This hadn’t been the first time I have been spotted somewhere, and I doubted it would be the last. Some would use my name for their own gains, but this time I pulled a prank of my own, and cheated the men out of their prized captive. I made sure not to stop for a single second after I jumped off the back of that train – and continued on mile past the railway station.

I had worked up a sweat since it was warm this time of year in Russia; all though, I’ve heard some people say it’s always cold, despite the time of year. I hoped the men after me weren’t local, maybe something as simple as the weather could help me break free. I had never been one for school room restrictions, and I was not going to let anyone create new rules to hold me back now.

Russia was a big place and I did not know where to go, hardly knew where I was. The wind seemed alive and continued to push me forward as if it knew where I belonged. I was led to the only place that had people I knew, a grave yard.

I wandered around in the grass, dew painting my shoes with the promise of morning. There were dozens of graves, but one stood out. The head stone was old, and unlike the others, it displayed a lack of care. No flowers, no candles, nothing to show respect or love for someone that had fallen.

I bent down, and ran my fingers over the carved stone with the dates of 1869–1917. History had not been kind to this man. Rumors swirled around him, and my family was wrapped with the tales, but none of us ever believed. I remember eagerly asking my mother when my friend would stop by, and that cold December night she told me he died. We were so sad that my sisters and I huddled up together against the bitter news. “Rasputin,” I said softly, “my dear, precious friend.”

A rattle of chains made me look up, the noise spiking a fear deep into my bones. Had they found me like they had before that July night? I looked from grave to grave but did not see a thing. I ventured out, following the sound that seemed to glide against the grass and scraped along headstones. I could not find out where the sound was coming from. Despite my efforts, every time I thought I had found the source the noise moved further away. Until the sound just stopped completely, as if someone had let the ghostly prisoners free.

I had not realized how far I had wandered into the cemetery. My friend’s grave seemed years away now. Only the moon light promised any sort of guidance. But it too would go down, leaving me out in the cold. So, when I found an unlit candle next to a man’s grave, I picked it up. “Thank you,” I whispered with a bow. I may be known for misbehaving, but I would not disrespect the dead.

I patted the pockets of my jacket which held the matchbook I stole from the train. After tugging at my gloves so I could light the candle with greater ease. The weather nipped at my exposed skin before I could even strike the match. The glow of the flame vowed its warmth to me, and I paid the kindness back by keeping the spark alive.

When I looked up, I no longer saw the graveyard with its dull shades of black, gray, and hints of green. Instead a colorful sight stole my breath away. Autumn leaves of vibrant yellow and orange fell as soft as snow, their shapes smoothed over and ethereal. Dancing among them were ghostly images, they blurred as if someone had taken a photo, allowing the film inside to sit for a moment and capture the swirl of the dresses.

With haste my glove was replaced, and captivation compelled me to dance along with them. Their spirits rose with a riot of color around the headstones. One man, a soldier I believe, bowed, and offered his hand to dance. Once evenings had been spent doing needlework while my father read to us, but rare days were this festive.

I spun around until I was dizzy, my feet tripping up before managing to successfully stop. The water-colored visions were swept away, and in their place, something else. Sitting by a patch of flowers, the sort once woven into my hair, was a solid black fluff ball of a dog. Her head was tilted as she looked at me, curious to what I was doing.

“Shvibzik?” I asked as I crouched down and wiggled my fingers for her to come closer. As the pup trotted over, I was certain this was my dog. Once I had refused to even go to bed without her, but I didn’t have the faintest idea how she had gotten all the way out here. As I petted her behind the ears, I looked to see if she broke off someone’s leash, but found no one living. “Is father around?”

She bolted out from under my hand as if to answer this question. I barely grabbed the candle before running after her. The flame blew out, but I was too worried that if I stopped to relight it I would truly lose her. I followed my four-legged friend, passing by a palace along the sea, horse stables, and a collection of mine shafts that gave me a chill, before the dog stopped its impossible pace.

Shvibzik sat in front of a crypt, and I had to stand on my tip toes to look down at her since the entrance was dug a few feet into the ground. Above ground was a carved stone monument that vaguely reminded me of Saint Petersburg. It too had domes swirled with color. I did not understand why I was brought here. “Did you want me to go in there?”

Paws brushed eagerly against the bottom on the door. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” I said taking a few steps down to join. Once I opened the door, she bolted off again vanishing into the dark completely, like a puff of cigarette smoke that my sister and I used to hide from our parents. The whole thing made me miss having the moon as my ally.

I called her name, my voice echoing as it bounced off the narrow walls and into the distance. It was even colder down here as I unhappily pulled at my gloves again so I could relight the candle wanting everything it could provide.

The room got brighter from the match, and grew brighter still. When the snow-white color faded from my eyes, I could see a shining dinner table. I felt warmed by the steamed roast goose that sat in the middle like a centerpiece. Apples, prunes, and other fruits were gathered around the meal. Better still, I saw my sisters, and my father sitting at the end. I remembered the night that my brother and I snuck under the table pinching our guests before we playfully scurried away so my father wouldn’t scold us. Tonight however, my father smiled as if pleased with my behavior, before turning to my mother. She waved for me to come closer, and I happily did.

The single step stole the beautiful Christmas from my eyes. I looked around the now dim crypt. The walls felt too closed compared to the open dining room, and silent company eerily still compared to the vision of my family gathered around.

I frowned, and called for Shvibzik again. Instead of a bark, my name echoed back. I dropped the candle at the sound, but not in fear. I knew that voice. “Alexei!” I yelled and ran through the dark towards the sound, blindly traveling down the halls. The air grew colder and colder as I traveled into the heart of the crypt.

