Warden climbed the ladder out of Daniel's mind and came up through the floor just behind Daniel's cocoon of safety. The torchfork was on the floor here, and he dragged it to him, careful not the expose himself to Carver's hob. The cobble known as Fast Cousin had managed to get back to cover, but his hand was still a useless mass of blood. Boddy and Foolish Cousin were enveloped nearly as completely as Daniel, and Her was at the center of the storm of wires, seemingly unable to do any more.

Fortunately, Carver's Bodyguard lacked a constructed weapon, and mundane realis pistols have finite shots. Unfortunately, the bodyguard was a professional, and was not taking wild shots at cover when nobody was exposed. What good was suppressing fire if his charge had already gotten away, after all.

Warden drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of ozone and gunsmoke. At least he could be rebuilt. Forged anew, like Loyal had been. And someone needed to get past that hob. Time to do something unexpected. He backed up as far as he could without becoming a target, then took two short steps and planted the haft of the torchfork in the ground, using it as an improvised pole to launch himself over the cocoon. He was in luck; the hob had been expecting him to have to go around the wires; too sharp to touch. The pistol was aimed several degrees to Warden's left.

It didn't matter. The distance was too great. There was a dull thud somewhere in Warden's perception and he felt an impact near his stomach. Before the pain could set in, he drew his weapon back like a gladiator's trident and hurled it. It sailed true, despite the curved tines, and with a burst of fire, it sank into the other Boddy's chest. The burst of the flames knocked the hob from his feet and the gun from his hands.

A bloom of dark liquid spread on Warden's uniform. Blood. Daniel had even given him blood. Well, what better use than to spent it in defense of mankind?

Her's spell vanished as Warden began to dissipate back into thoughtstuff. Not bad, for less than a month of life, he thought. I got to see realis and irrealis both, and I did good work.

---

Carver threw open another set of doors. The House of Community was a large property, and even he didn't know where everything was most days. This room, he did know. It was a formal dining room, meant to serve as many as thirty guests. A large room, with large furniture. Ordinarily, he would have stopped to admire the expensive redwood and ivory dining table, which he had ordered at considerable expense, or the matching chairs, edged with gold. Today, he merely noted that 'around the table' takes on a new meaning when the table is over twenty feet long. He went over it, instead, shattering a vase some house manager had left to keep the place lively between parties.

He had a panic room. All he had to do was slip through the den on the other side of this table, and take the secret door behind the washroom sink in the room beyond that.

He didn't get a choice. Some creature born of nightmares emerged from his den. It seemed to be made of endless ebony tentacles, all waving in a disorienting frenzy. A long tentacle made up the body, seven or eight feet from beak to tail. Two similarly-sized tentacles acted as wings, but the feathers were just more tentacles. The legs were clusters of tentacles writhing together, braided into ropes where each strand moved independently.

It was disgusting. And it was horrifying. And then it opened its beak and let out a cry. Carver had seen untalented children play cheap, dented instruments in a charity concert once. The horrid discordant sound of twenty-something eight-year-olds tuning up using a fork that wasn't even accurate and ears that were less had been one of the most grating sounds he had ever heard. Nails on a chalkboard had moved up a step by comparison. The sound this creature made was an order of magnitude worse. Carver wished he were deaf. He would gladly stay deaf the rest of his life if it meant not having to hear this again. It made his bones feel like gelatin and his hair seemed unwilling to even stand on end, instead curling itself flat against his scalp as if trying to hide from the sound.

The sound went on for five continuous seconds. During the whole thing, Carver was unable to move, transfixed by the bleating of the devil's own bagpiper before him. When it ended, the beak-on-a-squid turned to look at him with one eye that seemed to gleam with a piercing inner light. It took a step towards him. Carver took a step back.

Another step. It was not in any hurry. Carver checked behind him. The way he had come was still open, and this thing was between him and his safe room. If he could just get past the table, this creature might be slowed down enough for him to put some doors between him and it. Maybe he could even get into hiding and wait for it to pass, then sneak to his safe room.

Two steps. The creature ducked into a crouch, as if preparing to leap.

