Page 33 of Search for the Lost

Crispin had no room to react to his brother’s plight—not without slicing his own throat on the messenger’s bright blade. There had to be something he could do.

“Crispy.” Leo stage-whispered.

“Kinda busy here Leo⁠—”

“Do the Leo thing.”

Puss looked suspiciously back and forth, from one to the other.

The Leo thing? What in hades’ dark halls did that mean?

“Aaaayoss kay.” Leo lifted his Crispin chin at him.

What the hell is Aaosque?

Then a lightbulb went off, bright enough that it should have blinded both Leo and the cat-man. The word game! Leo had shown him how to play it a few days before, in the lazy aftermath of… well, of their private time together.

What had he called it? Pig Latin.

So Aaos-que was… Chaos! Of course. He closed his eyes and reached deep inside, seeking the seething mass of contradictions that was Leo’s soul. It was frankly a mess in there—a fistful of unpaid parking tickets, a clump of what looked like half-melted pink cotton candy, a puff of menacing-looking smoke left over from their visit to the Chaotiverse, a hideous shrieking echo, and two copies of something called Reader’s Digest from June 2nd, 1983, one with a coffee stain. And that was just what he could identify with a quick glance.

He reached in to grab a fistful of chaos and flung it out into the world.

“What are you doing?” Puss glared at him, his sword wavering just a bit. “Stop that!”

But it was too late.

A sudden wind whipped over the hillside, making a tangled mess of Crispin’s Leo hair, and sweeping fallen snow back into the sky. Puss looked around uncertainly, and the flying horned horses were restless with nerves.

The snow-filled wind whirled around them like a tornado, and the temperature rose rapidly, warming Crispin’s skin. Thank the Red Dukes.

Wind whipped his Leo hair as fresh grass broke ground underfoot, reaching for the sky and melting the snow with an audible sizzle. Fanciful little white flowers with golden centers popped up among the blades, and a chorus of birds erupted into song in the air above. Warmth engulfed Crispin and the others, and he sighed with relief.

Then a purple piano fell from the sky, landing on Puss’s head before the poor, startled cat-man could do more than let out a short yowl of alarm. His sword went flying, flipping through the air with that fwing fwing fwing sound that flying swords make, before landing perfectly upright in the ground five long paces away.

The wind died down to nothing, leaving a flower-covered field, six startled flying horses, the small party from the Office of the Lost, and a shattered purple piano.

“No. No, no, no!” Crispin stumbled to the wreckage of the baby grand and started clawing at the broken pieces. “Come on, help me!” He had unleashed Chaos—a very unCrispy thing for him to do—and had quite likely killed a sentient being. Please let him not be dead.

Leo, who had been kneeling next to Aspin and checking his pulse using a finger on his throat, leapt up to help Crispin. “Aspin will be fine. About time someone took him down a peg.”

Crispin blinked in surprise, and then resumed his work. “I thought you liked him.”

“Oh, I do.” Broken piano keys flew over Leo’s shoulder like rectangular bones. “But I don’t like how he treats you.”

Crispin kissed Leo’s cheek. “I love you too. Even this version of you.” He pulled free a big piece of purple-painted wood, and there was the hapless messenger, huddled unharmed under the bottom of the piano. The piano legs had held, mostly, and prevented the cat-man from being crushed by all that violet weight.

Crispin breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad you’re all right.” He blinked again. “You are all right, right?”

“That’s a lot of rights.” Leo winked.

“Shush.” He reached out to help Puss from the wreckage.

“It really is you.” Puss looked up at Crispin, his eyes big and his ears flattened against his head, and then he dropped his gaze to Crispin’s feet. “I am so sorry I didn’t believe you, my Lord.” And before Crispin could stop him, Puss was on his knees, kissing Crispin’s boots. “Please forgive me. We’ve had quite a lot of intruders here lately, and the Regent is not happy about it.”

Crispin reached down to give the little fellow a hand up. “Here now, stop doing that. It’s not your fault.” Even if his neck was still a little sore—and damp—where the sword had nicked it. “Leo, go grab Mr. ….?”

“Tad Firefur, at your service!” He removed his hat and essayed a deep bow. “Personal concierge to the Regent, formerly in the service of the dearly departed King Reginald Thorwald Slinky⁠—”