The hallway led to a large room with a series of lit candles placed all around on various bits of stone. It gave the whole room an orange-red glow and plaques were placed around like nametags on a dinner table. I found my father’s name first, and once I could pull myself away from it, I found more. The names of my mother, three sisters, and finally I spotted the youngest out of all of them, my brother Alexei.

I thought about that shooting star, blazing across the sky line, and then to my request of being brought to my father. Not knowing of the importance of either at the time. I felt as if in a dream, and somewhere knew this happened every time I woke up.

There was one stone left unread, and after I visited all the others, I moved towards it. “Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova,” I said, reading my own name. I closed my eyes, breathing in the truth. I hadn’t always been here, and neither had they, but what is lost can be found. Although sometimes in life, the truth only comes out in pieces.

In that time, my name had been scattered upon the wind, the sound of it drawing me to those who could remember, to those who called my name and brought me to life again. Part rumor and part hope of the people. Stories of me spread like wild fire, in the minds and imaginations of some, and the bitter cold hearts of others who still wished to profit off our royal name.

But here is where I wanted to be, safely tucked away with the rest of my family. My brother Alexei and I no longer separated or lost from the rest of our kin. In the cold hour of dawn, with rosy cheeks and a smile, I joined them again. The truth is, I was always that shooting star.

The post PRW Runner-Up Tour: Shooting Star by Tiffany Rose appeared first on REUTS | Boutique Book Publisher |.

letter, side by side, as if signifying something important. I wrote my message slowly, the dust

of the chalk drifting to the floor.

Different words every night, but always in the same spot – above the bed of the youngest

sister.

TWELVE SISTERS ALL SO SWEET – COME TONIGHT AND WE SHALL MEET.

I debated whether to sign my message with a flourish or a grand false name, but settled

on my normal mark – the letter P.

Sitting back in the chair I had selected as mine, I watched the sisters as they jostled

around my message. They read my words eagerly, chattering excitedly about what the night

would bring.

If they had known of my plans, perhaps they would have questioned their eagerness.

Perhaps they could have been saved.

~oOo~

Seven nights of being good – behaving in a way I was not accustomed to – had got me this far.

I wouldn’t fail now, not when I was this close. I smirked, congratulating myself on my plan.

Twelve sisters, princesses even. Aged between twenty-nine, and seventeen, they were a rare

and beautiful find.

As I shifted a chair from one corner of the room to the other, the sisters shrieked with

laughter, only seeing the chair move with an invisible force. I liked to surprise them by

rearranging their bookshelves, or slamming doors when the silence became too much for me

to bear. Being a spirit, invisible in their world, enabled me to tease the beautiful sisters. But, I

particularly liked playing with one of them – the youngest.

I had tried, on numerous occasions, to single her out. She had noticed when her favourite

book appeared at her side, or the door opened for her as she reached for its handle. I could be

a gentleman when I wanted to. I just didn’t usually have a reason to behave in such a way.

Whenever the youngest princess stepped through my spirit I felt a strange sensation flood

through me. It warmed me in a way I was unaccustomed to, and I revelled in the feeling that

only she could ignite.

The sisters had speculated all week about who I was, what I was, and why I was

leaving them messages. My answers were simple – if I were to give them any. And tonight,

they would get their answers, but for now I remained quiet, floating around like any other

ghostly spirit. They knew not of my importance. But they would later. I had plans – carefully

prepared ones that would satisfy many.

I lived in a world where there were many aimless spirits floating around, lost in a sea of

endless mist, struggling without purpose, fighting without reason, hating their existence. But

not me. I had purpose, I had reason, I had a life – all be it one in which I swept in and out of

with ridiculous ease. The aimless spirits were not the ones I concerned myself with. I looked

after the souls, the remnants of the dead who had no peace in death, and nowhere to go. They

were restless, hungry, desiring what only I could give them.

Seated in my chair, I allowed the princesses to prepare for their evening. But my eyes

never left the princess who had caught my attention. I studied her carefully, smiling at her

proximity as she quietly debated over which gown to wear. The choice seemed to be between

dark green and a deep crimson. Leaning forwards I grabbed the green one and threw it to the

floor.

“Red it is then,” she said quietly, looking towards my chair.

I wondered for a fleeting moment whether she could see me, or whether she had got so

used to me being near her, that she could guess where I was. Whatever the reason, it only

reassured me that I had made the right choice. She would be the last princess I spoke to

tonight.

Beginning to rock in my chair, I enjoying the startled looks and the bashful way the

sisters covered themselves. It amused me. Modesty was not necessary when I was around, I

saw everything.

One of the sisters clapped her hands. “We must hurry, make our selection of gowns.

Father will be here to check on us shortly, and we must pretend to be asleep so that we can

join our admirer.”

I huffed at her assumption as another sister giggled. I stopped rocking the chair. I hated

gigglers. They literally made my short hair stand on end.

“Don’t you think it’s funny that father locks us in?” she exclaimed loudly, “He thinks we

can’t get out!”

The giggling increased and I flew from the chair, throwing books from the shelves to

signify my annoyance. Silence soon filled the room, and I smiled, repositioning myself in

the chair. The princesses hurried around, hiding their selected clothes, and curled up in their

beds, waiting for their father.

As expected, the king checked on his daughters. He muttered as he left the room, locking

them in. I followed him, curious as to whether he would be a suitable person to select for

another night.

The king moved quickly for his age, and his bedroom door slammed shut behind him.

I growled before stepping through the solid obstacle. It was an action I didn’t like to do.

My perfect invisibility was disturbed, and I hated the feeling of not being whole. Walls had

the same effect. I avoided both if possible. Traversing through solid items were the times that

I was most likely to be seen. And I preferred not to be seen in this world.

Observing the king as he slipped into bed, alone, I grinned. There was no queen to warm

his bed. The king was alone. He only had his daughters. Soon he would not have them. He

would be perfect for a future visit. His grief would allow me to take him, just as I planned

to take his daughters. The hungry souls would rejoice. The innocence of his daughters was

a delicacy to be fed upon sparingly, lightly. His old age was a feast, ripe, rich, to be fully

enjoyed.

