In Which Sparron Learns What He Wants

March 24, 1178

Perhaps it had been a waste of time, calling at Searle and Lettie's when it turned out that neither of them were even home, but if anything Sparron was relieved. Time spent with Searle was awkward and strained, and then Searle would make it more so by trying to make it less so. As for Lettie, he supposed he was growing accustomed to her--grudgingly fond, even, if he forgot his resolve to hate her--but he was only comfortable around her so long as he didn't look. She was getting bigger and bigger and meanwhile Camaline was stuffing her dress and the whole thing was just bizarre.

Camaline. She looked fucking ridiculous and he wasn't the only one who thought so. Searle shot transparent grimaces and Lettie made increasingly witty comparisons. His father had taken to greeting her with sweeping glances and even his stepmother had to blink and he didn't even want to think about Florian. At least his little siblings were still too young and oblivious to suspect anything.

This was stupid. He had three little brothers. What were the odds that at least one of them would outlive him? Practically a hundred percent. They were the sons of a princess, which he wasn't. They were healthy, which he wasn't. They would probably marry women who could give them sons and they would probably be enthusiastic about making said sons--which he hadn't, which he wasn't. Nythran and Farilon were more personable than he, more prone to action and yet more diplomatic, subtle but with a way of getting things done, and all this before they were even ten. Hell, even baby Oswald had more of a leader's personality than he did. What the hell had he gained from all this? Concrete proof that he could cum in the right hole?

Bah, who was he kidding? Wouldn't have even managed that without Searle's tongue running laps around his neck.

Why the hell did I agree to this? He didn't need an heir. He didn't need to get caught up with Searle again and he didn't need to drag Lettie into it. And for all he cared for Camaline, he felt no obligation to care quite that much.

"Your father."

The hairs on the back of his neck stood. This voice was not like the others. Immense will could keep the rest at bay, but this was one voice who would not be silenced. She came and went as she pleased and would continue to do so, just because she could. And he could do nothing.

"We've been over this. Men want children, men want grandchildren. Men like your father? They want them more than most--believe me."

He did. He wasn't sure why. "Don't..."

"Don't what? Tell you how to make him happy?" Her laughter was a bad rash spreading on his brain and he wished he could scratch it. Scratching would kill her. Better yet, it would kill him too. "Don't be stupid. You know that's all you really want--your father to love you. Give him a grandson and he might."

Beneath his weight, his arm stiffened. His father did love him, or at least he said he did. And he couldn't have been lying. Sparron's feelings weren't worth the trouble of lies. "Who says my father doesn't love me?"

That haughty sniff might as well have been spit in the eye. "So naive. Men love sons who are strong and bright and produce sons of their own. You're a weak, half-mad little pervert with a barren wife you're too spineless to divorce and a sick fondness for your own sex. He's smarter than he seems, you know. He knows it's not a baby under her dress. He knows that Kemorin boy isn't just a special friend. When he knows all that, what reason has he to love you?"

Sparron's shaking hand hung over his knee like a threatening storm cloud but he didn't let himself look. Staring straight ahead was all that was keeping him from collapsing into a crying mass of raving lunatic. "He doesn't know..."

"Stupid boy. Of course he knows. It's obvious, all of it." He shook his head, but he wasn't sure why. It didn't make sense if part of him agreed. "Your own fault, of course. Is it that difficult to feign an interest in cleavage? Or are you so far gone that you've lost control of your eyes?"

He said nothing. He just sat there like some half-wit child who'd been smacked into a stasis. Not that he was anything else.

"I thought so. You're just as weak as your father, aren't you? You're lucky he can't find it in his heart to punish you. A stronger man would have sent you off to some monastery to have the depravity flogged right out of you. Of course... you would have enjoyed that, wouldn't you? Naked on your knees while another man beat your back?"

His teeth had sunk into his tongue and his mouth tasted of rust. He swallowed back the blood and prayed that he'd choke. "Please leave."

She just laughed again. He wished that nearly twenty-two was young enough to barge into his father's meeting and sob into the shoulders that held the world in place. He wished his father cared enough to let him do so. His father was the only one who could make her go away.

"I want my papa..."

He thought he felt a finger scarf itself with a lock of his hair. He thought he felt it yank.

