Chapter 18
VANESSA
The Collinsville Horseradish Festival hits with all the subtlety of a jackhammer—an explosion of green-dyed whipped cream, bands sweating under sweltering heat, and people waddling around in root-shaped hats.
It’s one of those bizarre small-town spectacles that you both love and loathe.
Every year, I find myself drawn to it like a moth to a lantern, despite the overwhelming odor of spicy might-have-killed-you brews and the unnerving grin of Horseradish Harry, who looks like he’s two bad puns away from a crisis.
I stand near a funnel cake stand, the air thick with powdered sugar and nostalgia, juggling my purse and a half-finished lemonade.
Sammy darts around my legs, her notebook out again, recording “Horseradish Halloween Strategy” ideas.
She beams with childlike glee, weaving through the crowd and hollering every time someone topples over or someone else slathers horseradish sauce on a corn dog.
Normally, I’d be laughing, fully immersed.
But today, I’m a coil of tension wrapped in skin.
My nerves crackle with every flash of Rychne's image in my mind—jeans, red skin, questions I haven’t asked.
And then there’s Buford, who showed up a week ago claiming “visitation rights” like he’s shopping for groceries.
The court can mediate, sure…but he remains like a dark cloud on my horizon, whispering danger even when he’s gone.
Sammy tugs at my hand. “Mom, check it out!” She points to a waist-high slingshot contraption aimed at a rotating hay bale.
Nearby, women and men wearing root hats load horseradish-filled balloons and fling them with reckless precision.
She’s bouncing, eyes alight. “It’s not a real summer if we skip the horseradish slingshot. ”
I sigh—and laugh, despite myself. I loosen my grip on the lemonade. “Okay, kiddo. Let’s do it.” I bend down and wrap an arm around her. Just for a moment, I let the normalcy distract me.
Then I hear it: the unmistakable rumble of denim against fabric, the confident stride approaching. I turn, heart stuttering in my ribs.
There he is. Richard—no, Rychne. Wearing jeans and a crisp white tee stamped with bright green letters: I LOCAL TUBERS.
His sleeves are rolled up, showcasing strong forearms, and his hair, perfectly human, still catches sun like spun gold.
He holds a small water bottle and a curious, slightly shy grin.
I nearly choke on my lemonade.
Sammy sees him and squeals. She pushes free from my hug and rushes forward. “Uncle—or battle-dad—is here!” She jumps into his arms, and he flexes to catch her, steady as a father should be.
I stand frozen, the sweet-sticky festival air feeling like syrup in my lungs. Around us, music blares, laughter echoes, the scent of fried stuff drifts upward, but everything narrows into this one surreal moment.
He meets my eyes—brighter than horseradish heat. I sense he’s conscious of the absurdity. Jeans. T-shirt. A declaration. I nod once, blinking so rapidly my cheeks sting. He steps closer, offering a hand to me. It trembles—confidence wrapped in vulnerability.
“I—thought…I’d come,” he says, voice steady but soft. “To… support tradition. And you.”
I swallow, heart pounding like festival drums. Summer chaos surges around, but I’m still. I take his hand—and feel real again.
Sammy pulls him toward the slingshot station, chattering a storm of instructions.
He kneels, helping her load a horseradish-loaded balloon on the giant rubber bands.
He listens to her, then repeats her words back in a way that’s just a touch too earnest—but genuine.
She smirks and bounces again. “You got rizz.”
They huddle like conspirators against a backdrop of cheering watchers and green tables decked with root-centric treats.
I stand there, lemonade in hand, feeling something shift. My worry and fear and uncertainty still simmer beneath my skin—but maybe, just maybe, there’s room for laughter now.
Because he showed up. And that might be the first time I actually believed we could do this—together.
There’s something almost tactical about the way Rychne moves through the festival—like every booth, every sizzling aroma, every blast of music is intel waiting to be cataloged. He sidles around funnel cake stands, sniffing intensely, eyes narrowing as powdered sugar rains down on his shirt.