Satisfied with my assessment of the king, I returned to the princesses bedroom. They

would already be waiting for me, dressed and ready for our night to begin. I hoped that they

thought they were dreaming. It was easier if they thought that – a nightmare disguised as a

dream.

As I stepped through their bedroom door, shivering at the effect, the sisters were huddled

together speaking in hushed whispers. They discussed who would be the lucky one who

danced with the handsome prince tonight. I stifled a chuckle at their words. A handsome

prince, is that what they had decided I was? If only they knew the truth.

Straightening my clothes, and running my fingers through already messed up hair,

I walked to the centre of the room. There were no shrieks or screams of surprise when I

pulled an old rug aside. It hid a trap door which they had gone through several times this

week already. As I threw the door open the princesses, without any instructions from me,

disappeared through it.

For the past twelve nights, in my world through the trap door, I had materialised as a

well-dressed, educated man. I had charmed the princesses, danced with each and every one

of them, laughed and joked with them while the others danced with each other. But I saw

the way they watched me, waiting for the opportunity to catch my eye. They all thought they

were special. They were – but not for the reasons they hoped.

Rushing excitedly along spiral steps, the princesses descended deep under the castle.

Small, almost insignificant torches, lit their way as they urged each other on. Their

excitement was easy to hear and I followed them downwards, a lascivious smile curling at my

lips. My plan was coming together.

Watching the princesses as they saw the world before them, I saw smiles and heard

gasps. Gold, silver and diamond trees illuminated the forest before them. Branches formed a

majestic arch that glistened with even more precious jewels. They were drawn to it, unaware

of what lay beyond. It was all part of the journey they would make tonight.

So busy were they in their awe of the world I had brought them to that they didn’t see

me approach. With a cloak hung over one of my arms I emerged from the shadows and took

the hand of one of the princesses. To her I was the man that always greeted them. I was the

prince who danced all night with each of them. She smiled at me as I walked her through the

arch toward a lake. Trust. She trusted me. They all did. It was exactly what I had worked for

all week. It would serve me well tonight.

“I should like to dance with your sister first, tonight,” I announced to the others.

They all curtsied and dipped their heads.

“But, we will not dance here. I shall take you across the lake to a special place I know

of.”

Stepping to the edge of the lake, my boat glided toward me.

“We cannot all travel in that,” one of the princesses stated. “It’s too small.”

“That is why I shall come back for each of you in turn,” I reassured them, “I shall not be

long.”

After I helped the selected princess into my boat I threw my cloak around my shoulders.

Moving silently across the water, out of sight of the other sisters, I waited for the mist to

surround us. The princess didn’t look at me, she stared out over the water.

“Why is the water so dark?” she asked.

“Because it is has no end to its depth,” I replied, slowing my pace as the expected mist

began to form. I saw her shiver as the coldness of the air wrapped around her.

“What is wrong princess?” I asked.

“Can you not hear them?”

“Hear what?”

I knew exactly what she referred to, but I ignored the cries of the dead that echoed

around the boat.

“People moaning, crying…”

“There are no sounds to hear in the middle of the lake. What you are hearing is just your

imagination, nothing else.”

“And that smell?”

The smell of death, it surrounded us.

“Calm yourself. There is no need to worry.”

I stopped rowing to pull the hood of my cloak over my head.

As I crouched down in front of the princess she saw my true self. Once the hood was in

position I became what I really was – the ghost of death.

Protruding bones and torn skin covered my face and hands, and as I reached for her, fear

etched across her face, she screamed.

Breathing into her mouth, her death was instant.

I suspected that this had been her first kiss.

It was also her last.

~oOo~

After removing my cloak, I rowed back to the shore of the lake where the remaining

eleven princesses waited for me. Gone was the ghost that had frightened their sister, and in its

place was the man they had decided to call a prince.

“Who’s next?” I called cheerfully, enjoying the small arguments between the sisters as

they decided on who was to join me. I had never known such eagerness to meet death.

The eldest sister stepped forwards, and I took her gloved hand in mine.

As I rowed the boat into the lake she tried to talk to me, but I only answered with a slight

smile. She would find out all she needed to know very soon.

Once again in the middle of the lake, a mist surrounded us and a moaning, the sound of

many dead soulless bodies, filled the air.

I dismissed the sound, just as I had before.

Pulling my cloak around me, throwing the hood into position, my true form was revealed

to the princess, and she fainted. Leaning in to place first one, then a second kiss on her lips, I

breathed death into her. Throwing her body into the water, she joined her sister and the other

lifeless souls. Skeletal hands clambered over her body as she slowly sank. Taking souls was

easy. Feeding restless souls was even easier.

One by one, I took the princesses on a journey to the middle of the lake. Each time I

returned to the shore there was one less for me to select from.

I left the youngest princess for last.

She remained silent as we glided across the water. It was only when we reached the

middle of the lake that she became anxious. Looking out across the water, narrowing her eyes

to see through the thick mist that had descended, she turned to me. “What is it that makes

such a sad mournful sound?” she asked.

“I hear nothing, for I am struck dumb by your beauty, princess.”

She smiled, cocking her head to the side.

“Are my sisters waiting for us at the other side of the lake?”

“Yes, they are at the other side.”

“Do you mind if we make them wait a little longer?”

I raised my brow, surprised at her suggestive words, but welcoming them all the same. I

was confident I had made the correct choice of sister. She was the last one.

“May I kiss you?” I asked, prepared to play her games for a little while longer.

The princess pushed a finger onto my lips as I leaned forward. “I do not even know your

name, or what kingdom you come from.”

“I shall tell you after I have kissed you. I shall answer all your questions.”

