《The Sunflowers are Bleeding》


 The Sunflowers are Bleeding

    There¡¯s a place somewhere on the earth that is a sea of sunflowers. Zoom out, bird¡¯s eye, it¡¯s nothing but yellow for miles. They roll over hills and skip over rivers. They loom tall and proud and face their big beady eyes at the sun and do their little dance from dawn to dusk. And within this immortal gold field is a town. Little, lost from time, but happy and thriving as the people grin their grins and scrunch their eyes at lovelies. This town is bordered by a wall of these ethereal flowers, and the people brush their fingers over the giant petals that bow down for attention. The sunflowers, the law of their nature dictates, provide. And the people gift in return.


    A shrine sits at the center of the market. Once a boulder, but now a polished slab with incense and plates and motifs of flowers and leaves that curve around the base and creep up the edges. Food and art and pottery and soaps and letters are set upon the shrine and given to the sunflowers as a gift of thanks for prosperity. The livestock never grow sick, and new additions wander in from the fields munching on grass and chewing cud. Crops thrive during their seasons and people never go hungry. Hunters never have to travel far for game. All¡¯s well in this solitary sunflower place.


    Then the flowers began to bleed.


    Crops wither. Farming dries up. Catching a rabbit is worth celebration. The ashes of offered gifts haunt the town as the sunflowers reject them in a blaze of fury. People panic. Their tiny little world is ending. People are advised to avoid the man-eating flowers who snatch those too concerned over their red-tinged weeping. It¡¯s too dangerous, the flowers are too angry. Beware beware. Death is near.


    **


    Sunny lays out her frayed picnic blanket and painstakingly pins it down to the swaying grass with nicked knick-knacks and a stack of beaten books. Her backyard is supposed to be off limits, as the third part of her high wooden fence is replaced by the even higher wall of the sunflower barrier, but she doesn¡¯t care about the warnings. She has never angered the flowers in all her thirty years of life. Her food may be sparse, and her clothes may weep at her less than admirable seamstress skills, but times can be messy when dealing with the supernatural and spiritual. They¡¯re such finicky things, and don¡¯t know how to communicate their non-human feelings to their very human companions. A mess is to be expected.


    Once her blanket is sufficiently held by her assortment of items, Sunny straightens and walks over to the flowers. Their stalks shiver at her presence, leaves trembling as she reaches out, and the petals drip their thick bloody tears onto her thin wrist when she brushes a gentle touch over them.


    ¡°You¡¯re so sad,¡± Sunny says. A shudder sheds even more tears, and they make a bracelet of red over her skin. ¡°Why are you sad?¡± The flowers do not answer her question. They sway in a non-existent wind and tangle within one another. Sunny releases a sigh and backs away, back to her blanket. When she turns, though, there is a rustle from the field. Sunny glances over her shoulder and watches as the still flowers keep their secrets. Ultimately, she leaves them to their own devices and goes to her blanket to read. In the stillness of silence, she breaks through it and forces it to bend with bits of commentary and favorite passages. No voice chimes in, but she is content with speaking to the wind and flowers and believing that the rustle settles in for storytime.


    **


    ¡°Thems flowers will eat ya, girl.¡±


    Bo, an old neighbor of Sunny¡¯s since she was a little girl, props himself up on a wobbly stool to peer over her fence at the sound of her lonely voice. Sunny peeks at him from the corner of her eye and offers a placating smile without lifting her head.


    ¡°Thank you for the concern, Bo, but I¡¯ll be fine. Promise on my mama.¡±


    His harumph is unhappy, though more from the dismissal of his wise wisdom than her lack of concern for herself. ¡°The shrine is all scorched up, y¡¯know. Ain¡¯t no makin¡¯ thems flowers happy now.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Bo,¡± she repeats firmly and flips a page. The flowers rustle in front of her, and she finally looks up to pay attention to them instead of the nosy neighbor. Another harumph from the fence, then the rattle of the fence as Bo climbs down from his perch and goes about another¡¯s business. Sunny holds out a hand and lets a drop of blood fall into her palm from one of the petals, then smears it around and watches it pool into hatch-marked creases.


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    Another rustle in the field, and she swears she hears a groan. ¡°Where were we?¡± she muses, then goes back to reading to the flowers. They cease in their swaying, and all is right once again.


    **


    People talk, especially in a town as small as theirs. Sunny can¡¯t go shopping for food or beads or even string without vendors and customers nagging her about being in her backyard so close to the flowers. She hears whispers of her losing her mind, talking to the flowers like she does. Maybe she has. At some point, she had put away her book and spoken to the field as if it could converse back, and sometimes it did. The leaves and petals shake at points too random and precise to be accidental, and the rustle from within grows closer and closer with each passing day. Bloody tears once fell in sympathy as she spoke of her time alone, mama and papa dead, no desire for a husband. Their faces turn up at the happy stories. No words echo hers, but they speak. You just have to learn how to listen.


    So, Sunny won¡¯t argue that she speaks to them, because she does. Sometimes, when the nagging gets more than a little irritating, she bares her teeth at them and tells them that, yes, she does talk to them. What of it? Should they throw her to the flowers and watch them spit her back out? They never know what to say to that, or maybe it¡¯s the way her sweet face almost morphs into something feral when she smiles that way. It¡¯s a good way to be left alone and looked over.


    She buys some beads and string and little snacks for the next few meetings, slipping her hand into open purses and around unwatched fruits, and wanders the market a moment more. Listens to the rumors not about her. Another idiot got snatched by the sunflowers, had strayed too close in either a stroke of arrogance or stupidity. Sometimes¡­ sometimes Sunny wonders if she asked, would the flowers snatch an annoyance of hers, too? If she offered a token in exchange, would they target another and leave her hands empty of blame?


    The talk of insanity isn¡¯t all that unfounded. She goes home before her unsavory lingering is noted. The rest of the dark house is ignored and bypassed in favor of reaching her back porch, her bag of goods in hand.


    Like usual, the yard is empty. The sunflowers aren¡¯t yellow anymore¡ªthe petals had soaked up all the blood and now tint the world a haunting red hue¡ªbut Sunny is not deterred. It had become a bit of a ritual, if she is to be honest. Maybe she¡¯s imagining these things and the flowers really don¡¯t care about her stories or conversation, but it¡¯s become a comfort to her. She swears there¡¯s a looming presence within the field, more crushing than that of the sunflowers. Her curiosity holds fast to her heart, blocking the logic from her mind; she wants to know what watches her from beyond the flowers. She wants to know if it¡¯s curiosity that draws it nearer to her, or perhaps the companionship she offers with the otherwise lonely sessions on the picnic blanket. She wants to know if it¡¯s lonely too.


    Sunny makes her way over to the wall of flowers after setting down her shopping haul¡ªthe blanket is still pinned to the grass, safe from the rain that hasn¡¯t fallen since the first drop of blood¡ªand reaches up to stroke one of the petals. The flower almost seems to bow its head down for her to give it attention, and she grins up at it even when her fingers stain red. ¡°Ready for our story time?¡± she asks. Sunny expects the usual bit of rustling from behind the wall, perhaps a rolling rock to usher her into movement, but none of those things happen. She peers past the flower with a confused furrow to her brow. ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±


    In answer, the sunflowers shiver and quake. A heaving breath comes from behind the stalks and shoos them out of its way. Sunny backs away from the sunflowers, one slow step at a time, and looks up, up, up, at the shadow that brings itself toward and over her. It¡¯s all teeth in a snarling snout big enough to cover her and then some, and too many multicolored eyes staring down at her, matted fur and rippling scales and a set of dark and twisted horns that should bow its large head but don¡¯t under the strength of its muscle-corded neck. She catches a glimpse of a short, stubby tail flicking this way and that, and despite herself she wants to laugh at how it reminds her terribly of a happy goat kid. The creature looms above her, draws itself to its full height on back legs and arches forelegs at her as if ready to scoop her up and take her into oblivion. Its head is bowed down and it very well could snap those jaws around her body within a second. Nose to nose, breath sweeping over breath.


    Sunny smiles, bright and squinted, and lays a hand on its snout so that she can pull its face down and plant a kiss to what she thinks is its forehead, right between the main pair of eyes. The snarls end in an instant, and it comes back down on all fours. She kisses again, right atop that fuzzy snout. ¡°Come, friend,¡± she says. Two bright yellow eyes narrow in on her, softer than she¡¯s ever seen a human¡¯s. ¡°I have some beads to make a necklace for you, and a new book to read.¡±


    The creature¡¯s answering rumble trembles the ground, but Sunny smiles again and goes to her blanket to sit. Her creature, the sunflower guardian, her friend, curls its massive body around her so that she can lean against its side and it can rest its head next to her leg. Sunny talks and talks, strokes fingers down its face, makes matching necklaces, and it talks back. No words still, but she¡¯s learned its language, and she can finally see the kindness and emotion in its eyes. As she falls asleep nestled in the cocoon of its warm body, it nudges a nose against her cheek in a warm ¡°Thank you.¡±


    **


    In the morning, people wake to their beloved wall of flowers bright and yellow once more, and fresh goods on their doorsteps. Even monsters get lonely sometimes.

 Poison and Pomegranates

    ¡°I need to kill my wife.¡±


    The witch smiles up at the rabid man before her and runs her purple-painted nails along the back of her cat. ¡°Of course, dear,¡± she purrs, and he has this odd sort of look about him as if he didn¡¯t expect her to agree so quickly to his demands. That rabidness wavers, solidifies, and cracks under the pressure. He holds fast to the crumbling bits.


    ¡°She can¡¯t¡ªwon¡¯t¡ªbear my children and has the gall to raise her voice to me. But the priests won¡¯t allow a divorce, so I need her dead.¡± Black eyes more monstrous than she bore into her glittering baby blues. ¡°Can you do that? Tonight. No fuss.¡±


    The tom cat in her arms lets out a trill and she scratches beneath his orange chin. ¡°Of course,¡± the witch repeats, ¡°I¡¯ll have it ready in just a moment. Have a seat.¡±


    **


    Lillith, better known as the Wintersweet Witch, has complicated feelings about men. She doesn¡¯t hate them, because they give her a steady income and they always come crawling to her doorstep¡ªit¡¯s in their nature. Their requests are sometimes entertaining to listen to. But she doesn¡¯t like them, either. They¡¯re too bulky, too loud, too aggressive. They fill up the space in her kitchen without even moving an inch from their designated stool in the corner. They leer at her lace-covered bosom and sketch their gaze down the curves of her body. She supposes she should hate them, considering they all come to her for a poisonous remedy to their trivial problems. Maybe she does, deep down, but in the end it doesn¡¯t matter.


    Animals of all sorts inhabit her tucked away home in the woods; familiars she¡¯s collected over the years. With a snap of her fingers a miniature flock of bright-feathered birds carry over bottles and dried flowers and deposit them into her open hand. She doesn¡¯t need to say anything before a buck pokes his head through her open window, and she plucks an assortment of leaves and bark off his antlers. Lillith hums as she works and dances around her pets, and they bring her what she needs. A lovely little perk of that magical attachment. Familiars are far more helpful than men.


