Epically Inappropriate Magic - Preview

Prologue

 Hello dear reader, and welcome back.

Having gotten this far in our various tales of destiny’s various calls, we’ve followed our Little heroes – Chauncy, then Chaos, and finally Fury – on their respective quests. Which as you’ve surely noticed, leaves us with one tale untold, at least when it comes to the escapades of the Little household. A tale that concerns Fury’s twin-ish brother Epic Little, a boy we as yet know precious little about. A tale that to be frank, dear reader, will be epic indeed. Told at a length I trust you’ll find most satisfactory.

But to tell this tale, I’m afraid we’ll have to go backward quite a bit in time. Before Fury’s quest to defeat Zarzibar in the Dark Forest, and even before Chaos left on his quest for Old Langsroth. In fact, we’ll soon find ourselves returning to the morning before that fateful day, when Imperius Fanning came to deliver destiny’s call to Chaos Little. The day – or rather, the night – that Epic’s life drastically changed. And it only seems appropriate to start this epically inappropriate tale with the man who started it all:  one Chauncy Little.

***

Chauncy Little woke that fine morning to see sunlight peeking through the blinds of his bedroom window, casting its merry light on the hot-pink bedsheets. And on Valtora, who was still asleep, her diamond hand draped over her belly. It glittered in the sunlight, and he smiled at the sight, finding it glorious indeed.

I’m a lucky man, he thought, in lieu of saying it out loud. For while Valtora certainly didn’t need her beauty sleep, being devastatingly beautiful no matter what, she was less homicidal when she had it.

So instead of waking her, he slipped out of bed, sneaking out of the bedroom and going downstairs. He dodged ZoMonsterz’s array of socks on the stairs, an obstacle course the hellcat carefully set up every night. For a cat that loved him to the point of being vaguely inappropriate, she also appeared to want him dead.

Having gotten downstairs to the foyer without a funeral, Chauncy made his way to the kitchen, donning the ol’ chef’s apron and starting up the stove. He smiled, glancing back at the little round kitchen table, its top all scratched to hell by years of abuse. He imagined Chaos and Fury sitting there, and Valtora and Zora and ZoMonsterz, and even Glare, the awful white cat of Chaos’s whose anal eyeball never failed to fix Chauncy with its irritated stare.

I did this, he thought, standing up straighter and practically bursting with fatherly and husbandly pride. He switched the vision, imagining himself as a little ten-year-old boy, sitting opposite Grandma Little. To think that he’d done all this – made a family with the love of his life, and made this their home – was beyond remarkable. For while he’d gone on numerous magical adventures…saving magic, defeating The Dark One, defeating – and then zombifying and impregnating – Zella Trek, saving the kingdom of Pravus from Gavin Archibald Merrick, and then saving Chaos from the Order of Mundus, to name all of them, rather unnecessarily…creating his not-so little Little family was the achievement he was easily the most proud of.

Chauncy turned back to the stove, preparing a breakfast to nurture his family:  eggs and sausage for himself, Chaos, and Valtora, yogurt for Fury, and dead fish heads for Zora. He whistled as he cooked, not too loudly, of course, and did a little dance as he worked. It wasn’t long before the aromas of each summoned everyone downstairs to eat. First of whom was Valtora, being the lightest sleeper, ever-prepared for someone to try to murder her in her sleep.

“Morning m’Lady,” Chauncy greeted with what was in his opinion a dashing smile. Valtora smiled back.

“Morning m’Lord,” she reply-yawned, stepping up to him and giving him a kiss. On the lips, with a fair amount of inappropriateness.

“Morning,” Tip greeted, waking up as well. For Valtora’s kisses never failed to arouse the demon.

BAM BAM BAM!

The heavy footsteps coming down the stairs signaled the arrival of his littlest – but also loudest – Little, and he turned to see Fury standing in the foyer. She gave him a big ol’ smile, and he knelt, spreading his hands out wide.

“Fury!” he exclaimed.

“Big Daddy Nyum Nyums!” she cried, charging up to him and throwing herself into his arms with abandon. He hugged her tight, and she hugged him tighter, after which he stood.

“Yogurt?” he asked.

“Yum!” she replied. And while this was not technically an answer, it was answer enough. He handed her a cup of yogurt, and she went to the table to gobble it up, tossing her head side-to-side in a dance to the music in her cute little head.

The next child to arrive was none other than Chaos Little, who trudged glumly to the table, accepting a plate of sausage and eggs with irritable silence. Chauncy grimaced, for in contrast to Fury’s joy, Chaos’s crabbiness was off-putting indeed. Such that Chauncy had been struggling mightily with the realization that, while he loved both of his children, he liked Fury a heck of a lot more than his firstborn son. As it turned out, he found himself able to like people more when they were likeable.

Whump-a-thump, thump-BANG!

“Zora’s up,” Valtora declared.

