Prologue

UNKNOWN

Four beers, 5 bucks a pint; six Kelperitas, setting me back at 15 each, plus the eight shots of gnomezcal, 25... I'm making a balance sheet in my head, and it's not looking good. I was already broke, and now I'm afraid I'll have to roll out a water and pasta meal plan for the next few weeks. But it was totally worth it because I made a new friend, a chimera babe, now taking up almost a third of my mattress. I've only known her for a few hours, but our chemistry skyrocketed after our last round of shots at Hell's Garden pub.

We talked about interior design and refurbishing. I mentioned I had recently renovated my flat. She wanted to see it with her own eyes, and I wanted to see the rest of her body. So, as a well-bred gargoyle, I took her home.

I conquered, she came, we both saw it, but now I'm impatiently waiting for the 'and she left' part, you know, vici, veni, vidi... or whatever the order. I bring my wrist to my face, the neon glow-in-the-dark needles of my watch showing a pressing eleven-thirty-seven p.m. Our fuck session ended a fleeting moment ago, so now I'm patiently waiting for the polite ten-minute mark to pass before telling Cinderella she has to go.

With my head resting on my pillow, I casually extend my hand, giving her berry-brown fleeced shoulder a gentle nudge.

Like a sensitive push button, she responds to my touch, flipping the whole of her body on me. "I can't take another round, gargoyle. But..." Her thick, paw-like fingers walk over my chest, and one lightly taps my nose. "If you ask nicely, I can make an exception for you."

She's mistaking my intentions. "Sweetheart, I have a confession to make."

She looks at me with those big, sandy eyes. "I'm listening."

Aiming for a direct hit, I use the mantra that's never failed me. "I've got another date."

The fur on her body stands on end, her long teeth gleaming a snarl at me. "You have another what?"

Hammering the nail is my method of choice, so I hammer hard, repeating, "I've got a date, and you need to go." It's a date with the open skies, but she doesn't need to know that.

"You bet I am." She pushes off, her unkind claws digging into my pectorals.

Truth or dare?

Dare! "You can still call me."

The snakehead at her tail's tip hisses for her as she gasps, "Excuse me?"

"You can still call me."

Her knee squashes my left wing as she straddles me, causing me a pain I suppress into a very tight grin.

"What if she figures out?" she suddenly muses, almost playfully.

I wink. "Justice is the open kind."

"Work duty? Now?" Her eyes turn kittenish, perhaps remembering I had told her earlier that I work at the twenty-fifth police precinct.

"Yes." It's not quite cop duty, but it's close—totally personal and perhaps illegal. No. The whole thing is a hundred percent lawless, but it's still a duty call.

"Simply cancel, give an excuse... lie for me," she says, mostly raising a red flag because she's the needy, unethical kind.

I pinch her chin. "I can't do that, and you know it." My tone is insistent, and I'm not hiding it. If she doesn't get the gist, she's not paying attention.

I watch her bite her lower lip. "Why don't you cuff me instead? I've been a bad chimera lately."

The ghost of a groan rumbles in my chest. "Don't worry," I whisper, "I'll come back to arrest you." I will, now that I know she sells a drug called Glow. I mean, that's how she approached me. It didn't matter to me; I didn't want to lose my night catch, so I bought the pouch. Sounds like I'm easy to corrupt said like that... Anyway, Mina, Mandy, no, Mendy... ah fuck, I can't remember her name, swings her legs over the edge of the bed and sits, showing her muscly winged back at me, her snake tail waving about my torso.

"Same number you gave me at the bar?" she says, shoving her legs into tight jeans.

"Same, beautiful, same." I grab her oversized bra casually flung on my nightstand. "Come here."

She begins bubbling with breathy laughter as my hands, full of cups and straps, help her insert her arms and generosity into them, even tucking her staples at the back. She then stands, leans down to me, grabs my two horns, and, bringing my head forth, lands a peck on my lips. "You've just become a curse to me... the one you don't want but need."

"Kitten, you're my favorite flashing LED flag, the red one."

Her almond eyes turn into perfect round balls of confusion.

Shit. Still, that came out better than expected. Keep the smirk, bro... "You're eye-catching." It's true. She's a stunner. Even though I might not have mentioned the flashing LED flag for that reason, I needed to blurt out something. The limits between lies and unsaid words often overlap with me, and every day is a new challenge because gargoyles cannot lie.

She simpers like it was a compliment before staring at my cock. "I can catch so many other things, too."