    The rabid beast in question sits perched on the stool she has tucked back into the far corner, far away from her workstation so that they can watch and stay out of the way. Her one rule is to not explore her home. No one has dared to break it, not when its inhabitant can brew up their death.


    ¡°What is all that?¡± he asks, and Lillith dashes away her scowl before it can surface. Annoyance¡ªthey are an annoyance, too.


    ¡°Ingredients, my dear,¡± she chirps. He scowls enough for the both of them, and Lillith stirs the bubbling mixture in her pot on the stove. ¡°Poisons are tricky things, you know.¡±


    He grunts. ¡°I just watched you add three different kinds of poisonous plants. Surely that would be enough to kill a beast?¡±


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    ¡°A beast, perhaps,¡± she agrees, and covertly splashes in some other ingredients. He¡¯s paying too close attention. ¡°But this is your wife we¡¯re killing. Wouldn¡¯t want some innocent bystander to accidentally get killed instead, now would we?¡± Her tone is patronizing, and he knows it by how he bristles, but Lillith moves on before he can say anything about it. ¡°Trust me, my dear, I know what I¡¯m doing. Your wife isn¡¯t my first. You paid for my services for a reason.¡±


    She always got the job done. No target left alive; no scorned man left unsatisfied. That was the Wintersweet Witch promise. You go to her, you come out with a solution to everything and anything.


    The rabid man huffs and puffs but leaves her to her work. Good, because she¡¯s almost done. A little sprinkle of this, a drop of that, and a string of her hair¡­ and done¡ªalmost. Humming to herself once more, Lillith abandons her brew to rummage around the kitchen until a dried pomegranate seed sits in the palm of her hand. She sets it on the counter, where a pigeon stands guard and bows over it with repeated coos, then grabs a small vial.


    As she pours the still-warm poison into the vial, making sure to strain anything that hadn¡¯t completely broken down as she did so, her customer leans forward to watch. The liquid is a murky green tint with whorls of color here and there from the petals of flower she used, and it¡¯s a thin and smooth consistency as it pours. ¡°It looks disgusting,¡± he says.


    Lillith grins and caps the vial, then holds it up while pinched between her fingers. ¡°It¡¯s death, my dear. It¡¯s not meant to be pretty.¡± He stands and tries to swipe it from her, but she yanks it back before he can. Grin versus glare, it¡¯s a battle she¡¯s won for years. ¡°There¡¯s one more thing you have to do before the poison can work. It¡¯s a bit of a spell, you see, and the final task is for you.¡±


    As expected, he puffs up his chest. He¡¯d look more suited as a ball of spikes. ¡°I don¡¯t take orders from¡ª¡±


    The witch holds up the pomegranate seed and cuts him off, ¡°If you want your wife dead, you¡¯ll eat this. It won¡¯t work until you do.¡±


    He eyes the innocent little seed in the palm of her hand. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Spells are spells and spells aren¡¯t logical,¡± Lillith dismisses. ¡°The poison is tied to you and your wife. You eat this, and she will die, and only she will die. You don¡¯t eat this, and no one dies. Understand?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he says, but takes the seed anyway. ¡°I suppose it can¡¯t hurt, though. Fucking witches.¡± He mutters the last bit under his breath, but she hears it anyway. At the first crunch of the seed between his teeth, Lillith smiles and her familiars flutter about in a frenzy. At the second, they shudder and shy away. When he swallows, Lillith hands him the vial.


    ¡°Be a dear and offer to bake her a nice cake, hm? I hear they¡¯re just lovely around this time of the year.¡± The man grabs the vial and tucks it into the fold of his coat, though his suspicious gaze never leaves her face as he backs towards the door. Lillith flutters her fingers in farewell. ¡°Oh, and happy killing.¡±


    **


    Sometime as the moon rises to its peak in the night sky, there¡¯s a shudder in the witch¡¯s cottage. A distant cry of a woman¡¯s screams. The crack of a skull on wood. Lillith hums her little tune and strokes the fur of her tom cat familiar, whose spine and tail are raised in alarm.


    A skitter of tiny little feet on her floorboards catches her attention, and she smiles to herself. There, sitting at her toes with its beady black glare, is a hedgehog. She was right¡ªhe does look better that way.

 You Panic Over Your Own Creation

    God isn¡¯t real, but Noah is.


    An angel fallen from the heavens sent to sit on the throne of academic mania and stressed-out insomnia. A living Lucifer shining from the back of the class while slumped over unfinished homework and a cell phone that never chimes. His wings are clipped beneath oversized hoodies, but Roman swears he leaves feathers in his staggered wake.


    He never made it to Hell or wherever he had been bound for. He hit the unforgiving floor of human incompetence and found it all the same.


    Of course, this is just speculation. Noah couldn¡¯t be God or the devil or anything in between¡ªthey don¡¯t exist. But Roman looks into shadowed hazel eyes every day, sees tousled brown hair in a permanent state of bedraggled and lips nicked with a scar, watches lean muscle contract beneath glowing skin. He sleeps in the presence of quiet beauty so undefined it must be biblical because no one else radiates that same aura that Noah does.


    The wire glasses perched on his star-flecked nose slide down an inch. Noah looks over them, like he meant for that to happen. ¡°What are you working on?¡±


    Roman¡¯s fingers pause and tempered panic rockets through his pulse. Charcoal is smeared across the page and his fingers, and an all-too familiar figure is starting to take shape. ¡°Just some warm-up sketches,¡± he says, not a total lie. Noah can sniff them out the moment they are spoken into existence. ¡°I have a project I need to work on for class, but motivation is running low.¡±


    Noah cocks his head, and the glasses slide down even more just as strands of hair swoop over an eye. The light from his desk lamp turns them a shimmering bronze. ¡°Tell me about it. Need some help?¡±


    The right answer is a resounding no. He cannot keep drawing his roommate, hiding the sketches is already tedious enough without Noah¡¯s knowledge of one existing. What if he notices how little Roman needs to study him to get the curve of his jaw right, or the angle of his lithe hands¡ªwait. Maybe he doesn¡¯t mean himself as a muse, and Roman is assuming too much towards his obsession. He risks a look towards Noah, and the man¡ªgod¡ªis as still and patient as ever. It can¡¯t be imagination how he literally glows while sitting at his desk with one leg tucked against his chest. Indifference has never looked so divine.


    It''s too silent. Roman has to come up with some kind of response, but he¡¯s caught with his tongue and thoughts tied. Noah arches a brow¡ªhe¡¯s shaved a clean diagonal slice through it¡ªbut no other part of his expression shifts. In a panic, Roman blurts, ¡°Don¡¯t you have work too?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡± The word is breezy and dismissive and punctuated with an effortless dance of a pen through fingers. ¡°But you know me. Need a muse?¡±


    Roman does know him. Noah is a perpetual procrastinator and takes any excuse not to do his work, which usually involves fixating on Roman for hours at a time. It¡¯s a blessing and penance. But¡ªmuse.


    ¡°You want to model for me?¡± The words are out before he can catch them, and he regrets it instantly. He¡¯s reading into this too much. That¡¯s not what Noah meant, surely. The angel before him wouldn¡¯t desecrate himself by allowing a no-one to stare and recreate.


    But Noah shrugs and Roman can¡¯t not watch the way his lips pull up into a faint smile. ¡°Why not? Not that I¡¯m anything to look at, but it¡¯s something. Maybe you¡¯ll get inspiration for something better.¡±


    Roman is horrified. ¡°You¡¯re gorgeous,¡± he declares, his horror overshadowing the panic of his slip. Noah only tips his head back into a laugh, then stands. ¡°Tell me you¡¯re joking,¡± Roman presses, even as he averts his gaze when Noah reaches back and yanks his hoodie over his head.


    ¡°Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,¡± Noah says, the words dripping with humor, ¡°but objectively speaking, there¡¯s better.¡±


    No. No, this must be a test. Roman doesn¡¯t know what kind or what he¡¯d get for passing, but he bites his tongue and refuses to argue. To distract himself from the sounds of Noah stripping, Roman flips his sketchbook closed and leans over to grab a canvas instead. They¡¯re tucked behind his bed, all kinds of sizes, and he chooses one of the largest to capture the grandness that is Noah. He deserves nothing less.


    Fuck, he needs to set up the lighting and pose Noah. Needs to stare and study on purpose, with Noah knowing and watching. Roman forces himself to look at his angelic roommate, who¡¯s already looking at him and waiting for instruction. In just his boxers. Roman¡¯s mouth dries. ¡°I¡ªdo you mind sitting on the edge of your desk? And then I¡¯ll¡­ yeah.¡±


    Humor radiates from Noah in a halo even in his silence as he perches on the corner of his desk. He doesn¡¯t need to clean it off, since he hardly has anything on it to begin with. He has hardly anything at all. Roman makes himself think about anything but the bright eyes on him or the soft skin beneath his fingers as he quietly directs and adjusts. If nothing else, Noah is a good model and does what is asked with ease and without question, but that only makes it worse. The skin of Roman¡¯s fingertips burns.


    He steps back to get the full picture. Noah¡¯s legs are positioned in a casual but artful brace against the side of the desk while one arm rests between them. His other hand is held up at shoulder level, like waiting for something to drop from the sky. Roman had selfishly asked for a hand position that showed off the delicate lines of Noah¡¯s fingers, then continued with that theme by having Noah turn to the side with his head tilted up just so, making sure he could see the side with the scar.


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    Beautiful. Ethereal. Divine. Roman quickly adjusts the lamp to make both the shadows and light highlight the sharp planes of Noah¡¯s face and drape over his body. Noah¡¯s eyes track every movement that Roman makes, and it unnerves him¡ªthat fixated attention he always receives whenever Noah chooses to make him his entertainment. What is he thinking?


    Silence is better than making conversation when Noah is practically naked beauty and Roman is at risk of bumbling up his words. So, he quickly goes back to his bed, makes sure his backlighting doesn¡¯t affect the light on Noah, and gets to work.


    He thought that having permission to stare at Noah would be the death of him, but Roman loses himself in his work the moment the charcoal stick slides over the canvas. Noah holds still, supernaturally so, and lets Roman work without a word. It feels like dancing, art. A back-and-forth ballet with slow strokes and careful smudges and slicing swipes. The shower of charcoal is only another twirl, a mirage of a movement that stuck to memory. Roman is both dancer and conductor, the scratch of paper the orchestra.


    Bit by bit, an image takes place. Roman is working on pure instinct; he takes creative liberties as he goes along, determined to make this a masterpiece for Noah to truly see his worth. He doesn¡¯t know how long it takes before it¡¯s finished, but one moment he¡¯s looking at a blank canvas, and then he blinks and sees charcoal caressing an angel.


    Noah himself remains unchanged¡ªRoman could never dare think he could ¡®fix¡¯ imperfections that don¡¯t exist¡ªbut Roman had put him in semi-sheer clothing that drapes over Noah¡¯s body in such a provocative way it almost seems more scandalous than leaving him almost nude. The shirt, especially, is unbuttoned and falls off his shoulders to expose his chest. Jewelry sparkles at his ankles and wrists. The background is pure black, but a stream of light opens up right above his hand where petals and feathers drift down towards his waiting fingers.


