Gaea, Cerberus, and An Astral Thrashing!

You can’t lose your shit. You can’t lose your shit. Andy Crowly’s Northstar high-tops slid across the mall’s tile floor with a squeak that belied the severity of his immediate circumstances. His mind, which had been forced to process its fair share of peculiarities of late was not ready for this.

At the far end of the entrance to the Tudor Arms, there stood a robot. It was about seven-feet tall and had a tall cylinder of a head tapered subtly down to its chin. Its movements were disarmingly un-robotic: fluid and gracefully athletic. And its manner of dress was unlike anything Andy had ever imagined he might see on a robot: leather breaches tucked into high boots, and a blousy pirate’s shirt. A broad-brimmed hat with a massive black plume trailing from the band perfectly complemented a pencil-thin, swashbuckler moustache painted over its mouth. There were silver-buckled pouches around a wide belt, upon which hung a disturbingly large two-handed broadsword.

Andy followed the robot’s glowing amber slits for eyes to the object of their attention. Surprises upon surprises!

No, not now, Banjoman.” Andy heard the robot’s voice in his head. What a strange accent — right propa British, yet Alabama-somethin’ er’ other.

A powerfully built man in worn jeans and a hooded sweater of a thick, grey, heather fabric under a denim jacket glared at the robot. Amethyst eldritch fire blazed from his eyes. He wore a bowler had and had a spectacular crimson gunslinger moustache. Across his back on a strap of orange leather, there was a banjo.

“Andy!’ Deb screamed. Not the scream of terror he expected under these circumstances, but rather an expression of glee. Does she not see this? He thought.

Then everything changed.

Where the robot had stood, now stood Scott St. Pierre.

The Banjoman, likewise, was instantly gone. O’Finnegan, a bewildered expression on his freckled face, stood in his place.

And not a soul in the Tudor Arms seemed disturbed in the least. It was Saturday afternoon as usual — as though no extra-planar entities had been there at all.

Andy saw Deb coming for him waving papers. Over her shoulder, toward the back of the bar, his eyes met Nick’s.

Three Hours Ago

Andy’s eidetic memory allowed him to remember — simply by glancing at their tables of contents — all the books he had ever read about astral projection  The Eidetic Vault Trigger had been the first spell he had learned.

He had dipped his toe in the astral realm before, but he had been hesitant to explore it. Now, however, trepidation slipped away by the moment. He would go beyond his boundaries today. He had read enough to confirm his suspicions about Guskar’s Earthsotone.  It would help him unlock the secret to operating safely in the astral plane.

In the basement recroom, Andy pulled back the worn, chorded, oval area rug that hid a protective magic circle he had etched there with a pocket knife. Settling into the full lotus position with a hand on each knee, he contorted his fingers into the necessary neuro-trigger formations. As he breached the inner barrier to the null-point, standard gravitation collapsed around his body. It was the telltale sign he had accessed the probability vortices where he could re-define reality itself.

Elaborate vocalizations, physical postures and gestures, and circles and mandalas weren’t the means by which the sorcerer altered probability. They were merely sensory stimuli, which, in various combinations, generated specific electrical patterns of impulses in the nervous system, and vibrations in the body’s aetheric field. These phenomenon and their associated quantum field variations opened access by the consciousness to the deepest inner mind where the conceived world and the perceived world became one and the same: where probability could be altered by the dictates of one’s will.

As above. So below.

When Andy could no longer feel his body, he opened his eyes.

He found himself nestled between roots of a tree that felt as though their sole purpose was to help him relax. He looked out upon a golden field of tall grass beneath a glowing, peach-coloured sky. Conical islands, like inverted mountains, hung like clouds therein.

The tree at his back felt as if it were part of him. My “splinter of Yggdrasil” he liked to think. He had often imagined that every mind had a tree at its center; and that in-turn, every one of those trees was but a branch of a single tree – the Asgardian life-tree – winding through all the minds of all the realms in the multiverse.

He did not see it, but he knew his silver chord was there, connecting him to the tree, which in turn connected him to his physical form back in his the recroom. Perhaps an extension of his Kundalini, he had hypothesized.

Every being has a silver cord that connects to a touchstone on the astral plane – part base of operations on the quiet realm – part gateway back to the physical body. It was impossible to truly come to harm on the astral plane. One’s silver cord would always pull them back to their body in their native realm should the astral body be sufficiently shocked or wounded. Andy’s touchstone was this tree, with its branches, mostly unseen, stretching out across the planes and throughout the cosmos.