“I must insist that you tell me your name at least. How can I continue to call you the

Prince?”

“It is best that you call me that, if you so wish.”

The princess shook her head. “You play with me, sir, but I am more than willing to play

your games.”

As I laughed at her stubbornness. Ripples lapped at the boat.

“You selected me last. I assume there is a reason.” The princess was insistent.

“A reason?” I replied, “Oh, yes. I always have a reason.”

“And will you tell me?”

“After I have kissed you. My secrets are only to be shared with the one I have chosen.”

The princess smirked as I placed my cloak around my shoulders, preparing for our

moment.

“My kiss?” I asked, impatience, knowing I had to kiss her twelve times, for she was the

twelfth soul I would claim tonight.

“You may kiss me,” she said.

Lifting my hand to the back of her neck to hold her in place, I captured her soft lips.

Sighing, I pushed my breath into her.

“Question?” I asked, my mouth hovering over hers.

“Name?”

“Charon.”

Crashing my lips onto hers again, I knew she would already be feeling the effect of the

deathly breaths I passed into her.

“Another question?” I asked. She didn’t respond. I kissed her again, another breath

entered her as I held her close to my chest.

“Are you a prince?” she managed to ask.

“No.”

“Who are you?”

“Two questions, two kisses,” I said, quickly claiming her lips.

The boat suddenly rocked from one side to the other. The souls were impatient. They

suspected there was another for them on my boat.

I stood up, gripping the oar as I observed the writhing mass of bodies that pulled at the

boat. The waters of the lake churned with their movements.

“Get away, you mindless souls!” I shouted. “You cannot have this one!”

As fingers appeared over the edge of the boat I struck them with the oar. The following

wails and screams filled the air, and the princess in the boat sobbed.

I quickly placed another six kisses on her lips, silencing her tears as I passed my breath

into her.

“What’s happening?” she asked. I knew she would be struggling to understand what was

going on, and the way her body was feeling. Numbness, fear, and disorientation would be

overpowering her as my deathly kisses prepared her for her fate.

“You are joining me,” I told her. “One more kiss, and then we are together.”

More tears fell down her face.

I thought about the eleven princesses before her. They were stolen souls now, damned to

a life in a world that greeted them with open arms.

“Twelve kisses for you, as you are the twelfth soul I have taken tonight,” I explained,

although I doubted she understood.

Pulling my hood up I reached for the princess. Dragging her to her feet I looked directly

at her. I saw the fear in her eyes when she focused on my true self – it was all I needed.

I kissed her, my final kiss as I breathed into her, filling her body with the essence of

death. She slumped in my arms, not moving, not breathing.

I had told myself that I had chosen this princess for a reason. My reason – I’d had

enough. I wouldn’t take any more innocent lives, not even their father.

Without further thought, I threw myself into the dark waters taking my princesses with

me. Hand in hand we sank.

I could never be with her while she was alive. But I would ensure I was with her in

death.

~oOo~

The post PRW Runner-Up Tour: Breath of Death by Melody Winter appeared first on REUTS | Boutique Book Publisher |.

The Big Man’s real name was Sal Crimson. Katie knew his name because it was printed in fancy letters on a little sign propped at the front of his desk, next to a computer she wasn’t allowed to turn off – NO MATTER WHAT – and a crystal decanter that was always half-filled with a foul-smelling brown liquor.

At Katie’s house all the liquor was clear and scentless.

“One shot of agave tequila, every Saturday night, before Mass,” Katie told Sal as she dusted around him, trying not to squirt Pledge on his trophy wife. “Mama says one shot saves the soul, two begs the devil.”

Of course the Sal didn’t answer. Katie wiped her rag across the silver framing Barbie’s perfect white smile. The woman – Sal’s third wife – didn’t look all that much older than Katie. Barbie and Sal had been married in December, on Christmas Eve, and although the Luque-Mesas had been invited to attend the massive reception, Mama had refused.

“One wedding is enough for any man or woman,” Mama scoffed over the gold-trimmed invitation. “Remember that, Katherine Marie. God keeps track of every sinner.”

Katie didn’t believe divorce was a sin. And she didn’t really believe in God either. She’d stopped believing on Wednesday, July 23rd, 2006; the day Daddy’d fallen into Rockefeller Center’s number 5 trash compactor, and been crushed to mostly to bits.

“Katherine!”

Katie paused, rag dangling, and swallowed a sigh. The digital clock next to Sal’s photo read 2:06 AM, and she still wasn’t half done with the 18th floor. They were running an hour behind, and Eddie would be pissed. She set down the bottle of Pledge, and reached for the vacuum.

Eddie’s boots shook the floor as he stormed down the hall. He stuck his round face through the office door. He scanned the square room, scowling.

“How much longer?”

“Fifteen minutes this hall,” Katie said. She didn’t look at him, but she couldn’t escape his calculating stare. His face reflected back at her in the floor-to-ceiling-window wall; his hard eyes floated smack in the middle of Manhattan’s blinking lights. “Another forty on the floor.”

“Christ, you’re slow. Three more floors left in the building, Katherine Marie, and we’ve still Sixth Ave to do. It’ll be dawn before you’re finished.”

“Sorry.” Katie swallowed. She had an AP English final to study for, and two pages of trig homework, but she knew better than to complain to Eddie. He wasn’t family, he didn’t give a shit. Last time she’d dared open her mouth, he’d left a bruise below her eye, and she’d had to skip school for an entire week.

“Christ,” he repeated, running beefy hands over his bald head. “Fine. I’m taking the truck to Sixth. Finish the building. You’ll have to take the subway home.”

Katie nodded. She hated lugging the vacuum on the train. People pretended not to notice, but she felt them stare, and take note of the Luque-Mesa Clean! logo on her sweatshirt, and she knew they were wondering about child labor laws. Everyone always thought she was younger than seventeen, because she was short.

