HER story

Everyone's first trip through the Breach is different. Some people only experience a minor tingle as they pass between the worlds while others are twisted and deformed by the crossing. It is a risk that most people take, however, for the promise of wealth that exists in Malifaux.

The Guild always keeps a few members of the Witch Hunters present when a new train comes to Malifaux to catch any whose latent gifts for magic were awakened by the Breach. There are stories told of what happens to those who are taken away by the Witch Hunters, and none of them are pretty.

On the most recent crossing, three individuals had something inside of them come to life somewhere in between worlds, and none of them intend to go quietly should the Stalkers come for them...


As the Witch Hunters closed in on the Trickster, she backed up against the side of the train, looking one way and then the other, hoping to find some means of escaping them. She could feel something building inside of her, like an electrical charge that both clung to her bones and slipped through her veins like wildfire. When the Witch Hunter pointed his gun at her and demanded that she surrender, she threw her hands toward him and directed the feeling outward… and then things got weird.

The woman blinked in surprise. Where the Witch Hunter had been standing a moment earlier was a small, hunchbacked man holding a severed human head. He seemed just as surprised at his appearance as she was, and for a moment, they just stared at each other, her with her arms outstretched, and him with his hands clutching a head that slowly dripped blood onto the wooden train platform. 

Far to her right, she heard a man shout the word “Witch!” The word seemed to break the spell on them, and in one smooth move, the hunchback threw the head to her in a low, underhanded toss. She instinctively reached out to catch the head, then shrieked in surprise and tossed it aside as she realized what she had done. Looking up as she frantically wiped her bloody hands on her dress, she caught sight of the small man hurrying away from her as quickly as his little legs could take her. 

She took a step towards him, but a guardsman stumbled out of the station just as she was passing. “Hey!” he shouted, prompting her to turn to face him out of habit. His eyes widened as he took in her stained dress, and together, they both glanced back at the severed head resting near where she had been standing a moment earlier. 

“This isn’t what it looks like!” the woman protested, holding up her blood-stained hands helplessly. The guardsman fumbled to draw his pistol, and realizing what was happening, she swore and stepped forward, aggressively introducing her knee to his groin. The guardsman gasped out a curse as he crumpled to the ground, and the Trickster took off running, hoping to put enough distance between her and the man before he could get to his gun. 

She heard the gunshot at the same moment something slammed into her back like a thrown bowling ball. It knocked her to the ground, and as she pawed at the dirt, she caught sight of a larger battle raging around the train station. The Guild was engaged in a heated battle with... were those zombies? The Trickster’s mouth pursed in confusion, but there was nobody to answer her questions. There was only the darkness rising up to envelop her.

With a gasp, the Trickster sat upright, her eyes wide and her heart pounding like a drum. There was another man in the room - his eyes were hidden behind goggles, and there was a head mirror strapped to his forehead, barely keeping his unkempt red hair in check - and he screamed in surprise and slashed at her throat with a scalpel, severing her artery and spraying blood across the ceiling. The woman clamped a hand to her neck in an attempt to stem the flow of blood, but it was already too late. With a murmured curse, her eyes rolled back up into her head and the darkness claimed her once more.

Once again, the woman gasped in surprise as she sat upright. This time, the doctor was watching her closely and scribbling notes onto his clipboard. “Most interesting,” he murmured, before grinning disturbingly and reaching his hand out to her. “Welcome back to the living! Your body is remarkable.”

“I’m aware of that,” she muttered, reaching her hand up to feel for the wound in her neck. To her surprise, she felt only smooth flesh, with no sign of a scar or even pain from where her throat had been slit. Frowning, she looked around the room and tried to take stock of the situation. The room was some sort of medical examination room, though the blood splatters on the wall made it look more like a torture chamber. Glancing down at her body, she realized that she was naked. “I suppose we’re both aware of that now, aren’t we?”

The doctor made a faint “hmm?” sound, as if he didn’t quite understand what she was referring to, but before she could explain, he started flipping over pages attached to his clipboard. “And capable of speech, too! I would have thought that the severed voice box... very interesting regenerative properties...” 

He reached forward a placed his fingers on her neck, holding them there as he continued to stare down at his notes. The Trickster raised an eyebrow in mute indignation, but remained silent for the moment. 

“Strong pulse, too! Quite interesting indeed.” The doctor removed his hand and placed it on his own neck, as if he were taking his own pulse. “Iiiiiiinteresting,” he murmured after a moment, his eyes narrowing as he looked back to her. 