    Roman swallows as his eyes skim around the other details, unsure of how he should feel about it. He¡¯s never drawn Noah like this¡ªit feels like a violation in a way, though there¡¯s no way for that to be true. ¡°I¡¯m done,¡± he says, or he thinks he does. Noah stands and comes around to hook his arms on the mattress next to Roman¡¯s thigh, and Roman holds his breath as they both survey the drawing.


    Because he also drew wings¡ªgreat, beautiful, feathered wings sprouting from Noah¡¯s back and held in a relaxed pose. Everything about the Noah in the drawing screamed relaxed from his lazy posture down to his smallest of smiles that he gifts Roman every night, but even his tranquil state couldn¡¯t draw the eye away from the seduction of beauty and grace in every shadowed angle and glowing curve.


    This is how Roman sees Noah. But now, seeing it on paper, it feels foolish.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± he says, because now he can¡¯t stop thinking about how weird it must be. Angels don¡¯t exist, God doesn¡¯t exist, and Noah is just a man. Roman is making mythos out of mundane. ¡°I don¡¯t know why¡ª¡±


    But Noah is smiling and grabbing the canvas before Roman can move it away. His eyes dart all over the drawing, at the detail and care Roman put into everything, and linger on the wings that fill the empty space of the background. ¡°They look almost identical,¡± he breaths, and it¡¯s admiration on his breath rather than aversion. A hand reaches out to touch, then pulls back before he can. Roman numbly lets him take the canvas out of his hands and watches in both fear and fascination as Noah moves to stand in front of him. The charcoal is stolen and discarded, and his blackened hands are taken in unblemished ones.


    He¡¯s still smiling, and there¡¯s a light in his eyes that sets their hazel ablaze. ¡°Ask me,¡± Noah commands lightly, as if he knows Roman knows what he¡¯s talking about. As if he knows that Roman knows.


    But that can¡¯t be. ¡°Ask you what?¡±


    No answer, but Noah brings Roman¡¯s hands up until he has them where he wants. Smears of black shadow his cheeks. Roman can¡¯t bring himself to let go.


    Hazel dips down to follow the movement of Roman¡¯s throat as he swallows down the nerves, then flicks back up. That smile doesn¡¯t waver¡ªit carries a mix of smug and delight. Roman reaches for the impossible. ¡°Did it hurt? When you fell from heaven?¡±


    Noah lets out a breath like it¡¯s the first he¡¯s been able to breathe in a century. ¡°Like a bitch.¡± He clings to Roman¡¯s wrists and grins up at him. ¡°But so worth it. I found myself an admirer.¡±


    ¡°There could be more,¡± Roman says, because it¡¯s true. Noah is too beautiful for others not to notice. But Noah doesn¡¯t seem to be interested as he shakes his head and tilts his face up.


    ¡°I only want the one. He¡¯s already got this worship thing down pretty well, but there¡¯s another way that I think he¡¯d be good at.¡±


    Roman¡¯s face heats and Noah¡¯s laughter echoes in his ears, but he¡¯s too focused on warm lips on his and soft hands holding his arms to think of anything else.


    **


    Later, when he has Noah¡¯s light weight on top of his chest and there¡¯s charcoal smeared all over his skin because he refused to let Roman wash his hands, the silence of the room leaves space for spinning thoughts.


    God isn¡¯t real, but Noah is. Noah, a self-proclaimed angel by silent admission, is very real as his breath skitters over Roman¡¯s skin. Scars do in fact line his muscled back, and that subtle glow about him only persists. But what is delusion and what is truth? Where does the metaphor of art and reality of life bleed and bend?


    Nips and kisses startle him from his thoughts. Noah continues with his gentle assault until he hits the corner of Roman¡¯s lips. ¡°What are you thinking?¡± he whispers, and suddenly it doesn¡¯t matter. Angel or beautiful boy, mythos or mortal, God or man, it doesn¡¯t matter. Noah will always be something special to Roman, and they can worship one another however they like.


    Roman steals a kiss for himself, and he tastes forever on Noah¡¯s tongue. ¡°I¡¯m thinking I snagged myself a god.¡± He¡¯d get on his knees for eternity just to keep hearing Noah¡¯s answering laugh.

 The Crows are Gossips

    The likelihood of dying from a third-story apartment is about a sliver less than, say, a four-story apartment, which is in turn just a sliver below the point of potential absolute death. Now, depending on if one falls on one¡¯s head is an entirely different factor that drastically changes the statistics of life and death, but at least the end of one¡¯s life would be less painful and in fact just be a flash of concrete before one¡¯s eyes right before it¡¯s lights out and nothingness.


    Sebastian knows this, of course, because the crows told him.


    He sits on his perch on his modified window where he broke open the screen so he can dangle a leg off the ledge and feel the rush of anticipation buffeting his heart. When he first sat with the divot of his spine pressed against the jut of the window frame, one leg hanging over uncertainty and the other tucked safe against his chest, the crows cawed and crowed their displeasure at him from above.


    ¡°Away, away!¡± they called to him, and the urgency of their tone startled him more than the fact of words dropping from their open beaks, ¡°One wrong move and it¡¯s human carcass for dinner! It¡¯s not very good.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry your feathers,¡± Sebastian had told them, and one swooped in and made itself comfortable on his lap, ¡°I won¡¯t fall.¡±


    Another had landed on the ledge of the building and stared up at him with voids for eyes and puffed-up chest feathers. ¡°Harumph! Don¡¯t say we didn¡¯t tell you so because we did, yes we did.¡±


    From there, the frantic murder of birds fluttered about and insisted on the omen of his death should he continue to sit upon his perch; regaled him with the details of height versus death and the fragility of human bones when faced with gravity. Birds, they said, are far more superior to humans. They can spread their wings and be caught in the palm of gravity¡¯s grace, safe from the ground¡¯s unforgiving stubbornness. They dominate the skies. But humans are flightless, featherless, and, Sebastian quotes, ¡°rather ugly creatures, worse than a freshly hatched chick.¡±


    The crows are interesting, to say the least, and have much to say. Because they do speak, as he later pieced together after being bamboozled by their sudden fanaticism, and only to him¡ªsomething he discovered after an experiment with a friend only made her concerned about his need for a therapist. He doesn¡¯t blame her, of course. Crows speaking? Absurd. But the things they do say are arguably more absurd than the idea itself, and he has to bear witness to their unusual squawking and crowing at all hours of the day after that fateful encounter. But at least he has constant entertainment.


    **


    The crows are such gossips.


    As it were, Sebastian is again sitting on the open frame of his window, one leg dangling towards imminent death and one pressed against a rushing heart, and the crows are scattered all over his apartment. They had flooded it the second he opened the window, greeting him with impatient knocks on the glass and disgruntled grunts and gravely huffs. Ebony feathers stuck to his lips and hair before he shook them away, then he felt the dig of delicate feet in his shoulder and the nuzzle of a keratin nose. His favorite gossip.


    For now, the two sit in contented silence as Sebastian gazes out over the lazy city. Dolport is technically a city, but it¡¯s so sprawling over the uneven terrain, and the people so resistant to modernization, that it looks more like a quiet town in any given neighborhood. Skyscrapers are nonexistent; apartment buildings are the tallest buildings that the eye can see, with the exception of churches and the occasional bank that wants to be fancy and so awe-inspiring people are more willing to trust their money to them. Every open space is an unofficial park, named after one of the roads it sits against. It¡¯s peaceful, if a bit boring. Pretty. Sebastian has a bit of a soft spot for pretty things.


    Tango ducks her head under his hand in a demand for attention, and he absently scratches the top of it as he watches a mother wrangle her children into her car. It takes exactly seven minutes and 42 seconds, and then another two minutes and 36 seconds pass before she drives away. Tango pecks at his cuticle.


    ¡°There¡¯s a new flower shop, down by South Santa Rosa,¡± she says. Her mostly white body gleams in the morning dawn, and the black splotches sparkle in weak reflections of orange and pink. The only hooded crow within the flock¡ªand the nosiest. At least she doesn¡¯t squawk about all the time. Tango cocks her head, then tries to shimmy her way into getting pets along her back. Sebastian allows her the con, and she clacks her beak in her form of thanks.


    Sebastian waits a moment, then prompts, ¡°What about it?¡±


    More beak clacks. Her tail feathers wag. Excitement. ¡°We taste magic leaking from the walls.¡±


    Magic? Instinct wants to say that magic isn¡¯t real, but Sebastian is speaking to a crow named Tango with the rest of her murder making themselves at home within his apartment. He has nests of blankets and ripped up pillows all over the place just for them. Magic was only a steppingstone beyond that over the river of incredulity.


    He runs his touch down Tango¡¯s spine, and she looks up at him with eyes that see and reflect everything and nothing. ¡°What sort of magic?¡± he asks.


    ¡°We don¡¯t know.¡± With a quick beat of her wings, Tango jumps up to land on his shoulder and roots her beak through his hair. He doesn¡¯t need to see it to know the colors blend together. ¡°It is neither sinister nor seductive, no draw of harm or help. It exists. We don¡¯t like it.¡±


    Sebastian¡¯s lip quirks up. ¡°You don¡¯t like not knowing,¡± he corrects. She snaps her beak in his ear.


    ¡°You could do the knowing,¡± she muses, and he can tell her casual tone is put-upon. Crows are sneaky, smart, but they don¡¯t quite have a handle on the human nuance of lying. This was her plan all along. ¡°Tell us things for once.¡±


    His gaze catches on the hill that hides Santa Rosa from view, but he imagines he can see the southern edge of it. The deadness that infests the empty lots and creeps like vines into the roots of the neighborhood. An odd place for a flower shop. A perfect place for magic. ¡°Maybe I will.¡±


    **


    Though Dolport is a city of community and expansive nothingness, meaning not a lot happens in terms of the unpleasant save for the local mad man on the frits asking for a firstborn in exchange for gold-foiled chocolates, Sebastain rarely leaves his apartment building. One reason being that he has most everything he needs and wants in that isolated space¡ªentertainment, a kitchen to cook his delivered ingredients, and his computer where he does his work. But the largest reason, the one currently haunting him during his jaunt, is that he carries with him a flock of needy crows with separation anxiety.


    Tango leads the murder, a beacon of white and black within a cloud of cawing ebony, as they go on ahead to their destination (but not too quickly). Tricket balances on his shoulder in a back-and-forth dance, and Arthur hops and flutters ahead with his signature sword (sharpened stick) clutched in his beak. Others¡ªSkully, Kiwi, Paprika, Harpy, and Gator¡ªcircle and dive around Sebastian as he walks like he needs a personal flying escort. It¡¯s hard to deny that they belong to him, in some way, and Sebastian is slightly afraid of becoming another local mad man. Only slightly, because he has a feeling that he already is one.