“And now she’s down,” Chauncy replied with a smirk. For the zombie had never mastered stairs. Or anything else for that matter, other than matters that were too graphic to describe here. Sure enough, Zora came in a moment later, crawling up to the table, then standing there. Just standing, drooling excessively, and staring at Chauncy with dull, adoring eyes.

“Hey Zora,” he greeted, putting a plate of fish-heads on the table. Opposite Chaos and Fury, of course. Not that the two minded the rotting smell, having smelled it almost every day of their lives. “Well, that’s it,” he declared, making a plate for himself and standing whilst eating. For there wasn’t enough room at their little table for the Little family to sit and eat. Glare jumped up onto Chaos’s lap, then turned his back to Chauncy to stare. Chauncy grimaced, turning away so as not to lose his appetite. And then flinched, nearly dropping his plate. For there, standing before him, was a third child. A boy, nine years of age, dressed in a gray three-piece suit, hair slicked back over his pale head.

“Good morning Father,” the boy greeted with excessive formality.

“Epic,” Chauncy replied. “Um, good morning,” he added, having utterly forgotten about the boy. He glanced at the pan of sausage and eggs, realizing he’d also forgotten to cook enough for Epic. “Um…”

“Want chocolate?” Valtora asked the boy. Epic kept his gaze on Chauncy, not so much as glancing at her.

“Yes,” he declared.

Valtora got a big bar of chocolate for Epic, and everyone ate in a symphony of lip-smacking and mmm’s and such. Most of which were made by Fury, of course. Chauncy eyed Epic, feeling absolutely horrible that he’d once again forgotten about the boy. It made him feel like a lousy father…and as he’d learned during his past adventures, his feelings were never wrong.

Fuck, he thought.

After everyone was done, Chauncy doffed his chef’s apron and donned his sparkly purple wizard’s robe, grabbing his Staff of Wind and leading the family in their morning stroll to the shop. Which involved – as you well know by now, dear reader – traveling to the Southwick city center, crossing the large circular lawn there, whilst throwing a diamond punch at the much-maligned memory – and statue – of Archibald Merrick – then crossing the street carefully to A Little Magic, so as not to be run over by a carriage by accident and risk bankruptcy by way of needlessly exorbitant medical bills.

This done, Chauncy stepped up to the front door A Little Magic, his family trailing behind him like a row of ducklings. He stole a glance up at the old sign above the door, a smile on his lips:

 Then he turned to Valtora, a merry twinkle in his eye.

“Ready for a magical day, m’Lady?” he inquired.

“Hell yes,” Valtora replied. While Chaos rolled his eyes.

“Yeah!” Fury exclaimed, happy to be happy.

“Graarrgh!” Zora replied, obviously.

“Open the door,” Epic ordered.

Chauncy grimaced, not at all liking the way his son had spoken to him. But then again, he was still recovering from the guilt of having forgotten the kid. So he swallowed his irritation, unlocking the door and popping it open. After waiting a little bit, because asshole.

He held the door open for all involved, then retrieved the broom from its closet, trying to hand it to Chaos. Who promptly walked past, ignoring him.

Bitch, Chauncy thought. Irritably.

Epic grabbed the broom, then set about sweeping the shop rather mechanically, doing it the same way he always did. Up the leftmost aisle first, then down the next, then up, then down, and so on. This he performed precisely three times – as usual – then put the broom away and took his seat next to Zora, picking up the inappropriately large book he’d left on the counter the day before. “The Castle of Lord Vermillion, Volume One,” read the title, which was as much of the book as Chauncy cared to read.

“Good job Epic!” Fury exclaimed, clapping for her brother. She even leaned in to give him a hug, which he tolerated without looking at her.

“Thank you,” the boy grumbled, continuing to read. But in translation it was clear he’d told her to frickin’ go away already.

Chauncy sat at his own stool beside Valtora, giving Epic a glance, then glancing at her. She smiled at him, grabbing his hand and holding it under the counter.

“Ready to face thine enemy?” she inquired, arching an eyebrow dramatically.

“The most fearsome general of all?” he replied.

“To war!” she cried, thrusting up her diamond fist. For the most fearsome general to do battle with was none other than General Public. It was generally believed that people were generally good, but anyone who had the misfortune of working with the general public quickly learned otherwise. For while over half of people might be tolerable, an intolerable proportion were not…and it was within these customers that The Dark One’s presence was most keenly felt. And so Chauncy found that, despite having defeated The Dark One on Mount Thrall years ago, that he was doomed to face the incarnation of human darkness day after day. In little doses, to be sure, but in large numbers, little battles could task even the mightiest of Chosen Ones. Which Chauncy was certainly not.

Dong!

The front door opened, and none other than Mrs. Biggins squeezed in. She was short and quite rotund, with curly white hair and a cane that went clickity-clack, and despite being dreadfully old, was still inexplicably not dead. Which was a shame, because she happened to be Chauncy’s least favorite customer.

