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held it up, its faint glow reflected in his oh-so-dark eyes.
    ‘Time to put matters into play,’ he said. ‘Hail to the Designers.’
    The door opened.

9: Inheritance
    ‘Wait!’ hissed Zyra, holding up a hand to stop Tark from entering. ‘Somethin's not right.’
    They carefully peered into the gloom of their basement hideout. The place was a mess – well, more of a mess than it usually was. The mattresses had been torn apart, their belongings strewn across the floor and Zyra's closet had been tipped over. The place had been ransacked. Their eyes immediately went to the far corner. The floorboards had been pulled up, the metal shielding torn apart, and the open chest rested on the floor beside the gaping hole.
    Tark rushed forward to check their stash, still clutching the bag o’ gold. Zyra followed more cautiously, knives drawn.
    ‘I don't gets it,’ said Tark, staring into the chest. ‘Why breaks into our stash, but not takes any of it?’
    ‘That's a real easy-like question to answer,’ said a shrill voice from the hole in the floor. ‘What I was looking for wasn't in there.’
    As Tark and Zyra watched, a large shape started to climb up from under the floor. As the shape squeezed itself out of the hole, they could see that it was a woman – albeit a very large woman.
    She was a head taller than Zyra, with shoulders broader than any warrior either Tark or Zyra had ever met. A good padding of fat added to her bulk, and copious amounts of hair, gathered up into an untidy bun on the top of her head made her appear even taller.
    ‘Well now,’ she said, smoothing out her voluminous green and yellow, floral-patterned dress and adjusting her cream lace-edged apron. ‘Pleased to meet you all. The name's Vera.’
    Copious bangles and bracelets jangled on her chunky wrists and several strings of pearls hung around her thick neck. She batted her eyelids, her false eyelashes flapping about like demented moths against the bright blue eye-shadow. Her lips were slathered with way too much lipstick, and her ample cheeks over-rouged.
    She cast her eyes around the basement. ‘I like what you've done with the place, but it could use a decorator's touch. If you all ever need a hand just you let me know. Be happy to dispense a little advice. I've had lots of experience, I have. Made a cold uninvitin’ cave into a cosy home, I did.’
    ‘Do I knows ya?’ asked Tark. He was sure that he had never laid eyes on this bizarre looking woman, and yet she seemed vaguely familiar.
    ‘We've not actually met, not official-like,’ said the woman, sniffing at the air around her. ‘But I do believe I recognise your smell.’
    ‘Wots ya doin’ in ’ere?’ demanded Zyra.
    ‘Straight down to business,’ said Vera, nodding. ‘I can respect that, I can. I'm here because I believe that you all have something that belongs to little ol’ me.’ She looked straight at Tark. ‘Hand it over and I'll be on me way, real peaceful-like, back to my own home sweet home.’
    Tark clutched the bag o’ gold tighter to his chest as his eyes narrowed. ‘You wuz in the dragon's cave.’
    ‘That I was,’ said Vera. ‘As were you. Took the bag o’ gold but left your scent. Yes, you did. It's going to take me some time and effort to deodorise the place.’ She held up a placating hand, the bangles jangling. ‘No offence meant, it's just that your aroma lacks any real appeal for me.’
    ‘I wons this ’ere gold fair ’n’ square,’ said Tark.
    ‘I would hardly call using a stolen sword o’ light, fair ’n’ square,’ Vera tutted, putting her hands on her hips. ‘My poor Edgar didn't stand a chance. No, he didn't.’
    ‘It's still mine!’ said Tark, taking a step back. ‘Combat is combat, and the dragon lost.’
    ‘Combat may indeed be combat … but it's no never-mind in this here case.’ Vera reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a scroll of parchment. ‘This here is my Edgar's last will and testament.’ She