It was time. He reached into his purple velvet dice bag. He felt nothing like a gem in there and his heart sank. But wait!

The six-sided: the red cube was heavy! And the moment he grasped it, it spoke on his mind.

“I am life. I am Gaea. Daughter of The All. You are less than, but also, me.” The voice was the voice of one’s mother — or, if not a mother one cared for, then instead, the voice of the mother one wished they could have.

Andy felt strong. Not merely football-linebacker strong but tank battalion strong — grounded and solid. But at the same time limber and full of energy and vitality. He saw his body sheathed in a tight, bright emerald light.

“Thank-you,” he said to Gaia. And his voice seemed to him then as gravel and gale.

“This armour will protect you.” Gaia’s matronly, melodic voice whispered in his head. “Sorcerers call it brainmail. It is made from the aether of a demiurge and the confidence of its wearer. You are ready, Andy Crowley! Alexandria awaits!”

He felt Gaia’s mind depart from him, but in the brain mail, he felt her aetheric energy mingling with his.

Andy looked at the six-sided die in his hand. It appeared to be the same, old, worn plastic cube but now it was heavy and he felt its charge in his hand. He knew it was, in essence Guskar’s Earthstone.

Boldly donning his new brainmail, with the Earthstone clutched in his fist, he stood and walked to the edge of the ridge by his tree. He always enjoyed the springy surface of the astral realm. It was a hallmark of this particular plane that all the surfaces had a kind of spongy give to them. The grass was pale gold. The earth was the colour of wine. In all his travels so far, this was his favorite place beyond the threshold of the everyday plane of waking, material existence.

And then, with a push from the edge of the ridge the way one pushes from the side of a swimming pool, Andy Crowley soared toward the island in the astral sky he somehow already knew was Akashic Library of Alexandria.


Cerberus should not have been in the astral realm. But, in the closing hours of the Siege of Hades Prime, he had been sent to hide there by the Admiral of Sygia. Cerberus had been told that one day an Earther would seek to enter Akashic Alexandria, and that when that happened, he was to tear the Earther to shreds. The order to the admiral had come from Hades himself. Hades knew the fiend Lucifer desired the Earth wizard’s soul. The lord of the Olympian underworld about to fall would see Lucifer denied his prize.

Cerberus reared on his haunches. His three heads lathered and foamed as he spoke.

“A pretentious child of the magicless realm seeks the wisdom of the Library then.”

“Library?, I see nought but a misshapen whelp with shrill words that make me long for a return to what I once knew as a quiet realm.”

Indeed, where Andy now stood there was was nought but a flat rolling plain atop the massive inverted mountain he had landed upon. As he approached he had seen all manner of architecture from all manner of cultures veining the roots of the island like precious metals in the wall of a cave. Greek, Egyptian, Gothic, Renaissance, Persian, North American First Nations, African, Asian — some of the styles he did not know at all and had completely alien alien (an hence, beguiling) flavour.

The left head of the Cerberus, a pup’s, puzzled, tilted, and looked up and to the side. The centre head stared hard and smart into Andy’s eyes — into his soul. The head to his right, aged even beyond death, was mad and wild with ravenous hunger. Foam sprayed from its fetid, flailing maw.

The Cerberus, reared on its glistening black haunches to strike. Each head was the size of an African elephant. Andy knew his silver chord was assurance he could not die here — but Cerberus could certainly prevent him from entering the library.

In the instant before Cerberus was upon him, by no will of his own, the green aether of his brainmail to on the form of an ornate trident in his left hand. But this mattered not a whit. The sight of it bewildered him — until pain consumed his mind.

From the pup a howl went up. It was so loud, Andy — had he the option, would have checked to see if his ears were bleeding.

The beast was upon him. His last thought before the pain was that the howl had been an alarm — a klaxon to signal his presence. The hound of Hades was a sentinel.

Before he could even respond he was in the fetid maw of the rotting wolf’s head. Teeth tore into his flesh as it shook him violently. Its foaming acidic saliva hissed as it ate away his eyes and open wounds. He knew his spine was twisting, snapping, and grinding in all manner of grotesque life-ending ways. His curiosity however, was transfixed on matters much grander than the mere imminence of death.