“Chauncy Little,” she declared as she popped her wide hips through the doorway with considerable difficulty, then hobbled toward him, aiming the butt of her cane between his eyes.

“Good morning Mrs. Biggins!” Chauncy exclaimed, standing up and spreading his arms wide. And spreading his lips even wider, giving her a big ol’ A Little Magic smile. “So happy to see you!” he lied. She glared at him.

“I wish I could say the same,” she replied, stopping before the counter and giving him a fierce frown and a shake of the head, complete with jowl-jiggle.

“What’s wrong?” Chauncy asked with mock concern.

“She’s still here!” Mrs. Biggins snapped, turning her cane on Valtora.

“Golly, I was about to say that,” Valtora replied, giving the old lady a catty smile. Mrs. Biggins’ eyes widened in indignation.

“Ten years ago you murdered my grandson’s second cousin!” she proclaimed, her jowls and cane quivering. “Ten years to the day!”

“Acquitted,” Valtora reminded the awful woman, continuing to smile rather inappropriately.

“You magicked the authorities!” Mrs. Biggin’s shot back, resorting to making shit up, as most people did when they were wrong but felt they were right. “You seduced them with your…charms,” she added, eyeing Valtora’s considerable charms with utterly unwarranted disgust.

“Not yet,” Valtora replied. “But I mean, I’ve thought about it.”

Chauncy frowned.

“Really?” he asked.

“I’ll make you pay,” Mrs. Biggins vowed, slamming the butt of her cane on the floor with a bap. She lifted her chin up defiantly. “Before I die, you will pay!”

“Better hurry up then,” Valtora replied, resting her chin in her diamond hand and continuing to smile sweetly. Mrs. Biggins shot Chauncy one last murderous glare, then turned about, nearly tipping over in the process. And it was telling that, while Chauncy had saved the woman from many a fall in the past, he didn’t so much as take a step to help this time. Luckily for her but unluckily for him, Mrs. Biggins righted herself, clickity-clacking her way to the door. And then did her very best to squeeze through it, with success. Eventually, with a dong.

“I still don’t know why she keeps coming here,” Chauncy admitted.

“She’s a glutton for punishment I guess,” Valtora replied.

“She’s a glutton for more than that,” Chauncy quipped. Which was really an inappropriate thing to say. But Valtora chortled, which made what was wrong seem okay. Until of course he glanced at his children, who reminded him that he was, unfortunately, setting an example of how they should behave.

Nothing good ever came from should, he reminded himself. It was Nettie’s advice to him back when he’d journeyed to Mount Thrall to force Valtora’s divorce from The Dark One.

“And Father,” Epic spoke up. Chauncy blinked, turning to regard his son. For Epic had the odd habit of starting a conversation as if they’d been talking for a while.

“Yes?”

“Why do the humans hate you?” Epic inquired. Bluntly. Chauncy blinked.

“The…what?”

“The humans,” Epic repeated.

“You mean…Mrs. Biggins?” Chauncy asked. Epic stared at him as if he was dense. “She’s just unhappy,” Chauncy explained. “Unhappy people bully other people.”

Epic paused, processing this in customary super-serious fashion.

“So unhappy humans are mean,” he translated.

“Unhappy people,” Chauncy corrected. “Right.”

Epic eyed Valtora then.

“What if happy humans are mean?” he pressed.

“Hmm?” Chauncy asked.

“Can happy humans be mean?”

Chauncy paused.

“If happy…uh, people…are mean, it’s usually because they don’t realize they’re being mean,” he answered. “Unhappy people are mean on purpose, and happy people are mean by accident.”

Epic didn’t reply, lowering his gaze to the countertop.

“Is that…does that make sense?” Chauncy asked. “Son?” he added, to be fatherly, albeit awkwardly.

“Yes,” the boy replied. And that was that, at least for that conversation. For Epic remained characteristically quiet for most of the rest of the day, silently studying the textbooks he’d brought to the shop from Southwick City Library. Books that were far beyond his grade level, and as such, Chauncy suspected Epic really didn’t understand. Fury, on the other hand, decided to switch to sitting in Valtora’s lap for a bit of dictionary reading. Chaos, for his part, just sat there looking terribly bored with it all. So bored, in fact, that he resembled Zora.

“Graarrgh,” Chauncy joked, grinning at the boy, just to get a rise out of him. Chaos merely turned a sullen glare on his father, then looked pointedly away. Chauncy suppressed a sigh, his former feeling of fatherly joy that morning replaced by an all-too-familiar frustration. For while Fury was still a joy to be around, Chaos and Epic were far from it. Chaos because he was a teenage jerk, and Epic because…well, because to be terribly honest, the boy was terribly odd.

When the clock struck five…o’clock, Chaos bolted from his stool, rushing to change the sign at the front window from “open” to “closed.” But just as his fingers gripped the edge of said sign, the door opened with one final dong.