The Trickster cleared her throat. “Do you mind if I climb down and get dressed? I’d quite like to be on my way, if you don’t mind, doctor...?”

“McMourning,” the man said, waving his hand to give her permission as he tossed his clipboard to the side. It hit the ground and slid across the floor, finally stopping halfway beneath a tall cabinet filled with strange medical devices. “I am the Guild’s top coroner, and you are a very dead woman. One of the guardsmen shot you right in the heart from thirty feet away, while injured, from what I understand.” He casually picked up a rotating bone saw, looked down at the blade, then glanced back at her, eying her up and down. “I’m told that he’s due to receive a commendation.”

The woman cleared her throat and slowly moved to put the steel gurney between her and the madman. “That seems a bit preemptive, doesn’t it? I mean, he may have killed me for a little while, but it doesn’t seem to have taken. That seems like it might set a bad example for the other guardsmen, doesn’t it?”

McMourning paused, as if considering this. “Good point,” he conceded, dropping the bone saw back onto the table with a loud thud. He strolled back towards her, tapping a sharpened scalpel against his lips as he studiously considered her from behind his goggles. She wasn’t sure where the scalpel had come from. “Also a good point,” he added, replying to a voice she couldn’t hear. Then he gasped and started glancing around the room in paranoia.

“Err... you seem like a very busy man,” she offered, speaking softly in a soothing voice. “How about we find my clothes and then talk this out over some coffee? Maybe not in your surgical death room or whatever this is?”

“Good idea!” He clapped his hands together, barely avoiding severing one of his fingers with the scalpel. “I’m in need of a new assistant. Sebastian is absolutely useless. Just yesterday, he disappeared right in the middle of a surgery!” McMourning shook his scalpel in her direction in a chastising manner. “It’s very rude to teleport away in the middle of a conversation. I never should have tried to fix his brain. Rotted lettuce makes for rotten salads!”

The Trickster laughed nervously. “That sounds... that sounds just great. I’ll need a uniform...?” The doctor nodded in agreement and shuffled off, leaving her alone. “Just my luck,” she sighed. “I need to find a way out of here.”


Click the image below for week 1 scenario details

After a spending a few weeks in the company of Dr. McMourning, the Trickster has finally talked him into letting her take over one of Sebastian’s duties… namely, the acquisition of corpses for the good doctor’s research. She’s taken the opportunity to contact various groups in the hope of finding someone who can help her out of her current predicament, only instead of one group coming to her assistance, two showed up!

Never one to miss an opportunity, the Trickster decides to play both groups against each other. After all, Dr. McMourning’s anger at her departure from his services will be lessened if she can show up with a whole stack of corpses, and there are bound to be plenty of corpses left after the fighting is done…


After spending a few weeks in the employ of Dr. McMourning, the Trickster finally talked him into letting her take over one of Sebastian’s duties... namely, the acquisition of corpses for the good doctor’s research. She contacted a number of groups in the hope of finding someone who could help her safely escape from the doctor, but most of those who showed up to help were just other Resurrectionists (or undercover Death Marshals). 

Her plan was to distract the doctor with so many corpses that he would lose track of her in the confusion, allowing her to slip out of the laboratory without drawing much attention. Unfortunately, she hadn’t planned on Sebastian being far more clever than his simple appearance and manner of speaking implied, and as she turned to leave, she found the shorter man standing in the lab’s doorway with a pneumatic bone saw. She smiled at him, hoping to win him over with her charm, but he just started up the bonesaw with a sharp tug of the starter cord.

Fortunately, her screaming didn’t distract Dr. McMourning from his work. He was too busy examining the corpses she had brought him to pay much attention to anything else. 

Agony.  The Trickster awoke on a blood-stained steel gurney, her every nerve screaming with pain. It only took a single glance down at her body to see the cause: she had been as skinned as the proverbial cat, leaving her glistening red muscles exposed to the air. Every shift in the air brought new pain, but it wasn’t until the nurse appeared at her side and pushed her chest back down against the gurney that she felt true pain. That was also roughly the time that the Trickster realized that she had been screaming the entire time.
She looked up at the nurse holding her down and felt her heart skip a beat. The face staring down at her was her own. Her lips, her nose, her hair... only the eyes were different, a deep shade of blue where her own had been brown, far older and far less mirthful than the eyes she had become accustomed to seeing in the mirror. 

“Shhh, be quiet,” the nurse whispered in a voice that was similarly unfamiliar. “It always hurts the first time.”

