•••

We've clawed, climbed, tripped up, lost our footing, stumbled through the dark, have taken three steps backward for every step forward and finally we arrive. Sweating and panting, we stand on the peak of the story - all the buildup for this very moment.

Plant a flag, scream your name—though don't. No one wants buried under an avalanche of simile, metaphor, and self-referential quips. But seriously, look how far we've come and it's only downhill from here.

Things could go one of two ways. See that path leading down the side of the mountain? Clear of debris and shoveled for snow, it is smooth, easy, a nice reward from all the hard, backbreaking labor it took to get here.

Now, see that jutting rock? The one that literally steals your breath away as the oxygen up here is thin and the view it provides, one of complete oblivion, rivals the horrors waiting for any who walk beyond the Exit. If you dare door.

It leads to destruction, death, and an unhappy, unsatisfying conclusion. Like a PB and Sardine sandwich, it will leave a bad, fishy taste in your mouth. Diving off its edge, promises pain, horrible, end-to-everything pain.

Peneloper will take one of these ways back to the bottom of the mountain. We hope for the nice, relaxing path, where every arc is wrapped up neatly, characters get their just rewards, and those we love and have grown fond of meet death and come out the other side just as lively as ever, refusing to be the sacrificial lambs of the writer's insatiable appetite for real, weighty consequences.

With three of Peneloper's friends AWOL currently, the scale tips in favor of the path off the cliff. The one that promises to be messy and chaotic, and where, I'm told, the lambs all go to the slaughter. 

But I'm a betting entity and there have been several times in my existence where I place all my chips on the underdog. This is another of those times. 

• Purple People Eater •

Captain Ire Stormholden there one second, gone another. Had this been part of Peneloper's story, the captain's intervention with Gideon would have meant the defeat of the big bad, the securing of a victory. His sword would have cut the villain down, the villain would have obliged everyone's' wishes and stayed down, and everyone would have erupted into cheers.

Instead, Peneloper Auttsley erupted into horror, as the last of his pages floated to the ground. A few landed on the half-eaten remains of the Auttsley family couch, where the fire was quick to nibble on their edges. Two hundred pages turned to flesh.

A person who'd experienced the world beyond what Peneloper had dictated for them, who had walked his own path, devoid of her insistence where he go, what he said or did, gone. Stormholden, a person, as much flesh and blood as she, reverted. His story, erased one page at a time as flames devoured what remained.

Without thinking, she ran, pen at the ready. She didn't know what she could do, but she had to do something. She couldn't stand by and let her creation be destroyed. She jumped the remains of the TV cabinet and yanked one of the captain's pages free from the mouth of a flame.

She whirled, spying another that caught on a thicket of weeds. She fumbled for it as the wind tired to tug it from her hands, but she secured it, wedging it under her arm. She would retrieve all of them, put them in their rightful order and magic him back.

She could do that, right? With magic she could do anything, she could create-- but how? She had no idea how. Or even if she did, would the captain she brought back be the same one who'd lived beyond his world? Or would he be a different creation, with different experiences? Would his pants be as tight, his outlook on the world, so grim and tarnished after all her meddling?

No. You're thinking too much, right now. Grab the pages. Sort it out later. Don't let him feed the flames. Don't lose him.

A sharp pain struck out against her scalp as she leaned over to grab a page of the captain's earlier years. Peneloper yelped and stumbled back. Overhead, a large blackbird, with glossy feathers rose in the sky, circled once, and then dove straight for her. Seconds before the attack happened, she threw her hands over her head, but the bird, undeterred, just dug his talons into her fingers. Her skin seared as the bird scratched her. Blood trickled over her knuckles. The nasty bird squawked and flapped its wings in her face.

Its eyes beady and black, beak crooked. A raven. It squawked again. Lunged at her, nipped at her nose. She tried to shoo the bird away, and then, as she stared into its eyes, she stepped back. "Genesis?"

The bird took the air, giving one last, grating squawk before disappearing behind a skyscraper. Peneloper was left reeling. Had that been Genesis? Could it be Genesis? Was that more of Gideon's perversion?

A voice in her ear, whispered, its breath icy, "You should see what it did to the eldest Luric." Shivers rolled down her spine.

She whirled. No one on either side of her. Peneloper stood alone in the rumble of her home clutching the pages of Stormholden she'd managed to rescue. A hedgerow, running the length of the property line shook. From its bare branches, a fat ginger cat padded toward her.

Its back fur bristled, its stubby tail snapping blades of dead grass with every swish. Eyes a soft, shimmering green, the color of her favorite M&M peanuts. She knelt before the cat, and let it sniff her fingers. A cold nose tickled her palm.

The cat meowed as she scratched behind one ear, too afraid to ask the question because she knew the answer. The cat sat back on its haunches and waited. She exhaled. "Chantham Luric, is that you?"

The cat meowed miserably before laying down and resting its head between its paws. She frowned. Here laid her best friend and she was allergic, not to mention, at a loss for words and hopelessly in over her head. What did she do? What power had she to do anything? As if in response, her magic pen glowed.