    They pass a jewelry shop, where the owner is hanging up signs for a new sale and setting up a table full of cheap alternatives to entice customers to come inside for the better merchandise. Tricket also spots the table and makes a beeline for it before Sebastian can stop her. There¡¯s a bit of a literal squabble as she snatches one of the items, and Sebastian ducks out of sight to avoid being put to blame for a bird¡¯s eye for shiny objects and penchant to steal them. It takes only a moment for him hear the flutter of her wings as she lands back on his shoulder, her prize¡ªa silver necklace housing only a poorly antiqued depiction of a monstera leaf¡ªhanging proudly from her beak.


    ¡°Happy with yourself?¡± he asks. Tricket raises her head as if to say yes, yes she is, before she taps his neck with a foot and holds it out. Confused, Sebastian holds out a hand and the necklace drops into his palm.


    She¡¯s far too pleased with herself. ¡°For you! It¡¯s very shiny.¡± And it is, because the antiquing process didn¡¯t quite pull itself off quite right. But Sebastian knows better than to refuse a crow¡¯s gifts, so he puts the necklace on and tucks it beneath his shirt collar.


    The little thief is still preening and staring, so Sebastian begrudgingly gives her chest a little scratch and says, ¡°Thank you, it¡¯s really pretty.¡±


    Tricket flaps her wings. ¡°I know!¡±


    Up ahead, Arthur swats at a mouse with his sword (stick). The others continue to swoop all around their human companion, and Sebastian sighs to himself. This is going to be a long walk.


    **


    Finally, they reach the south side of Santa Rosa¡ªa Dolport neighborhood that had once been renowned for its abundance of flourishing parks, greenhouses, and community gardens. The northern side is still relatively the same as it¡¯s always been, though recently the ¡°flourishing¡± part has been up for debate, but the south side is a whole other story. Some say a curse befell the people, others say a sickness swept through, too fast for the people to thwart and too deadly for the soil to ever recover. A few whispers daresay magic, an angry witch who had been wronged. Sebastian doesn¡¯t know what to think, and the crows never had a good answer for him either.


    But now, as they cross the threshold that marks South Santa Rosa, he can feel it. The looming ghosts of life wiped clean off the map. Trees groan under their own dying weight and come close to collapsing over abandoned homes. Dirt swirls in the wind and over cracked asphalt, while patchy tufts of dry and scraggly brown grass refuse to wither away. Sebastian can taste the dryness of the air, the lack of green keeping it alive and youthful. He has to take extra breaths.


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Gator¡ªnamed so after he decided to fight an alligator once and has the self-preservation of a rock¡ªlands on Sebastian¡¯s free shoulder and ducks his head. ¡°I do not like this place. There¡¯s not even enough life to create death for us to eat. We¡¯d starve.¡±


    He concurs, though for slightly different reasons. Sebastian nudges his nose against Gator¡¯s neck. ¡°Good thing you live by me, then, hm?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Gator agrees, ¡°Very good thing. Though we still fear we¡¯ll have to eat you once you fall.¡±


    Rolling his eyes, Sebastian ignores that comment and continues on, looking for a lone flower shop in a world full of decay. It doesn¡¯t take long, just a few turns around dusty blocks and following Tango¡¯s hoarse call from above, and he knows he would¡¯ve spotted it on his own without the murder¡¯s help.


    Windows full of bright, happy plants press against the glass so much he can¡¯t see inside. Outside are hanging baskets overflowing with flowers and leaves, and he reaches up to curl a finger around the tail of a searching vine. The grass on the other side of the sidewalk is thick and green, greener than maybe even the rest of Dolport¡¯s grass. On the door is a painted OPEN sign in handwriting that is more flourish than letter. Around him, the crows crow and flutter with an anxiety that radiates off of them. Sebastian reassures them that he¡¯ll be fine, then heads in alone.


    Inside is just as disorienting as the outside with the sheer amount of flora crammed into every nook and cranny. It¡¯s almost claustrophobic, but Sebastian can breathe easier in here, so he ignores that feeling in favor of finding the shopkeeper. An eerie feeling of being watched follows him through his perusal, and he swears he catches the faces of the flowers turning in his direction no matter where he stands in the shop, like he¡¯s the sun to their sunflower. Petals of all colors, even ones he¡¯s never seen before, assault his vision with every blink. Unusual hues and gradients paint patterns all across the shop. It¡¯s supernatural. It¡¯s magic.


    ¡°So, the King of Crows has paid me a visit.¡± Sebastian whirls around to see a stout woman perched on the counter he had seen empty just a moment ago. She smiles at his surprise and crosses her legs while leaning back. ¡°I thought I saw a few of your friends poking around my shop a bit ago, so I tidied up a bit to be ready for your arrival. What do you think?¡±


    King of Crows¡ªthat¡¯s a new one. Or really, the only one. Sebastian opens his mouth to correct her but decides against it and instead surveys the shop once more, noting how the ceiling has plants winding around exposed beams. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ beautiful. And a bit much.¡±


    The shopkeeper laughs, and the sound is both perfect and off-kilter. ¡°Fair enough. Suppose I couldn¡¯t expect a master of death to appreciate an abundance of life.¡±


    This time, he does correct her. ¡°Death is inevitable, so it would make no sense to quarrel with life when in the end, everything becomes its domain. I can appreciate all the life in here, it really is gorgeous, but I think it would do to be a bit less crowded so people can appreciate everything without being overwhelmed.¡±


    Sebastian is afraid he¡¯s offended her¡ªwho is he to comment on how she runs her place¡ªbut she lights up with pure glee. ¡°You¡¯re so right. Tell me, King of Crows, what do you do, besides claim the inevitable?¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°I help people. Sort of.¡± He waves over to the door, where the murder sits and waits for him to return to them. ¡°The crows tell me things, and sometimes it¡¯s useless, but I¡¯ve managed to set up a system where I contact people anonymously about issues that get brought to my attention and help them work through it. The crows love it because they get to be nosy, and I can influence people without getting directly involved. Plus, I can set my own hours.¡±


    The additional look he sends her is not missed, though. She grins and shrugs as well, then leans forward to touch his chest. Since when did he stand right in front of her? He stands still as she dips her fingers beneath his collar and brings out the monstera leaf necklace. ¡°Just as you said, death is not always a villain, only an inevitability. I¡¯m happy you¡¯ve chosen the kinder route, though.¡±


    Meeting her eyes only takes a slight look upward, even with her sitting on the counter. ¡°You¡¯ve yet to tell me who you are.¡±


    Her stare turns into a mocking type of seductive, though her smile remains bubbly. ¡°Surely your friends know what I am.¡±


    What¡ªnot who. So, magic it is. ¡°That¡¯s why I¡¯m here¡ªthey can¡¯t parse you out, and that annoys them. I¡¯m also, admittedly, intrigued.¡±


    ¡°As am I,¡± she agrees, and inspects the monstera once again. Swipes a thumb over the silver. ¡°One more question: if I were a man, would you be more inclined to me?¡± At his confused brow raise, she laughs again, this one less perfect and more of a snort. ¡°Nevermind, I rather like you like this. More fun to talk to, and maybe work with in the near future.¡±


    He answers anyway, even if he¡¯s thoroughly confused. ¡°I¡¯m not inclined to anyone.¡±


    ¡°Ah.¡± She drops the pendant and leans just slightly out of his space. ¡°Even better, I suppose. My name¡¯s Chiana, and plants are my sacred purpose. I nurture them, protect them, and this is a land in dire need of my healing touch. I could do it on my own, but it would be much easier if I had the help of others to spread my influence and bring this place back to how it once was.¡±


    Sebastian takes only a few seconds to connect the dots she laid out. Myths had been a favorite obsession of his as a child. ¡°You¡¯re a nymph,¡± he says, then slightly more baffled, ¡°Did you try to seduce me into helping?¡±


    Chiana grins and her eyes glitter with laughter. ¡°Maybe. But I would appreciate your help.¡± She makes a wide gesture, as if encompassing the whole world. ¡°Imagine what we could do together, the King of Crows and a nymph of the wilds, sowing the seeds of life back into a dead land. You can reach the ends of this city without lifting a finger, and I can create all of this at just a moment¡¯s notice. I¡¯m sure we could get this place back to its former glory, and maybe even surpass its legacy.¡±


    Looking back at all the plants in the shop, Sebastian imagines them all over Santa Rosa, all over Dolport, and can only see a supernatural beauty that he strangely wants to be a part of. ¡°I¡¯m not magic like you,¡± he points out, but it¡¯s hardly an argument.


    Hands frame his face and bring his attention back to Chiana. ¡°You¡¯re more magic than you realize. Besides, you¡¯ll have me and your friends at your side, and that¡¯s more than enough to make the magic happen.¡± Letting go with a nudge to his nose, she smiles and asks, ¡°So, what do you say?¡±


    Sebastian¡¯s smile is a softer reflection of hers. ¡°I say this place will be filled with life as the crows fly. And I¡¯m going to need a new apartment.¡±


    **


    ¡°You¡¯re that raven guy, right?¡±


    Sebastian turns toward the voice and sees a man batting away the vines of a curious ivy. ¡°I¡¯m the crow guy, yeah. How can I help you?¡±


    Seemingly giving up the fight, the man leaves the ivy alone and faces Sebastian. The plant tucks itself against his neck. ¡°My girlfriend lives on the other side of the city, and I wanted to give her some plants as a surprise birthday gift. She really loves growing them, and I think she¡¯d really like what you guys have.¡±


    Behind Sebastian, Chiana emerges from the greenhouse in the back and leans into his side. He can¡¯t see it, but he knows she¡¯s making heart eyes and has a glowing smile. She loves it when men think of their lovers. ¡°Of course, of course,¡± she says, ¡°Just take a look around and we¡¯ll send off a small fleet to get whatever you pick out to her. Were you thinking seeds or sprouts?¡±


    The man gives the ivy a side-eye as it continues to curl into him like a cuddle. ¡°Both? I don¡¯t know, depends on what you guys have.¡±


    Sebastian waves a hand at the full shop. ¡°We have everything.¡±


    That leaves him stumped, but he peruses the selection anyway when Chiana points out the catalogue Sebastian had put together.