For in the hand that did not clutch to the trident, a small monolith of black glass had appeared.  Where have I seen this before? No! he did not just hold the black glass, it was a part of him. No! They were one and the same! Where a moment before it was new to him, now it was as though they had never been apart. It was as though they were all there could ever be.

Spherical points of light shrank away into the distance from this new, fused perspective.

Quarks; atoms; molecules — is that what they were? — spiraled away and downward.

Next, alien creatures swimming in a raindrop came into view from all around them and receded into the singular point at the most distant limit of perception.

What now? Is this blood?

What is this? bone? Could it be stone? Does it matter? Are they not all illusory distinctions. Unnecessary. Arbitrary. Petty.

Some small part of Andy was holding on to ask these questions: a speck of ego in the exploding vastness of this new being, hungering to vanquish division — swelling fat on all it assimilated into its awareness.

Are these questions or are they answers? The speck of ego’s whispered curiosity infuriated the monolith mind. This nonsense of distinguishing onefrom other was anathema to its very purpose for being.

Shrinking away now was Terra. or was it Earth, Diqiu, Arda, Kadoor Ha’aretz, Ea, Maapallo — so many names.

“No!” The ego of Andy Crowley exclaimed as it began appropriating the vast knowledge it was acquiring. They call that world Sanctuary! That is the name most beings know it by.

Enough with the delusional distinctions! The monolith seethed to the now minuscule Andy-ego. For what are labels and names, save the most heinous of attachments and deceptions! See that world now. It is a dust mote: meaningless, pointless, temporary.

Then the stars sped away too. Then the galaxies. Then the entire universe. All receding beyond reckoning.

And then, for the last of the shrinking particle of mind that remained Andy Crowley, something surprising occurred.

The remnants of Andy Crowley’s egoic faculties ascertained that he was growing in size upward beyond one universe, which alas was something of the subatomic fabric of the next, larger, universe.

Quarks to atoms. Atoms to worlds. Worlds to universes.

And then, again.

And again.

And again.

And in the very last moment, just before that sliver of ego would finally be amalgamated into the monolith-mind, the mind of Andy Crowley — filled with wonder — seized upon one last musing.

As above, so below. As below, so above.

The Hermetic expression came as a gleeful whisper that sent a shudder through — what was it now — a uni-mind? The words of it festered like an infection. This modicum of delineated thought, of self-awareness, was as a poison to the expanding thing: a pulsating gangrenous tumour. Writhing and bloating it spread. The ascent through realities sputtered and slowed. Then the expansion ceased altogether before it started to reverse.

In relation to the whole, that fragment which was Andy Crowley was growing.

“I love you,” Deb’s voice joined the now-shrinking malignancy, causing the reversal of its expansion to accelerate.

“You’ve always been a selfish asshole,” Nick’s words were there too, adding poison that fuelled the collapse of the merged entity.

Suddenly, Andy Crowley knew himself again. Hovering in the white nothingness, he now held the small, black rectangle — a perfect fit — in the palm of his hand. As memories and thoughts poured back to him, he thought of Star Trek. The little monolith seemed to him like some sort of futuristic device. He imagined the beeping sound made by Captain Kirk’s communicator.

The grey apple icon appeared within the rectangle’s smooth onyx face. A synthetic chime exploded in his head. It was a deafening single note. Later, he would recall it made him recollect the opening synthesizer riff of Subdivisions by RUSH.

He could not tear his attention from the bite out of the apple icon that floated beneath the black glass.


His vision tunneled down. He fought to remain conscious. The limits of every aspect of the elusive notion of what constitutes mind came then to be tested in the egoic construct that was Andy Crowley.

Though he could not discern as much, a vague sense of having murdered all manner of beings in numbers too enormous to comprehend brought crippling nausea upon him — and for but an instant he had a veiled understanding of what it had felt like to be; vanquisher of worlds;  usurper of gods; and murderer of souls beyond count.

The pain of the thought was but a blip in the arrow of time known to his consciousness for it was impossible for him to carry any concrete memory of an experience of this magnitude into the everyday fabrication of consciousness and existence that was self and world. Indeed, no sentient creature in all the multiverse could conceive of and process reality on this scale. Not yet.

You’ve always been a selfish asshole. Nick’s voice was echoing in his mind. His best friend had never said such words to him. But they could not have felt more real.

You’ve always been a selfish asshole.

Andy recalled then, that he had come here searching for answers. Was this one of the answers he sought?