Sammy’s in full command. She’s dragging him from booth to booth—“Mom, look! He’s trying to figure out how they dice the Oreos!
” She nudges him toward the deep-fried Oreo exhibit.
Rychne leans in, watching the vendor lower the battered cookie into oil.
A pop, a bubble, a golden flip—he blinks and whispers, “It’s… surprisingly tactful.”
I hang back a few steps, purse swinging, watching him absorb everything.
This isn’t performative. He’s not pretending to enjoy small-town charms; he’s genuinely intrigued.
When the folk dancers take center stage—resplendent in gingham and suspenders—he tilts his head, ankles flexing, a predator analyzing gymnasts.
He tries a basic step, toppling into rhythm.
The crowd laughs good-naturedly; he stands, face pink, but grins. And I catch myself smiling too.
Then we move on to the pickling competition.
Rychne lifts a jar of dilly beans like a relic, whispers, “These are… fermented water nuggets?” Sammy giggles, “Just taste,” and he dips a finger.
The vinegary burn nearly dooms his composure, but he nods fiercely and deepens the sniff.
I can’t help snorting—because it’s absurd and earnest and beautiful.
I linger near the artisan booths—really old dudes hawking radios, wood carvings, random candles.
One booth features a row of DIY gadgets: a bright espresso on the table, vacuum tubes, dials.
Rychne walks up, amber eyes lighting with curiosity.
He swipes a curious pen-looking device from the table and logs onto the ATM across the path.
I freeze, heart plummeting, as the screen flickers, pauses, and spits out cancel prompts.
He looks toward me, eyebrows raised, tip-taps the "pen", and says in that earnest voice: “For research purposes.”
I blink, mouth half-open. “So glad my alien boyfriend is also a digital anarchist.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
He shrugs like it's no big deal. A security guard turns fast, scanning—but the ATM coughs and spits the pen back into Rychne's open jacket pocket, jammed in like he’s always carried one.
The guard passes by without a second glance.
I exhale—laughing with equal parts relief and amusement. Sammy claps. “Nice hack, Dad!”
Rychne flushes bright red behind his image inducer. “I’m not your dad,” he says stiffly. “I am an accountant.”
Sammy snorts. “So... Dad.”
I shake my head as we walk on. Everything about this day is wrong but also perfect. Here he is—aliens, hacked ATMs, horseradish hats—and somehow, I want him alongside me.
Across the path, Sammy jumps into the slingshot line again, dragging Rychne with her. As they load another horseradish balloon, I linger back, listening to their laughs and competitive banter. I can’t deny it anymore: I’m falling, tangled beyond repair.
When the two of them turn to wave, Rychne’s wave is stiff—like he’s greeting a galactic delegation. Sammy squeals, I raise my lemonade "toast," and he echoes it with his water bottle. People around us dance, eat, celebrate, oblivious to the cosmic underpinnings of this moment.
The festival is strange, chaotic, pungent—and beautifully messy, like life. And here, standing on cracked concrete in Collinsville, I realize that maybe that’s exactly how love should feel: unexpected, spicy, and full of crazy.
I’m balancing a big paper bag of kettle corn in my lap as we settle onto a battered wooden bench, the sun dipping into the horizon.
The sugar-salt crunch fills the air like autumn in slow motion.
Rychne sits beside me, casting glances in the direction of Mr. Lipnicky’s booth—an oddly regal pavilion that reads like a time machine; not rustic charm, but strategic facade.
The smell of butter-swish popcorn bleeds into the taffy-sweet air, buzzing with the last shreds of festival energy.
We’d all been riding high after the slingshot fiasco, Sammy practically pulsing with joy.
That swirl ended abruptly when we passed Lipnicky—smiling as though nothing in the world is amiss, booth glittering behind him.