NEXT CHAPTER:

In Which Octavius Gains an Unlikely Ally

October 14, 1165

What seemed to be the lingering remnants of a headache drummed throughout Octavius's head as he pushed himself from the couch. He tried to remember what had happened after Deian's orb had emitted that light--he found nothing. Perhaps he had blacked out and Florian or someone had dragged him back to the castle.

But then what about Deian's game? He certainly wasn't playing it now. Had he won? He might have thought the whole thing had been a dream if he hadn't woken up in chain male and with a sword on his belt. What was going on?

"Holladrin?" he called, the sound of his own voice sending a sharp pulse through his brain. "Florian? Children?"

No answer. They must have been out of earshot, or otherwise occupied.

Still, it would have been nice to know why he'd been put on the couch in Medea's old room rather than the one in his study or Holladrin's sitting room or even his own bed. As far as he knew, the only people who had been in this room since his marriage to Holladrin were the servants. By just being here, he felt as though he was intruding, violating some untouchable place that was meant to be undisturbed; it was almost like being in a crypt. "Holladrin?"

"She's not here, you imbecile--nor will she ever be, at this point."

He knew that voice. He rushed to the mirror and stared in disbelief at the pale form it reflected, casually reclining on the bed with the controlled dignity of a lioness.

"Medea?"

She tossed her head back and sniffed. "Why do you need the mirror? Are you even more of a sniveling coward than you had me believe? Just turn around and face me like a man."

What was she? A ghost? A hallucination? Whatever the case, he figured there was no sense in arguing. He crossed the room and stopped at her bedside. "Uh... how have you been?"

She pulled herself off the bed with a dismissive shrug. "Well enough, I suppose; at least, as well as one might ever hope to be here in Hell."

From what Octavius could tell, she was as sane as she had been before Geneva had run off; therefore, he could only conclude that he had heard incorrectly. "Sorry?"

Frustrated, she shoved past him and about-faced to meet his eye. "You know what I said, you stupid ass! This is Hell--at least, our own little personal section of it."

So he'd lost. His young son was now baron, at the terrifying age of nine. He'd left a widow and four orphans, not knowing that the morning's parting kisses would be the last he ever gave them--and since he'd wound up in Hell, he'd never see any of them again. "I'm dead, then?"

Medea laughed, much like a malevolent child might have snickered at a peer struggling with basic arithmetic. "Actually, you're still very much alive."

"Then how am I in Hell?" he demanded. "I must be dead."

Insistent, she shook her head. "Trust me, you're not dead. If we were both dead, we'd be having sex right now."

"What?"

"Well, that's my punishment in the event of you dying and ending up down here with me," she explained with a shudder. "Sex with you for all of eternity, with no chance of ever having an orgasm. It's a little more personalized than just fire and brimstone for all, you know."

There was so much yet so little he could have said in reply to that statement. "I see, but... I still don't have any answers. If I'm not dead, why am I here?"

Medea tilted her head, the dim glow from the stained-glass windows illuminating her neck and sloped shoulders. In her own hard, frigid way, she was rather beautiful. "You living people are so ignorant. Look, what Deian used on you is an old sort of magic, long-forgotten by all but his own disgusting kind. What it does is send the recipient to the afterlife, which is dependent on his religion. You and Dalston and Severin are all Catholics in practice, so you were all sent to wherever you were headed out of Heaven and Hell--apparently, you have some serious praying and repenting to do if you manage to get out of here."

He got the sense that she was playing with him; he wished she wouldn't be so cryptic. "And how does one get out of Hell, exactly?"

Sighing, Medea rolled her eyes. "You just can't figure out anything for yourself, can you? Look, the thing about Hell is that while living people can leave it, they can't leave alone. If you can find one or both of your friends within three hours, then you'll be safely returned to your bodies on the surface. If you don't find either of them--or any other living soul, if one happens to be down here--then you die, which is a serious inconvenience for me, to say the least."

This was doubtlessly the most bizarre thing Octavius had ever heard, but he supposed it was the safe choice to believe her. "And suppose both Dalston and Severin are in Heaven?"

"Then all three of you and your precious kingdom are doomed, because apparently no one ever wants to leave Heaven," she sneered. "Just between you and me, that almost makes me think there would have to be sin up there."

Octavius sighed and closed his eyes, allowing the faces of his family to parade across his mind. He never would see them again; what were the odds of either Dalston or Severin ending up in Hell? "Well, I suppose we'll be seeing a lot of each other, then."

