Flick perched on the branch of a maple tree overlooking the clearing in Belleview Park, watching the wind nudge a scrap of bright blue cloth stuck between two rocks. This had to be it – the meeting place.

After ten eternal minutes, his tongue was starting to stick to the roof of his mouth. Whether it was the dry October air or just his nerves sucking all the moisture out of his mouth, he wasn’t sure, but if the Mediator didn’t hurry up and get there, Flick wasn’t sure he’d be able to talk. And here, he’d been worried about keeping the Mediator waiting.

It’s your own damn fault, he thought, glowering down at the rocks. A gust of wind tossed his branch around, but with his tail firmly wrapped around the wood, all it did was give him a good ride. Could’ve grabbed a drink, but noooo, you were in a big hurry and just took off without so much as a drop of water or a crumb of bread.

The thought of food brought up a hungry snarl from his stomach. Belleview Park was farther than he’d thought, and flying so far so fast used up a lot of energy. This is exactly why you’ll never be on the Council. Never think ahead!

Ah, but this time, he was thinking ahead. The Council spent all their time chattering amongst themselves, debating their options, wondering if the problem would just go away, all the while ignoring the fact that more sprites were disappearing by the day. And it wasn’t just the Main Street caravan, either – he’d heard tales of sprites vanishing from the Hudson Street and Central Avenue caravans, too. Councilman Jebab and his supporters claimed it was just the normal few disappearances, losses to Mundies and cats and the occasional car.

Just the normal few, my tail! His glare should have, by all rights, set the scrap of fabric ablaze. Two or three a year is normal. We’ve lost six in the past month, and there’s been at least fifteen lost between the other caravans!

Yes, lost. He refused to think of them any other way. Barik and Clue couldn’t be dead… Well, sure, Clue wasn’t the brightest, but he’d been with Barik, and Barik was smart. Smart enough to fly above the cars and watch out for cats, and the three of them had been pulling pranks on the Mundies since before they were flying. There was no way Barik would let anything happen to himself or Clue…

His eyes stung, and he swiped his arm across them, wishing the damn Mediator would hurry up. Once he talked to the Mediator, they’d get some help. That’s what the Agency was supposed to be there for – to help out the Magicals when things went wrong, and only idiots like Jebab could think nothing was wrong. The Mediator would listen. He would understand.

So where in the waking world was he?

A sound, a cross between a cat purring and a squirrel chittering, reached Flick’s ears, and every muscle along his spine stiffened. He scanned the clearing, looking for any sign of movement, but it was the gleam that caught his eye. Two gleams, in fact – eyes, shimmering in the unholy orange and green sheen of a cat in the dark, but it was noon. And sunny. And if that was a cat, he was a pretty pretty princess.

It stayed in the underbrush, unmoving, eyes fixed on Flick. Even a cat would have moved – a twitch of the tail, flick of an ear, something. This creature might as well have been carved of stone, but stone didn’t stare like that.

Another chittering purr came from his left, and Flick nearly fell off his branch. There, on the trunk of the tree, clung another one, gleaming eyes the size of Flick’s head trying to pin him in place. He could see this one clearly. Dull gray skin, like a frog’s but without the damp sheen, clung to a body composed of ribs and a spine that looked like it should have starved to death long ago. Spindly arms ended in long-fingered hands tipped in wicked claws, and a membrane stretched between the fingers like a deformed bat. It hung upside-down on the trunk, its wrists turned completely around to let it hang.

And then, there was the head. A skull about the size of a monkey’s with deep-set eyes and a severe under-bite weren’t what grabbed Flick’s attention. No, it was the crescent of horns spanning its forehead like a devil’s tiara. Each spike spiraled up at least three inches, and each tip looked sharp enough to spear the sprite right through. Flick climbed to his feet, as smoothly and carefully as he could. He knew what it was.

An imp.

Slowly, as though it was a wind-up toy, it jerked its head more and more to the side until it had turned a full ninety degrees and Flick was sure its neck would snap right off, then chittered again. A long forked tongue swiped over its jagged teeth, and its lips pulled back into a deathly grin that nearly stopped his heart cold. Surely, a Mediator wouldn’t bring imps with him…

With a screech, a third imp landed on the branch behind him. Flick shouted as his feet slipped right off the smooth maple bark and left him in a freefall, the shimmering eyes of the imps never leaving his body. The third imp scurried out of the underbrush in a flurry of unnaturally fluid movements, saliva dangling from its jaws. Then, it leapt, spreading its fingers wide and gliding through the air, mouth open and ready to bite.

Flick untucked his wings and forced himself into flight. The imp’s jaws snapped shut a hair’s breadth from his legs. Not looking back, he pumped his wings and took off between the trees. Snarls and shrieks of glee followed close behind. Great. Figures they’re in the mood for a chase!

As he dove between the branches, he tried to remember every caravan story he’d ever heard about imps. Slow and stupid lower level demons – well, he didn’t know about stupid, but they sure as heck didn’t seem very slow. They weren’t related at all to the Fae or the Wee Folk, so iron wouldn’t have any more effect on them than it would on him. Nice knock on the head, maybe, but unless he was secretly more clever than he thought he was...

A set of long fingers swiped at him close enough for the breeze to send him into a sprawling barrel roll. He pulled himself out of it before he could get too close to the ground. Focus, Flick, focus!

They were leaping from tree to tree – no, gliding. He pumped his wings faster, and a horrible thought crossed his mind. What if they could fly? Not just glide, but actually fly? If they could do that, there was a good chance he’d never lose them… and his back muscles were already starting to ache.

The imps seemed perfectly at home in the woods of the park. Okay, then, he thought, clenching his jaw and putting on an extra burst of speed. Let’s see how they do in Mundie territory!

Taking a sharp left that had the imps chattering in surprised glee, he took off for town. The woods might be their territory, but he’d been weaving and dodging and hiding in the human town all his life. If he couldn’t lose them there… well, they didn’t call last hopes ‘last’ because all the great ideas came after them.

With the imps screeching behind him, he flew for home.