Somehow his grin, polite and practiced, feels colder than the autumn wind.
He offers to shake Richard’s hand—taps it once, twice, lingering too long, eyes bored into Rychne’s image inducer.
It’s a predator’s handshake. Beware, I think, muscles coiled.
As his grip releases, I sense something in Richard’s posture shift—jawline tightening, shoulders briskly straightening. Then Lipnicky turns to me, voice smooth as lotion. “Nessa, you look lovely today. How’s Sammy?” The tone is so saccharine it leaves metallic tang behind my teeth.
“She’s great,” I manage, voice clipped. Lipnicky smiles again—the corporate crocodile toothy grin that suggests a shred of satisfaction, as though he’s glad ‘great’ still means something he can exploit.
He strolls off, glancing over his shoulder. My gaze meets Rychne’s. His eyes flicker over me, searching for the same alarm I feel. I grip the popcorn bag so hard I tear through the bottom.
A long beat, then I let out a breath, loud enough to rustle the final festival tents.
“Yeah,” I say. “He’s a corporate vampire. Real estate cold caller with blood-sucking charm.”
Rychne’s jaw ticks. He leans forward, voice a low rustle. “No. I scanned his biosignature.”
My hand pauses mid-pop corn fluff.
“He’s not human.”
The words land like thunder. My heart jumps, stutter-sprinting.
“Not human,” I echo, disbelief weaving through me. The sweet salty stillness of kettle corn seems suddenly alien.
Rychne’s golden eyes lock on mine. “No bioscan, no biochemistry. My reading: shapeshifter. Grolgath.”
The chill creeps up my spine. The Grolgath—shadowing on his origins—ancient, monstrous rivals to the Vakutans. They infiltrate. They subvert. They destroy. And now one is behind the facade I’ve trusted since I started this messy journey. It feels like betrayal fangs snapping inside my chest.
I breathe out, tasting fear. But beneath it, respect for Rychne—his precision, loyalty, willingness to mark a predator no matter how civility-shrouded.
He lays a hand gently on my knee. It’s warm and real. My rebellious heart quiets at his touch, even as alarm whistles end-to-end.
I pick up a handful of corn, fingers trembling. “So… what do we do?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “We watch. We prepare. We don’t react without data.”
The tone is tactical. He swaps instincts for strategy, even while fear and fury coil around us.
I straighten—resolve igniting. “He’s threatening Sammy. Threatening me. Threatening any property owner who stands in his path.”
Rychne nods, scanning the empty fairgrounds. “This is planetary tactic. He studies through festival politics, observing community loyalties.”
Anger blooms. I ball my fist around the corn bag. “Well, so am I.”
He smiles a small, dangerous smile. “Nessa Malone, strategist. I like this version.”
I scoot closer, the bench wood rough beneath my thighs. “Because I have unavoidable baggage.”
Rychne meets my gaze. “That baggage is… astonishing.”
We share a silent moment—fear blazing, attraction humming, dangerous clarity coursing. Around us, children’s laughter drifts from the exit stand, festival remnants dotting the grass. But a predator is readying to strike.
I take his hand. “We’re in this together.”
His grip tightens—reassurance tempered with instinct.
“To the edge of my galaxy,” he whispers.
“And to the edge of mine,” I reply.
Sammy bounds back, bouncing like a rubber ball. She’s clutching a half-squashed horseradish candy stick and wearing that unholy grin of knowing and chaos. She plops between us, stretching long legs out and handing me a candy stick.
“Battle-dad says he’s hungry.”
Rychne winks at Sammy. “Battle-dad is always hungry.”
Sammy groans. “No more rides.”
My breath escapes in a laugh. For a moment, we’re normal. Not aliens or horror or real estate crooks. Just broken suburban family, balancing popcorn and candy, united by risk and love.
But under our feet, the earth shifts. Lipnicky tucked behind the foliage, watching. And we—blissfully aware—are ready to stand our ground.