“A priest,” said Tabitha for the fifth time.

Reaching up, Sebastian lifted Tabitha from the boulder and dropped her on the ground beside him.

“Eyes of gold.” Tabitha threw up her arms and marched ahead. The deer path took a gentle turn through the trees, easy to follow even under the darkening sky. “He is his mother’s father. A ridiculous riddle!”

“Misdirection,” said Sebastian. Reaching out, he pushed back the tree limbs. Tabitha slipped through easy, but at his height, the branches became a tangle. “Only that last part mattered.”

“And your little message,” said Tabitha.

Father Young was a highly respected elder in the church and a creature with gold eyes. The riddle was also a warning to forget the Rhemus profession.

Calling over her shoulder Tabitha said, “What was that about your father? Do you believe Father Young ordered death for his own people?”

Sebastian stuffed his hands into his coat. The moist air lost warmth, and night fell like a candle flame exhausting the wax of day. “Criminals perhaps. I don’t know. Back home I had assumed he meant my father hunted them all down like animals.”

“Like demons.”

“And perhaps he had.” Sebastian shrugged. “But under Father Young’s orders.”

The forest opened up. Moonlight revealed the Brook Grove-Roan Road. Tabitha turned north marching on the muddy road. Glancing south, Sebastian spotted the firelight, evening roast at Dunston. Looking back, he watched the long fur coat drifting away.

“Wait.” Sebastian thumbed over his shoulder. “Dunston is this way.”

“Not heading for Dunston.”

In four great strides Sebastian caught up with the woman and grasped her shoulder. She spun around, the coat slipping from her shoulder revealing bare flesh. Catching sight of her breast, Sebastian released the coat and covered his face.

Boots sloshed through the mud, Tabitha marched away.

Uncovering his eyes, Sebastian spotted the woman scrambling up a slope above the road. On firmer ground her pace increased stomping over rocks and twigs. Walking, he caught her again. One of his steps matched every two of hers.

“My task,” said Sebastian, “is to escort you back to Dunston. I’ll aid the law in finding the killer.”

Tabitha shook her head, a coy look in her eye. And a sparkle. Fractal shards of golds and browns caught the moonlight flickering like a fire.

Preparing for a chase, Sebastian unfastened his coat allowing more room. “I’m not about to let you walk alone.”

“How sweet,” said Tabitha. She gazed up at him. The moonlight turned her face white. “Will you escort me to Roan?

The long solemn look he remembered from the cabin, gone, replaced by determination. Breath streamed from her nostrils. Vigor poured from her brown eyes. He stood frozen, enchanted by her confidence. Capturing the moonlight, her eyes were brilliant. The orbs told him she would not peacefully return to Dunston. He reached out.

Tabitha twirled away, and Sebastian grasped her arm. She slipped free from the coat and ran. The pale moonlit flesh blinding, Sebastian turned his head aside. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the nude woman disappear into the dark woods.

Fur coat in hand, Sebastian ran into the woods. Catching movement, he stormed in the direction batting branches aside. The forest dripped, cool drops draining down the back of his neck. His own coat protected his arms from the wet branches, and he raised the fur coat protecting his face from the prickly needles. Spotting the pale form, he burst through trees and slid to a stop.

In a clearing stood Tabitha wearing only tall boots. “It’s rather cold out here.”

Turning gaze aside, Sebastian approached holding the fur coat out. “What’s in Roan?”

“Your father’s killer.” She slipped into the coat and pulled it closed.

“Your brother’s killer,” said Sebastian. “The Dunston Monster. Is that what Father Young told you?”

Tabitha studied him, her eyes roving up and down. She nodded.

“You were never abducted. You left on our own accord looking for the killer on Myrtle Ridge.” Sebastian folded his arms. “Who is he?”

“Joseph Conrad.”

Sebastian looked at a pawn. Father Young had asked him to return to university, forget his father, but had given Tabitha the name and location of the killer. The pawn played enticing him after his father’s legacy. Curiosity about the killer captured him, but the danger was too high for a young woman.

“I see that look.” Tabitha opened her coat.

Wincing, Sebastian looked away. The vision of bare breasts sent his head spinning.

Tabitha pulled her coat closed, and giggled.

“Please stop that.” He felt a smile on his face and let it grow.

“A boy, aren’t you?” Tabitha raised a revolver, thumb pulled hammer back, a round clicked into the chamber.

Smile fading, Sebastian stared at his father’s revolver pointed at him. Disbelieving, he glanced down and pulled his coat aside revealing the empty holster at his hip. Disarmed so easily, doubt of catching a killer swarmed over him. He looked up at the barrel, up at the cruel gaze, her burning eyes. A shiver attacked.

There was no mistaking it, the orbs glowed. As Tabitha stepped back out of the moonlight, her eyes intensified, red embers burning within each pupil, like hellfire burning within—an unholy sight.

“Stupid boy,” said Tabitha, whispering. “To Roan if you please.”

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.”