    When he disappears behind a wall of green, Chiana tugs at the monstera pendant hanging from Sebastian¡¯s neck and draws his attention to her. She¡¯s grinning, eyes glittering, and she looks every part human and nymph wrapped into one small package. ¡°Did you hear that?¡±


    It¡¯s a struggle not to roll his eyes, but he manages. ¡°You mean the part about him taking business to the other side of the city, or the fact that he¡¯s getting his girlfriend a gift?¡±


    ¡°Both!¡± Chiana throws her hands up and does a victory twirl. Up above, the crows shout down their rating of her dance and flap about in their own versions. Tango flutters down to land on Sebastian¡¯s head, and Chiana grins at them both. ¡°Think about it: in just four months, we¡¯ve already got influence all over this place. And if she talks about how wonderful and amazing her boyfriend is¡ª¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s literally the bare minimum.¡±


    ¡°¡ªthen people will ask where he got her the plants, and she¡¯ll tell them about us, and voila! More business!¡±


    Arthur pokes his head down, for once not carrying his sword (stick) in his beak, though he is wearing a makeshift harness resembling armor that Chiana made for him. ¡°Does that mean more people we can bother?¡±


    ¡°Not bother, you nitwit,¡± Tango crows up at him, and Sebastian has to transfer her to his hand to avoid getting scratches in his scalp, ¡°We are helping, remember?¡± He would¡¯ve been proud of her had she not then immediately turned to Sebastian to ask, ¡°So we can harass more people, yes?¡±


    He sighs as Chiana laughs. ¡°Yes, more people for you to harass. Gently. We¡¯d like to keep getting customers, you know, not drive them off with crazy crows.¡±


    Arthur flaps his wings all dignified like. ¡°We would never.¡± The rest of the roosting murder concur from their spots up in the rafters, and Sebastian can¡¯t help but be happy. Happy for them, for having a purpose that they enjoyed and happy for him and his new life. He glances over at Chiana, all smiles and giggles with her face tilted up towards the crows as they chatter amongst themselves. Happy for her, too, for doing exactly what she wanted and bringing life back to Santa Rosa, and Dolport as a whole. He can¡¯t think of a better way for things to turn out for them all.


    Up above, Paprika tilts her head and presumably watches the customer as he flips through the catalogue. ¡°Poor sop looks about ready to tears. And keeps mumbling to himself.¡± She turns and looks to them, and he¡¯s never seen a crow look so stressed. ¡°Is that normal human behavior?¡±


    Chiana laughs and pats Sebastian on the shoulder. ¡°Looks like he needs some help. Man the counter for me, yeah?¡± Her quick glance is all squinted eyes and bright joy.


    ¡°Don¡¯t freak him out too much,¡± he says, and gives her a parting ruffle of hair. She snaps her teeth at him in retaliation, but quickly hurries over to the man to help him pick out something. Their voices are muffled by the wall of plants, but Sebastian distinctly hears her say something about taking the ivy for himself while he¡¯s at it. It certainly does look a bit wilty without him next to it.


    There¡¯s a flutter of wings from above as a small group of crows dive through their special hatch, back from a trip to some other part of the city. Kiwi is among them, and she leaves them as they head for food to instead fly up to him. ¡°You won¡¯t believe the tea I heard while delivering those seeds. I¡¯ve been dying to tell you the entire flight back! Okay, so¡­¡±


    With Chiana coaxing the customer to get everything he thinks his girlfriend would like, including the ivy, and the crows above picking at one another while Kiwi fills him in on the latest gossip, Sebastian feels a certain contentment he hasn¡¯t felt in years. He¡¯s got a friend and roommate at his side who likes to pick on him for his rather aloof nature, a home full of more than just the necessities, and a job that brings life into people¡¯s lives instead of simply helping them from the sidelines. He never thought that a simple request from a crow like Tango would lead to a complete upheaval of his way of living, but things are never what they seem with crows.


    Yeah, this life is better than the alternative he was living just a few months ago.

 Grin at the Sun

    Caf¨¦ Sangue is a place. A place so unlike others it can barely be held down by adjectives to describe it¡ªit just is. For starters, a quick Google search will tell you that Sangue is Italian for blood, which is an odd name for a place selling food and drinks. The owner claims it¡¯s a funny little nod towards their other unorthodox trait: they are only open from dusk to dawn. Caf¨¦ Sangue is for the local vampires and night-crawlers (¡°insomniacs and night-shift workers¡±) who need a bit of a pick-me-up when no other comfortable place is open. A one-of-a-kind kind of place, that so happens to make some damn fine merchandise.


    Though not a vampire, Faiza is a bit of a regular. Once, the staff got concerned about her sleep schedule when she showed up so frequently, but she promised them that she had things under control, and it wasn¡¯t their doing. On the contrary, Faiza had spent most of her adult life drifting about in her home with nothing to do while the world slept. She¡¯d always been a night-owl, preferring the quiet of the moon to go about her business. Maybe it was the writer in her that preferred the pseudo-isolation of midnight to paint pictures of people and places far beyond reality. Or maybe her circadian rhythm was just fucked from the start. But when Caf¨¦ Sangue opened its doors, she finally had a place to go, to talk to people, and to get writing done beyond the walls of her too-familiar home. And to get some crumpets.


    She¡¯s there every night, like clockwork. She knows all the staff, all the regulars, all the semi-regulars; she knows the menu by heart and the staff know her cravings by the look on her face; she has her space, a corner seat tucked just out of sight of the entrance but right where she can watch people come and go, with shelves of books both written by her and recommended by her. Caf¨¦ Sangue is known for a lot of things, and one of them is Faiza.


    So, when a new face walks into the doors after a glance at the welcome sign, Faiza is there to witness and observe.


    The bells emit their soft chime as a door opens, and both Faiza and one of the baristas are already looking over to see who it is. It¡¯s a stranger, a woman with an imposing figure cut beneath the fancy red-soled stilettos and the maroon pantsuit, her shoulders broadened by the black coat lazing over them. Her hair is tied up into a knot, but Faiza can see the unruly curls spilling out in a way that only adds an air of casual elegance, like she had meant to make it look that way. Perhaps she did. Her bronze skin glows under the soft light of the caf¨¦¡¯s lamps and fairy lights.


    Saffron greets her with a smile as he takes up post beside the register. ¡°Hello, welcome to Caf¨¦ Sangue.¡±


    The woman peruses the menu posted behind him. The chalkboard is covered in all sorts of colors and handwriting, but the owner only allows those who have legible writing to contribute. Faiza has had the pleasure of adding to the milkshake menu, and her work still proudly displays all the offered flavors in neon pink. Though it¡¯s technically a caf¨¦, Sangue has a working restaurant-grade kitchen in the back along with a bakery and creamery for the sweets, each staffed with amazing chefs. Faiza isn¡¯t sure how they can afford all that, but they haven¡¯t gone under yet, so she won¡¯t complain and will keep giving them her money.


    Faiza jolts out of her thoughts at the sound of a silky-smooth voice. ¡°Sangue is an interesting name for a place like this.¡±


    He¡¯s heard this a thousand times already, mainly because of Faiza, so Saffron only smiles and shrugs. ¡°Boss thinks he¡¯s funny, and it¡¯s good for business. Makes people talk.¡±


    ¡°That it does.¡± Eventually, the woman makes her order and Saffron gets to work. Faiza watches as the woman moves to the side to wait for her order, straining to see if she can get a glimpse of her name from the cup that Saffron is steadily filling with coffee. Alas, from this distance, she can¡¯t get a good look and gives up when the coffee and bag of sweets are handed over. She goes back to her laptop and wiggles her fingers over the keys, willing them to work with her on this latest chapter. No luck.


    ¡°It¡¯s Estela.¡± Faiza startles and looks up to see the woman looming over her, a knowing smile pulling at her lips. ¡°You were trying to see my name.¡±


    Fuck. ¡°No, I¡ª¡± Faiza sighs and flicks her fingers. ¡°Fine, yes. I was curious.¡± Nothing more, nothing less. It¡¯s natural for people to be curious about intruders in their usual haunts.


    She thinks that¡¯s the end of it, but the woman apparently takes that as in invite to sit down across from Faiza, and her eyes¡ªa rich mahogany brown framed with sharp winged liner¡ªscan the empty cup sitting off to the side. ¡°Fay-za, then?¡±


    ¡°Fai-za,¡± she corrects, more than a bit irritated. She normally says it before people can read and mispronounce it, but the woman¡ªEstela¡ªhas her rattled for reasons beyond comprehension. ¡°Like eye.¡±


    Estela hums and drops her chin onto laced fingers. Her full attention is on Faiza, and it¡¯s unsettling. ¡°A beautiful name, but I quite like Fae for you.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, well, I don¡¯t.¡± Faiza attempts to block her out with her laptop screen, but her sly eyes peek just over it and continue to stare. ¡°I¡¯m not sure if you¡¯ve noticed or not, but I¡¯m human.¡± It¡¯s a stupid and absurd comment, but Faiza can only think of the supernatural counterpart of the nickname, and how it feels like that¡¯s what Estela is meaning.


    And, as expected, those eyes squint with humor. ¡°Oh, I¡¯ve noticed. You blush too much to truly be fae. It¡¯s cute.¡±


    Faiza decidedly does not flush red and resolutely keeps her stare on the blinking cursor. It mocks her with the last words being, blushes and moans. ¡°If you don¡¯t mind, I have work to do, and your food will get cold if you keep talking to me.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± Estela rises, taking her coffee and bag of sweets with her. ¡°I¡¯ll see you tomorrow, Fae.¡±


    It¡¯s a miracle that Faiza doesn¡¯t throw a fork at her retreating back.


    **


    ¡°Hello, Fae.¡±


    ¡°Fuck off, Estela.¡±


    The woman does not, in fact, fuck off and instead takes a seat across from Faiza again. This time she has a flask that she takes a sip out of, but no scent of alcohol leaves her lips as she sighs. Another fancy outfit, another perfectly imperfect updo. ¡°What are you writing?¡± she asks, as if Faiza hadn¡¯t said anything at all. And, damn it all, it¡¯s the perfect question because she can¡¯t resist gushing about her stories and the fictional characters in them.


    ¡°My latest book,¡± Faiza says, lowering the screen so that she can face Estela without cowering behind the shield. It¡¯s a little daunting, with how intense Estela¡¯s attention is, but she works through it by thinking of her work. Gesturing to the shelf closest to them, she continues, ¡°I¡¯m an author, mainly an author of fiction, and I¡¯ve been working on a series of standalone but interconnected books that all center around supernatural romances. This one is the second in that series, and it¡¯s centered around vampires. The first was werewolves, and not the clich¨¦ type, I promise.¡±


    Estela gives her that gentle but amused uptilt of her lips, the most of a smile that she seems to ever give but works anyway. ¡°I wasn¡¯t worried. So, vampires? What made you choose them as your next adventure into the supernatural?¡±


    Oh, she just unlocked a rant. Faiza fully closes her laptop and her hands start flying along with her words. ¡°They¡¯re the romanticization of danger, right? Death, undeath, whatever, but they¡¯re dangerous. Seductive. They literally feast on blood and stories have been told for ages that they kill their prey. But people still want to fuck them, still want to believe that they can be the sole provider of sustenance to these predators, to have their full attention on just them and be worshiped by something otherworldly. It¡¯s, like, dancing with the devil almost. People by nature want to tangle with a bit of danger even if it means the end.¡±


    She pauses to take a breath, and Estela takes that opening to smoothly cut in, ¡°I thought they were the personification of endless greed and hunger.¡±


    ¡°They are,¡± Faiza allows, ¡°but in a lot of modern interpretations, they can go one way or another. Either you have the big bad vampires that want to kill everything, or you have the vampires that just want to survive. And people love both of those ideas, so I wanted to play with that. Present a character that is, objectively, a monstrous being but has a hidden depth, and neither conquers the human nor gets conquered. They just exist as a vampire and happen to have a human partner in the end. An anti-hero, I guess.¡±


    Estela hums and picks up her flask, swirling it around as she considers Faiza¡¯s rant. After she takes a quick sip of it, she wipes her lips clean and says, ¡°I¡¯d read it. And, if I may be so bold, it almost sounds like something you would like to play around with.¡± Though it¡¯s exactly what Faiza had said before, the emphasis and the added hooded look twists it into something much more personal, and her heart kicks up a beat against her will. Estela¡¯s gaze flicks to the side for just a moment, quick enough that Faiza is sure she imagined it landing on her neck, before it continues to stare down her soul.