“Hurry up,” Eddie warned, and then stomped away down the hallway.

Katie waited until she heard the elevator ding, and counted to twenty. She tippy-toed to the door, and peeked out into the hall, just in case Eddie was messing with her head, which he sometimes liked to do.

When she was absolutely, positively sure he was gone, she dropped the vacuum handle and dove for her backpack. She hadn’t eaten a single thing since lunch at school, and she was starved. Mama always packed something special for midnight snack; Eddie rarely gave Katie time to eat it.

She dug past school books and pulled out Mama’s thermos, still warm. She unscrewed the lid and inhaled greedily.

“Black bean,” she told Barbie and Sal. “With extra cilantro. Aren’t you jealous?”

Katie didn’t bother with the spoon that lived, all folded up, in the thermos lid. She tilted the thermos and guzzled. Her stomach gurgled and growled in reaction.

“Hey. Slow down, little bird. You’ll choke.”

Katie almost dropped Mama’s thermos. It bobbled, and tilted, and nearly upended all over the office carpet. But the boy was quick – super quick – and caught it in both hands, narrowly preventing disaster.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Katie’s heart was in her throat, because she’d thought she was alone on the 18th floor, and because if she’d stained the carpet with Mama’s soup Eddie would make sure she ended up in Rockefeller trash compactor #5, mashed right in with Daddy’s old bone-dust.

“Holy Mary,” she breathed. She could see her own expression on the windows, superimposed over the city, a small girl with braided black hair bound in a kerchief. The old jeans she wore below her work Polo belonged to Mama, but her wide, frightened eyes were all Daddy.

“Sorry,” he said again. “Here.” He set the Thermos on Sal’s desk. “Here. Did you get any on you? Are you burned?”

“Not on the desk!” Katie hissed, mortified. “What are you, loco? It might leave a ring.”

“It won’t.” He smiled, all blue eyes and perfect teeth, just like Barbie’s. His hair was dark and curly, and too long for fashion. “Desk isn’t real wood, just laminate.” He picked up the thermos, making the point. “See, no harm.”

Katie snatched it back. “What are you doing here? I thought I was alone. No-one’s supposed to be here, building’s locked.”

He shrugged. “Eddie sent me. To help. Said you were running behind, needed an extra hand.”

Katie felt her jaw drop open, and hurriedly snapped it shut again. Eddie never offered up any of his own private team. Eddie didn’t like to share.

“See?” He poked a thumb against his chest, against the Luque-Mesa Clean! logo on his own shirt. “Legit.”

She couldn’t argue the shirt, or the badge hanging from his belt. But the boy didn’t look like Eddie’s usual fresh-out-of-prison type. He looked more like he’d escaped from an Uptown private high school.

“Sit down,” he said, still smiling. “Finish your dinner. I’ll take over.”

He put a hand on Katie’s shoulder, and practically shoved her into Sal’s leather swivel chair. He must have come directly from outside, because his hand was very cold; she could feel the chill through the fabric of her shirt.

She was really hungry. Her stomach was practically having a fit. So she sipped Mama’s soup and stared as the boy played with the vacuum controls. He was tall, and thin, and when he lifted the vacuum to look underneath at the roller bar the lean muscles stood out on his fore-arms.

“This your first night?” Katie asked, trying not to giggle. “The button’s on the top. What’s your name?”

He shot her a wide-eyed, innocent stare.

“My third night,” he said, smile curling. It was really a very pretty smile, Katie thought. Almost too pretty. “Eddie hired me on the fly. I need a little cash.”

“For a girl?” Katie guessed.

“No,” he said, groping along the vacuum handle. He found the off/on button, then jumped a little when the machine roared to life. He pushed the vacuum back and forth tentatively, then more firmly as he got the hang of it.

“Never even vacuumed before?” Katie yelled over the noise. She wasn’t really jealous. But she’d grown up with hard work, and it was hard not to pity those who hadn’t.

But the boy only shrugged, and smiled over the growling vacuum.

Katie fell asleep. She didn’t mean to, but she’d been running several days without any real down time, and she’d forgotten what it mean to just sit. The sound of the vacuum was like white noise, chasing the worries from her busy brain. And Mama’s bean soup sat warm in her belly.

She didn’t doze long, because when she started awake in Sal’s leather chair the digital clock said 15 to 3. The vacuum was quiet. The boy was sitting cross-legged on the floor at her feet, boldly going through her pack.

“Hey!” Automatically she kicked out, knocking his hands from her things, almost kicking him in the chin. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You won’t find any cash in there, bastardo!”

“Sorry.” He spread his hands. “I was looking at your books.”

“Yeah, right.” Katie grabbed her pack, tossed Mama’s thermos inside, and zipped it closed.

“You have a lot of books.” His blue eyes were unrepentant. “I like books.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Brian.” He pushed himself up from the floor, and stuck his hands in the pockets of his Dockers. He rocked back and forth on his heels, watching her. Katie wished his grin didn’t make her want to smile back so badly. His expression almost warmed the frigid room.

“Why’s it so cold in here? You didn’t mess with the AC, did you?”

Brian shook his head, obviously baffled.

“Fine, okay.” Katie slung her backpack over one shoulder. “We’re running out of time. Let’s start on the next room, okay?”

“It’s done,” he said. “They’re all done.”

Okay, Katie decided, handsome but dumb. What a waste.

“No,” she explained. “We have to clean all the other rooms. You know, dust and vacuum. Every room on the floor. Entiende?”

“They’re done,” he repeated, blue eyes glinting with what had to be humor.

“Yeah, right.” Katie brushed past him, then down the hall.

He trailed after, watching as she stuck her head in the next office.