She continued to scream.

Days passed, and while the pain never lessened - the opposite, really - the Trickster at least learned to manage it with an unhealthy dose of painkillers. She skulked in the shadows, all but forgotten by McMourning save for the trail of slick blood she left behind her when she stumbled through the shadows of his work space. Occasionally Guild officials would appear and speak with the doctor for awhile, but she always remained hidden, watching the experiments he performed and trying to formulate a plan for escape. The pain made it difficult to think. The pain killers made it worse. 

Eventually she had a chance to watch him perform the skin transplant on one of his nurses. An idea began to form in her mind as she watched him, and soon she was scribbling down notes on discarded sheets of paper, desperation and hope combining to clear her mind. After that, it was just a matter of waiting for the right Guild guardsman to arrive in the laboratory. All it took was a bit of chloroform and a scalpel, and a few hours of hard, bloody work later, the Trickster strolled out of McMourning’s laboratory as a new woman. Or at least, wearing the skin of a new woman.



The Trickster has escaped McMourning’s laboratory by donning the skin of a Guild guardsman, but now the painkillers that she took to help with the operation are starting to wear off, and she’s in more pain than she would have thought possible. She needs someone to help her with the pain, and those who do are certain to earn her loyalty…


The Trickster knew that the transplant process would be painful, but she assumed that it wouldn’t be as painful as her skin’s removal had been. Truthfully, it wasn’t too bad. Of course, she was still taking the painkillers used by the other nurses, which helped take the edge off the pain. It was only after she had left McMourning’s laboratory and those painkillers started to wear off that she realized just how sharp that edge could be. 

It felt like her entire body was on fire, and soon was she leaning against a stone wall for support, putting all of her effort into just trying to stay upright as she put one foot in front of the other, putting as much distance between herself and McMourning as possible. The people that passed her in the street did their best to ignore her, hurrying past without so much as a second glance. At first, she wondered why nobody said anything, but then she remembered that she was wearing the skin of a Guild guardsman. Most likely, none of the townsfolk wanted to get involved with what they thought was a drunken member of the Guard.

At some point, she collapsed into a wide alleyway, knocking over a few stacked trash cans and sending a fat rat scurrying away into the shadows. Everything started to grow dark, and as her pain dimmed, the Trickster welcomed the approach of the yawning void. 

Pain flared like a burst of a newborn sun as the Trickster snapped back to life, her eyes wide as all of her nerves screamed agony in protest of her resurrection. She clawed weakly at the ground, trying to pull herself to her feet, but without much success. 

“You don’t look very good, lady.” The voice belonged to a boy, and with a great deal of effort, the Trickster was able to crane her neck upwards toward it. Standing before her was a lad of perhaps ten years, wearing breeches, a vest, and an odd cap, the last of which was cocked on his blonde head in an arrogant manner. A strangely-shaped paddle rested on his shoulder, and he was fingering the handle as if deciding whether or not it was time to use it. 

“Had a bit of... bad luck,” she explained through clenched teeth. “Please... need medicine... painkillers...”

The boy raised an eyebrow at the request. “Why should I be helpin’ you?” He lifted the paddle and placed it next to her head, bending over as if preparing a golf swing. “Seems to me like you’d be more fun as a pumpkin. You soldiers splatter good when you get pulped.”
The Trickster groaned as she rolled over onto her back. “Not... with the Guild. Just... wearing someone’s... skin.”

The reply caught the boy off guard, and he paused in surprise. “You’re wearing someone’s skin? You’re off your onion, lady.” He leaned in closer, narrowing his eyes as he inspected her neck. After a moment, he jumped back and laughed. “Crickey, how’d you pull that one off?”
Despite the pain, the woman forced a smile onto her lips. “Love to... tell you... but hurts too much...”

The boy rolled his eyes and made a motion with his hand, transforming a handful of scattered tin cans into brand new jars plastered with bright labels that read “Painkillers!”

The Trickster stared up at him in awe, then all but pounced on the medicine, her fingers straining to open the jars.

Real or unreal as they might be, the pain killers were quite effective, and soon the Trickster found herself sighing in relief as the pain faded. She explained her situation to the boy, making it a point to exaggerate the ghastly details of McMourning’s laboratory and the specifics of her surgery once she realized he was interested in them. He had plenty of questions, and she answered each one, even peeling off the skin on one hand like a glove in order to draw excited cries of “gross!” from him. 

