Page 1 of Traps and Gretchen

Ropes End

“Which one do I need to talk to, is the question?” Traps wondered to his only confidant—the air—while walking the bayou’s edge behind his shack. “Fathom works out puzzles. Fin finishes them. Fetch… he what? Finds the puzzles? Knows if they are puzzles that need figuring?”

Fuck. He was going to have to make acoldcall.

But thisbitein his ass was all on him. And there was no changing it. No regretting it. When he first became a member of the Twelve, he didn’t know his brothers like he did now. He was presented with the honor of working for the Bishops and that was like…wow. Every fiber in his universeunraveledin a single instant and lined up for duty. That once tangled mess in his head and soul suddenly burned with logic and purpose. Without a doubt it formed the foundation of who he was even while hiding his worst parts—which he later realized were hisbestparts.

But it was the celibacy code. The trap of all traps. The perfecthiddentrap. Those allowed him to hide while nobody knew that he was. People knew of him what he wanted them to know. He was Traps. He liked rope of all kinds. He liked knots of all kinds. He set traps of all kinds. That’s all. He was a ropeologist. A fiber fanatic snare scholar. Puppet master of the dangly things.

The truth he hid about his obsessions with rope ran much deeper than the eye could follow. To the outsider, he was an impressive monkey tying and binding, securing, restraining, entangling, and tightening. Butbeneaththat hid the good stuff. The ethereal strands making up the fibers of a soul. Where tyingbecame connecting, binding became trust. Securing was safety and tightening, control.

Like Lesion who’d used his entire body to exact his craft on, Traps’ body learned all the ways ofthe rope.He discovered the freedom in loosening and the protection in wrapping. The transformation in twisting and anticipation with coiling. And his commitment to the rope was his greatest knot. The pull of that rope was its very own raging desire—his intentions and instinct, his fate and free will, all of it danced in theweave.His choices became tethers, his fears learned freedom.Thatwastrueropeto him. In that sacred inner place, the fight between surrender and control innowayrivaled the art of holding on. The innate beauty of letting go. Each twist and turn was a song in his soul. A song that sang silently for only his ears to hear.

Until Gretchen. His Petite Fyoo-rie. His human tempest. But mostly, she wasfury.She hated the nickname but that was too bad. She’d earned it. And he called herMa Petite Fyoo-rieevery chance he got just like she called himGross Neelo.

He mostly despised how he loved hearing her speak his real name, even in a mock.

She’d finished unraveling him. The moment the celibacy rule was lifted, and marriage was suddenlyrequired, his unraveling had begun. It was another perfect trap, only this time, it was inside out and cut the rope that tethered his balls. The introduction of a woman into his ropeology was like a rogue wave crashing into a plotted course.

But the introduction ofGretchen…well,that was tossing a flame into a knot of fuses in the center of his chest. In only two months, every rope thatdefinedhim nowdefiedhim. Whatever rope was to him, she became its arch nemesis. She was aknotthat refused to be bothered with logic and reason. She turned disciplined fibers into frayed nerves and created cruel,tantalizing loops of illusion that vanished the second you were stupid enough to jump through one.

He paused his furious pacing and whipped out his phone, locating the Quantum Kings contact folder. The puzzle triplets were the only beings who were non-human enough to confide in without facing question or judgment. Going to his brothers with hisidiot’snoose that not even a blind monkey could accidentally make, was out of the question. His role as one of the Twelve demanded the best of his skills more than ever. It was time. He had to find a way to craftnewrope. A killer knot of feral fibers that even this reason wrecking woman couldn’t defeat.

He stared at the name on his screen. “Fetch,” he barely muttered, thumb hovering over thelast piss-stop before helllifeline. He pulled the pin on the grenade and smashed the name on the screen. Phone to ear, he waited to hear what his life sounded like exploding into a million fragments.

“Traps.”

The voice on the line seized every part of him. So muchsacred ropepower. Trap’s tongue tied up as his mind raced to define what exactly he’d heard in his voice that bound him up. It wasknowing. This…beingknew.

“Fetch,” he said finally.

“Yes.”

The fibers in his voice weaved in a way that confirmed it. He marveled it aloud. “You know.”

“I have acute hearing,” he said. “What can I do for you? Brother.”

Holy fuck. Acute hearing? That was the down-play of the century. He’d dialed the universe and reached the thread that bound all living things together. And the dude called him brother. He mentally shook himself from the wonder-weave. “I have…”

“Something that needs Fetching,” he said.

Holy saints of all snares. “Yes.”

“Who is it?” Traps heard in the background.

“It’s our brother of the many Traps.”

“What’s hefetchin’about?” she whispered, close by.

“I’m trying to Fetch that now, my human.”

Traps tuned in to the sounds of this exchange. “Well, ‘scuse me,” she muttered.

“That which needs Fetching must be Fetched fully in person,” he now said in Traps’ ear.

“Who’s Fetchin’ what?” the woman wondered.

“Wife,” he patiently implored, his voice moving from the phone. “Would you like to speak for me?”

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