Jenny snickers.
Tess rolls her eyes.
Rhea huffs and joins Frankie in admiring the new burn-tattoo spiraling up her thigh.
Lenora massages her chin with the solemn air of a judge evaluating Exhibit A. “This does qualify as an environmental disaster.”
I nod gravely. “Major toxic waste spill—”
“Could take months—”
“Years to clean up.”
Lenora produces a bottle of soap and a toothbrush, handing them to Jenny with mock ceremony. “Better get started.”
“Me!?” Jenny sputters. Her eyes dart around the canyon until landing on a strand of purple goo dangling from the ceiling like demonic snot. “Have Solenne do it.”
Solenne glares. “Oi! Forget it, luv—I ain’t cleanin’ that!”
Tess grins behind her. “You made the mess.”
“Me?”
“Brilliant strategy,” I say with a shrug. “Who could’ve predicted Momma Ooze would explode?”
Tess waves dismissively. “If you’d asked first…”
Jenny groans. “Oh, come on! I have to clean this by myself?”
Frankie smirks as she hauls herself upright. “Got another toothbrush, doc?”
Lenora lifts a brow. “Is something wrong with yours?”
“It’s… clean!” Frankie protests.
I shade my eyes, scanning the swamp’s heart. “Probably a fresh pack in the loot.”
“Probably isn’t enough,” Frankie mutters.
I sigh. “Guess you’re on your own then, Jenny.”
Her eyes widen. “But… everything?”
“Oh, no—” I grin. “Just enough to get us to the loot pile and out the other side.”
Relief floods her. “Easy.” She whips out a tiny blue vial, pops the cork, and gulps it. “Ahhh. Much better.”
She sidesteps until she’s lined up with the exit, the loot pile glimmering dead center. Then she giggles. “I’ve always wanted to do this!”
She plants her boots, hands stiff at her sides, then squats low. Her face scrunches up—half concentration, half constipation—before she springs upright, arms raised like a prophet on a mountaintop.
“Oscail, a abhainn shalach!”
The canyon answers.
A deep rumble rolls through the earth, rattling pebbles into the air. The swamp convulses, water swelling like a living thing. Sludge erupts upward in twin geysers, then shears away down the center in a tidal shudder. The split widens, a churning ribbon of clear path two feet wide and stretching to the far wall.
Walls of black ooze tower on either side, trembling as if held back by pure force of will. Static dances along their surfaces—purple filaments twisting upward like smoke caught in a lightning storm. My belly stud flares in sympathy, crackling arcs leaping toward Jenny’s rising hands.
Her arc of glitter ignites midair, refracting into a halo of strobing color that splashes across her face and hair.
For a single heartbeat, it’s The Ten Commandments in miniature—sand spray, glitter, and liquid night held apart by raw magic. Jenny stands between them, radiant and ridiculous, her hair billowing in a wind of her own making.
My jaw drops. “Color me impressed.”
“Lots of practice… level… forty… environmental… mage… still fabulous!” Jenny wheezes, arms quivering. “Go! Grab the loot!”
Frankie plants her feet. “Not without you.”
“Don’t worry about me. Go!” Jenny’s voice trembles, determination gleaming beneath the cheerleader smile plastered across her face.
I run.
Two feet is barely a walkway—my shoulders skim sludge and spray with every sway of my stride. Lenora’s almost-dainty footsteps pound close behind.
We skid to a stop at the loot pile—bathed in golden light. The muck parts just enough to let a shaft of radiance spill down from nowhere, glimmering across cardboard edges like holy relics on display. My breath catches. For a heartbeat I expect jewels, artifacts, weapons of legend—something worthy of this miracle.
“Grab as much as you can and run!” Tess barks.
I blink. “…Gelatin dessert boxes?”
“Armload. Move!”
Disappointment crashes over me as I scoop them up—lemon, lime, strawberry, orange, chocolate, banana cream, and blue raspberry—a full rainbow of instant gelatin and pudding mixes, glowing like relics from on high.
Each packet gleams with suspiciously personalized energy. Each one whispers a personality:
Lime—playful, zesty troublemaker. Jenny, to a fault.
Strawberry—warm and nurturing. Lenora’s bedside manner in gelatin form.
Orange—bold, brash, impossible to ignore. Frankie.
Chocolate—rich and quietly intense. Rhea.
Banana cream—comforting chaos. Tess.
Cinnamon swirl—sweet then scorching. Solenne.
Blue raspberry—brilliant, unpredictable, sinful. Me.
Arms full to bursting, I sprint through the divided swamp, only losing a blue raspberry and a lemon Jell-O to the muck.
Behind my eyes, I swear I hear divine laughter—part motherly pride, part cosmic trolling.
I stagger onto the far side and dump all thirty-three boxes onto the rocky shore. One splits open—and a book thuds free.
I gape. The boxes are barely four inches square, maybe an inch deep. The book, though? It’s the size of my family’s old Bible, thick, leather-bound, and gleaming with gold leaf.