"Not if I can help it!" Medea snapped with all the determined intensity of a mighty general. "I can't tell you where Dalston might be if he's here, since Geneva isn't dead yet, but I'd suggest looking for Severin in this rotten old eyesore of a cottage about five minutes' walk south of here. If he isn't there, then start hollering for Dalston at the top of your lungs; if there's any chance of you getting out of here, I'll be damned if you don't take it--literally."

Old cottage, five minutes' walk south. Octavius managed a small smile. "Thank you, Medea. You've been very helpful."

Medea's blue-gray eyes narrowed. "Just do me a favor and get yourself to Heaven when you actually do die--if my eternal suffering wasn't dependent on your presence here, don't think for a minute that I would have told you anything."

NEXT CHAPTER:

In Which Florian Loses a Dream

January 17, 1162

This was ridiculous. Every day for nearly a month, the baron had marched Florian and whatever guards had drawn the short straws that morning down the dungeon to see if Medea was in any state to be moved--until today, she had not been. If Florian had been the one making the decision, he would have given up after the first week--that is, if he had deemed it worth the effort in the first place.

Personally, he thought it was only fitting that the bitch should be locked up in the most unpleasant and uncomfortable of penitentiaries; the figurative prison cell she had built for her husband had certainly not been any better. The way Florian saw it, she deserved every piece of filth that dungeon contained and more.

But alas, the princess was of a different opinion, and the baron did as the princess wished because she was a pretty young thing whom he fancied--not to mention, he probably felt rather guilty about the whole ordeal. In some ways, he'd probably just been waiting for an excuse to make the switch.

And so here Florian was, standing around for a few minutes' observation as to how the baroness reacted to her new environment. So far, she seemed content to just stand around while muttering inaudible gibberish to herself, but Florian could not help but feel rather uncomfortable in this room, alone with a madwoman, the cowardly guards on the other side of the closed door.

It wasn't long, however, before the muttering ceased and she proceeded to scratch her now-jagged nails across the surface of the mirror by the bed.

"Don't touch that!" Florian snapped. "That belonged to the baron's mother, you know! God, she has daughter-in-laws and granddaughters in their right minds--why didn't her possessions go to them?"

It had been useless to ask; if she had even heard, she could not understand. But soon enough, she did grow tired of the mirror, and turned her claws instead to the stained glass window.

Florian gaped in horror. "Those are expensive, you know--if your husband has to replace those, who knows what will happen to my salary? Dammit, bitch! Must you continue to torment me even when you have no idea which way is up?"

She shot him an angry glare--but not before driving her fist through the window, laughing as the cracks spread and the glass crumbled.

"So much for Thetis's new dress," he grumbled. In hindsight, maybe he should have taken advantage of the open position at the castle following Aldhein's dismissal instead of just lingering around here...

What happened next, however, was truly serious.

Florian had been hoping to perhaps head home early that day--play with the kids, enjoy a nice dinner, make love to his wife, the whole routine--but that plan was now a lost dream. No, apparently the baroness had found the need to inflict upon him one last personal tragedy; thanks to her, he would now probably have to stay late, overseeing the cleanup.

Fantastic. Fan-fucking-tastic.

"Uh... men?" he called the guards in the corridor behind him. "Are you still there? It would seem that we have a bit of a... situation..."

NEXT CHAPTER:

In Which Jeda Is Shown a Ghost

AUTHOR'S NOTE -- July 12, 2017: So, this post marks the major reveal of one of the story elements for which the third paragraph of disclaimer in the side bar was eventually written. Adding this now just to echo that sentiment, to acknowledge the problematic nature of the post, the way it was handled, and any comments I made on it at the time, and to generally apologize for my poor creative decisions as an uninformed youth, and to commit to being better in the present and future.

August 27, 1161

"Hello, ladies!" Prince Ietrin announced himself as he approached the three of them. As usual, neither Raia nor Leara gave him any notice--but Jeda found herself transfixed. Perhaps it was because she was nearly a year younger than the other two girls, or because she knew that she would marry him some day, but Jeda was beginning to find that whenever Ietrin stepped into a room, his presence swelled far beyond his body and engulfed every available bit of space there was.

Sometimes it was comforting, she felt--others, it was stifling.