    ¡°I¡ªI just said that,¡± she stutters. If she¡¯s blushing, she refuses to admit it. ¡°Plot-wise, it¡¯s an interesting trope to mess with, and I¡¯m excited to see how it unfolds.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re the author,¡± Estela points out, then takes another sip, ¡°Surely you know how it ends.¡±


    No, no she doesn¡¯t. The thing with being a writer is that characters take their own paths, and even intended endings feel much different on the page than they do in floating thoughts and intentions, especially when Faiza has no experience to draw from. Obviously, she¡¯s never been in love with a vampire before, so she has no idea the logistics of a relationship like that. Most of her past girlfriends hadn¡¯t been so keen on her either, so the idea of total devotion is foreign. But, the art of writing is the art of bullshitting, and she¡¯s gotten werewolves published, so she has hope for this next one.


    Faiza shakes her head and opens her laptop again. ¡°I can¡¯t be sure until I get there. No experience, either, so not like I can predict how things will end up or how they¡¯ll go.¡±The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°Mm.¡± Something in the tone of Estela¡¯s hum makes Faiza glance up again at her, and those mahogany eyes are surveying her. ¡°Would you like experience?¡±


    Idiot. Dunce. Moron. Absolutely fucked in the head. All those words accurately describe Faiza when she stupidly blurts out, ¡°Are you a vampire?¡±


    But Estela only gives her close-lipped smile and raises her flask in salute before standing. ¡°See you tomorrow, Fae, and good luck on the writing.¡±


    **


    Now that the idea is in her head, Faiza can¡¯t get rid of it. Estela is ethereal, elegance incarnated with every step she takes and every blink of an eye. She comes by Caf¨¦ Sangue every night, almost exactly once the sun is fully set and not a moment before. Every day, she sits with Faiza and incites a conversation that always leaves Faiza rattled and off-balance before slipping away into the night. Looking her up proves no results, not even a stray obituary on a poorly made sham site. She is a beautiful midnight ghost, one that drifts in and out of Faiza¡¯s life just enough to leave her wobbling.


    Her book, consequently, suffers. Focusing on that has become second to pinning down Estela¡¯s nature. Saffron and the other workers humor her pestering questions, but even they have unhelpful and dodgy answers. If the supernatural is real¡ªsomething Faiza never had a doubt about¡ªthen there is a good likelihood that Caf¨¦ Sangue is a beacon of community for them. It literally says so in the name.


    Estela is also useless, of course. Faiza starts ordering garlicy foods to see if the woman avoids her table, but all she does is smile that stupid smile and politely refuse any offerings to share with the excuse of not liking the taste of garlic. Testing the invitation theory is a bit difficult, but she has noticed that Estela always glances at the welcome sign before coming in, so either it¡¯s a force of habit or the roundabout way of getting permission to enter the caf¨¦.


    It''s infuriating¡ªthe unknowing. Faiza likes knowing, likes being the one to hold all the information. Maybe it¡¯s a curse of authorship. She¡¯s always the god of her puppets, orchestrating a rich performance of strings and scripts and props so often that she forgets that normal people are not the omniscient of their world. Faiza also holds the theory that Estela knows this fact about her and is using it against her by being deliberately obtuse and vague. Her secret is not a secret to hold beyond the grave, but just one to hold above Faiza¡¯s head out of sadistic glee.


    She doesn¡¯t remember ever agreeing to this game, but then again, she had been the one to initiate it in the first place. It makes the not-knowing even worse. What kind of game master doesn¡¯t know everything about their own pawns?


    Her face twisting up in annoyance, Faiza rather angrily sips at her coffee and stares out the caf¨¦ window. Twilight is upon them, painting the world and just-opening caf¨¦ in an overlay mirage of pinks and purples and a soft flush of marigold. In the serene silence of opening hour, Faiza¡¯s braided curls clack against one another from the wooden beads interspersed through the thick braids, each one painted by her own shaky hand, though the tightly wound knot she had made with the top of her hair stays as immobile as she wants it to¡ªunlike Estela¡¯s effortlessly perfect messy bun always hanging on the threat of coming undone. One point to Faiza. She refuses to think about the full imaginary scoreboard. Especially when she spots the tall figure of Estela.


    The woman stops to chat with Saffron, and two other people walk in behind her, their nerves palpable as they find a place to sit. Faiza gives up the illusion of productivity and closes her already asleep laptop, splitting her attention between the newcomers and the infuriating anomaly of a possible vampire. The former are slightly more entertaining in that they¡¯re unfamiliar and obviously already having a moment, while the latter accepts a small stash of goods and makes her way to her usual seat.


    Her head is cocked and her eyes are on the newcomers when Estela slides into the seat across from her. They sit in extended silence for a moment, with Estela shuffling things about as she waits for Faiza to make a cutting greeting like usual. For once, she¡¯s the one to break routine.


    ¡°I think they¡¯re on a date.¡±


    Estela glances over, black-lined eyes studying the duo with a mix of intrigue and possibly boredom. Seems her amusement strictly comes from annoying the shit out of Faiza. Vampire of irritation, Faiza thinks, drinks up anger and upset instead of blood.


    ¡°I think you might be right. Eat.¡±


    Faiza curls her nose at the demand and opens her mouth to air out her displeasure, but the words die on her tongue when she catches sight of what Estela had been doing. Crumpets¡ªFaiza¡¯s favorite¡ªsit in a neat pile in front of her, while a small assortment of other sweets and baked goods are arranged between them in a sort of shared spread. The only item directly in front of Estela is the donut in her manicured hands, too pretty for the glazed topping that cracks beneath her grip. Unfortunately bought by crumpets of all things, Faiza takes one and eats it. But she doesn¡¯t quite give up on her people watching, either.


    She hears Estela¡¯s noise of discontent when she looks back over at the couple, but she doesn¡¯t exactly find it in herself to care. The couple, barely a few minutes into the date, already seem to be at odds with one another. She flashes a grin at Estela and says, ¡°Five bucks says it¡¯ll flop and end in one of them screaming at the other.¡±


    Another noise, though Estela seems to reluctantly humor Faiza¡¯s attention of the day that doesn¡¯t involve her. ¡°Give it time. Not all first dates that end poorly turn into a failed relationship.¡±


    Faiza rolls her eyes and unashamedly watches the woman cover up a look of horror at whatever the man is saying. Oh, this is too good. ¡°Please, you can¡¯t possibly believe that first impressions aren¡¯t important. You fuck up at the beginning, then you¡¯re going to fuck up every other point, so why bother?¡±


    Estela falls silent at that, and Faiza thinks she¡¯s won. It should feel good¡ªand triumph does glitter in her chest¡ªbut there¡¯s a heavy weight pulling her down that she can¡¯t quite place. Even still, she happily digs into her gifted crumpets and watches the disaster unfold second by second. The man makes an expansive gesture, then a rather condescending one towards the woman, and there¡¯s a flicker of distaste in even Estela¡¯s rather stoic expression. Faiza takes a moment to wonder if Estela has vampiric hearing and can understand what¡¯s going on in a way that she can¡¯t.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t like me.¡± The words startle and confuse her enough to draw her attention away from the couple. Estela sends a significant look Faiza¡¯s way, and there¡¯s a ghost of a smile on her lips, and it¡¯s a bit like disappointment and challenge all in one. ¡°Initial dislike doesn¡¯t always equate eternal dislike. Merely a clash of¡­ strong personalities. Sometimes.¡± Her eyes dart back to the couple as their voices raise a fraction, but she doesn¡¯t continue.


    Faiza crosses her arms and levels a disbelieving look on the woman. ¡°I still don¡¯t like you,¡± she challenges back. It feels oddly like a lie and a truth mixed into one complicated bag.


    There¡¯s silence between them that sits heavier than the muted triumph did. Estela doesn¡¯t respond, only nods over to the couple. Faiza tears her gaze away from the woman to see that the duo have indeed gotten louder, but the woman is¡ªsmiling? The man is gesturing wildly again, but there¡¯s a spark of genuine joy in the woman¡¯s gaze, and the man also seems to be smiling as he speaks. Faiza¡¯s mouth imitates that of a fish as she searches for words. Hardly any time had passed, what changed?


    Estela nudges the crumpets closer to Faiza when she continues to fail to come up with a rebuttal. ¡°Sometimes it takes a little bit of understanding. He¡¯s passionate, and it spooked her at first. Just give things a moment before passing judgement, hm?¡±


    Faiza glowers down at the offering and considers snubbing it out of spite. It feels awfully like personal advice, and she¡¯d rather not think about that. They aren¡¯t friends, they aren¡¯t on a date, they aren¡¯t anything¡ªjust an author and a potentially vampiric headache. Still, watching the couple isn¡¯t nearly as fun with Estela injecting herself underneath Faiza¡¯s attention. ¡°You can hear them?¡±


    Estela shrugs, but finally smiles down at Faiza. ¡°Yes. Add that to your mental notebook.¡±


    Oh, she absolutely will.


    **


    ¡°Are you religious?¡± Estela asks one day as she sits in her usual seat. Faiza plays with the cross around her neck and makes some sort of noncommittal response. ¡°Never thought you the sort. You remind me more of a believer in everything, and thus a believer in nothing.¡±


    That¡¯s not where Faiza thought today¡¯s conversation would go. ¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡±


    It¡¯s coffee this time, and cookies that get wordlessly split between the two of them. Estela considers the steaming cup in her hand. The bronze coloring makes it hard to parse out if she¡¯s deprived of sun or not. ¡°I mean that, your faith in anything being possible makes it utterly impossible to stick to one specific human faith. I¡¯ve looked into a few of your books, and you dabble in quite a few beliefs without much favoring. You believing in just one God is¡­ odd, to say the least. Out of character, if you will.¡± Estela¡¯s smile is dashing and lopsided, her one tell that she¡¯s making a joke and making sure it lands. Faiza likes it far too much.