“Impossible…”
The title glitters across the cover:
Skill Tome: The Esoteric Reel
Author: D. G. MacLennan, Master of the Glen Sword Dance
Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.
I reach for it—and nearly wrench my arm out of socket. The thing has to weigh several tons. Which is stupid on so many levels—it’s just a book, paper and leather, unless someone stuffed a neutron star inside.
Curiosity burning, I try the cover. Not locked—just immovable. Like the pages refuse to open. I strain. Nothing. Not even a wiggle.
Panting, I fall back.
Tess snickers, patting my shoulder. “Give it up. Not for you.”
“What?”
“Inanna loves games. What flavor was the loot box?”
“…Lime, I think.”
“You’re not sure?”
“The carton’s under the book.”
Tess digs out another lime packet and tosses it to me. I tear it open—
A ten-pound vintage 1980s boom box slams into the sand next to the tome. It rattles once—then immediately blares Billy Idol at full blast.
Bass thunders. Sand jumps. “Rebel Yell” screams so loud I can’t hear myself think.
Worse, the volume’s cranked to twenty, and no matter how hard I jab the stop button, it just keeps playing.
A notification flashes across my sightline:
I think I swear. Hard. Can’t be sure, though—because I can’t even hear myself.
Something tugs at my toes. My head snaps down just in time to see my feet… tapping.
Heel-toe, heel-toe, perfectly in time with the beat.
I growl, ready to fight my own ankles—until my gaze lands on Jenny.
She’s already surrendered to the rhythm, sparkling as she breaks into the running man, leaping between piles of sludge like the swamp’s turned into her personal stage.
Lenora taps my shoulder—right on the beat—and hands me a blue raspberry box. She pantomimes cracking it open, then twirls away to keep sorting the loot.
I shrug, nod, and tear the carton open, bracing for another boom box or worse.
Instead, something small and metallic slips into my palm.
A miniature perfume bottle.
<1 – Musk of a Highland stag in rut.>
<2 – Irresistible to all females, irrespective of species.>
<3 – Irresistible to all males, irrespective of species.>
<4 – Your own natural scent, amplified by the charm’s level.>
I stare at the tiny silver charm. Do I really want—or even need—this one? A memory rises: the line of perfume bottles on my parents’ dresser, each a different shape, each with its own scent. Everyday ones. Special-occasion ones. But one bottle sticks in my mind—the yellow vial of highland doe urine. It reeked, but it worked. Attract a buck every time.
I snort. What’s the worst that could happen? I end up sleeping alone for a night?
I roll my eyes and clip the charm onto the leprechaun’s foot.
The boom box volume finally drops to something tolerable. Jenny beams and hands me another blue raspberry box. It’s like Christmas—if Christmas came wrapped in off-brand gelatin and instant pudding. Tess scores ceramic throwing knives with a matching belt of tiny scabbards, a slender penny whistle, and—gods help us all—a full set of Highland bagpipes. Her eyes widen, and she clasps the instruments to her chest like holy relics. “A gift… no, a challenge,” she whispers, almost reverent. Tess hugs the pipes like they’re holy scripture. “Inanna herself calls me to master these.”
I groan. Great. A prophetess with a battle hymn no one asked for. If the goddess wants me to suffer, she found the perfect instrument.
Everyone but me is blessed with a golden box that opens with sparkles and an announcement in Inanna’s playful voice:
<“Safety first! Both may prevent unfortunate slips, though not always in the same way.”>
Everyone groans at the joke, but I can help but wonder what the Goddess means by giving everyone but me a year’s supply of condoms.
Frankie finds eight interlocking rings that fuse into brass knuckles, each punch releasing a satisfying crackle.
Lenora’s eyes shine as she unpacks a full restock of her med kit plus a fresh clutch of potions.
Jenny hefts the tome one-handed, works the boom box like she was born with vinyl in her veins, and uncovers cassettes spanning nearly every vintage genre.
We each pull a small coffer of coins—one gold, ten silver, a scatter of copper.
Me? Past the scented charm, my haul is box after box of adult toys.
I glare at the cavern ceiling, holding up a remote-controlled device with more buttons than Jenny’s stereo. “Seriously? What am I supposed to do—open a boutique when this is over?”
“Be good,” the goddess purrs in my ear, “and I’ll upgrade them to Legendary.”
I groan, but I can’t help but wonder what a Legendary toy would… nope, get your head out of the gutter.
Tess just smiles. The kind of smile that says Dig deeper, you’re burying yourself nicely.
“What?”
“Do you know why Inanna’s doing this?”
“She’s a pervert.”
Another blue raspberry box plops at my feet. I don’t kick it into the swamp. I just pick it up.
Tess shrugs. “She’s nudging you out of your comfort zone.”
“I was happy in my zone.”
“Were you? Honestly?”
My friends look at me—quiet, patient, mercilessly supportive—as if waiting for me to answer a question I’ve dodged for months.
“I’m… still untangling it,” I admit. “I’m enjoying the lessons. The practice. More than I expected.”
