As they approached the church, Steve noticed something glinting on the edge of the stone fountain that sat in the courtyard. Gold, catching the afternoon sun.

  He veered toward it, curiosity getting the better of him.

  A lighter. Brass, by the look of it, with an ornate design etched into the casing. He picked it up, turning it over in his palm. A crescent moon - the symbol of the Goddess - was engraved on one side. Nice craftsmanship. He flicked it open; still had fluid, the wick looked good.

  "What'd you find?" Hansel asked, walking up beside him.

  "Lighter. Somebody must have dropped it." Steve studied the engraving. Pretty thing. Seemed a shame to leave it sitting here.

  He slipped it into his pocket. Wendell would probably like this - the man was always losing things, and he'd appreciate the moon symbol.

  "Come on," Hansel said, already moving toward the church entrance. "Let's find Aldric."

  Steve nodded and followed.

  And The church grounds looked different.

  Steve slowed his pace as they approached. Where the modest chapel had always sat surrounded by simple grass and a few practical herb beds, now hedges rose in neat rows—a proper hedge maze by the look of it. The flower beds were fuller, more carefully tended.

  "Magic," Hansel muttered beside him, his eyes narrowing. "Has to be."

  Brother Cornelius stood near the entrance of the property, pruning shears in one hand, wiping soil from his fingers with a cloth. He looked up as they approached, his weathered face breaking into a pleasant smile.

  "Hello! How are you both doing this fine day?"

  Steve gestured at the transformed ndscape. "We, uh... like what you've done with the pce."

  Cornelius beamed with pride. "Thank you! I've been working quite hard on it. The Goddess has blessed my efforts tremendously."

  "Right," Steve said, moving toward the church. "Well, we'd like to speak with Father Aldric, if that's..."

  "Oh, he's busy right now." Cornelius's smile never wavered, but he shifted slightly, positioning himself more squarely in Steve's path. "Perhaps you could come back another time?"

  Steve and Hansel exchanged a gnce. That wasn't like Aldric at all.

  "He's always had an open-door policy," Hansel said carefully, watching the older man's face.

  "Yes, well..." Cornelius folded the cloth neatly, tucking it into his dark robes belt. "Today might be different. You might need to come back another time."

  Something felt wrong. The way Cornelius stood too still, the way his pleasant expression didn't quite reach his eyes under his hood.

  "Yeah, we'd like to go in," Steve said firmly, taking a step forward.

  Cornelius's smile thinned. "I must insist you don't."

  "You don't control this church," Hansel said, his voice hardening.

  "No," Cornelius agreed pleasantly. "I don't. But it would be in your best interest not to enter right now."

  Steve had had enough. He walked forward, intending to simply brush past the gardener.

  Cornelius's hand came up and shoved him—hard.

  Steve stumbled backward three steps, catching himself with effort. The strength behind that push was far more than an old gardener should possess.

  Cornelius stood there, shears gleaming in his other hand, his smile gone entirely.

  "I *insist*," he said quietly.

  Then the hedges began to move.

  ---

  Jack's phone sat in the cupholder, screen dark and useless. He'd tried calling back three times since getting her message—*Jackie, baby, I need to see you. It's important*—but every attempt went straight to voicemail. Either her phone was dead, or she'd turned it off. With his mother, both were equally likely.

  The gates of the mayoral compound shrank in his rearview mirror, the security detail waving him through without question. They never asked where he was going. They knew better.

  The road curved past the memorial park, and Jack's eyes flicked toward it reflexively. The Giant's Memorial. A massive stone door id ft on the ground, twenty feet across, marking the burial site beneath. Tourists came to take pictures. School groups did field trips. There was a pque with his name on it: *Mayor Jack the Giant-Syer, Hero of Millbrook.*

  They didn't know the truth. None of them did.

  Jack's hands tightened on the steering wheel as the memorial disappeared behind a line of trees. They thought he'd climbed that beanstalk three times out of bravery. Thought he'd outsmarted the giant through cunning and courage.

  They didn't know about the small package of sleeping herbs he'd stolen from Mistress Gothel's satchel.

  He could still remember it clearly—twelve years old, bruised ribs still aching even though they'd mostly healed. Mistress Gothel had stopped coming to treat him weeks ago, but she still came to visit. For his mother.

  Jack had learned to leave when she arrived. Learned to walk out of the cottage and wander the vilge, anywhere but home, so he wouldn't have to hear it.

  That day, he'd left as soon as Mistress Gothel's car pulled up. Walked down to the edge of the property, sat on a stump, tried not to think about what was happening inside.

  But he couldn't stop himself from going back. From standing outside the cottage, close enough to hear.

  Mistress Gothel's voice, crying out. High and breathless and utterly satisfied. His mother's low murmur, confident and skilled. The sounds that made Jack's stomach twist with shame and anger and something else he couldn't name.

  He'd turned away from the cottage and walked to Mistress Gothel's car instead.

  The back door was unlocked. Her satchel sat on the seat—the worn leather bag she always carried, full of herbs and remedies and mysterious ingredients. Jack had opened it without thinking, without pnning. Just desperate for something, anything, to make him feel less powerless.

  Inside: jars and pouches, carefully beled in Gothel's precise handwriting. Healing salves. Pain tonics. And there—a small package wrapped in waxed cloth. *Sleeping herbs. Strong dose. Handle with care.*

  Jack had pocketed it.

  Behind him, through the cottage walls, Mistress Gothel's voice had climbed higher, breaking into a cry of pleasure that seemed to go on forever.

  Jack had closed the satchel, closed the car door, and walked away.

  He'd never told anyone. Not about the theft, not about how he'd really defeated the giant.

  The third time up the beanstalk—the time everyone celebrated—Jack had mixed those herbs into the giant's water pitcher. The giant had drunk deep, like he always did after his meals. Twenty minutes ter, he'd started yawning. Thirty minutes, his movements grew sluggish.

  By the time Jack started climbing back down with the golden harp, the giant was stumbling, barely able to keep his eyes open. He'd followed Jack anyway, driven by rage and possessiveness, climbing down the beanstalk even as the drugs pulled him toward unconsciousness.

  Jack had hit the ground and started chopping. The giant was so drowsy, so disoriented, that when the beanstalk fell, he'd barely managed to grab for purchase. Just fell, limp and heavy as a drugged animal.

  The impact had not killed him instantly.

  *Hero of Millbrook.*

  Jack merged onto the highway toward the capital, and traffic immediately slowed to a crawl. Of course. Friday afternoon, everyone heading into the city for the weekend. He settled back in his seat, resigned to the wait.

  His mother's message pyed again in his mind. *It's important.*

  What did that mean? With her, "important" could be anything. She'd run out of wine money. She'd gotten into a fight with one of her partners. She was bored and wanted attention. Or—and this was the one that made his stomach tighten—she was in actual trouble.

  He'd probably walk in to find her half-naked and drunk, demanding more money with that mocking smile on her face. Calling him Jackie in that tone that made him feel twelve years old again. Reminding him that he owed her. That everything he had, everything he was, came from her sacrifices.

  *Why do you keep doing this?*

  The question rose unbidden, the same one he asked himself every month on this drive.

  *Because of the guilt. Because you need her approval, even though you'll probably never get it.*

  The truth sat heavy in his chest. He could never abandon her. Never cut her off. Because doing that would make him like her—selfish, cruel, willing to discard the people who needed him.

  Even if keeping her in his life meant monthly humiliation. Even if it meant carrying the weight of her resentment until one of them died.

  The traffic lurched forward a few car lengths, then stopped again.

  Jack's phone stayed quiet in the cupholder. No messages from his mother. No updates from the compound.

  At least Gretel was there, holding down the fort. The one person he trusted completely to keep things running smoothly when he had to deal with personal shit like this. She'd handle any crisis that came up, any decision that needed making. That was the only reason he felt comfortable leaving at all.

  The traffic crept forward another few feet, then stopped.

  Jack's mind drifted to Bck Sheep.

  It had been some time since he'd taken over Bck Sheep's territory. Weeks of absolute silence from the man who'd spent years establishing his own drug business. It was amazing what you could do when you sent someone their second's head in a box. Bck Sheep had capituted, agreeing to pull out of the east side.

  But Jack's instincts screamed that it wasn't finished.

  It had been too easy. Men like Bck Sheep didn't just fold because of pressure. Their egos wouldn't allow that. And the silence since then—complete, total silence—felt more threatening than any posturing or retaliation would have.

  *He's up to something,* Jack thought, watching the brake lights ahead of him glow red. *Men like that don't give up. They regroup. They wait for the right moment.*

  Jack just didn't know what that moment would look like. Didn't know when Bck Sheep would make his move, or what form it would take.

  But it would come. Men like that always came back.