"Hello, Ietrin," she managed to choke at last; however, he paid her no attention.

Instead, his eyes flickered toward the other two. "Raia? Are you going to acknowledge my presence or not?"

Raia continued on with whatever game she and Leara were playing, as though Ietrin's forceful voice had been no more than a weak passing breeze.

"Fine! Be that way--don't pay any respects to your future king!"

"I greeted you, Ietrin," Jeda blurted out, her face warming as her own daring took her by surprise.

It seemed that Ietrin found Jeda's presence considerably less noticeable than she found his, as he barely cast a second glance her way. "Raia, I suppose you don't want to hear the ghost story one of the grooms just told me."

"Oh, don't tell ghost stories, Ietrin!" exclaimed Leara at last. "You know they give me nightmares--I'll tell Papa!"

As he had previously ignored Jeda, so he did his sister. It seemed that the only one of the three girls of which he was aware was Raia--not that Jeda blamed him. Raia easily had just as much presence as Ietrin--more, perhaps--but it was of an entirely different sort.

"Anyway, if you don't want to listen, Raia, I suppose I'll just have to tell Jeda here--and I suppose I had better, considering she's the one living in the haunted castle."

Jeda felt her eyes suddenly bulge. "...haunted?"

"So your father never told you, then," laughed Ietrin knowingly. "Probably because you're a girl, of course--I bet he told your brother."

"Told him what?" Jeda pried quietly; it was a strange feeling, wanting both to be informed and to not be at the same time.

Ietrin shook his head. "Oh, nothing terribly exciting--just the fact that there's a ghost in one of your dungeons."

"Shut up, Ietrin," muttered Leara under whatever breath she had, the color in her face slowly draining.

Part of Jeda wanted to second this motion, but as she looked into those all-knowing violet eyes, she lost all resolve to do so. "Which dungeon?"

"The one a little ways behind me, past the pantry and the bakery," he informed her matter-of-factually. "So maybe stay away from there, girls--although I'm sure Raia's not afraid of ghosts," added Ietrin, glancing toward the now-standing Raia.

"Don't be stupid, Ietrin," Raia snickered--Jeda couldn't help but notice that Ietrin only seemed relieved that she had finally acknowledged his existence. "Everyone knows there's no such things as ghosts."

Jeda exchanged a fearful glance with Leara; it seemed they both hoped Raia was right in this regard.

"Then how come some of the servants who work nearby sometimes hear it banging on the walls and screaming and whatnot?" countered Ietrin smugly. "Explain that to me, Raia, since your father is the one who's always saying how wise it is to listen to what the peasants and servants have to say."

Dismissively, Raia yawned. "It makes perfect sense if one considers that fact that you're a liar. Come on, Ietrin; if you have a tenth of a brain cell in that oversized head of yours, you know as well as I do that there's no ghost in that or any dungeon and you're just trying to scare Leara and Jeda."

"There are lots of better ways to scare Leara and Jeda, you know," he assured her. "If I wanted to scare them, I would have found some other way to do so. Besides, I heard some moaning myself on the way over here--I went past there on purpose, you know, just to prove it."

"And I'm sure you weren't scared at all," sighed Raia.

Grinning, Ietrin nodded. "You got that right."

"In that case, take me back there and prove it to me."

For a few seconds, there was nothing but a stunned silence, during which Ietrin could only gape. Then--

"Jeda, why don't you take her? It's your castle, after all. You're the hostess, and I'm just a guest--I shouldn't be the one giving tours."

"But I don't want to see the ghost!" she protested.

"There's no ghost, Jeda," insisted Raia, rolling her eyes. "Come on--let's go and see that what you're all so afraid of is nothing."

And with that she began to stride boldly toward the dungeon. Jeda initially hung back, but it seemed that Ietrin had other ideas.

"Go on," he instructed, pushing her along after Raia.

Well, now that he had touched her, she supposed she had no choice but to obey.

"All right," spoke Raia at last as they barged into the small front section of the long corridor that strung together the various dungeons. "Do you know where the key is?"

Jeda shook her head; she didn't, as she had not even been in this room since she had been quite small. In fact, she seemed to recall that her father had forbidden her and Sparron to go here in more recent years, for whatever reason. As the dungeons were dank and dark and smelly, Jeda hadn't cared, and therefore hadn't asked why.