You’ve always been a selfish asshole.

As the words repeated, it occurred to him to ask the monolith if it could help him know if this was indeed one of the insights he had come here to discover.

He didn’t know why, but he had the sense that touching a finger to the flat glass of the rectangle he held in his hand would cause something to happen.

But when he looked into his hand, the sleek, black monolith was gone.


Panic overtook him.

The sense of loss transcended anything he had ever experienced before. He arched his back and roared unintelligible grief into the void.

Such was the severity of his anguish that Andy Crowley did not feel the warm tingling rising at his navel. He had altogether forgotten the torturous maw of Cerberus that had shredded his astral form.

And by way of one of the great mysteries even the greatest sorcerers in existence have yet to explain, the silver chord, which somehow, defying the arrow of time, always seemed to know what is best, manifested to yank him home.

His shaking hands went to the recroom floor to stop him from falling over. His hair was damp with sweat. Tears were in his eyes.

Mom — NO! Ruby! His mind roared. She is at the airbase.

He calmed himself. He breathed deeply. The Earthstone was in his hand. He could not even recall Gaea’s voice but he had a feeling. Andy heard the pup’s howl again. The alarm that had gone out. maybe even a summons. Fear came over him then. I have gone to far!

I want to be with my friends. The urge was powerful — and it was tinged with fear and peculiar urgency.

My friends are in danger!

Jesus! His calm was returning. He would need a level head. I have to get my shit together!

I have to go to the goddamn mall!

Read Andy Crowley. Sole Sorcerer of Sanctuary

Hubris Begets a Humbling: The Ten-Thousand Eyes of Mars

Painting by Rodney Matthews

Parting the neatly combed moustaches of his dark silver mutton chops, Admiral Cavendish Farlore strode for the high deck to aft of the Martian dreamship. And not just any dreamship either: the Ramses IX, flagship of the First Martian Solar Dynastic Navy. Overhead an escort of thousands of Martian Ra-ships hung in the sky. With their elongated saucer shapes that came to a point at each wing, and their keel turret bubbles of dark tinted plasteel, they looked like unblinking eyes in the indigo of the inter-dimensional sky.

On a ribbon of the Sea of Tears that meandered outside sidereal spacetime to terminate in a massive secret chamber beneath the Pyramid at Giza, the Ramses IX had sat at anchor for half a celestial day.

“You are relieved, boatswain,” Farlore gave a curt nod.

“Aye-aye, Admiral,” In the Martian fashion, the young sailor saluted by touching the serpent arched to strike from the golden brow of his nemes helmet. “Thank you, sir,” he added over his shoulder as he left. The grass-green cloth that hung to his bare shoulders from his helmet fluttered in the breeze. The admiral smiled in his head to note the youth’s surprise at having been relieved.

“Your are most welcome, son. The mess is not yet as lively as it is likely to get tonight. Tell Kator-La, I said to give you the admiral’s special and don’t make any plans before celestial noon.” The Admiral glowed to see the pride come into the boy’s face. “And if you don’t mind, I need you to pass along that everyone is on leave tomorrow until we make port at Memphis Nova I.”

“With all haste due, Admiral!”

Farlore turned his back to the sailor. Memories of his early days in the navy came upon him then and he didn’t want to risk the lad seeing him smile. It made him happy to give his crew some time off. Heavy matters weighed on the First Martian Solar Dynasty. And though he did not know all the factors involved, the admiral was worried that his Pharaoh was over-reaching on this mission.

While it had pleased him to relieve the boatswain, he had done so with an ulterior motive. One he took no pleasure in executing. Indeed, he felt that the moment in cosmic history fast approaching — an event he had been appointed by the Pharaoh of Mars to facilitate — was going to have catastrophic implications for all reality. He scowled. He wanted no part in this.

He looked at a pocket watch he kept tucked behind the holster holding the alchemical sun pistol at his hip. The uniform of the Martian soldier was nought but a skirt to the knees held at the waist by a belt upon which hung a single holster and single scabbard. Feet were sandalled and fastened by wraps, which were intricately woven up to the knees in a morning meditation. Typically there was also a nemes helm of gold from which hung a coloured lappet denoting rank. But admirals, as was the custom, wore no such helmet and shaved their heads completely.

Snapping the watch shut and replacing it, Farlore stepped to the aft railing. Save for the crows nest, it was the highest vantage point on the ship. The world he looked upon, was slightly out of phase from the ship’s position on the Sea of Tears. The effect of the phase variance was such that the world appeared all blue. But Admiral Farlore, who had seen it on occasion from a perspective in sidereal spacetime, knew it to be blue and green and heartbreakingly beautiful.



The world was held in esteem as the sacred jewel of all reality. And it was Mars’s responsibility to protect it at any cost.

For this little world was the sole place of refuge from the sorcerous bedlam of the wider, wilder multiverse. It was the one place in all existence where consciousness could not penetrate inward to the probability vortices.


The one place in reality where magic did not work.

The Eden Edict of the Binary Proclamation forbade meddling in its affairs. This was decreed by no less than the authority of Pentarchy. But Mars, as its celestial steward, had special rights of access and trade. The unique and remarkable effects of its alcohol and the magic-repellant properties of the fabric called denim were much sought after beyond Sanctuary Rim and the unique privilege of trading these Sanctuarian treasures had filled the treasury pyramids to bursting.

Despite its value to his Pharaoh’s Dynasty, Admiral Farlore was never comfortable being this close. It felt unnatural somehow to be here: like a violation of some timeless, sacred truth.

“Metatron k-reysus,” His voice was stern and purposeful. The sky of eyes — the Martian Ra-ships, each with a single pilot in the dorsal bubble and another in the keel — peeled from formation in long curving arcs that brought them into the space below the celestial horizon of the Ramses IX and the blue ribbon of this tributary of the inter-dimensional sea.

None, save him, could bear witness to what was to now transpire.

The admiral did not know how long he waited before he felt the hairs on his arms stand on end. It is time then.

His hand quickly polished his bald head, and he straightened the gold and teal wrap about his waist. After checking to ensure the snap on his holster was fastened, he clasped his hands behind his back an assumed the disciplined posture of an emissary of the high court of Heliopolitan Mars.

Below him, on the pale blue ambient light of dreamship’s main deck a Coriolis of emerald green nimbus twirled from nothingness into an opaque swirling vortex. In the same neon green hue, the thin lies of a dodecahedron faded into his visual range. Admiral Farlore felt the gentle zephyr of displaced air rustle through his perfectly groomed mutton chops.

When the emerald swirl cleared, and the lines of the dodecahedron faded, a perfect physical specimen of middle-aged man was revealed. The subtle, golden aura of Olympian physiology issued from him. He wore the highly technologically advanced running shoes of the natives of Sanctuary and the orange-trimmed sky-blue toga of the Olympian Empire. At his feet, unconscious and dripping wet, lay a boy — he looked to be no more than fifteen roundings of Ra by Sanctuary reckoning.

The arrogant fools have really done it! Farlore pressed the horror deep down into himself, forced a smile and bowed.

“Lord Cronos! Welcome to the Ramses IX, flagship of the Martian Navy of Pharaoh Gatunkhamen IV,” were the words from Admiral Cavendish (Crash) Farlore’s lips. But in his mind, beneath fealty to the lord whom he loved, there was a whisper…

Hubris begets a humbling.

Read Andy Crowley Sole Sorcerer of Sanctuary 

Cosmic Showdown at the Pub at the Mall

The sugar-high Nick Morrison felt as he walked through the mall with Deb Holcroft began crashing just before he rounded the corner into the entrance of the Tudor Arms. The tiny acorn in his memory that was the knowledge that Jason, J.R, Bill, Ian, Dave, and Dave went to the Arms, every Saturday to get illegal beers from Garedog Murphy exploded in an instant into his conscious mind like a towering century-old oak.

It stopped him short in the wide entrance to the mall’s pub. I’m an idiot, he thought. Deb hadn’t noticed he’d stopped. She was running to the table where Dave O’Finnegan beckoned to her. Nick noticed two empty glasses in front of O’Finnegan. Double rye and gingers no doubt. The rest had steins of beer. He gritted his teeth and followed Deb in.

“There he is!” O’Finnegan, as per usual, was far louder than he needed to be. Why did everything the guy said have to be burdened with eight layers of meaning — seven of them (or more) being insults of one form or another. Nick forced a smile. Then he saw Dave move over in the bench and pat the seat as an invitation for Deb to sit down. NO! Nick’s mind lurched. Grabbing Deb’s hand he pulled her back from taking the sit. Every eye at the table, Deb’s included, were on Nick hand holding Deb’s.

Realizing his emotions had, yet again, gotten out in front of his thoughts, Nick froze. Deb’s eyes were wide with surprise — what the Hell has gotten into Nick? Remembering she still held the new employee information from Denim Nexus in her hand, her quick mind sprung into action.

“For some reason, Dostoyevsky here wants me to read his hobbit essay,” She shook her papers to sell the deception and, reversing the grip Nick had on her, she yanked him away from his friends toward a table for two.

Nick was awestruck, as much by his serial stupidity today, as he was by Deb’s quick thinking.

She lunged for the drink menu before Nick had even settled into his seat. “What the Hell is up with you?” she whispered while pretending to read the menu and casting a careful glance at the table from which they had just escaped. She was relieved to see that any interest in them had already passed.

“I don’t know?” Nick was genuinely confused. He didn’t know how to think his way through how he was suddenly feeling about Deb. “The guys are just on my nerves lately.”

“You really aren’t yourself,” Deb reached over and took Nick’s hands in hers. The embarrassment of before was gone. The banshee’s message that Nick would die had returned to her thoughts. In this moment it didn’t even matter that Andy had said it was just a dream.

“I have a lot going on, Deb. School, hockey, my parents –,” he started looking for Garedog, he wanted a beer. Then, not really knowing why, he added, ” — all the bullshit with the Crowley’s.” Deb let go of his hands and crossed her arms to hug herself. She looked down and Nick immediately regretted bringing up Andy’s parents. He should have known it would make her sad.

“Morison!” Garedog Murphy had appeared. His perpetually smiling face and blazing rosy cheeks were a welcome relief in that dark moment. Under the friendly face an enormous muscled frame strained against last year’s Quinte Saints Rugby jersey. Nick always thought he looked the part of medieval tavern owner with no patience for tomfoolery — the kind who had no need of hired muscle to keep patrons in line. Nick pictured him with robust inn-keeper lamb chops — a far cry from Garedog’s pencil-thin teenage attempt at a moustache.

“Two steins of Canadian coming right up. Nick is paying or you don’t get ’em. Isn’t that right, Deb?” Somehow his smile grew even more for her. The smile she gave him back melted Nick’s heart.

How had I not seen it before? But he caught himself then. Would he unnerve her if too much came too fast? They had been friends forever. His reason caught up and overtook with his passion for perhaps the first time that day. Time to cool it down and back it off.

“Ruby has too much going on. My parents are worried about her.” Andy was the last thing Nick wanted to talk about but he had brought up the Crowley’s and needed to follow through.

“If anyone has their shit together though, it’s her,” Deb said. She had always looked up to Ruby. Nick had too. “And Andy think about how Andy quit drinking and smoking. He reads more than anyone I know — ” she paused. “It’s almost like his dad and mom leaving them was… good for him.”

How had Andy come up? Nick was fuming. He needed to change the topic


Nick? She was genuinely curious.

Would it be cool if I came with you and your friends to Club Cedars on Friday?

Deb’s head snapped back. Her eyes were wide. Friday was D&D night?

“Here’s your beers!” Garedog’s massive cudgel hands effortlessly tossed the steins on to the table without spilling a drop. He locked his eyes on Nick’s — they had the secret communication powers unique to teammates who have won a football championship together. The barkeep snapped his head sideways toward the wide pub entrance. “And please let me know if Sweetie Pie over there gives anyone a hard time.” — Sweetie Pie was the name they had for a shared adversary. Scott Pierre darkened the entrance way. He did not look himself. Was Nick seeing things or were the creep’s narrow eyes glowing an amber hue?

“You know we can’t do this here, Prince Twain!” Every eye in the Tudor Arms turned then to the source of the booming, otherworldly voice. Dave O’Finnegan had stood to his full height and strode with valorous purpose toward Scott St. Pierre. There was no mistaking that O’Finnegan’s eyes roared with flaming amethyst light. Though none their knew this was the light of Limbo, realm between realms.

“No. Not now, Banjoman,” the whisper came from Scott St. Pierre, but it was not his voice it was a strange mix of a proper Queen’s English accent and a Midwestern American twang, and it had an echosome, metallic tinge.

Then, “WOAH, WOAH, WOAH,” drowned out both the imposing alien voices.

It was Andy Crowley. His shoelaces — as was typical — flew every which way as he skidded around the corner into the pub.

Read Andy Crowley Sole Sorcerer of Sanctuary