My gaze flicks to Frankie. To Lenora. “But what happens when they’re themselves again? What if everything I’ve learned is gender-specific? What if I’ve got a skill of twenty with women, but only a three with guys?”
Lenora’s eyes meet mine.
Frankie picks up a strap-on harness and tosses it into Lenora’s lap. Everyone snickers—except me.
“The thought rattles me more than I want to admit,” I whisper.
I hug my knees. The unopened loot box warms against my palms. I turn it over and over, as if cardboard can whisper answers if I rub the corners bare.
“I’m keeping the leprechaun charm,” I say quietly. “I’m enjoying this—more than I thought I would. More than I should. With women who used to be men. Does that make me gay, bi, confused, or just… wrong?”
A bubble of swamp gas pops behind us, spraying sulfurous stink that clings to my tongue. My chest tightens.
No one speaks.
Then Tess kneels beside me. Her hand is warm, grounding on my arm. “Inanna doesn’t care about labels, Lizzy. She cares about joy, courage, and love unchained. Don’t twist yourself up in knots. Walk the path, and the goddess will walk with you.”
Her words slide under my skin like balm, and yet—part of me bristles. Easy for her. She’s already found her place at the goddess’s side. My path feels like it’s all sharp stones and blind corners.
Jenny snorts, glitter practically falling out of her nose as she claps twice. “Pfft! Skill level three with guys?” She tosses a second pink-leather strap-on to me and wiggles her hips. “Then we’ll grind until you’re maxed out!” She twirls, sparkles raining down, her grin wide enough to light the canyon.
I laugh . I can’t not. For a moment the bog, the stink, the slime—everything—fades beneath her shine.
“Bloody hell,” Rhea mutters, stuffing another charm into her pouch like it insulted her.
Frankie fixes me with her stare. “Labels don’t matter. Staying alive matters. Keeping Jenny safe matters. Everything else—” she waves a hand at the swamp “—sort it later. Be grateful it’s not a set of pipes.”
Her voice is gruff, but her eyes flick sideways, just for a heartbeat. Protective. Loyal. And maybe—just maybe—afraid she won’t like the answer if she digs deeper.
I squeeze the box in my hands until the cardboard creaks. My fingers itch to tear it open, just to have something else to focus on. But I don’t. Not yet.
Lenora’s been quiet, calmly packing potions into her kit. Now she looks up, meeting my eyes with disarming softness. “Whatever you choose…” A pause. “…you won’t be alone.”
It hits me like a punch. Too close to truth. Too kind. Too much.
I glance down at the box again, pretending the faded Jell-O logo on the cardboard is fascinating. Anything to break that gaze.
The bog bubbles again, sending another wave of stink rolling over us. My stomach knots tighter. My fingers tear a little strip from the box, just to keep them busy.
And still, I don’t open it.
I sit quietly, the bog’s low gurgle filling the silence between us. Frankie, and Jenny huddle together over the music cassettes, giggling at some, whispering about others like they’re trading secrets no one else can hear.
Rhea waits with an emerald bellybutton charm while Lenora pierces Solenne’s ears and inserts matching emerald studs.
Tess pulls out her little journal, pen scratching softly as she writes—notes, prayers, or maybe just doodles. Every so often, though, I catch her watching me. Not obvious, just the patient half-gaze of someone who’s seen this all before. Comforting… and unsettling. She looks barely twenty-eight, but there’s something in her eyes—something weathered—that speaks of decades.
Lenora slides close without a word, tucking me under her arm. The quiet weight of it nearly undoes me. Loved. Cherished. Things I haven’t felt since Earth, since Daddy.
My throat tightens, and I blink hard against the sting behind my eyes.
She nudges the unopened blue raspberry box with her elbow and quirks a brow.
I snort—more laughter than breath—and tug the cardboard open.
A ridiculous cascade spills out: seven Costco bulk packs of toothbrushes and seven matching packs of toothpaste. A mint-scented flood rolls across the stone.
I stare—then laugh until I wheeze.
“Inanna’s got jokes,” I gasp. “Guess she figured Jenny deserved a refund for swamp duty.”
Jenny stares at the hygiene mountain, jaw dangling.
Rhea pats her shoulder. “See? The goddess provides.”
Frankie snorts. “Aye—but she’s got one twisted sense o’ humor.”
I scoop up a handful and toss them across the circle—one at Frankie, one at Jenny, one at Tess, one at Lenora, another at Rhea, and the last at Solenne. “Merry Christmas, family. May all your breath be minty fresh.”
Their laughter rises around me, warm and bright against the sulfur stink of the swamp. For a little while, at least, the world feels clean.
The ever present lights fade to absolute darkness. The air cools.
A fresh sea breeze sweeps away the stink, replacing it with the homey scent of a highland loch. Pebbles and rounded gravel replace the big mud under my butt. Waves wash against a nearby shore.
And far across the dark, a horn blows—
followed by the rise of angry voices.