The room was clean, as clean as she ever managed. The books shelves and file cabinets shone, dust free. The windows gleamed. Even the cluttered desk-top sparkled, executive knick-knacks polished to a gleam. The room smelled of Pledge and Windex, and a faint, pleasant flowery perfume that reminded Katie of spring.

“I figured out the vacuum,” Brian said. “It wasn’t that difficult.”

Katie didn’t reply. Instead she marched down the hall, checking one office after another. She paused in each of the three metal-and-glass conference room, and in the miniscule kitchen, and in mail room.

Every space was clean, her work finished.

“No way,” she said. “Impossible. A floor this size takes me at least ninety minutes.”

“Anything’s possible.” Brian patted her arm. “Now you can go home and read your books.”

He was just tall enough that the top of her head reached his chin. When she tilted her head, she could meet those absorbing blue eyes. His smile made Katie sigh and shiver at the same time.

“You’re very beautiful, even when you’re frowning,” he said. “Go home, now, Katherine Luque-Mesa, all your work is finished.”

She did shiver then, because the cold off his finger seemed to seep into her own bones. And the faint scent of flowers clung to her braids. But she nodded, unable to feel anything but relief. She’d have a few hours to sleep before she had to catch the subway to school.

“Thanks,” she said. “I appreciate it. Please don’t tell Eddie I fell asleep on the job. He’d kill me.”

“No on will know,” he promised. “You’re safe now.”

It was kind of a creepy thing to say, but Katie didn’t care. She was in such a hurry to get home, and into bed, that she left her vacuum behind.

When Katie rolled out of her room before sunrise, her vacuum was sitting in the middle of Mama’s tiny apartment, next to Mama’s rocking chair. Mama was rocking furiously, mouth set in a flat line, hair up in pink rollers. She was already dressed for work in the dull blue US Postal Service government uniform, but she’d just started on her first cup of coffee. Katie could tell, because the lines on her brow hadn’t yet relaxed.

“You were home early last night,” Mama said, half scold, half worry. “And I found this outside the door. Lucky no one ran off with it.”

Katie regarded the vacuum doubtfully. No one had run off with the old machine because it was worth nothing, even in parts. It had been one of Daddy’s fleet, and now most of them were gone, dead of rust or broken wiring.

“Eddie must have dropped it by,” she said, pouring her own cup of coffee into the elephant-printed mug she loved. “I finished early because I had help.”

Mama’s brows rose. “What sort of help?”

Katie dug in the cupboard for a Pop-Tart, unwrapped the pastry, and nibbled on an edge. They didn’t have a toaster, but that was okay, she liked her breakfast cold and her coffee hot.

“Eddie went on to Sixth, but sent some kid back to help. He looked like a Hollister ad, but he worked major.”

Mama rocked faster. “That doesn’t sound like Eddie.” She frowned over her coffee. “That man doesn’t waste a thought on any person but himself.”

Katie shrugged, finishing her Pop-Tart and licking her fingers clean. “He dropped my vacuum off.”

“Maybe.” Mama sounded doubtful. “Off to school with you, chica. Doesn’t ever pay to be late.”

Katie hoisted her backpack, and kissed Mama on the cheek. She wouldn’t be late today; she had plenty of time to catch up homework on the train, and maybe even make the first bell at school.

“Love you, Mama,” she said, and took her coffee with her out the door.

That night Luque-Mesa Clean! worked Rockefeller, which always put Katie in a bad mood. She missed Daddy extra-hard when she stepped off the subway at 30 Rock.

Dragging her vacuum behind her, she flashed her badge at the concierge, and took the elevator up to the 12th floor, where they had a contract with an architectural firm. Eddie wasn’t there to greet her, but he’d left a nasty note about making sure she sprayed down the microwaves with cleaning solution.

The floor was mostly modern white furniture and bleached wood. There was no carpet, just fancy rugs, which made vacuuming difficult. She dropped her pack in the closest office, plugged in her ear-buds, and went right to dusting. She had more energy than usual, and she danced a little as she cleaned.

Katie smelled the flowers before he stepped through the door, and he brought an ebb of cold with him, even though his expression was warm and eager.

She switched off her music. “Eddies’ gone loco supreme. You again?”

Brian only smiled. “We’re a team, now. I started at the other end. All shiny, just need to vacuum. Can I borrow it?”

He reached for her battered machine, preening a little in his work shirt.

“You dropped the vacuum by, last night,” she realized. “How do you know where I live?”

“Eddie told me. It was on my way home.”

Harlem wasn’t on anybody’s way home. And if Eddie knew she’d left equipment behind at a jobsite, he would have been around to scream, because Eddie left no mistake unpunished. Something flipped a little in Katie’s stomach, and the tiny hairs on the back of her neck began to itch.

“I don’t believe you,” she said.

He looked a hurt. “I told you,” he said, “we’re a team, now. You’re always good with me.”

Katie wanted to argue, but he seemed so forlorn, and his blue eyes promised a safety she hadn’t felt since she’d lost Daddy.

“Okay,” she said, a little dazzled.

“Good.” He touched her, just a finger-tip on her chin. Cold, so cold, but his face was flushed with affection. “Thanks.”

He took the vacuum with him, steering it out of the office, whistling. Katie switched her music back on, and went back to work.

They finished an hour before Katie was supposed to move on to 3rd, but this time she didn’t scuttle out. They sat together in the firm lobby, surrounded by architectural renderings and beautiful paintings, and sorted through Katie’s school books while she sipped at Mama’s soup.

Brian flipped through each book, gently turning pages, reading passages carefully out loud. Katie forgot to worry he might be about stealing her stuff.

“You must go to school on the East Side,” she guessed. “Or one of those private academies in the Financial District. Don’t you get enough of your own crap to study?”

He had her dog-eared copy of ANTHEM in his hands. He shook his head, and Katie thought he sighed a little.

