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"Is..." I stammered: "Is th-that...Labia?"

Sir Anthony shook his head.

"More likely an indigenous acolyte. Similar to the viragos of that were-jaguar cult in post-Civil War Texas.* "

For what felt like an eternity, the three of us just stared at each other. Then, suddenly, came a noise that startled all of us.

"A-Arbor..."

The three of us looked down at Constable Weir's body. For that gasping utterance had come from him! And as startling as it had been for Sir Anthony and myself to hear it, it was evidently twice so for the feathered demi-giantess across from us.

For, she jumped straight up into the air, screeching like the proverbial banshee! The undersides of her arms instantly sprouting feathery membranes that reached to her hips.

"Now!" shouted Sir Anthony: "Open fire! Wing her! Wing her!"

He immediately demonstrated what he meant, as he began shooting to wound her in her partially transformed upper arms. So, I did the same. My double-action revolver reporting slightly more slowly than his semi-automatic. But, our hours of spare time practice on the NYPD target range proved a blessing in disguise.

For our blessed steeljackets struck true at each spot we aimed at. And, as anticipated, the blessing upon each bullet proved excruciatingly painful to her. So much so, that she could not concentrate enough to complete her transformation!

Ergo, she fell back down to earth.

Quickly we reloaded and ran over to them. I, to cover the demi-giantess. And, Sir Anthony, to kneel by the constable's head.

"I'm sorry to have deceived you, Weir," the latter began, his face mirroring the regret in his voice: "But, we didn't think you'd believe the truth. In this world, there is what most people deem reality. And, what they wishfully think of as pure fantasy! We (myself, Dr. Thorpe, and certain others) are all that stand between them. We are...the thin line."

Constable Weir feebly smiled and nodded his understanding. Then, his face grew serious, as he struggled to speak, again.

"A-Arbor...Vitae."

With that, he died.

We neither of us spoke for several moments. Then, we looked at each other.

"Arbor vitae," repeated Sir Anthony: "What do you think he meant by that?"

I shrugged: "I know it's Latin for 'tree of life.' And, I know that--in medical science--it refers to both a region of the human brain and the female cervical canal."

Sir Anthony half-smiled: "It's also a Victorian-era double-entendre for the male reproductive organ! In reference to a species of ornamental evergreen related to the cypress that's customarily trimmed into a teardrop shape by professional gardeners."

"But, why would poor Constable Weir struggle to make those his last words?" I replied.

Sir Anthony slowly regained his feet.

"We know, from our probationary studies, that the Melissae had a unique form of psychical power. One that allowed them to divine potentially valuable information from those they consumed."

I nodded: "Gastronomancy."

"Correct. And, in certain rare cases, that transfer of knowledge could be a two-way street. So, it could be that, in his final moments, Constable Weir had a revelation as to where the missing children are. For, they most definitely weren't still aboard that shrunken train!"

I nodded at the wounded demi-giantess glaring up at us from on the ground.

"Why don't we try asking her?"

"Because, she wouldn't understand a word of English."

That reply did not come from Sir Anthony! Subsequently, the latter half-spun, aiming his Colt M-1911 towards the narrow trail head. While I wavered, my Colt Police Positive alternating between our captive and this new arrival. A rather short figure dressed like any other woodsman of this region. Right down to the slouch-brimmed Stetson hat obscuring the upper half of his face.

"Who are you?" Sir Anthony demanded.

"Henriette Ebeur" replied the other, in an unmistakably female voice: "A metis of the Nipissing First Nation. And, a lay sister of the Canadian Benandanti!"

Then, she smirked as she added: "Just call me 'Hank.' "

tbc
Chapter End Notes:
* See A SMALLER SHADE OF GRAY.
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