After she had finished combing a nearby weapon rack, Raia proceeded to a table littered with several dirty old tools that Jeda had no names for. "Ah, here it is!" she declared triumphantly as she pulled a small key from beneath the shaft of something that appeared to be some odd sort of hammer. "What an awful hiding place. Maybe you should tell your father or Florian that they should be more careful with things like this."

Though Jeda could not imagine her meek self delivering such scoldings to either her father or his steward, she nodded; by appearing to agree, she had eliminated the need to speak, and that was crucial at that moment, as she did not think she could have.

"Ready?" Raia asked of her as they stepped toward the door; it was truly amazing that she so firmly believed in the ghost's non-existence that she did not give even the slightest of trembles.

Swallowing, Jeda nodded once more. There was a nagging voice in her head begging her to protest, but before she knew it, Raia had slipped the key into the lock and pushed open the door to the dungeon.

As the older girl continued through, Jeda found herself pausing to count the bricks on the wall. Five, six, seven...

"...Jeda?"

"Is the ghost there?" she inquired in a fearful whisper, continuing to keep her eyes averted.

"No ghost," Raia replied hastily, "but... you'd better take a look at this."

She did not even give Jeda a chance to refuse, as Raia had swiftly reached out and pulled her inside. Shaking the other girl's hand off of her arm, Jeda took a deep breath and forced herself to follow Raia's gaze to the center of the dirt floor.

It was a woman--filthy, listless, unconscious, but as the raspy breathing and faint corresponding motion of her chest revealed, very much alive.

She was too frightened to run. Too frightened to scream--to frightened to even cringe. All she could do was keep looking.

"Who is she?" Jeda managed to mumble at last, careful not to be any louder than necessary.

Raia shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe we should ask your father."

"If you want my advice, young Rahileine, neither you nor Jeda will breathe a word of this to the baron."

It was Florian, who had appeared as if from nowhere, grimmer than ever before and fully alert. Jeda found that his arrival instilled in her mixed feelings. On one hand, now that there was a grown man with her, she was safe; on the other, since he seemed to be on guard, she was not.

"Run along now," he bade them hurriedly, "and be thankful it was I who found you here. Your father will have a heart attack if he ever learns you were here, Jeda. This will be our little secret, both of you; tell no one what you've seen."

He made a quick shooing motion, and the girls filed out, Jeda leading and Raia in tow. "Who do you think she is?" the other girl demanded in an undertone, taking no notice of Florian shushing her from within the dungeon.

Jeda shook her head. She had no desire to discuss any of this; to breathe a word was to admit that the ghost of a woman was real.

NEXT CHAPTER:

In Which Medea's Song Is Muted

November 18, 1159

Oh, why wouldn't that man stop with his damn singing? If he wanted those babies to sleep, perhaps it would have been a better idea to just shut up? Surely he was keeping them awake--he was definitely keeping her awake. Blasted eighth son of a barely-noble family! Her father must have been out of his mind when he arranged for their betrothal, may the old earl burn in hell!

Angrily, Medea sprung from the bed and stormed toward the doorway, into the dark, narrow corridor that led to Octavius's bedchamber. She'd silence that man if she had to strangle him to do it!

Since when had the corridor been so long? Her strides were quick and lengthy, and yet, the hallway stretched on in front of her, the opposite wall always retreating just out of her reach. Finally, after what seemed like a tortured eternity--with that blasted singing growing ever louder, no less!--she reached his chamber door and barged into the room.

As she could have expected, his bed was empty, clearly and neatly made since the crack of dawn. Throughout the room, the candles remained lit, each flame flickering as though required by their master even in his absence. The dresser was untouched, the mirror tucked away in its little alcove. The only sign of life the room held was the half-finished letter on the desk, the chair in front of it slightly askew; the fool must have been writing to the princess again.

He was in the nursery, the singing announced from the door by the bed--as she had originally suspected. That man could not get his fill of those children. It was no wonder that he had chosen the bedroom that led into their nursery, really; it was fortunate for him that they did not share quarters, for she would have never settled for this dismal excuse for a bedroom!

Medea pushed through the door and stepped into the nursery. Sure enough, Octavius was there, gazing fondly at their daughter's sleeping form; though his lips were unmoving, the singing persisted.

