Part One
The beast came from the forest, and mortals fled.
Claws made to carve and sharp teeth to devour.
The predator taught prey to fear the dark.
And feasted through nights that forced us to cower.
The beast came from the forest, and mortals fought.
Claws cut too swift and sharp teeth aged too long.
The predator taught prey our flesh was soft.
And tore down the weapons we thought made us strong.
The beast came from the forest, and mortals bowed.
Claws held out soft and sharp teeth for an oath.
The predator taught prey to speak its name.
And offered a deal that would profit us both.
—Children’s rhyme, Winter Plane,The Beast from the Forest
1
A beginner’s guide to extra-dimensional bomb smuggling
Fionamara Kolbeck saw her first door between worlds at eight years old.
The never-melting ice of the Winter Plane had grown thick that year, a slick patch as she’d played along the river rocks near her home. One slip, and the water had snatched her like icy claws, dragging her beneath the current, flooding her lungs as she’d screamed for help.
Then, black. An endless Void that had sought to swallow her.
She’d jolted back to consciousness coughing water on the riverbank, black hair plastered to pale cheeks, shivering hard enough to chatter her teeth. Her father had knelt over her, rubbing her chest raw as worry creased his cold-hardened face.
Behind him, a strange distortion had warped the air, like nothing she’d ever seen before. Some kind of translucent Curtain. Those who’d been touched by the Void and returned to life saw easier through the fabric separating worlds, people claimed.
At age ten, Fi learned to step through her first Curtain.
At fourteen, she’d flee to neighboring Planes of reality to escape house chores.
By twenty-three, she’d discovered the lucrative business of cross-Plane smuggling.
Now, hot off thirty-two and with precious few shits left to show for it, Fi nursed a splitting headache while leaning her shoulder into a tree trunk, the spongy paper bark gleaming cheerful white with an intensity she was entirely too hungover to appreciate.
A crisp breeze sent the forest swirling. Leaves cascaded like spilled paint, a head-throbbing blend of gold and scarlet glaring in afternoon sunlight. The trees of the Autumn Plane lived in eternal fall, an endless cycle of growing and shedding and postcard-perfect vistas that drew the snobbiest tourists and entrepreneurs.
Plus Fi, who was neither of these.
She sought refuge in her binoculars, puckering plum-painted lips while surveying two men in the clearing below. They, too, appeared unenthralled by the wish-you-were-here scenery. No whimsical leaf gazing, all fidgeting boots. The pair hunched in wool coats and low-brimmed hats, stationed like wraiths alongside, by comparison, an amusingly quaint wooden cart. A donkey idled in the harness, fluffy ears twitching at flies. Atop the cart, wooden crates brimmed with apples, yet not an orchard for miles.
Amateurs.
“Half an hour early to a rendezvous.” Fi lowered her binoculars and glowered at the too-bright sunlight. “Either clueless or desperate. What do you think, Aisinay?”