“Damn!” Chaos swore. Chauncy shot him a venomous glare.

“Don’t swear,” he scolded. None other than Addie, his onetime crush and the town grocer, stepped into A Little Magic. She was still quite pretty, in a kind and gentle sort of way, and though she was now pushing fifty, she certainly didn’t look it. Chauncy suspected she’d gotten herself a potion or lotion of youth, something only available from the kingdom of Pravus. And at considerable expense, naturally, for time was money, and thus the rich had the opportunity to have more of it. Which of course allowed their investments to grow, which kept them rich, and made potions of youth ever more affordable…and unaffordable for the poor. Who would naturally find this whole arrangement quite unfair, but on balance, wouldn’t have to live with that resentment for very long.

In any case, here she was, and she looked no older than thirty. She smiled at Chauncy rather shyly, and gave Valtora a little wave.

“Addie!” Chauncy exclaimed, standing up from his stool. “Good to see you!”

“Good to see you,” Addie replied. “It’s been a while,” she added apologetically, lowering her gaze to the floor.

“Quite alright,” Chauncy replied. “You’re always welcome here.”

“Addie!” Fury cried, though she really didn’t know who Addie was.

“You’ve grown Fury,” Addie replied with a little smile. “And so have you, Chaos and Epic.”

“A lot,” Chaos stated, smiling and blushing a bit. For he’d entered into the bewildering realm of puberty, and from his perspective, Addie had considerably more magic now than the last time he’d seen her. The boy folded his hands in his lap, which suggested he’d grown a bit more since she’d opened the door.

“What’s up?” Valtora asked, cutting to the chase.

“Well…” Addie began, then glanced at Chauncy, then grimaced. “Can I speak to you alone?”

“But of course,” Chauncy replied. He stood, then left the shop with Addie, who walked a considerable distance from the store, going down an alley away from any passers-by. Then she stopped, turning to face him. “You didn’t bring me here to murder me, did you?” he joked. Lamely.

“No,” she answered, not even bothering to smile. “I have…a confession to make,” she declared. Chauncy blinked.

“Oh,” was all he could say.

“It’s about our son Wesley,” she began. Chauncy suppressed a grimace. For on the night of his wedding to Valtora, he’d been forced – by his own bride – to consummate the wedding with a different person. Which was Addie, obviously. A union – or rather a spectacularly frequent series of unions, all in the space of a night and morning-after – that’d resulted in Wesley being conceived.

“Oh,” Chauncy repeated.

“He’s…asking questions,” Addie admitted. “About who his father is.”

Chauncy swallowed in a dry throat.

“And?” he asked.

“I haven’t told him,” Addie reassured him. “But now that he’s old enough to…ah, know how babies are made, he’s realized that…well, that his younger sister looks a lot like him.”

Chauncy grimaced, unable to stop himself this time. For in addition to siring Wesley, Valtora had insisted he sire a second time, to give Wesley the brother he’d always wanted. But after a great many attempts performed over two full weeks, followed by nine months of waiting with bated breath, she’d delivered a girl instead. Thus Chaos had become Wesley’s best friend, in that he was the brother that Wesley never had. Or rather did have, but would never know he had.

“He’s convinced they have the same father,” Addie continued.

“Yeah,” Chauncy mumbled, rubbing his face with his hands. “Um,” he added, not knowing what to say. And then said nothing.

“You don’t have to tell him,” Addie stated, putting a hand on his shoulder. “And I won’t tell him without your permission. Just…think about what you want to do, and let me know. I’ll respect your decision.”

“Okay,” Chauncy replied numbly. “Thanks.”

Addie smiled, hesitating, then leaning in to give him a kiss on the cheek. She pulled away then, giving him a sad smile.

“I’m glad I got to have them,” she stated. “And…I’m glad I got to have you, for the time that I did.”

“Me too,” Tip replied, piping in at a truly inappropriate time. While making himself known visually. Addie smiled down at the demon.

“And you too Tip,” she added.

“You can have me again,” the demon offered. “I’ll totally make him do it, too,” he added. For Tip never turned down a chance to be a dick.

“Shut up Tip!” Chauncy scolded.

“Fine,” the demon grumbled, piping down.

“Bye,” Addie said, giving him a little wave. Then she walked away quickly, leaving Chauncy in the alleyway. Chauncy watched her go, then sighed, feeling terribly out of sorts.

“Well crap,” he muttered.

“I know, right?” Tip said. “We almost had that.”

Chauncy ignored the demon, waiting for him to pipe down, then walked back to the shop. He found everyone outside of the front door, waiting for him.

“Ready?” Valtora asked, beaming him a gorgeous smile. He forced a smile back.

“Yeah.”

And with that, the Little family – which was not quite as little as Chauncy would have preferred – left A Little Magic behind, that being the last dong of the day. A dong that, in retrospect, Chauncy wished had never come.

