The Creators: Book One by

The young man stared at me for a moment, and then cocked his head, as though he were listening to something. He nodded to his imaginary friend, and I made another note on my paper.

“You’re not writing my symptoms on that paper,” the man said, “you’re drawing me, with my shirt off, and a very generous bulge in my pants.”

I started upright in my chair, and then slammed my notebook on the table, feeling my face flush with embarrassment. I was about to say something to explain myself, but the man cut me off.

“You have three bottles of five-hundred-year old wine, a closet full of lingerie, and a hidden door in your back room,” the man said, staring levelly at me, cocking his head as he listened, “and behind the hidden door, is-”

“Stop!” I screamed, feeling my heart race, “Don’t you say another fucking word!”

“…your daughter,” the young man finished, “combing her hair and looking out of a one-way window.”

I stared at the man in disbelief as I subtly reached beneath the desk and grasped the stock of the crossbow riveted to the bottom of the tabletop.

“I bet you can see this, too.” I whispered, aiming the bolt at the man’s crotch.

“I can’t see anything,” the man said, “it’s my sister who scouted the place while you searched me.”

“Where is she?!” I hissed, “Is she with my daughter?!”

“She’s actually sitting on top of your head, trying desperately to punch you before you shoot me in the balls,” the man responded, his voice wavering in fear, “if my promise it worth anything to you, Tera, I promise I won’t tell anyone about your daughter.”

I tensed my finger on the trigger, weighing my options in my head. The people of Towerhead barely tolerated me, and if they found out I had bred, I had no doubts about what they’d do to me and my daughter. But if I killed this boy, people would ask questions. Death is commonplace in Towerhead, but murder isn’t. A missing boy, last seen walking down my path? I might as well tie myself to a stake and light the match.