    ¡°Ha ha,¡± she says, instead of voicing the warm butterflies in her stomach at being so weirdly known. Lying feels like an affront to whatever hangs between them, though, so she admits, ¡°I got it from a friend, don¡¯t know if I like it or not as an accessory. Was just trying it out.¡±


    Another scrutinizing stare, and after so many Faiza has started to become¡ªnot immune, per se, but used to it. It¡¯s less unsettling and more of a warmth in her chest at being seen. ¡°Well, I think it doesn¡¯t suit you. It¡¯s a falsehood, and you¡¯re no good at those, just¡ª¡±


    Faiza rolls her eyes and interrupts, ¡°Just like the fae, I know. This nickname of yours is kinda infuriating, just so you know. It¡¯s not even how you say my full name.¡±


    Estela lifts a shoulder and picks up a cookie to hand it over in a silent offering, one that Faiza can¡¯t resist. ¡°It suits you better than a cross chained around your throat does. Besides, you like it. If you didn¡¯t, you wouldn¡¯t answer to it.¡±


    Another eye roll to distract from the heat flaming over her face. ¡°Whatever. So, you really aren¡¯t bothered by the cross at all? Personally, not just how it fits me or whatever?¡± Estela has a gift for dancing around truths and taking advantage of wording, and Faiza is determined to get to the bottom of her private investigation.


    In answer, Estela reaches out and touches the cross. The backs of her fingers ghost over Faiza¡¯s skin, and they¡¯re cold, but not unbearably so. A bit of body heat or a warm coffee would warm them in no time. Faiza¡¯s breath shallows as Estela studies the cross, then gently yanks. The thin chain breaks, but Faiza doesn¡¯t care. She¡¯s never worn it before and never will again.


    ¡°Faith is tricky,¡± Estela says, setting the cross down onto the table with an elegant gentleness that is just so perfectly her. ¡°Everyone has their own thoughts. But no, I¡¯m not bothered by it.¡±


    That had been her last resort, but Faiza is resilient, and maybe even a bit of a masochist. When Estela starts to move like she¡¯s about to leave, Faiza reaches out and grabs her wrist to stop her. The woman glances up at that, no hint of being displeased by the delay. ¡°Would you¡­ You always leave so early,¡± Faiza says. An author, but can¡¯t find the words to ask a pretty woman to stay and hang out with her.


    Estela, though, always knows what lies beyond Faiza¡¯s spoken words. She settles back down and leans across the table. ¡°What would you have me do?¡±


    Stay with me. Keep knowing me. But she can¡¯t say any of that, so Faiza frantically searches for some kind of thing to say. Her eyes catch the gleaming moon, a softer and gentler counterpart to the hidden star in the sky, and she gets an idea. Estela, with her equally as soft and subtle smile, waits with unwavering patience. Faiza meets her stare and says, ¡°Grin at the sun.¡±


    She means later, means to make the woman stay with her until sunrise on that excuse and flimsy grasp at proving herself right. But Estela is never a predictable creature, even with her drink orders, and Faiza should¡¯ve known better than to expect the supposedly only answer to her demand.


    Across from her, Faiza sits stock-still with delight and that otherworldly chill of trepidation as she watches Estela sit back and grin at her¡ªwith fangs gleaming in the moonlight.

 Decays Caress

    A dead animal on the side of the road does not feel when its carcass is scattered across asphalt. The body of a shot down doe does not feel when her skin is ripped from her body and placed upon a foam mantle. The snake with its skull crushed beneath a rock and boot does not feel its body¡¯s writhing aftershocks. That mowed over frog does not feel its guts slipping from its belly.


    The dead do not feel, or so the humans claim.


    Decay spreads its fingers across the forest¡¯s generous earth. It is not a killer. It passes over the newborn fawns struggling to stand as their mothers watch, brushes a touch over a fallen tree that stubbornly creeps its roots further into the dirt¡¯s nutrients, and ignores a hearty grizzly just trying to itch its age-worn back. Decay is not a killer; it is a soothsayer, a singer of the ending and beginning, a preacher of destiny meant for all. It is kind.


    The red fur of a fox turns golden in the dappled sunlight. Decay halts its exploration. Blood had long since dried to a crust around the wound on her twisted paw while metal bites down to bone. Her whines beckon Decay to start there, to sever the pain of her death and reminder of a trickster brought down by an old trick. It obliges.


    You are not a fool, it tells her as the rot takes hold. Pink flesh turns black and slowly breaks down piece by piece, nerve by nerve. I have carried many over who have fallen for the same trap.


    I was hungry, she cries, like her needs made her careless and foolish, It smelled good.


    Hush, now. Decay cradles her still head in its palm and presses a kiss to her snout. You are safe.


    **


    Vultures spin in circles up above, their wings turning the sunlight into flickering lights through the leaves. Their buzzing excitement of a new meal turns them dizzy. They can barely wait to be part of the cycle of death, though it is not quite time yet and patience is key to comfort. Decay continues its work without rush or harshness in the presence of its scavenger friends. Fox cries at the stink she is making as the rot takes hold, with mold growing over her snout and her skin melting into the earth. Decay soothes her, tells her she is beautiful, but she disagrees. It runs a touch down her fur and tells her to wait.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Others will find you and see you as the most beautiful one in the forest, I promise.


    The vultures continue their dizzying dance, but they hesitate a moment too late to take their turn. A small pack of three coyotes come across Fox, and their yips of excitement break the bubble of despair Fox¡¯s death had created. They run to her body, push their snouts against her rotting sides, and chatter amongst themselves. Fox wails to them, Leave me, I am ugly and smelly, you will not like me.


    One coyote takes a careful bite from Fox¡¯s stomach and tears into the flesh, staining its maw a dark red. You are more precious to us than you think, little one, he tells her. Though he looks gruesome with her blood and flesh dripping from his teeth, his eyes are soft as he gazes at her unblinking eyes. We have been searching for food, and you caught our noses. The loveliest scent in the forest.


    Another hovers at Fox¡¯s back and scrounges around her spine. Be at ease, beautiful, we will help you be reborn. Your pain will end soon. The third lays by Fox¡¯s head and kisses her upturned cheek, a declaration of its own as she soothes Fox while her friends rid her of her dead body.


    Decay does not ease, even with the aid of scavengers. They are symbiotes, partners in a delicate cycle of life and death that they maintain day in and day out. It reaches its fingers into the torn open meat and continues its work. Soon, child, you will become one with life again. Your pain will ease and you will frolic through the forest once again.


    Fox¡¯s despair slowly unwinds itself as her body is torn apart. The gazes of the coyotes are soft and thankful, and their teeth bite down not with maliciousness but with a promise of a better future come soon. They work swiftly to guide her into Decay¡¯s caress quicker, and litter her with reassurances and praises of how she will nourish them, how her coat still looks so beautiful bathed in sunlight. The one giving her kisses and gentle hushes says, Maybe we will meet again, and we can play together.


    If she could, Decay has the impression that Fox would smile. I would like that very much.


    By nightfall, only her bones remain on the damp forest floor. What little scraps the coyotes did not eat are fodder for mushrooms and fungi, who thank her for giving them a place to live and promise to send her off kindly.


    **


    Somewhere, in the depths of the forest, a lonely baby fox blinks up at a pack of three coyotes.

 Nexilis

    I welcomed the inevitable into my home, and he lingered at my doorstep like a rabbit before a string-wrapped carrot¡ªjust waiting for the cage to drop down over his head. When the trap never fell, he followed me in silence. Tall and looming, exactly like his existence; enough to need to duck through the threshold to avoid getting clocked in the head. He filled the space of my sand-battered home as if he owned it himself, even if the bone chimes clattered against his skull and the windows sat just slightly too low for him to have a good view of the outside. He belonged in a stranger¡¯s way of familiarity¡ªoff-kilter but not garish. A welcome intrigue.


    He never stayed long, just enough to brood in the corner while I went about my business, then he left to do who knows what. Another puppet on the string of Fate. I cut my thread long ago.


    Today, though, he lingers. Fills up space and knocks into new and moved chimes because consistency is boring, but he doesn¡¯t leave when the sun settles at high noon. I can¡¯t see details of his face, but I imagine a broad chest to fill the broad shoulders beneath his heavy cloak, and a scowling face perhaps. He strikes me as a scowler. Of course, he only appears as a man because I think of him that way¡ªin the way of falling victim to sudden and fatal diseases, of put-upon aloofness that stifles emotional intelligence, of challenge and assertation. Sometimes she greets me as a woman, too¡ªin the way of chronic hurts and undercutting words, of all-consuming relationships and emotion, of told softness and felt anger. He wears the cowl of expectation and hides well behind it, or else we wouldn¡¯t fight so damn hard to oppose him. Her. It.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±


    ¡°Inevitability.¡±


    Time, as it is, always seems to brush its loose threads around my throat. Despite the looming entity staring down at me, today is a day of collection and he¡¯s not here to hinder routine. So, I¡¯ve found myself with a bit of a skeptical tail as we walk an invisible path away from the house. Sand swirls in the soft and unobstructed wind, but everything is hushed in a serene way that makes the dry dirt and grass less lonely to bear. For a moment, I stop to stare at shifting mirage echoes dancing along the horizon. Nothingness isn¡¯t so bad all the time.


    An extra set of footsteps is the only thing abnormal about this picture. We walk in silence until I see the haze of a jagged and crooked mound. Still, he follows.


    Dirt and grit crunches beneath my boots as we walk the empty desert. Bits of bone, too. We¡¯re on the edge of the Boneyard, where dead things go to take their last breath. The Boneyard¡¯s reaching fingers stretch their way towards my backdoor, so it¡¯s barely more than a small jaunt to pick through it. Behind me, Inevitability carefully maneuvers this way and that to avoid stepping on sharp slivers. My steps are sure and true, even as I feel pointed edges digging into the worn-down soles. I¡¯ll need to make some more leather for a new pair.


    I can almost hear his wince right as a particularly loud crunch jolts the silence. He¡¯s grumpy when I turn to cast a look his way. ¡°Not much of a name, is it? Inevitability. Bit of a mouthful, if you ask me.¡±


    His eyes, a brilliant phantasmagoria of color, are as hooded as his stare. ¡°You asked.¡±


    True enough. I leave the conversation there and turn my attention to the Boneyard. A sea of weathered skeletons creates the illusion of rolling waves over a barren and flat wasteland. I don¡¯t know why it exists, only that its beginning can be pinpointed sometime after my arrival, and it¡¯s been growing ever since. There¡¯s a magic to it, in how they lay themselves out across the unnatural graveyard. They seem to shift and roll this way and that to guide my feet towards something they want me to know, something they want me to see. So, I listen.


    Right before the Boneyard really begins, there¡¯s a patch of empty dirt that houses a small wicker basket. I stop next to the basket and crouch down to scoop up the handful of rabbit femurs from within. Inevitability hovers at my back and says nothing when I fill the bones with intent, then toss them away from myself. They roll and scatter, clattering against one another, then come to a stop. Grinning, I turn to look up at Inevitability. ¡°We go Northwest.¡±


    His eyes narrow down at the bones. ¡°What.¡±


    It isn¡¯t a question, but I know he¡¯ll get moody if he doesn¡¯t get an answer. I point to the innocent femurs. ¡°See how they landed? They all point that way. Those two over there even make an arrow.¡±


    ¡°Coincidence.¡±


    I stand and face him with my hands on my hips. It¡¯s so hard to imagine him as anything other than a man when he¡¯s so stubbornly huffy. ¡°Coincidence in of itself is never a coincidence. It happens for a reason, even if the intention is unrelated. You of all should know this.¡± I don¡¯t give him a chance to respond¡ªnot that it will be worthwhile, anyway¡ªand gather the femurs back up. ¡°Come.¡±


    He follows, though whether it¡¯s from curiosity or obedience I¡¯m not sure. ¡°Where are you going?¡±


    I grin over my shoulder at him. ¡°Where the bones say to go.¡±


    The walk is quick thanks to the Boneyard creating an easy path for the both of us to traverse through it. Hard-packed skeletons tangle beneath our feet to create a sturdy ground to walk on, even when high above the actual earth. Inevitability stalks close at my back, as though he¡¯d lose me if he let so much as a breath¡¯s width between us. For such an imposing entity, he¡¯s quite skeptical and cautious.