"Without a doubt." I follow her cue, get out of bed, and with a firm, driven arm snugly wound around the small of her back, walk her to the door.

"Call me," she says, her hand clinging to my door as I try not to push it forward. "You have my number."

I press her coat and bag into her arms simultaneously. "What about this? You call me, and I'll come."

"Go arrest some orcs," she carelessly flings at my face.

"Or fae harassers and drug dealing chimeras," I add.

She marks a pause, a little seriousness crossing her eyes, and then huffs a laugh. "You're funny."

And you're out, love. Very much blacklisted.

"Give me your phone, princess. I'm going to add another number..."

She swipes her phone open and extends it to me. "Here."

She doesn't know, but I'm replacing my phone number with one of my least favorite delivery pizza guys. "Here you go."

She flutters her eyelashes like I gave her a pearl necklace. "Thank you."

Upon closing the door, I lock it, the key doing a double rotation for a double dose of peace, and then drag my naked self in the dark.

I flick my watch again. Midnight, finally.

Time for some good old airborne activism, tossing my revolutionary tracts across Faerhan as I race against time. Speaking of which, is ticking.

Taking a shower takes me about a minute, and I'm already out, dripping wet. I heat myself up, skin a scald, body steaming for a dry change––the perks of being the carbon copy of a demon, just without the negative inclination.

I'm already behind schedule, muttering curses as I dash for my closet. I pull out some black commando trousers, slim at the shins because I like them like that, along with the matching tee and underwear.

I place everything on the mattress and tilt my head, eyes creasing, visualizing my checklist, predominantly feeling a hangover approaching. A few items still need to be checked off.

I dive under the bed and retrieve a pair of black military boots and a large, round tin box beside them.

As I open the lid, a black balaclava, an unregistered M-gun, and a pack of cigarettes stare back at me. I am the Sunday delivery guy, the shepherd of the riots, with a big A for anonymous or... O for Oden, very much a shit stirrer.

Within minutes of getting dressed, I adjust my weapon on my belt and don my bonnet without rolling it down my face because I wanna smoke. I snatch a cigarette from the pack before shoving it into my thigh pocket, light up my killing reward by snapping out a flame from my fingers, and inhale deeply.

Then I exhale with a hum of satisfaction. I'm taking my time on this one. Cigarettes after sex are the best, whether with or without a partner. It's not a smoke apology, just intrusive thoughts.

Shoes in hand, I walk to the living room window and open it, my heart singing to a pitch-black night, perfect for sneaking around. I slip a foot into the boot, lift it, and place it against the ledge to lace it up. I do the same with the other, wincing from the smoke stinging my eyes. The whole preparation is measured, ceremonious, and I want it that way. Justice is my religion, the Heavens my home, and I'm literal on that.

I speed back to my desk, open the drawer, pull out a stack of illegal missives, and grab hold of the satchel strap hooked on the chair's spire. I place everything on the window ledge, bag, letters...

Coughing at my own smoke, my lips still firmly clamped on my cigarette, whether it kills me or not, I perch on the edge of my freshly pimped-out window, slimline PVC, fitted with twelve percent more glass, and a one-point eight-inch frame––frame coated in gold anodized aluminum, might I add. I've splashed the cash on this little upgrade, a present from me to myself... and anything to salvage a bit of dignity when the street I live on is a disaster zone, wonderfully nicknamed by New Orcers as The Slums. A beautiful pest-infected area, where the water supply is cut off ten times a day, and the air smells of shit because sewage ain't found here. I need to drain the whole thing with a bucket of water, if any. I was about to complain about electricity shortages and daily power outages, but even the wealthy experience them. Without a doubt, the generator business is going strong in this country.

A fae friend once asked me why I don't live downtown. She's a brave girl, and I won't hold her accountable for her naiveness, but hell, for a fae, she couldn't be more representative of her kind: lost in a haze of propaganda. I told her that, as an ex-war criminal forced to serve in the sordid land of Faerhan––omitting the sordid part, of course––New Orc police 20th's precinct graciously forced upon me an 'accommodation' to which I have no choice but to stay. Faerhan's beautiful if you're a fae, but quite the conundrum if you're an orc or any other monster who was caught fraternizing with them. I won't complain about the wage, though. Mine will always be higher than that of an orc, whose salary pays for the water they don't have and the food they can't afford... Paradise. Anyways. Chewed and swallowed, it's my reality, and I go with it. Well, almost, because as my eyes vex at my timepiece, I've got twenty-four hours to complete this aerial escapade and sprinkle some revolutionary tracts from New Orc right to Sirenton.

