“Bridger can transform matter and create life and death at will. Look, I have proof.”

As the witch smiled on, the next grim conjuration in her spellbook crept out from behind her teacup, slowly. At first one’s eye might mistake him for a beetle or a pet mouse, shy of predators, but not when the whole figure stood tall. “Good to meet you at last, Commissioner Papadelias. I’m called Croucher. I’m a plastic toy soldier that Bridger brought to life.”

Papa cursed within his throat. “Stay calm, everyone. The masks aren’t working, but you trained for this.”

Thisbe scowled, stung. “You think I’d stoop to hallucinogens? Croucher’s real, Commissioner. You don’t believe me, have your tracker do a blood chem scan. You’re clean.”

Private Croucher shuffled forward, the low rim of his helmet forcing him to crane his neck to see the humans’ faces. “I’m real, Commissioner. Your men can vouch, they’re all seeing the same thing, a five-centimeter soldier with dark hair and green fatigues. A hallucination wouldn’t affect everyone the same.”

Papa looked to the others, who, after nervous moments, nodded.

“What are you?” Papa asked. “A U-beast? They banned humanoid U-beasts.”

Croucher sneered. “I’m no windup robot. I told you, I’m a toy brought to life.” He offered his mouse-thin arm. “Flesh and blood. Pick me up and feel me, show me to a doctor if you have to, but listen to me. We don’t have long. The child who created me can create anything: an army of angels, a supervirus, a black hole, whatever they imagine, and they’re freaking out right now. The world should not be left at the mercy of the imagination of a frightened thirteen-year-old.”

The guards around leaned tighter on their triggers as Papa drew close enough to test the tiny figure with his fingertip. “How is Mycroft involved in this?”

The witch liked the tremor that had entered Papa’s voice. “Send your goons away.”

“Not a chance, and if you don’t take those boots off within the next ten seconds I’ll have you force-stripped.” Though his voice stayed stern, Papa could not hide the light of wonder in his eyes as he felt the tiny soldier grip his fingernail, and stroke his knuckle as a rider strokes a horse. “How is Mycroft involved in this?”

Thisbe dismissed Papa’s threat with a smiling sigh. “Mycroft is Bridger’s father, or as close as. We’ve been raising the kid in secret for almost ten years, Mycroft, me, and Bridger’s creations, like Private Croucher here.”

Gingerly, as if afraid the marvel would pop like a bubble, Papa lifted Croucher in his hand and studied close-up the rough face, too fine for anyone to sculpt. “Ten years?”

“Well, eight,” Thisbe corrected. “That’s why Mycroft kept coming back here, Bridger lived in the flower trench out back.”

“The caves.”

“That’s right.” She smiled. “But with the investigation and all, Dominic Seneschal stumbled on Bridger, and now they and Mycroft are chasing each other, and the kid, around the world. I’m not going to sit back and watch omnipotence be fought over by two homicidal maniacs.”