“I like the feel of this one. Can I borrow it?”

Katie hesitated. ANTHEM was one of her favorites, and she didn’t like to loan out her favorites. Still, they were a team.

“Sure,” she relented.

They sat cross-legged on one of the thick rugs, almost knee to knee. Brian scooted closer, until their thighs brushed.

“Thank you,” he said.

She’d been kissed before, in the movie theater, on the subway, behind the school library when she should have been in math class. She liked boys, and she liked kissing, for practice and entertainment, but she’d never felt like she couldn’t live without.

Brian’s kiss was different. His lips were soft, cool. His hand tangled in her braids, tugging lightly. Katie forgot to breath. Warmth spread through her bones, even as his breath blew cold on her face.

When she closed her eyes she could still see the bright blue of his regard on the back of her eyelids.

“You’re mine, now, little bird,” he promised. “No one will hurt you again.”

Katie sighed, and leaned into his embrace.

When she rolled through the apartment door at 2AM, Mama was up and waiting, which was very unusual, and not good.

“You’re early,” Mama said. She glanced sideways at Katie. “At least you remembered the vacuum tonight.”

“Yeah.” Katie’s head was still spinning; she could think only of Brian and his smile. And she was tired, unusually tired. “I’m going to bed.”

“Wait.” Mama blocked her way. “I talked to Eddie today. He said he hasn’t hired anyone new. There’s no new Hollister nino.”

Katie made a rude noise. She hated Eddie.

“Why do you listen to him, Mama? He’s a bad man, and a liar. You and I both know he murdered Daddy.”

Mama deflated, as she always did when she thought of Daddy and the dumpster. “That was an accident, Katherine Marie. A terribly accident.” Her cheeks quivered in remembered distress.

For once, Katie didn’t try to soothe.

“I’m going to bed,” she said.

She pushed past her mother. Her bed was warm and welcoming, and the sheets smelled of remembered flowers. She fell into sleep even as Mama called after.

“Eddie’s loco,”Brian said, mimicking Katie’s accent without much success. “I don’t like him. He makes you afraid.”

They were in the Garment District, alone in a fashion mogul’s design studio, wrapped in swathes of expensive fabric. They’d finished cleaning, or maybe they hadn’t started. Katie couldn’t remember, and didn’t care.

Brian managed to look dashing in a hounds-tooth coat and matching hat. The samples were worth a fortune, Katie knew. She’d never have touched them before, but Brian had changed things.

“No,” she said, pulling a length of velvet through her fingers. “I’m not afraid anymore.”

“Good,” he said, her new love. He posed, a ridiculous,  and made her heart pound in joy. “Take a picture, for your mother.” He pushed back the lapel of his coat, exposing the Lugue-Mesa Clean! logo. “Show her I’m real.”

Katie laughed. “Silly. Of course you’re real.”

Brian grinned, whirled, and plucked a flower from a profusion sprouting from a vase on the cutting-board.

“Take her this,” he said. “Tell her I’ll come to visit, and drink her soup. When it blooms.”

Katie studied the flower. It was a rose, a red rose, still wrapped in new bud.

“Will you? Come and visit?”

“Of course,” he said, drawing her in for a kiss, all hounds-tooth fashion and affection. “Tell your Mama to be ready.”

Mama looked at the rose-bud with distaste. “What sort of foolishness is this?”

“It’s romantic,” Katie said. She pulled an old, empty tequila bottle from the top of the fridge, filled it with water, and carefully positioned the flower in the make-shift vase. She set the vase on the kitchen counter by Mama’s rocker.

“You’ll like Brian,” she said, then yawned. “We’re a team. And he wants to taste your soup.”

Mama only frowned harder, worry creasing into lines above her nose. “Why would Eddie lie to me about this? It’s my company, your father’s company, even if he runs it now.”

“I don’t know.” Katie didn’t care about Eddie anymore, about slaps or bruises or the fear she’d once felt every time he’d mentioned Daddy. It didn’t matter. Brian would keep her safe. “Goodnight, Mama. I love you.”

Mama kissed the top of Katie’s head. “Goodnight, baby. Sleep well.”

The rose bloomed before dawn, as Mama sat in her chair, rocking. She saw it bloom, even though the room was all but dark. The petals spread and stretched, opening to a warmth Mama couldn’t see. She sat up, frightened, and hopped out of her rocking chair.

She could smell flowers, the rose had a perfume as strong as twenty bouquets. The scent made Mama gag. It was cloying, other-worldly, and reminded Mama strongly of her late husband’s funeral.

“Holy Jesus!” She grabbed at the red rose, crushing the petals between her fingers, knocking the vase to the floor. Crossing herself, she ran to Katherine’s room, but too late.

Her child lay, still and cold and blue, on her back beneath her blankets, un-breathing. Her lovely mouth was curled in a frozen smile, and her eyes were open, looking beyond Mama at something only the girl could see.

Mama dropped to her knees, screaming, and the broken petals still gripped in her fist scattered, drifting quietly over the floor.

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I haven’t moved since.

But you, Gretchen, you insist on standing by the window, hoping to hear even a little bit of news about the dead girl. I tell you not to, that it wasn’t safe, but you don’t believe that and, honestly, I don’t want to either. Last night had been the fifth month since the wolf had started coming and not once had it been near our home; it could, we are the closest, right along the edge of the woods, but it doesn’t. We have that to be thankful for. You don’t go outside, especially at night – I am thankful for that, too.

“That poor girl, Harry,” you murmur sadly, your hand on your heart.

That poor girl indeed. And I am sad for her and her family, of course I am, but with her dark, curly hair and thin frame, she reminds me too much of you for me to ignore. I hate it and I can only be grateful that you are alive. I nod when you look at me, so you will never know of my selfishness.

“That could have been you,” you whisper, choking on a sob.