According to my calculations, Sirenton City is about 2,400 miles from New Orc, which means I need to maintain a speed of 220 mph to make a complete round trip—that is, if I route through the Whirling Air current tunneling the skies from east to west. Easy, right? Eleven hours to make it to Sirenton, eleven hours to haul my butt back before the clock strikes midnight, throwing myself into another mind-numbing Monday.

I take one last drag of my cigarette, squashing the butt into the metal ashtray lazing on the ledge and pull my balaclava down.

My flight routine has been the same for the past ten months. It has to be a Sunday. When the clock strikes 12:01 a.m., I leap out of my New Orc flat's window and fly along the wall, right down to the West Coast, loaded with one thousand letters––you'd think it's a lot, but it ain't, and yes, I count them, twice to be exact. Then, I take the same route back, coast the wall right up to the east, flaking some more over Minostar, catch my breath over the suburbs of New Orc, Weeping Residence, dropping a sprinkle of "wakefulness" along the way. By then, I've clocked twenty-three hours, and that's also the time I fly back home. Honestly, it feels like I'm doing a remake of Little Thumbling every Sunday, dumping my literary crumbles in my trail right up to New Orc.

I turn my key into the window's lock, which I found in Gliders of New Orc, a shop for winged people with window-leaping habits, until I hear that little click.

Wings open wide and I leap off, taking a sharp turn to the left. I can't help but snort at what's below me. The cityscape might be a dazzle of lights, but beneath the surface lies rot, or what I poetically call the perfect breeding ground for hatred.

The air crackles with the static of magic, dragon roars, car honks, and punctual M-gun shots rippling up the streets, and I hum at that last detail. Change is coming.

I'm ascending north now, the twinkling city lights gradually weakening. The landscape transforms into a sprawling multicolor patchwork of suburbia, giant willows casting a glow beneath their lush branches, hiding a heart of deep amber light. Home of the perfect fae family, the set-up often comes with two kids, a garden, and sometimes a unicorn pet––basically tree houses for adults. I dig into my bag and, grinning, begin peppering those suburbs' clean, antiseptic roads.

Beyond this point, there is death, old blood and crushed dreams. The Wall.

It comes into view amid my wingbeats, and as I catch an undercurrent, I glide over this massive structure stretching over the northern frontier between Faerhan country and Orcana.

A decade ago, the war between fae and orcs ended in tragedy. It started with arrows and slingshots aimed at fairies who dared cross over the Wall. It kinda worked for a brief moment... But then? Then magic tech and the use of armed aircraft called fighter aeriojets happened, the war turning into straight-up mass murder. The orcs never stood a chance. How could they? With their axes and hammers? It doesn't matter how expertly these were crafted; none could stop an onslaught of aeriojets and modern weaponry. None. My body jerks to a wrong wing movement, emotions tensing my wings' shoulder bones at the thought.

The Wall's fractures grow into my vision, and a gush gives me a good push forward. My eyes narrow at how parts of it are crumbled, leaving bare spaces from past bombings. A layer of barbed wire surrounds it, triggering fear, which may be why it's still standing.

I dive down, taking note of the sentinel towers and the flux of soldiers moving like a trail of slow parasites along the Wall's side, and to this, instantly break speed to a slow glide. I want to keep myself at a significant altitude, high enough to control the distance between me and the military. Indeed, beneath me, sentinel outposts tower atop the Wall every one or two miles, heavy artillery and cannons made of crystal peeking out of them, little uglies loaded with magic; the blue color behind the transparent surface suggests it is stabilized with mageksium, a resource for the energy the Seelies are draining from Orcana soils.

And...

I duck!

Bloody fae and their searchlights! Steep diving, my wings fold, spread, and veer. My left one working harder than my right as I dodge the fae patrol searchlights. But this ain't my first rodeo, and it's safe to say by now that these guys couldn't catch a raindrop in a downpour.

Anyway, I live for this. My lips are spread so far and wide that I'm sure my teeth could sell me out under some UV beams.

A nervous hum trails out of me because that thought ain't entirely far-fetched. The sentinels' spotlights continuously probe the sky like full-on magic detectors. The perfect blend of m-radiation and photons to dig out a minotaur, a gargoyle, or an orc attempting to flee Faerhan country.