Create. I can create. But what? What can stop Gideon?

Maybe her father would know.

She turned from Chant toward where her father had been. Rayburn Auttsley crumpled to the ground, the last of his magic doused, as The Fourth stood over him, fingers stretched out as if caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

No sign of Crispen either. Maybe he'd gone to check on Mother Auttsley and Carma, to protect them. Or maybe, he'd glimpsed the raven and knew, knew that Gideon's magic had perverted his treasured companion and had sprouted wings to follow his friend.

"Da-da-dad?" She shot to her feet but stopped as something compelled her to stay where she was.

Her brow furrowed as she struggled against her unseen foe, her father's slumped form igniting her panic to take center stage inside her heart. She exhaled, stopped fighting.

Perhaps the Fourth was more diabolical than the other Council members, but perhaps he held on to more shreds of sense. "You're doing all of this because of an office romance gone awry?" she said, making sure to stamp out the distress in her voice before it materialized into words the Fourth would hear, "Seems like a bit of an overreaction."

The Fourth sauntered toward her. "I assure you, granddaughter of Mildrea, it is exactly as you say. I'm a bit—" He rubbed his chin. "How do you kids say it in this century? A bit extra. But," though he stopped moving, his shadow continued to extend toward Peneloper. It skimmed the road, hopped the curb, and skirted the sidewalk. Like a real snake in the grass, it slithered across her lawn, "it is in my very nature to do so."

Before his shadow to reach out and grab her, Peneloper threw up her hand and scribbled the door in front of her. Her magic glowed before a door appeared before her.

The Fourth smiled as his shadow slid up the door and rang the bell. Peneloper bristled. She hadn't created a doorbell. It trilled for a second time, a third.

"It's impolite," the Fourth said tapping his fingers along her magic. With each rap, a black spot like an open sore blossomed on her door, one after another, slowly undoing Peneloper's barrier, "To keep a guest waiting."

"I'll never let you in." She huffed, looked around. She needed to do something. Create something else. Find a way to stop him. It had to be her and her magic, no one else. Save the people she loved, the town she'd realized she loved in secret, protect the layers.

"Very well," The Fourth said. Peneloper's door turned to mist and evaporated. His shadow waved at her, before reaching out to bop her nose. "As I told your father," he stepped toward her. His shadow swayed before Peneloper but didn't make another move, "As your grandmother and the rest of those Council dimwits learned – what is can never best what never was." Another step.

Within five, he'd crossed the lawn and stood before Peneloper, his lean build towering over her, shrouding her in its shadow. "No matter how you wield your magic, you'll only recreate what already is and I'm—," he leaned in, his closeness siphoning the air from her lungs, "—immune."

He blew out and sent Peneloper flying. She landed on the only part of the porch not completely torn to bits, with a thud. Her head throbbed. Her vision swam as she tried to focus, to concentrate. Her fingers twitched as pain skirted up her nerves. The whole of her burned, each breath sending a fresh wave of pain rippling through her.

The Fourth had done all of this with a breath. A breath. He'd been messing with her, toying with his food, him a cat to her pathetically undermatched mouse. Something sandpapery tickled her nose. She blinked and saw orange. Took a deep breath of air faintly scented with animal dander. She sneezed and blinked again.

Chant's round face, worried eyes and pointed ears came into view. Despite the ache happening in her every nook and cranny, invading the last of her cells, she reached out and gave her best friend an "I'll be okay," pat between the ears. Then, Cat Chantham turned his head, arched his back, and hissed.

Peneloper wanted to close her eyes and drift into sleep. She wanted to explore her dreams until she'd healed and could wake up with renewed energy and muscles that didn't feel like old rubber bands, one use away from snapping. But she couldn't – designated heroine and all that. She sighed and pushed herself into sitting. "He's coming isn't he?"

Chant hissed again. She pressed a finger to her temple. "If only time would slow down so I could think," she muttered.

And in this instance, Time obliged her. I told you, didn't I? Time could be a trite douche or show compassion or be a deux ex machina when the story cried out for it. But if you ask Time later why it slowed for Peneloper Auttsley, it'll tell you it was drunk. Had one too many bottomless margaritas with Uncle Bennie.

Had been watching the whole climax unfold in slow-motion (as that's how the world appeared when Time dons its tried and true 'beer' goggles) and decided on impulse to intervene. Time had thought, "What the hell?" and dove in, paradoxes and all, to help Peneloper Auttsley.

She needed five seconds, no more, no less and Time obliged.

In that reprieve, Peneloper collected her thoughts, re-forged her magic into her trusty pen, and recalled everything she had learned up until this point, whether it was helpful or utterly useless: she had the power to create. Duh. She held it in her hand, literally (used correctly in this instance). With the help of Phil Collins, anything was possible. Maybe not everything, but bias understandably bred exaggeration.

Emotions fueled her magic. Could pain be considered an emotion? If so, she ought to have enough to create a second sun for the earth in one second, only to implode it a second later. To her dismay, she didn't think pain counted. Though, the idea to create two suns and hurtle them toward The Fourth didn't sound half-bad.

Then again, The Fourth would probably just emerge from the smoke and rubble, twiddling his thumbs unscathed, as if stars hadn't been lobbed at his face. The people she loved were in danger, the Council (except for her dad) was beyond useless and The Fourth couldn't be killed.

A slow burn recognition spread through her insides. She hefted her pen into the air. The Fourth couldn't be killed. And therein lied the way to defeat him. Or at least, she hoped. Her hand furiously started to write in the air.

●

When Never approached the house, he did so, stifling the whiny scream of his vessel. Stupid boy kept crying out to him: "Not her! Not her! Not Crispen! Not my brother! Please."

It reminded him of when he first met the boy, how loud his sobs had been then, though, he'd always be thankful toward the boy's boisterous braying as it had awoken him from a decades' worth of sleep.

And in that darkness, he called out to every last cell that Mildrea and the Council had seen fit to scatter across the layers, so he could reform, be it in a nebulous form that any normal eye couldn't see.

But you saw, didn't you? Kelpner, Eyes of All. You saw and did nothing. Why was that? Because you're still holding on to the hope that your family will be reunited under the roof of that appalling house? If you can see everything, why are you so blind sometimes?

No matter the reason, Never would seize upon his opportunity and take out his revenge on the remaining Auttsleys. He'd kill them both, though he'd fed Gideon some lie, promising to let him pervert her so they could skip into another eternity holding hands and cooing about their love for one another.

Never had always had other plans. Firstly to murder, secondly to eradicate everything in this layer, throwing the whole balancing act between mundane and magic out of whack, and while chaos and calamity reigned, he'd return to his throne and rule from the Refracted, the layer he'd called home. But, Time was not on his side.

And as much as he called out Kelpner for having his eyes wide shut, Never should have kept his eye on the prize, should have been alert. Had he been, he wouldn't have been blindsided by Miss Auttsley as she plowed into his side. He took a few wobbly steps backward before steadying himself.

She glared at him, her magic haloing her in a delicate purple and reeking of lavender.

He opened his mouth to speak, to convince her to back down and die gracefully (he'd promise to make it quick, as that always seemed to make one's death more digestible), but before the words could form, she'd picked up traction and barreled straight toward him. This time, she hit him square in the chest. She tucked into a ball and rolled away. He rounded on her, but she disappeared.

His chest hurt. But nothing could hurt him. Perhaps Gideon's body was weaker than he thought. This would make sense, flesh always felt so flimsy. He never could distinguish the difference between it and paper. Might as well have been one and the same. Then, Never coughed. Never never coughed.

A sensation he'd never felt before trickled from his mouth. He reached up, wiped his mouth, and pulled his hand away. Crimson stained his fingers. Blood? Could he have coughed up blood? Was Gideon's body trying to kill itself to rid it of his presence? Preposterous. Gideon wasn't strong enough.

Peneloper rammed his back. The Fourth fell to his hands and knees. Another cough. Another splatter of what most assuredly had to be blood. Disgusting. His vision faltered as stars stampeded across his periphery, his head throbbing as something hard smacked his skull.

He turned his head. Tried to get to his feet but toppled over. Out of breath, unexpectedly exhausted. He blinked as his vision showed him double. Two Penelopers glowed as they stood before him, one with the bloody captain's sword in hand.

The other snarled, hunched forward, and sped toward him. He took to the air, a baby bird who hadn't quite learned to fly, and splintered the last piece of porch railing left standing. He landed with a thud, staring up into the sky. Through the dismal grey, he caught sight of a sliver of bright blue. That was the thing about storms he hated most – they always passed.

Peneloper with the sword bent over him, while the other one hunkered on the ground, mouth parted into a snarl.

Never blinked. He tried to move his arm. Nothing. Tried to move his legs. Nothing. Tried to conjure his magic or call upon Gideon's shroud. He felt drained, exhausted. Darkness descended. He shuddered, refusing to heed the call of that place, refusing to be dragged back to the abyss where it'd taken a boy's agony to stir him into consciousness. He had a throne to reclaim. He had layers to destroy. He had this girl, this very girl, to obliterate.

The pinkie finger on his right hand twitched before going limp. That was it. That was all he could muster. Powerless, him. An ancient being. A nightmare. A king. One measly pinkie finger in a body that wasn't his own. He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes as the fingers of the abyss latched onto his essence.

Peneloper Auttsley handed off the sword to her crouching alter-ego. With a scream that echoed through the layers, that flowed through every fiber of magic's tapestry, that raised the hackles on every creature and caused microwaves to malfunction, that put Potter Oaks - the town, not the perverted metropolis - on the map, that every living being inside the know and beyond recognized as the triumph of good, undiluted magic, Peneloper Auttsley's magical-self drove the captain's sword through Never's heart.