Eventually, she was able to maneuver the conversation back toward the boy, learning his name and where he came from. He was reluctant to talk about such things at first, deciding that it would be more fun to go out and smash some “soldiers” with her, but soon she had got him talking about Halloween and how he intended to scare all of the other kids with the best costume ever. He was apparently going to dress up like a ‘Lord Chompy Bits,’ whatever that was, and the Trickster drew out more laughs from him by pointing out that most kids couldn’t handle seeing a scary clown, let alone a fearsome monster.

As they talked more and more about Halloween, grinning jack-o-lanterns faded into reality around them, casting spooky shadows on the walls of the alley. There were strange shapes moving in the shadows, and when she expressed her interest in them - rather than fear - the boy paraded them around with pride. Whether due to the recent pain she had been in, the calming effects of the painkillers, or just desensitization to horror after her time spent in the doctor’s laboratory, the Trickster found herself more amused by the creatures than terrified. She pointed out a few places where they could be made even more frightening, and together, the two of them worked to make the monsters truly horrifying. 

The two of them talked through the night, with the boy eventually getting on a rant about his mother and how restrictive she’s been ever since his father was “gobbled up by monsters.” She could tell that he was frustrated by the way that he started smashing the pumpkins he had created with his paddle-bat, but truthfully, his mother did sound rather stuffy and boring. It prompted her to share a few stories about her own stifling childhood, as well as all of the fun things she was able to do once she had been old enough to run away and live on her own. 

“Hey, so you know how everything went all balmy on the crumpet when you first got off the train?” The boy was lining up to smash in the last of the pumpkins that kept reappearing around them.

The woman’s face screwed up in confusion. “I have no idea what you just said.”

“Huh?” He looked up, then frowned. “You know... all crazy, with people moving around in the blink of an eye?”

“Oh! Right.” She smiled as she rested her chin on the knees that were pulled up to her chest. “You really should have just said that in the first place. You’re not going to catch a girl’s eye by talking like a rapscallion, you know.”

The comment caused the boy’s scowl to deepen. “That’s gross.” He wound up and brought his cricket bat down on the pumpkin, shattering it in an explosion of gore. “How about I show you how to do that again? It’s pretty easy once you realize that most of this isn’t real. One of the doctors mum took me to see called it ‘lucid dreaming.’”

The Trickster leaned forward, her borrowed lips pulling back in a devious smile. “Oh, please, tell me more.”



After a long talk with the Dreamer, the Trickster has learned how to better control the reality-warping powers that first manifested when she arrived in Malifaux. In order to help her practice, the Dreamer has “borrowed” a few “volunteers” from their beds and dropped them into the middle of a battle without so much as a warning. With all the weirdness going on, this has to be a dream… right?


After the Trickster’s talk with the Dreamer, the two of them left to begin practicing with her reality-warping powers. She had first demonstrated her ability to twist the world when she arrived in Malifaux, but with the Dreamer’s nightly assistance, she gradually learned to control that power.

From the spirit world, the Tyrant known as Nytemare watched the Trickster in quiet contemplation. He had thought that the Dreamer was the only one capable of manipulating reality so easily, but now this woman was proving him wrong. Her powers were not as strong as those of the Dreamer - the so-called laws of reality were too firmly fixed in her mind - but there was a healthy amount of raw potential in her that could still be put to use. Had she come to Malifaux as a child, Nytemare wagered, she might have even surpassed the boy. 

With Titania’s recent return, Nytemare’s thoughts had been turning to his own survival. He had escaped the worst of Titania’s wrath by escaping into the world of dreams as she shattered the physical bodies of the other Tyrants. Cherufe, December, Shez’uul... their destruction and imprisonment had given it time to hide its essence is the shifting dreamscape, and when Titania turned her attention toward him, the destruction of his physical form was not such a crippling attack. It was a dark time, to be sure, but the boy had rebuilt his body into a new form and allowed him to once again walk the world, albeit for short periods of time.

If the boy were to perish, however, Nytemare was unsure just how much of his physical form would simply cease to exist. He was no stranger to existence as a floating thought, a malicious nightmare blown about in the realm of dreams, but he had come too far to risk such a setback, especially with Cherufe’s near-ascension and subsequent destruction, a feat which he had not even thought possible. Still, he had once thought it impossible that the Queen of the Fey could shatter the mortal body of a single Tyrant, let alone all thirteen of them, but that defeat was carved into the stone of history. It would be good to have a contingency plan.