Chapter 1

 That evening, after cooking dinner and serving it to his partially-loving family, he put Fury to bed with a wonderful bedtime story. One she absolutely adored and cheered for at the end, of course. Chaos went to bed without being asked, slamming the door and refusing to answer when Chauncy knocked. Valtora took to reading the encyclopedia in bed, for she sometimes preferred the pictures that the dictionary lacked. As for Chauncy, having thusly fulfilled his obligations for the day, he went downstairs into the kitchen for a bit of him time. Which involved taking a big ol’ piece of chocolate cake and settling down at the kitchen table to enjoy it.

“Ahhh,” he sighed, rubbing his hands together, then picking up his fork for the stabbin’.

“And Father,” a voice called out behind him.

“Holy…!” Chauncy blurted out, leaping up from his chair. It toppled over with a bang, and when he turned around, he saw none other than Epic standing there by the stove. “Oh,” he blurt-added, picking up the chair and sitting down on it. “Um, aren’t you supposed to be in bed?” he asked. Which was a bit hypocritical, considering he should have put Epic there. Once again, he’d forgotten about his youngest son, to his shame.

“I have five minutes,” the boy pointed out, pointing to the clock on the wall. Chauncy glanced at it, seeing that Epic was right, as usual.

“What do you want?” he asked, shoving his plate of cake toward the center of the table. He was not going to share it, no way no how.

“I have a question.”

“Okay.” Chauncy replied. Epic just stood there, staring at him. “What’s your question?”

“Why do you work at the shop?”

“Um…because I like it,” Chauncy answered.

“Why do you like it?”

“Because…I’m uh, carrying on the family tradition,” he replied. Epic considered this.

“You like it because other people did it?”

“Uh…well…it was handed down to me,” he explained, which was sort of not true. “I want to make Grandma Little proud.”

“She’s dead.”

“Well yes,” Chauncy agreed. “But I’m honoring her memory.”

“So you like to honor her memory,” Epic deduced.

“Right. Yes.”

Another pause.

“Do you like working at the shop?” he asked.

“Well…it’s something to do,” Chauncy answered. “And I enjoy doing it with you,” he lied. “And Chaos and Mommy and Fury,” he added, of which the last two were true.

“But you could do anything with us,” the boy argued.

“I mean yeah,” Chauncy conceded. “But it’s what we Littles do.”

“Why?”

Chauncy paused, rubbing his forehead wearily.

“Because people just end up doing what they’re used to doing, and that’s just the way it is,” he declared with authoritative finality, wanting the conversation over with already. After all, there was cake to be consumed. But Epic crossed his arms over his little chest, clearly not taking the hint.

“You said wizards do what they love,” he accused.

“I said that when they do what they love, it’s called magic,” Chauncy corrected. “That’s what I meant, anyway.”

Epic frowned.

“If we end up doing what we’re used to doing, then we should never get used to doing things we won’t like,” he reasoned.

“Right,” Chauncy replied, eyeing his cake longingly.

“So we should do what we love, so our life is magical,” Epic deduced, carrying it through to the logical conclusion. Something he had a talent for, Chauncy had to admit.

“Yep,” Chauncy agreed. “So do what’s magical to you, okay?”

Epic’s brow furrowed, and he lowered his gaze. Then he lifted it to Chauncy’s, and nodded curtly.

“Yes father,” he decided. Then he glanced at the clock. “Goodnight,” he stated, and then turned about, walking out of the kitchen toward the stairs. Chauncy watched him go, feeling quite relieved. But something made him call out after the boy.

“Epic?” he asked. The boy turned around.

“Yes father?”

“What do you find magical?” he asked, for he really hadn’t a clue. Epic’s eyes seemed to glitter in the relative darkness, with an intensity that Chauncy had never seen before.

“I like watching things die.”

And with that, Epic turned about, walking upstairs, and that was that.

Chauncy stared at the foyer, then looked down at his slice of cake, staring at it for a long, long while.

“The fuck?” he blurted out, to no one in particular. And then he took one bite, then another, and then found that he couldn’t stop.

***

After his slice of cake – followed shortly thereafter by an uncharacteristically large glass of wine – Chauncy joined Valtora in their hot-pink bed. He sighed, snuggling under the covers, and Valtora closed her encyclopedia, turning on her side to stare at him, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

“Spill it,” she ordered. He frowned.

“Spill what?” he asked.

“Yeah, spill what?” Tip added rather hopefully.

“What Addie said already,” Valtora answered. While giving Tip a nonverbal reply. And such was the sad property of Man that said reply made Chauncy powerless to stop himself from spilling his guts out. Among other things. So he gave away the goods, so to speak. But not at nearly the considerable length he would’ve preferred. When all was said and done, Tip went fast asleep, and Chauncy found himself feeling rather drained.