    When we reach a particularly steep incline, a lone ram¡¯s skull sits crooked in the middle of our path. I stoop to grab it by the horns and lift it to eye level. The empty sockets are just that¡ªempty¡ªbut the air within vibrates with the need to speak, to pass along a message. I turn to Inevitability, let him narrow those curious eyes of his, then bring the skull up and over my head.


    An onslaught of senses flash in my mind¡ªthe snap of metal teeth, the clap of smoke-laden thunder, pounding hooves on desert sand, iron on my tongue and in my nose, a man hunched in the dead branches of a sturdy tree, the crack of dry dirt against my skull. My senses are that of the ram¡¯s, my reality has become its past; nothing else penetrates the vision. I¡¯m everywhere and nowhere. I¡¯m in the ram¡¯s mind and outside of it, searching the wilds for clues. I know that tree. I know that thunder.


    One thought slips into the back of my mind, as cool as a ghoul¡¯s touch. Protect us.


    I will.


    The vision fades, though I have to blink away the lingering static before my senses become my own again. Hands¡ªthose are hands touching my shoulders, and perhaps there¡¯s a voice as well. I lift the skull with a trembling grip and gently lower it back down to the ground. Inevitability stands in front of me, colorful eyes shifting through dark and flitting hues. A catch his wrists and squeeze.


    ¡°There¡¯s something I must do.¡±


    He looks less than impressed. ¡°Yes, get food and water. You nearly collapsed.¡±


    I flash a smile up at him. ¡°Such is prophesy. I¡¯ll recover on the walk. But there is a hunter on the loose, and I don¡¯t particularly like how thin the herd is getting.¡±


    He doesn¡¯t budge. ¡°Prophet¡ª¡±


    ¡°Kinga. King, if you so wish.¡±


    He stares down at me and possibility swirls in the air. He drags his tongue over his teeth before he lets syllables roll over the muscle in a kind of auditory caress, ¡°Ram¨®na. King and wise protector. Which are you? One or both?¡±Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    I spread my hands wide in placation and challenge. ¡°I¡¯m King of nothingness and everything. I¡¯m King of you. The protector died when the last knight fell. Wisdom stays haunted.¡±


    ¡°You guard a field of bones.¡±


    ¡°And?¡±


    ¡°I call that protection.¡±


    Perhaps I should prickle at that. Lift my metaphorical quills and hiss at him that I protect nothing and no one. But here I am, parched and admittedly starving from the gripping vision, and determined to rid the animals of the oversized rat that plagues them. Perhaps he is right.


    But admitting that is beyond my own brand of stubbornness. Instead, I go for petty. I jerk my chin up at him. ¡°I name you Asper.¡± His face twists in a sweet mixture of bafflement and outrage. ¡°Inevitability is such a mouthful, and I think Asper suits you better.¡±


    ¡°I am not savage¡ª¡±


    I slip out of his grip and start heading out without giving him the chance to get over his shock. ¡°Come, if you want. I¡¯ll be just a moment.¡±


    Despite his sulking, his shadow stretches alongside mine during the entire descent.


    **


    The prophet is something else.


    As she sprinkles bone dust around the border of her territory, I sit at the base of a dead tree and watch. For someone so powerful, with a burden gifted to her by Fate, she¡¯s small. Smaller than the average woman. Black tattoos are plentiful and stark against her pale skin, all in some kind of motif of crows, feathers, and crowns. Solid bands sit around her neck and wrists like ink manacles. They match her hair as it sways in gentle waves in the wind, as well as the glinting silver piercings on her lip, ears, and right across the bridge of her nose.


    She is nothing and everything I expected from a prophet of her age and status. Haughty. Playful. Stubborn. Wise. Fierce. I lean forward to brace against my knees and wonder if she after let that tongue lash at kings. If she commanded respect so easily as she does now, or if it¡¯s a trait born of isolation and her connection to me¡ªto what I represent.


    Fate only knows.


    The last of the dust is set, based on her shifting posture, and I cock my head while trying to figure out what it is she¡¯s doing. Prophets are an enigma. Their intentions, actions, and thoughts are all lost on me, which is more than a little frustrating. I¡¯m too used to knowing what¡¯s bound to happen, too comfortable in the knowledge of the tapestry that Fate weaves. But prophets like Kinga¡ªespecially the wayward Kinga¡ªthrow in extra loops, remove threads, and pick their way through a new picture with just a single extra breath and laugh. They enchant the untouchable, flick pebbles into boulders, and goad the stars into shining just a little brighter. They are gods, in their own right, and to be watched.


    Controlled.


    An echo snaps across the empty desert right as the near-invisible magic web pulls itself together. Traps break and set themselves off all at once, all placed by the hunter that stalks Kinga¡¯s lands. I lean back against the tree and inspect the web that he will undoubtably walk into. It¡¯ll kill him. The prophet¡¯s lands, the creatures who seek her protection and wisdom, will be safe. But in doing so, she¡¯ll change the thread he had been meant to be in Fate¡¯s tapestry.


    Kinga turns to look at him. One light brown eye and one grey eye, but both are dull will grim triumph. She knows, too.


    When she gets close enough to speak, he asks, ¡°Why bones?¡±


    The prophet crosses her arms and looks across the desolate land to the rolling hills of sun-bleached skeletons. ¡°They have much to say, even in death. The wind doesn¡¯t cease its whispers in the stillness, so why should we?¡± I hum, and she waits a moment before tilting her head towards the house. I stand at the silent command and follow her back to her home.


    When we make it back, she gets to work putting together a stew that instantly fills the place with a pleasant aroma. I watch her for a moment, observing to see where she doesn¡¯t go, then take up post just out of her way. Kinga flutters a hand at me that might be false annoyance, might be amusement, or something entirely different, but otherwise continues on without missing a beat.


    She has to know why I¡¯m here¡ªwhy Fate itself sent me to her doorstep. But she hums a small tune and continues to make her stew without acknowledging my presence, and I can only take so much avoidance for so long.


    ¡°Why did you leave your post?¡±


    That makes the prophet stall. She hovers a knife above the meat she had been cutting, then slides it through in one smooth slice. ¡°I grew tired. Years of watching others fight against Fate, fighting against what had been written into motion long before I foretold it, and watching them all succumb to it all the same. No matter what I or others did, death, disappointment, and pain only happened.¡± She flashes me a smile, and it¡¯s laced in bitter sadness. ¡°I was born to serve Fate¡ªto crown champions and heroes with my words. But no heroes, no champions, have left my wake in eons, and I float upon the lazy river of the inevitable. And what has come of it? Fate, scrambling to clean up the mess it set upon itself by expecting belligerent action instead of complacency.¡±


    I eye the tattooed manacles around her throat and wrists. The crowns and feathers caged beneath skin. ¡°You are meant to serve.¡±


    Kinga doesn¡¯t rise to the weak challenge, only dumps the meat into the simmering stew and allows the ladle to stir on its own. She¡¯s silent, but only long enough for her to jump up onto the counter and face me, mismatched eyes ablaze with her own challenge. ¡°If you want something to be so, then make it. You are Inevitability, Asper. Don¡¯t let me stop you.¡±


    I could. Ignoring the jab at my perceived cruelty, I debate whether I should or not. Bring the prophet to Fate and bring her back to her knees, where she¡¯s been expected to be, or allow her to rebel in her own way and continue to throw Fate into a scramble by neglecting her duties.


    A flicker in the distance catches both of our attention. The magical web Kinga had weaved flashes, then collapses. Its prey had fallen into her trap. Her lips thin and she tears her eyes away to stare at the stew, her fingers tapping on the edge of the counter in a pattern I recognize¡ªone that I¡¯ve heard as a distant echo in my dreams. I continue to stare at the fallen web from the corner of my eye. What picture had Fate been trying to weave with that hunter before the spool got unraveled? What purpose did he serve?


    ¡°I want to show you something.¡±


    Skeptical and intrigued, I give Kinga my full attention. She holds up a coin and says, ¡°You win, I go back to my post, and you¡¯ll never have to see me again. I win, I stay here and continue to live my life by the wind and river. Heads or tails?¡±


    I stare at her, and she stares back. We both know what the outcome will be, but only she knows where she¡¯s going with this. I have an inkling, and it¡¯s enough to hesitate. To think. I look back at the field of bones, at the spot on the horizon that could be a hunter¡¯s body or could be a boulder. Back to Kinga. ¡°Heads.¡±


    Coin flipped¡ªit¡¯s tails. Kinga holds it up, waving the winning side at me. ¡°Decisions have been made on the whim of inevitability from the beginning of time. You and I both know this. I am not the first, nor am I the last. Sometimes Fate takes our hand, but sometimes we must forge on our own what must be done. Just like how we flip a coin to decide things and go along with what it says, we ought to accept that things happen. It¡¯s just how we face it that matters in the end, not the path itself.¡±


    I glance over at the simmering stew and start dishing out two bowls without being asked to. Kinga¡¯s eyes are heavy on my back while I mull over her words, at the implications of my own choice. When I hand her a bowl, she instead grabs my wrist.


    ¡°How long have we been Fate¡¯s lapdogs, when it¡¯s so easy to defy it? How long must we watch and cause suffering, when all it takes is easy acceptance to throw everything out of balance?¡±


    I nudge the bowl at her. ¡°Eat your food.¡±


    Kinga tilts her head in question but takes the bowl. I lean in until I¡¯m sure she feels the insufferable crush of my presence, then say, ¡°I wanted something, so I made it so.¡±


    Her smile is as brilliant as the stars. I back away and pick at my own food, wondering how this will all end, worrying over the backlash that might occur, hoping that everything will fall into place as it should just as Kinga is content to let it.


    The prophet¡¯s foot connects with my side, and I send her a disgruntled glare. She¡¯s still smiling, and her eyes glimmer with conspiracy born from years of wisdom. ¡°Nothing you don¡¯t want to happen won¡¯t, Asper. That is the nature of us, is it not? We all bow to you.¡±


    ¡°Except you.¡±


    She hums and swirls her spoon through the broth of her stew. Her tone is all too sweet and innocent. ¡°Whatever do you mean?¡±


    ¡°The hunter?¡±


    This time, the grimness of his demise is overshadowed by a flicker of pride. ¡°It was bound to happen.¡±


    I shake my head and hope that the hood of my cloak covers my smile. ¡°I suppose it was.¡±