A fist-sized bright orange globule bounced between the bodies of dancing patrons, unseen to all but one. With her touch came a sense of glee and thwarted inhibition. Feelings that were easily explained away by the powerful drinks served under Wilhelm and the staff of The Griffon’s Talon’s watchful eye. The globule moved with the stomping beat as Fletcher Sterling Lightfoot plucked at the strings of his lute.

  His plucking came faster, the crescendo of the song bursting from his chest as he sang to the crowd. Fletcher, or Fletch as his friends called him, had noticed from a young age that his words carried a weight behind them. At first he’d barely noticed it. Just subtle shifts in people’s opinions. Lips got a little looser when it came to secrets that he wanted to know. In his early teens, his mother gifted him his lute, and everything changed.

  He took a few deep breaths as the percussion came to a close on the penultimate song to his set. Bowing his head to the roar of applause, his tattooed fingers met string again in a slower, more deliberate progression.

  “I appreciate you all coming out,” he projected from his perch on the stage. “It’s been a while since Old Wilhelm kicked me out this fine establishment, so a big thank you to him for giving me another shot.” Fletch gave the portly, balding human behind the bar a wave. “We’ve got one more song for you, though. This one’s called The Wayward Star.”

  There’s a tavern in every town where the tender knows my name

  Where the coffee cools in hungover hands and the smoke smells like pain

  I keep a map of empty stops, a list of places I’ve let go

  Every crest—a brief heartbeat, every valley sings a new low

  The vibe in the room had changed on a dime. What had been a rowdy party of dancing and mirth turned to people wrapping their arms over each other’s shoulders and a gentle sway. He continued to play and sing, though his bright orange friend caught his attention. She spun her amorphous body in the air in front of him, then hopped from one head to the next until she landed in an outstretched hand.

  Sometimes I wish the night would teach me to stay,

  But the road keeps calling and the lines never fade,

  Just a wayward star spinning circles in the dark,

  Searching every small town bar for the next powerful spark,

  The list of people who could see the sprite was not long. How calm she was when the two slender fingers patted her head narrowed it down even further. Swallowing hard, he found his mouth suddenly dry and turned to signal for the bad they were going to wrap it up a verse early.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  With a satchel full of almosts and could-have-beens

  Fingers pressed to promises I never learned to mend

  I keep chasing down the dawn, a horse before the cart

  I’m just a restless, wayward star, looking for a place to start.

  He repeated the outro a couple of times to finish off the set, though his eyes kept shifting back to his little orange companion now resting on the shoulder of the incredibly thin person. Ever a man of the people, he hopped off the stage to greet and talk to the crowd for a while before Wilhelm started filtering them out.

  Fletcher had only met Jinty McGinty a single time, some forty years ago. He was certain the name wasn’t real, but he’d never met anyone that had ever questioned it. They approached after the final patron left him be, offering their hand to the sprite who hopped onto it and then onto Fletcher’s shoulder.

  “Impressive set. You do your progenitor proud.” Their voice was alluring and seductively deep. “You remember me, I trust?” They shifted their weight, crossing one arm over their chest as they gave him an assessing glance from eyes like liquid steel.

  “I do.” Fletch grabbed his drink to rehydrate his mouth before continuing. “I’m surprised you remember me.”

  Jinty smiled, showing off too straight teeth, and shook their head. “One doesn’t forget who fills their halls with merriment. I haven’t come to catch up, unfortunately.” They reached into a small pouch at their hip and produced a message stone, offering it to them.

  Fletcher turned it over his hands, the downward fist of Ruarth prominently carved into its face. He fought the urge to roll his eyes and took in a sharp breath. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but I’m not the gods play thing. I’m just a bard.”

  “Just a bard?” Jinty’s eyebrows flicked upward.

  He couldn’t stop it that time, his eyes rolling hard. “You know what I mean. I don’t want to get wrapped up in whatever plot she’s got going on. Not after last time.”

  “I understand.” They took a step forward and set a hand on his shoulder. “If it helps, consider it a personal favor for me.”

  Fletcher shook his head slowly and stared at the rock for a moment. There were numerous forms of torture he would prefer to doing the bidding of the gods, but Jinty McGinty had earned his respect and adoration. “What does she want?”

  “One of her children has fallen ill with an ailment of the mind.” Jinty lifted their hand from his shoulder, gently placing the long fingernail of their index finger to his temple. “Physically, she is perfectly fine, yet every healer they call upon has been unable to wake her.”

  “And I’m supposed to just roll up, play her a little ditty, and fix her right up, huh?” He snorted. “What happens when I fail? Deva start crawling up my ass?”

  Jinty shook their head, fingertips gliding along his jawline to scratch at his five-o’clock shadow. “Ruarth is well aware that your methods are a gamble.” They gestured to the stone. “A gamble she’s willing to take.”

  Fletcher found himself leaning into the slender fingers, taking in the sweet, fruity scent of their skin. His chin followed for several inches as they pulled the digits away, and he finally blinked back to reality. “Fine…” Fletch finally relented. “They have the other stone?”

  Jinty smiled wide, their angular features making them look more catlike than the human they presented themself as. From the same pouch, they produced a marble. Perhaps an inch in diameter, it swirled with the same liquid steel as their eyes. “I would never have a showman go uncompensated.” They whispered to him, dropping the ball in his palm.

  Fletcher studied it for a long moment, his other hand clutching the message stone. Spheres of Potential were on the rarity level of dragon heart crystal, though less flexible in their use. “I can’t take…” He glanced up only to find the enigmatic McGinty gone.