Reaching forward with an intangible claw, Nytemare brushed the soul of the Trickster, marking her as one of his own. She started at the touch, glancing around in every direction to see what had provoked the strange sensation, but of course, there was nothing there that she could perceive. Nytemare existed on a level of reality which few of his fellow Tyrants could perceive, let alone a mere mortal. If he had possessed a mouth at that moment, it would have curled upwards in a feral grin.

Even if the boy survived, marking the woman would at least keep her out of the hands of the other Tyrants, notably the Gorgon, who had a better sense for these things than most of the others. As if drawn by his thoughts, Nytemare could sense something shifting from far away, an intelligence turning its mind toward him like a snake uncoiling from slumber. Plunging downward through layers of reality, Nytemare willed himself to incarnate in the material world, his essence pouring into the paradigm established by the boy like rotten milk into a glass container.

“Hurray!” the boy shouted, raising his cricket bat high in the air as the woman shrank back in horrified surprise. “Lord Chompy Bits is here! Now we can have some real fun.”

Nytemare leaned forward, his claws crunching into the ground as his lowered his head down to the Trickster’s eye level. “Yes,” he grumbled, his voice the rumbling growl of every fairytale monster ever imagined. The Tyrant wasn’t fond of the voice, but it was what the boy thought he should sound like, so there was no changing it.

The Trickster recovered and tried to smile up at the twisted nightmare. “Well then... I suppose I can think of a few people who could do with a good scare, if you’re up for it.” The monster’s grin sent a chill down her spine.



The Trickster and Nytemare are looking to cause a bit of chaos for its own sake, but she’s still trying to decide who should be the unfortunate target of their amusement. Your crew has learned of this and has seen the chance to cause some havoc with its enemies… but dressing up as them and harassing her. 

Unfortunately, your enemy seems to have had the same idea, and now everyone is dressed in disguises mimicking each other as they shoot and stab “themselves.”

Malifaux gets a bit weird from time to time, doesn’t it?


For the third time in the past fifteen minutes, Antonio Verdane noticed that Ms. Simmons was fiddling with her glasses. “It’s quite alright,” he assured her, his tone turning sympathetic. “These children are the trash of Malifaux. Their only future was a cold, meaningless death on the streets come winter.”

Cordelia Simmons looked up in surprise. “Oh, I’m not concerned about that.” She smiled and pushed her glasses up onto the top of her head. “I’m just excited about your research and the possibilities it holds.”

The compliment had its desired effect, and Verdane puffed up his chest in pride. “It’s not just my work,” he admitted as he led her away from the cages and past the stained gurneys. “I certainly had a hand in formulating the early theories and experiments, but a project of this importance and magnitude is simply too large of a project for one man.”

Cordelia looked up to him and fluttered her eyes in the way she knew men liked. “I can’t imagine anything being too much for you to handle, Mr. Verdane.”

He chuckled, but she could see a bit of color working its way into his cheeks. When she slid her arm around his, that color deepened a full shade. “Well,” he murmured, “perhaps when this symposium is finished, I can show you my personal laboratory. It’s not quite as expansive as this, but I’ve always believed that the sciences are advanced by willpower, rather than wealth.”

“A view that I, myself, share,” Cordelia tittered. Any further comments were cut short by their arrival at the meeting hall. In reality, it was just an open section of the laboratory that had been set up with rows of wooden chairs, but the Arcanists, she had found, enjoyed giving grandiose names to things when a simple one would have sufficed.

Cordelia carefully took her seat and arranged her dress around herself as Verdane claimed the chair next to her own. She and Verdane had been among the last to arrive, but all told, there were only about a dozen people who had chosen to attend the lecture. Then again, it was a secretive Arcanist lecture, so the fact that it had drawn even that many scientists and hematologists was somewhat impressive.

Once they were seated, an older woman with black hair – dyed, Cordelia noticed with faint amusement – approached the front of the room and stood behind the podium. “Before we begin, I would like to thank you all for coming, for none of this could have been possible without your sacrifices and diligent work. While some of us have been more successful than others in our research,” the woman nodded towards Verdane as a few curious heads turned toward him, “it is important to remember that this research is more important than any one person. What we do, we do for the future of humanity.”

“For the future of the Arcanists, you mean,” corrected a black man in the front row.

The older woman’s face scrunched up like she had just encountered a particularly unpleasant smell. “We are all aware of the source of our funding, Mr. DeWalt.”

“Just making certain,” the man replied. He was short and wiry, with a bushy beard that seemed at place above his oil-stained dungarees. “Please continue.”

