

Patting hat on head, Nyx offered a smile. It felt cold, and she saw fear in the wide eyes.

Agreeing to the request, Nyx tugged at her dress gathering the darkness about her. She stormed across the meadow her cold gaze bearing down on Black Woods. Nocturnal insects sang their songs. Hair blowing, dress flowing, she crossed a river. A man dove into a home, door slamming shut. Entering the woods, she stormed up the mountain, river of darkness flowing behind her.

Atop the granite peak, the moon lit the way. Creeping from the woods, the wolves circled around. Some snarled, others cooed. Reaching out, she stroked their black manes as each one passed. Alpha took position upon his rock, and the others settled down gnawing at bones.

Alpha grinned, teeth dripping satisfaction. “Mistress,” he said, “we have done you a great favor.”

Spotting a boy climbing upon the rock, Nyx recognized the eyes. The girl’s brother stroked Alpha’s back. In the west, red embers lingered on horizon. Glancing east, she watched light growing bold. The weight of the problem fell upon her.

“The lad only wants to see his dear sister,” said Alpha.

Nyx shook her head. “Don’t believe his lies.” The wolves of the night wanted her all to themselves, never again hiding in their cave from her lost lover. “He means to devour you both.”

The boy withdrew his hand, fear melting his face. He stepped down from the rock.

“Dusk is ours!” Alpha snapped his teeth and snarled.

Reaching into dark dress, Nyx withdrew a sword. Fury exploded from her dress, cold waving over the mountain. She held the sword high, blade sparking into night sky. Tails hanging, the wolves glanced about. Nyx lashed out releasing energy. The mountain darkened, and wolves yipped bounding into their cave. Another thunder sent Alpha leaping from his rock.

The blade simmered smoking tendrils.

Standing before the boy, Nyx offered a smile. Her frozen glare sent him stumbling back.

“Please,” said the boy. “My sister.”

Looking upon the sorrow, her own longing grew. Lover lost, a forgotten kiss tickled her face. The siblings deserved better.

Gazing at the lantern in the sky, she pleaded. Listening, the moon nodded thinking it over. The wolves grew bolder, yellow eyes glinting from their cave. At last, the moon smiled and offered a solution.

Turning to the boy, Nyx knelt. “You will see your sister again, but you must return. Guard the border.”

Wiping a tear, the boy nodded. He took the sword and descended the mountain into the west.

Already the dark wolves were bounding down the mountain towards orange blazing horizon.

Descending through woods, cascading darkness, Nyx chased after. Reaching into the dark, she unsheathed her last remaining sword. The blade glimmered lighting the way. Bursting into the meadow, she found the girl surrounded by wolves.

Growls rumbled. Jaws snapped. The girl retreated, but the pack closed in caging their prey.

The blade sparked, a blinding orange shattered air sending wolves tumbling. Leaping onto his feet, Alpha snarled at the light. Waving the sword, Nyx glared at the wolf.

Light burned higher into sky; the dark wolves were out of time. A growl at eastern horizon, Alpha turned and led his pack racing for the cave.

Holding out the sword, Nyx instructed the girl on its use. Light recharged the blade keeping dark wolves at bay. Taking the weapon, the girl queried about her brother.

Removing hat, Nyx wiped cold sweat from her brow. “A promise. You will reunite with your brother. Whenever the moon joins the sun, light and dark together, you two shall meet.”

Throwing arms around, the girl hugged her.

The dawn fire burned. Nyx remembered the day, not its warm touch, but the brightness. Facing south, she gazed up at sky. Half her face lit, the moon smiled brightening the dark side.

Morning birds sang greetings. Men stirred in their homes. The wolves hid in their cave. Nocturnal creatures took a deep breath chilling the air, and settled into slumber.

Squishing hat on her head, Nyx looked down at the pleasant eyes.

“Will you watch with me?” Another request. A little hand rose, fingers open. “Will you watch the sunrise?”

Gathering the darkness about her, she reached out and grasped the warm hand. Sky blazed, orange pushing back the darkness. Dawn glowed.

Winking, the moon signaled the sun: the passage was clear.

Nyx remembered sunrise, the grandeur. Warm kiss, a forgotten memory teased her cheek. Lips quivering, she yearned to return the sweetness.

Day fire burned extinguishing stars. The world faded, little hand slipping away, a fleeing memory. Storm of light and dark rumbled, a wind pulled at dress and tugged hair. Nyx clasped her hat, and the world returned in a breath.

Glancing west, Nyx spotted the burning horizon where Dusk stood holding his sword. She looked at her empty hand, recalling the warmth, remembering Dawn.

She waved at Dusk and spun around heading into a valley. Darkness was her dress flowing over the land. Never sleeping, she raged on. The night was hers, and she was the night. The night moved on.