“What should I do?” Chauncy asked.

“Eh,” Valtora replied with a shrug.

“What do you mean, eh?”

“Eh,” she repeated, shrugging again.

“Should I tell Wesley or not?” he asked.

“Why not?” she replied. He paused, then grimaced. “Spit it out already,” she pressed. Tip stirred.

“I did,” the demon complained.

“Not you,” she chided.

“It’s just…” Chauncy began. Then he sighed. “I don’t really want to be a father to him, and he’ll expect that.”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“You do?” he asked.

“Hell yeah,” she confirmed. “He’s annoying.” Chauncy smiled reluctantly.

“I know, right?” he replied, feeling a bit guilty. But it was true. For while Wesley was…fine and all, he was kind of a little bitch. A property he’d probably gotten from Chauncy, but still. If the old adage that what we hated in others was what we hated about ourselves was true, then it certainly explained how Chauncy felt about his accidental son.

He thought of Epic then, and grimaced.

“What?” Valtora asked. Chauncy hesitated.

“It’s just…about Epic,” he began.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t you think he’s a bit…um…”

Valtora rolled her eyes dramatically.

“Just say it already.”

“It’s just…isn’t he a bit…odd?” Chauncy asked.

“What’d’you mean?”

“He calls people ‘humans,’” Chauncy explained.

“And?”

“Nobody does that,” he stated, feeling strange that he had to explain it.

“But it’s true,” she argued. “I mean, people are humans. Like, by definition,” she added. Which was true. And she would know, considering that when it came to definitions, she was a world expert, having read the dictionary perhaps more than anyone else in the world. Including the people – or humans, rather – that’d written it.

“But it’s odd,” Chauncy insisted.

“So?”

“It’s just…he’s so…different,” he stated.

“All of us are,” she replied.

“But…”

“You fuck a zombie,” she pointed out. “Like, all the time.”

Chauncy grimaced, unable to deny this fact. Or the logic employed, which was to say that he was odd in his sexual proclivities, to his private joy but social shame.

“Yeah, but I know it’s odd,” he argued. “Epic doesn’t. He’s like, oblivious.”

“And?”

“I guess I just don’t understand him,” Chauncy confessed. “And it makes me feel…like I can’t understand him.”

She frowned prettily.

“Why do you need to understand him?” she asked. “Just love him.”

“Because…because I can’t…” Chauncy stammered. Then he sighed, feeling awful. “I don’t think I can really be a good father to him if I don’t understand him.”

It was the truth. And in saying it, Chauncy realized another truth. That he didn’t really love Epic. That he often forgot about the boy, on account of the distance between them. Not one measured in inches or feet, but in the distance between their hearts. Epic’s heart was closed to him, and what’s more, locked. And Chauncy simply didn’t have the key, which in this case took the form of mutual understanding.

“Aww,” Valtora replied, rubbing Chauncy’s chest. “Maybe you just need to talk to him.”

“I’ve tried,” Chauncy insisted, rather defensively.

“Keep trying.”

He sighed, his frustration mounting.

“Do you get him?” he asked.

“I mean, yeah,” Valtora replied. Chauncy eyed her doubtfully.

“Really?” he pressed in a rather high-pitched voice.

“What’s not to get?”

“Oh, the fact that he calls people humans, and hates being hugged or kissed,” Chauncy answered. “Or the fact that every time we gave him a bath when he was younger, he screamed like bloody murder when we washed his hair.”

“He hated getting his head wet,” Valtora stated.

“He acted like the water was acid,” Chauncy shot back.

“Acid lava,” Valtora conceded with a smile. “Pussy little punk-ass bitch.” Which was really not something a mother should say about her son, at least in the eyes of the general public. But Chauncy suspected that most mothers – and fathers, for that matter – said similar things, in the safety of their heads if not to their spouses. He paused, then grimaced.

“He told me he likes watching things die,” Chauncy confessed, feeling a chill run down his spine. The memory of the boy’s silver eyes gleaming at the confession made him shiver.

“So?”

Chauncy just stared at her.

“Okay, that’s a little dark, but I enjoy murdering people,” Valtora pointed out. “I mean, when they’re like, bad and shit.”

“My point is, he’s not like Chaos or Fury,” Chauncy stated. “Or you or me, really.”

“So?”

“I guess I’m just having a hard time connecting with him,” Chauncy admitted, feeling a flash of shame. “And…it makes me have a hard time feeling, you know, uh…fatherly toward him.” Which was as close to the truth as he was willing to get with his wife, considering the true horror of how he felt. To admit to himself that he didn’t love his own son was one thing, but to admit it to anyone else would be unthinkable.

“Aww,” she replied, in a far different way than she had before. “Poor Chauncy-poo. Do yewz needz a widdle more wuvin’?” she asked. And then promptly made it clear that she assumed his answer would be “yes.”