"Oh, hello, Medea," he greeted her absent-mindedly. Then, he took one look at her and hastily added, "I'm sorry I wasn't home to bid you goodnight before you retired. You see, I was over at Veldora, to finally see Alina's new baby. He's still a little on the sickly side, but Laveria and Arydath both think he'll make it now, thank God. Still... poor little boy's future was looking bleak for a while, wasn't it? We were all pretty scared for those first few months."

Christ! Did he ever stop talking? And could he at least talk about something she actually cared about?

"They thought he would die right then and there, when he was born. He was so small, and so sick, and he wouldn't eat... they christened him in that very room, which is probably the only reason he ended up being named for his grandfather. If Severin had been there, I'm sure he would have argued it, but Alina insisted on calling the boy Lonriad, and at the time, it looked as though it wouldn't have even mattered."

Apparently not.

"But he's getting to be a plucky little thing now," Octavius continued, clearly oblivious to her disinterest. "A little on the small side for a four-month-old, but he should pull through. And would you believe it? Alina's having another baby next June! My God, those two can't keep their hands off each other, can they? And guess who else is expecting? Celina!"

Medea rolled her eyes. "If you're trying to convince me to bear you another child, Octavius, it's not going to work."

Abruptly, Octavius planted one last kiss on Jeda's forehead and placed himself firmly in front of her, hands on his hips, an unfathomable expression on his face. "Please, Medea. You may say what you like about me, but we both know that I am not that sort of man. If I was, I do believe we would have a much larger brood than we do now. Now, what is it that you want?"

"Nothing unreasonable," she insisted--she didn't appreciate the raised eyebrow. "I just want you to stop singing. I'm tired, and you're keeping me awake."

"Singing?"

"Yes. Stop singing."

Octavius frowned, blinking several times as he studied her intently. "Medea... I wasn't singing."

"Bullshit," she declared. "You were most definitely singing. I could hear you from my room."

Stubbornly, he shook his head. "Medea, I think I'd remember if I was singing..."

"I know. Maybe you're even more of an idiot than I thought you were."

For some reason or another, he laughed. "Well, if that isn't the solution to absolutely everything that goes on around here, then what is? You might as well have just come in here, called me an idiot straightaway, and we would have been done with this. Now, it's probably just the wind; I assure you, I was not singing. We both know my horrible voice would frighten the babies anyway."

That was true--there must have been another culprit.

Actually... two other culprits.

"Medea?" he addressed her suddenly. "Medea, why are you staring at that crib like that?"

"She's the one singing," whispered Medea breathlessly. "Not you--Jeda. And Sparron is singing too."

"Medea, no one is s--"

"Don't make excuses for them!" she snapped, thrusting out her hands and shoving him backwards. He stumbled to avoid falling; she had caught him off-guard.

"Medea, what are you talking--?"

"Have you even half a brain? They're keeping me awake!" spat Medea as Octavius regained his footing. "My God, do I need to find even smaller words in order to get through to you?"

He scowled--it occured to her that this was the first time she had ever seen him angry. "Medea! Do not make me repeat myself again! No one in this damned castle is singing! You're mad--now please, go back to bed before you wake the children!"

Had he not even heard her?

"You tit-fondling bastard!" she screamed, lunging toward him--startled, he jumped backward slightly. "They're already awake! How can they be singing in their sleep?"

"They're not singing!"

This was getting to be quite annoying.

"My God, Octavius! I can't decide what bothers me more--their singing, or your redundant insistence that they are not!"

"But they--Medea! What are you doing? Get away from that crib!"

"No!" she refused, breaking his grasp and leaning down toward the waking girl, staring into those same hazel eyes she had escaped mere seconds ago. "She has to stop singing--they both do! I need to sleep!"

Once more, he tried to pull her away, but she would not have it; they had invoked her full wrath, all three of them. She would make sure that Jeda would stop her infernal singing, and then she would proceed to Sparron.

And then to Octavius himself.

"Florian!" he called. "Lacira! Anybody! I need some help in here!"

Enraged, Medea turned around and grabbed him by the collar. "Shut up, Octavius! Just shut--up!"

And with that, she pushed him to the ground, more forcefully this time. His mouth wide in terror, his head hit the floor, prompting a stony freeze to his features. She had knocked him out--with any luck, she had killed him.

The door swung open.

"What in the hell is going on in here?"

NEXT CHAPTER: