hacked through vines, leading their party at the behest of Harpy and head. He followed the disembodied directions to the letter, avoiding quick sand that begged them aloud to step and be food, “So soft, so tender,” the sands pleaded. Buttons took up the rear, keeping track of every passing mosquito and killing as many as he could. He kept count.

Most folks underestimated Buttons. He seemed another drunk, and a loud one making up for his fat belly and short stature with crude language and boasts of flatulence. His curly hair came from his Scottish heritage though he grew up on the Chesapeake Bay. One of the few who chose the goblin life. He’d taken ship with a smuggler and traded up crews till he’d joined Theo andadded her own cocktail, sea water only worse. Theo recalled, as he often did, the face that murdered his family. There wasn't room there for weakness. He often saw that dead man when he shut out pain. He kept climbing.

Silvia took a small piece of linen, as soaked as the rest of her, and wrapped it around the bite on her elbow. Buttons fidgeted. He wasn’t eager to continue, but he didn’t favor getting stuck underneath the weakest link in their chain.

Two rungs higher on the tree, another snake-pigeon bit Theo. It got him before he even saw it. Another two rungs higher, it struck again. This time he swung with his knife. He came nowhere close. His blood mixed with yellow-green rain drops. He rubbed his shoulder