“I don’t know…” he mumbled, not at all in the mood. But true to form, Valtora only saw this as a challenge, and she immediately saw fit to surmount it. By mounting it.

Such was her consummate skill at consummating that she successfully distracted him, at least until she was good and done. But as Chauncy lay in bed awake afterward – his poopy-dooz sleeping soundly at his side – he couldn’t help but think of Epic. He would have to live with his secret shame, he realized with a crushing sadness, and the feeling that he was doing something terribly wrong. That he was a terrible father, if not to Fury and Chaos, then to his youngest son.

But as you know, dear reader, a secret is like a fungus, in that darkness is where it prefers to grow. And in the darkness, it would grow…with consequences that Chauncy couldn’t possibly have anticipated.

Chapter 2

The night before destiny knocked on Chaos Little’s door, Epic Little was not lying in his bed, as his father and mother believed. Instead, he was outside, in the woods behind the Little house, stepping across a carpet of dead leaves. For it was Autumn, a time to die. A time when plants turned brown and rotted and were eaten up by worms and bugs and fungi and such. Life ending and being transformed into other life, one pattern of stuff adding itself to a different pattern. A dance of take and give, in a kind of forced generosity between one year and the next. This was of course something that happened every day, but in Autumn, it happened on a far grander scale. Almost everything died, preparing a veritable feast for Spring.

It was Epic’s favorite time of the year.

His gaze swept over the forest floor as he walked, though what he was looking for, he couldn’t say. He’d been struck with the urge to explore ever since he could remember, drawn to the quiet, peaceful darkness of night-time. A time when the humans all went unconscious until sunrise. It was, in a way, like they all died, in that it marked the end of a day. But in the morning, they rose as if resurrected, as if the sun’s rays put their souls back inside of them.

In any case, night-time was a time when the humans left Epic to himself. And being by himself was the only time he felt like he could be himself. Alone with his thoughts, he was purely him. He didn’t have to play silly human games. He treasured these moments, hours after everyone else had gone to sleep. Sneaking out to the woods to be one with the night.

Last evening, he’d spotted a little bird lying on the forest floor, one of its legs broken and bleeding. He’d sat down next to it for hours, waiting for it to die, but it hadn’t. He’d waited all day for everyone to go to bed so he could see it again…but as he made his way to the spot where it’d been, he found that it was already dead. Maggots squirmed over its little body, turning bird into maggot, a process humans called eating and digestion. The forest was eating it, as life always did to life. Everything became something else’s meal, at least eventually. Part of him wondered if, by being eaten by something and becoming it, he would become conscious as that thing. If a tiger ate him, would he live on as the tiger? He doubted it, for his Epic-pattern would end. If he was eaten by ten thousand maggots, his awareness couldn’t be split between all of them, after all. But still, there was no way to be sure until it happened to him.

Epic sighed, stopping and putting his hands on his hips, disappointed that the bird was already dead. He’d seen plenty of insects die, but he’d never gotten the opportunity to watch an animal do it. It wasn’t so much killing that interested him, but the act of dying. Of watching what was alive – what had a living experience, with memories and sensations and thoughts and feelings – turn into a mere object. It begged the question that’d fascinated him for as long as he realized that Mother was dead.

Mother was dead, but alive…which meant that she still possessed the thing that other dead things lacked. So what was it that they’d lost?

Epic eyed the wriggling maggots for a bit longer, enjoying their wriggling and squirming. He loved maggots and slugs and goopy, slimy things in general, for there was something less…mechanical about them. But at length he grew tired of watching, leaving the spot and continuing onward through the forest. After a few minutes, he spotted something ahead. Something large, dark, and furry lying on a bed of moist leaves. He froze, half-expecting it to get up and lunge at him, in which case he would be dead…and his pattern would end, his stuff becoming part of whatever predator attacked him. But after nearly a minute, it was clear that it wasn’t in fighting shape. He hesitated, then stepped up to it. It was a wolf, he realized, lying on its left side. The right half of its face had been nearly torn off, its right eye and ear missing. At first he thought it was dead, but then he saw that it was breathing. Shallow breaths, and quick, but the spark of life was clearly still in it.

His breath caught in his throat.

Epic stood there for a long while, watching the wolf. Then he crept closer, step-by-step, inching toward it. On closer inspection, it’d suffer long gashes to its side, hints of white ribs visible. He could even see the meat between the ribs contracting and relaxing as it breathed.

And as he watched, its breathing slowed.

Epic made it within a few feet of the wolf, then knelt, staring at it. A gurgling sound came from its throat with each breath, blood pooled around its mouth. If it knew he was there, it didn’t show it. He paused, then inched closer, until he was so close he could’ve reached out and touched its head. But he just watched, waiting…and realized that this was it.

The wolf was inches from death, and he was going to witness it.