The woman stared at DeWalt for a moment longer before looking back to the crowd. “In any case, we’ve made some great progress. Mr. Verdane, if you would like to begin your lecture?”

Verdane cast a belabored look at Cordelia as he left his seat and approached the nearby gurneys. “If you would be so kind as to join me in the laboratory?” He waited until the crowd had stood and migrated over before beginning his speech. The well-rehearsed words came easily to his mind, but every time he met Cordelia’s gaze, he found his concentration slipping. The woman’s smile was simply that distracting.

“While Ms. Morandi has chosen to explore the black blood of the indigenous Nephilim race from the hypothesis that its mental subversion is a magical effect, it is my belief that their ichor is actually a form of parasitic, blood-borne disease.” While keeping an eye on Cordelia, he pulled back the stained sheet covering the figure strapped to the gurney. 

The Nephilim was still alive, but Cordelia had spent enough time in McMourning’s laboratory to recognize a vivisection when she saw it. Its limbs were emaciated and thin, and its wings had long ago been removed, most likely in order to get it to lay flat on the gurney. It turned its head toward her, and she saw that its eyes were clouded and weeping a blue-black substance that might have been pus.

“Now,” Verdane said as he lifted a scalpel and made an incision in the creature’s purple hide, “as we are aware, prolonged exposure to Nephilim ichor causes physical deformations that cause a human to gradually take on the appearance of those creatures. We are, of course, familiar with diseases from Earth that warp and twist the body, so we know that this is not outside the realm of natural possibility. However, the assumptions made by my colleagues has not considered the possibility that the Nephilim might, in fact, be carries of this disease, victims if you will, instead of… yes, Ms. Simmons?”

Cordelia had raised her hand, as if to ask a question. “My apologies for interrupting you, Mr. Verdane, but this ‘black blood’ is corrosive to humans, is it not?”

Verdane frowned at the question. “I must have been mistaken, Ms. Simmons. Didn’t you yourself write a paper on that very topic?” The other members of the crowd turned to her in confusion.

“Oh, I’m afraid not,” she replied with a wide smile. “I’d never work with vultures like you.”

There was just enough time for everyone’s eyes to widen in shock before the wall behind Verdane opened up like a maw and disgorged a dozen gibbering, twisting nightmares. One of the creatures – a nurse with a slashed face and fingers like scalpels – fell upon him with an inhuman shriek. The others screamed and began fleeing, but they found the doors blocked by a young boy in a tweed jacket.

“Nuh uh,” he taunted as he slapped the cricket bat in his hand against his open palm. “Leaving the lecture ‘fore it’s done is ground for detention and a good paddlin’.”

Out of the corner of her eye, the Trickster saw DeWalt draw a pistol from a hidden holster and take aim at the boy. There wasn’t time to think, and instinctively, she gestured to the table and made a throwing gesture toward the Arcanist operative. She had intended to hurl the table at him using telekinetic force, but she was still getting used to twisting reality. Instead of hurling the table toward him, her uncontrolled spell ripped the black blood from the incapacitated Nephilim and lashed it through the air like a cracking whip. It struck DeWalt across the face, melting away his skin as he screamed in surprise.

The entire room froze in surprise as the tentacle of black blood withdrew to hover behind the Trickster’s head. Across the room, the Dreamer’s face had lit up in a wide smile. “Whoa! That’s hanging!”

The Trickster’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I really wish you would talk like a normal boy sometimes.” A flick of her wrist sent the corrosive tentacle lashing through the crowd, turning confusion into screams, gurgles, and, eventually, silence.

“That’s odd,” the Trickster mused as she peeled the damaged portions of Cordelia’s skin from her body. “Where did Verdane get off to? I’m not seeing his body here with the others.”

“The wisenheimer?” The Dreamer was amusing himself by trying to balance a severed and smoking head atop the paddle of his cricket bat. “I think he decided to skidoo after his tussle with Nurse Blade. Why, did you want to get him, too?”

The Trickster considered it for a moment, then shook her head. “He can wait for now. He mentioned having a private laboratory.” She frowned as she caught sight of her face in the reflective side of some sort of blood-separating device. “Drat, I got some of that black blood on my face. Do you want to help me find a new one?”

The Dreamer rolled his eyes. “That sounds really boring.”

Turning away from the device, she walked over to where he had started to bounce the head on his paddle. “If you help me find someone pretty, I’ll let you help skin her.” She raised her eyebrow invitingly as she met his gaze, but she could already tell from the look on his face that they were hardly finished with their night out on the town.