I transfix this wall's ledge like a dog on a ball. It's a basic wall where mud and rock reign, but make it gigantic because size matters... The thing is, if birds can fly over it, fae can, too. The wall was supposed to protect the orcs—I mean they built it four hundred years ago—but since the Seelie fairies took over, it has turned out to be more like a prison gate.

Sure, you can take a detour by the seas. Still, you need a big beast, a dragon, nothing a radar can catch, strong enough to fly high and fast so that M-shots can't reach... or the tentacles of a giant Kraken. As for those dragons, you won't find them here. In the weeks following the end of the war, the Fae quickly implemented the Clean Sky program after realizing that orcs and other monsters stuck at their checkpoints were trying to escape the new Faerhan borders with them. Can't blame the trapped conquered to leave the shit hole. So, to avoid unwanted migration, Faerhan became a six-day butcher fest, the Clean Sky program, with a bonus: free dragon meat for the fae, wee. Luckily, they spared the small, heavy ones. Dragons that are easily spotted, easy to catch up with... and easy to shoot at range if necessary.

Fucking borderland... The wind howls around me, whistling around my horns and tail as I navigate the treacherous air currents. And I press on because beyond my simple letter distribution campaign is a promise for a better tomorrow, and I won't let it go to waste.

It's been five hours now, and the sun is steadily rising. I've kept my path straight, taking a break in the Whirling Air current, thrusting me forth, whether I want it or not, going west where the city of Minostar stands.

And there it comes, with silver towers stemming across pink streaks of clouds, refracting the gleam of a newborn day, Minostar. I breach out of the Whirling Air current, propel myself and begin soaring above the city. Electricity discharges threading from one metallic tower to another; Minostar is just the shadow of what it once was. Everything is fake. There's no heart in it. The fae raised it back from ash to turn it into something that has nothing to do with what it used to be, an old trading hub for orcs and minotaurs, but whatever. They even managed to split the minotaur community in two. Oh, Fidr did that well, offering their warlord a seat at her freshly created parliament at the time, in exchange for his people's safety. One half went with it, the other half did not. So Fidr did a Fidr. She took the dissidents' young ones, threatening to kill them, and still up to today, holds them hostage in detention centers in exchange for their parents' cooperation or how to find free labor to mine under the very city of Minostar. I don't know which monster will have Fidr's head first, but when the time comes, I hope it becomes a national month…

I graze over skyrises' lightning rods, from them, eerie blue lights, tiny specks dancing away in the atmosphere betraying the strong presence of arcane technology. But just like New Orc, the city threatens to consume all who dare to defy the status quo. Building two cities on stolen land was never going to succeed or last. You've lost your country, your family, and your roots, forced to eat fae bullshit... who laugh at your shame and defeat. Peace cannot exist. It's impossible. A thick clamp between my fingers holds about three hundred missives. I drop them with glee, a little chuckle escaping me, before zipping away. I have about five hours before reaching Sirenton, and I can't afford to slack.

Nothing but trees, more wall, more soldiers. Hours of boredom, one would say. Hell, it's so much better than this, hours of pure raw, unshakable purpose.

Though my hangover ain't helping, I still have to make it to Sirenton. It's been a favorite spot for mermaids for centuries. They've welcomed my little messages in an astoundingly positive way. Or how do you say Sirenton Bridge is burning? They're on fire, ready to set the rest of Faerhan ablaze. Fidr keeps it in check with her little mercenaries, and national news rarely mentions the system's failures. But not for long.

And with the smoke and fire still not extinguished in the citadel, I'm guessing it's been another fantastic rioting night in Sirenton. At least this city fights for what's right. Shame for all those tall towers, though––mermaid tail-shaped, carved from the finest crystal, now shattered, entire blocks of them missing.

In a clockwise motion, I scatter letters around the city, starting at its north to then work my way south. I keep a reasonable quantity for the port. Mermaids are the best mouth-to-ear communicators and hope they keep spreading my message around Faerhan.

My eyes could start to drop as my wings weaken, but no. Adrenaline flashed into me like a bolt. One thing I learned with the war is to never let your guard down with the fae. And indeed, I'm carving tight between two rays of aggressive light beams from a not-so-distant wall. By the look of it, I've been sniffed out. But the skies are so jam-packed that I'll have disappeared in the flying crowd by the time fae soldiers warm up their slow, fluttery wings.

I focus on what's fronting me instead—a neon-colored mass of skyscrapers. With glitzy flashing neon boards and traffic-packed airways, New Orc is finally within reach.

I flick my wrist, and a lovely eleven-and-twenty-three-minutes twin-needles on my watch... I'm breaking my record here!

With my eyes narrowed at the intensity of the glow, buildings come straight out of a fever dream, a torrent of wings and brooms pouring through them in an endless busy flow. I wizz under a giant neon arch vaulting over a big patch of green land, Central Arc, then skim a few rims out of the thousands of platforms crowning New Orc cylindrical skyscrapers, their flat roofs flickering lights to welcome fae aerial transportation resembling grasshoppers, coldly called aeriojets, and of course, dragons. Those landing platforms' color scheme? Acid green, gold, and pink—very Faerish.

Ah, New Orc City... or how to say genocide, miracle city and slave endower in three words. At least the view's alright. Can't say the same for the fae. Their lives are a messed-up version of Courageous New World from Aldo Troxley, where artificial wombs are replaced with specist authorities. To say they go by the book of fuckery is an understatement. Reaching behind my back, I grab my shoulder bag, sling it in front of me, and pluck out some envelopes, each a love declaration to rebellion, a middle finger to Fidr and her shithouse of a democracy that's never been but a smokescreen.

Not for long...

And as I fly, fingers meddling with my precious prosy letters, I spot a dragon rider in the distance, his mount roaring. Frontier patrol? Citizen?

A gust of wind blows through my letters. Some fly away and one gets snapped by––oh, that's a lovely delicate hand––Ms. Dragon Rider, her arm swung right up in the air as if she was expecting it. That's what I call a reflex.

Fuck.

From the look of it, it's a girl with vibrant red hair, tall spiky ears, and a wingless petite figure. I'd say elf at first sight... She must be taking a night flight, guiding her small dragon to the ocean for a significant bathroom break.

I twirl around her like a vulture, a hand dancing down my jacket, right down to my belt, the feeling of my M-gun's grip hugging my palm, an awkward feeling because she's too cute to be taken down.

She shouts something at her flying golden-scaled steed, which spans its wings in a gliding motion and slows down.

I watch her open the envelope and unfold my letter, feeling sweaty under the hood at this instant.

To my surprise, she doesn't rat me out. Instead, she gives me a nod. So I zip by, feeling I owe her a beer just for that. I'm about to shout my number at her when I change my stupid mind at the last minute. What the fuck am I doing?! I'm incognito right now.

Still, I can't let her go like that. Look at her, all cutesy, lips coated with black lipstick, all bundled up in her summer blue puffer jacket. "You wanna hang out sometime?" I'm twirling around her like there is no end to this loop.

She giggles before shouting, "Why not!"

"I come with my balaclava, though. You like masked monsters?"

"I'm a sucker for bad boys." Her smirk suggests she's in anonymity, just like me... Done deal, then.

I bring a hand to my temple and give her a salute.

"Stay safe!" the darling cries. Damn, if I didn't have to shower a specific statue's bloody head with the rest of my mail, I'd have taken wing with her...

I stir in the opposite direction of my unborn love affair and descend toward New Orc's beloved symbol, a giant statue made of horse shit and blind faith. An orange flame, burning in a marble palm raised high above a head, beams at me from across a few cotton ball clouds, as if lighting them on fire.

There she is, the Statue of Sovereignty—A.K.A Giant Fidr Bitch. I don't know who came up with the idea of sculpting an oversized blowtorch and giant wings made of real knives, but he needs to take it easy... I land between her crown and the small space where her forehead dips. With a grip on one of her crown's spikes, supposedly representing the crystal headpiece she once wore as a queen, I take in the chaos below––street fires, sirens wailing, the whole social-gathering. Reminds me of a concert at an arena but with more tear gas and my cheeks pull at it. I'm fucking liking what I see: the hatching of a revolution.

I turn my bag upside down and shake it well––I want to avoid bringing one back home with me. My computer is filled with enough Revolutionary Monster Brigade evidence to get me on death row, and even if my life's at the bitter end, I'd like to keep it.

Mail flies away in the night like paper planes, and I sigh with satisfaction.

Said satisfaction fast-turns into an annoyed grumble as my phone buzzes in one of my pants' back pockets.

I dig it out and swipe it open.

New Orc Police:

20th Police Precinct, SWAT 3. We have a developing situation at Crooklyn Bridge with a fairy murder lead. Officer Stryga, your immediate presence is required.

I snigger dryly. Just when you think you're off duty, New Orc pulls you back in. I guess it's better than Monday. Because, as a close friend of mine often says, 'Mondays suck.'