A giddy feeling filled him up, and it was all he could do to stay still. Minutes passed, and still the wolf breathed, but it didn’t matter. He would stay here all night – and even into the morning – if that was what it took. He would finally witness an animal die…and then the mystery of life and death would be solved.

What is lost?

He waited…and waited. And waited. Until his legs became so sore that he sat down. The wolf’s breathing slowed further, the gurgling in its throat quieter now.

And then it stopped.

Epic’s own breath caught in his throat, and he held it, leaning forward in anticipation, his eyes locked on the wolf’s empty eye socket.

This is it!

Then the wolf took a rattling breath in, and Epic’s shoulders slumped a bit. It took another breath in, then another, then stopped again. But after nearly a minute, it started breathing again.

Come on…

The wolf’s breathing stopped, a minute passing, then another. But this time, it didn’t start breathing again. Epic scooched forward a bit on his butt, his face only inches from the wolf’s now. He hesitated, then reached out, touching the wolf’s furry neck with his fingertips.

Then it happened.

He felt something…a tingling in his fingertips, followed by something else. The feeling of a presence, one that was both within the wolf, but also far, far away. But it was a distance that, though vast, was no distance at all. As if space itself was an illusion, because all things were one.

Then Epic felt the presence snap away from the wolf. But still he could feel that presence…until he lifted his fingertips from the wolf’s neck.

He frowned, then touched the wolf’s neck a second time, and immediately felt the presence again. He closed his eyes, concentrating on it…and saw a brilliant, silver-blue light amidst the darkness.

Epic opened his eyes, and the light vanished.

He closed his eyes again, and again, he saw the light. It seemed to pulse, and as he concentrated on it, it grew in size.

What are you, he asked it silently. It didn’t reply, of course. He focused harder, mentally squinting at it…and a part of it streamed toward him, leaving a trail of sparkling silver-blue light in its wake. It zoomed toward him with shocking speed, slamming into him.

Epic’s eyes snapped open…and to his surprise, he saw a silver-blue glowing mist surrounding his hand…and the wolf’s head. He jerked his hand back from it, standing and taking a step back. The light sank into the wolf’s body, spreading through it and filling it. Until its empty eye socket glowed silver-blue.

Then its front paws twitched.

“Nope,” Epic declared. And then promptly turned and ran.

He dodged trees as he went, leaping over large stones and fallen logs, sweat pouring down his flanks despite the chill of the night. When he glanced back, he saw the dark silhouette of the wolf standing upright, the bones of the right side of its face pale silver in the moonlight. And that strange, silver-blue glow from its eyes pierced the darkness of the night, seeming to look right into his very soul.

Epic turned away from the sight, and this time he never looked back, making the mile-long journey back to the house in record time. He went through the backdoor, creeping through the kitchen into the foyer, then snuck upstairs to go to his bedroom. Mother was there, lying on the bedroom floor, covered in blankets. A pale imitation of being buried underground, which was the bed she would’ve preferred. But she preferred being with him while he slept even more.

He stared at her, still feeling the strange presence, far away, but somehow also within him. As if he were connected to it.

Epic felt a chill run down his spine, and knelt, stripping the blankets off of Mother. He shook her shoulder, and she turned to look at him with her dead eyes, a slight smile curling her lips. She always smiled when she saw him for the first time in a while. Always.

“Mother,” he whispered. “I’m scared.”

She reached for him, and he laid down beside her, snuggling each other. And while she was cold, or rather, room temperature, her love was warmth enough. They laid there, and Epic’s heart slowed, a sense of calm returning to him. He gave a contented sigh, leaning in and kissing Mother’s forehead. Then he told her what’d happened in the forest, for he told her everything.

But no sooner had he finished his story than Mother’s diamond hand seemed to shimmer, and something rose from it. A translucent white glowing apparition with eyes that burned with crimson fire. It was Zarzibar, the lich bound to Mother’s crystal hand. An entity that had rarely shown himself to Epic, and had never spoken to him. Epic sat up, and Zarzibar turned to face him, those glowing eyes boring into his.

SHOW ME, Zarzibar’s voice boomed in his head.

Epic paused, then nodded.

“Tomorrow night,” he promised.

If he’d only known what was in store for him after that fateful night, Epic might have felt far differently about showing Zarzibar what he’d done. But the universe had its grand design, and thus whatever happened was meant to be. Some called it fate, while others called it destiny. And for better or for worse, Epic’s destiny was doomed to be.

That, dear reader, marks the end of the beginning of our tale, which starts in the past. But fear not, dearest reader, for this tale will span many years, as epic tales are wont to do, and eventually we’ll return to what you know as the present. I say this not to spoil a surprise, but to manage expectations, for managing them is the best way to avoid dashing them. So in the interest of managing said expectations, dear reader, expect the very worst. For on the night Epic met his destiny, the end of the world was destined to be. Or to put in the most conventional way that I can:

And that, dear reader, was how the end of the world began.

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