Carver broke, diving under the table and crawling, ineffectively on his stomach to the other side. The creature simply vaulted up over the table, clearing the full five feet of width in a single casual jump. It ropy legs seemed to stretch before and after, extending its reach like some bizarre elastic. It bellowed again, shorter, quieter, less horrifying only by comparison to the first bellow. Carver attempted to about face, but he was too slow. He felt a vice lock around his ankle, painfully squeezing as he was dragged unceremoniously out from under the table.

The creature was all around him. Carver did his best not to scream in terror and failed. The tentacles seemed to unravel and reravel in a single surge.

---

Carver woke up, one nightmare-infused rest later. He was surprised to see that he was all in one piece. He was tied to a chair. The monstrosity was nowhere in sight. But then, neither was anything else. Dusty shelves lined his view on either side. They looked faintly familiar. One of his storage rooms, perhaps? Or the cellars? A single utilitarian light was fixed to the ceiling, and it cast shadows into the corners furthest from Carver. It was bright enough near him.

He tried to move his arms and legs. No good, the chair was sturdy and the ropes were strong. Someone noticed.

"Hello, Edgar."

Carver didn't recognize the voice. It was gruff, but somehow harmonic. Like a tenor with a head cold. Whoever it was knew his first name, though. And if they had tied him up, they probably knew he didn't care for it.

"You know, you were given a chance. Mister Corners, he's very moral. Does what's right. Wanted to settle this bloodlessly."

The voice came into view. It was one of those giant orange hobs that had been with Daniel. Carver had never bothered to find out what they were called. This was the oldest of the three, and middle in height.

"Unfortunately, Mister Corners was knocked out in the fighting, just like you. So when someone found you there, in the care of his little hound, it was not Mister Corners."

The hob drew a gun, a large caliber revolver of some kind. It looked like a prop in a western movie.

"I don't mind a little blood. But, out of respect for the service Mister Corners has paid my mistress, I'm giving you one more chance. He should be back on his feet by now. So, two options."

Carver was already sure he knew what the options were going to be.

"Option one: you relinquish control of your House. Full control. You name Lady Liu as the house's proxy until a proper leader is installed. No change of intraHouse politics necessary."

The hob slowly, methodically, slid five rounds into the six-shooter. He didn't break eye contact with Carver as he did it, but Carver could see.

"Option two: I leave this room. I free one arm. And I leave this firearm behind. No ammunition."

Carver stifled his confused expression. "Why would you give me a weapon if I don't agree to your demands?"

"Because, Edgar," the hob-thing drew out Carver's name deliberately, grinning with those weirdly narrow teeth shared by its cousins, and Carver felt a brief flare of anger over the chilling panic. "I'm not leaving you alone. Loyal?"

Carver turned to where the hob had pointed. The abomination was there. Its single eye shone like a flashlight for a few seconds, fading into the distance like an echo.

"Incidentally, she is bulletproof. According to my boys, your bodyguard hit her in a clear cluster, three shots. Impressive aim, I have to say. You surely don't pay him enough. All it did was make new tendrils. But you're welcome to try. Five shots, Mister Carver." He took out one more round and placed it clearly visible on the edge of one of the shelves. "Plus one more four when you realize it doesn't help. After I leave this room, I lock it behind me. Your staff know ways to make rooms disappear, and I regret to inform you that they are largely against you at this point. You could stay in here a very long time, just you and your new friend."

Carver took several seconds to realize what the hob had just said, so distracted was he by the creature he saw. It took him another minute or two to realize the implied threat. The hob was silent the whole time, watching Carver's expression carefully.

"If you lock me in here," Carver said, carefully omitting the 'with that thing' part of the sentence. "You don't gain control of the House. I'm still its sitting master. All you'll accomplish is annoying me, unless you think that creature would kill me. But if you thought that, you wouldn't have set aside the extra bullet. It will what, put me to sleep again? That's what it did the first time." Carver hoped the hob couldn't see him shudder under the ropes tying him to the chair. "I can stall. Eventually someone else will come looking for me. One of my other allies."

The hob seemed disappointed. "Drat. I told Warden this threat wouldn't work. There's no teeth in it." Carver didn't ask who Warden was.

The hob opened the revolver again, and slid the sixth bullet into place. He raised it, and the last thing Carver saw was the flare of the muzzle.