I absently scratch at my right side, just under my ribs. Six months ago, before this horrible business started so close to home, I had been hunting for game in the woods. I have known the woods ever since our father had brought us into it as children. I could successfully navigate myself through the trees and be home in time for supper. That was what I should have done that day, but something in the woods had the animals scattered and in hiding, and I, too determined to bring you something, stayed until I lost the sun. Defeated, I turned back. And that was when it came – in the daylight it was easy to know the way, but in the dark I had taken a wrong turn and I found myself staring at the wolf. Terrified, I ran, but I was no match for the beast and it dragged me down. I was fortunate to still have my knife and I dug it into the animal’s side just as it bit into my already bloody skin. We both howled as pain coursed through us, and then it took off into the forest.

It left me with horrible scars, still jagged and red, but at least I still have my life. Unlike the girl.

Knowing where my thoughts have gone, you smile at me sympathetically and come to sit in front of me. “Oh, Harry. It’ll go away soon, I promise. It’ll be nothing more than a distant memory.”

I want to believe you; it would make my life so much easier. But for that to happen, the nightmares have to stop, too. And that does not seem likely; they only get worse, more bloody, more frightening. Sometimes the wolf comes after me in my dreams. Sometimes it goes after wildlife, tearing them to shreds. Last night, it came after you. It cut you into ribbons with its sharp, razor-like claws while you begged it to stop, screamed my name, and then it bit into your throat with its teeth and you finally stopped, finally succumbed to death.

When I woke, I was so happy to see you standing over me that I sobbed.

I often wondered if I was sleepwalking after a month or so of nightmares. They seem so vivid, so real. How else can you explain the blood stains on my chin or that I find myself outside and nude when I know for a fact that I go to bed in my nightclothes?

I asked you to watch over me last night; to follow me in anything happened. You did, and apart from the sleepwalking, nothing happened, you said. You sounded so sure.

So, why can’t I believe you?

***

Hunger. Hunger and bloodshed. Animal instincts and urges.

They consume me, cut off everything else. What was I doing before? I can’t remember. I hear cautious footsteps moving away from me, far away, and a heartbeat banging against a human chest. Blood is running wild in her body, begging me to take it. Yes, definitely female. I chase her down, knowing exactly where to find her.

Hunger; I need it. I need her. I need her now.

She’s running away, getting closer and closer to the edge. Does she think that I will not follow? That she is safe when not in the trees? She is foolish. And I am hungry. I catch up to her; drag her down. She screams and begs as I claw at her skin, let the blood run free. Soon there is hardly any skin left. But she keeps on scream, her voice hoarse and faint. And then she screams… my name.

“Harry, please!”

There’s no hesitation; it means nothing to me. I lean forward and bite, tearing at her throat. She stops screaming.

***

I jump up, sunlight warming my body and keeping the shivers at bay. You watch over me, a blanket already covering what needs to be covered. You look concerned, almost scared for me, but when I ask what happened you assure me that all I did was sleepwalk. I don’t believe you, but my mind is still on my latest nightmare and I’m too happy that you are alive to care if you are lying to me. At least right now.

Then I hear it; the cries of women as they look in horror; the soft words of men as they carry the dead girl into the village. I see her dark, curly hair and her deathly pale skin, but no face – her head is almost off.  I gasp, terrified of what I see, and I run into the house. When you are inside with me, I bolt the door shut and I hide in the corner. I don’t move at all.

And the worst part is that I have the strangest sense of déjà vu.

You watch from the window, hoping to hear any news about the girl, and I tell you to stop, but you don’t because you believe that it is safe. The sun is out and the wolf never comes here.

Does she think that I will not follow?

I whimper; I only want to believe you.

You move to sit in front of me and tell me that the nightmares will soon go away, soon become a distant memory. You tell me this every day, but they only get stronger. Don’t you see that? Don’t you understand that I’m cursed now, Gretchen?

***

Everything’s quiet now, too quiet. I don’t like it. How many hours has it been since I saw the dead girl? How long do I have left before sleep takes me and nightmares plague me? You pace up and down the small room while I huddle in the corner, occasionally looking out of the window, though you mostly watch me, try to sooth me fears. I can’t remember when I stopped listening to you.

When you mutter something about the sun setting, I finally look up from the floor and follow your gaze to the window. The sun is low on the horizon, not quite ready to set but it will soon enough. I bite my lips until blood drips from my chin. I am okay.

“Do you want me to watch over you again, Harry? Do you want me to follow you?” I nod slowly, once, and you smile reassuringly. “I’ll always be here for you, Harry. I’ll follow you anywhere, forever. You know that.”

I do know that. When we were children, lost in the woods when our father didn’t come back, it was you who followed me. You will do it again, and you will do it willingly.

“When you go into the woods tonight,” I tell you gently, almost dangerously. You question me patiently, making no move to get an answer.

I don’t finish what I was going to say. Noise comes from outside and, curious, you follow it, leaving me alone in the house. I jump up, calling your name, but you don’t come back. I try to leave, but I can’t pass the front door. I’m stuck; it’s like an invisible barrier is keeping me inside. Witchcraft.

A figure makes their way over to me, becoming clearer and clearer as she gets closer. She stops right at the door, barely leaving any space between us. Her smile is forced and polite; her close proximity is only because I cannot hurt her. I see it in her eyes; why would I hurt her?

“Are you ready, Harry?” she asks me.

Ready for what? “What have you done here? Where is my sister?”

She does not look surprised by my questions; she looks tired, as though she has explained something to me many times. Yet she is a stranger to me, I am sure of it. My tormentor steps back, her white uniform a stark contrast to the darkness that surrounds her. How is that possible? The sun has not set yet.

“Where are you, Harry?”

“My home,” I answer immediately.

She shakes her head. “Look again.”

So, I do. Slowly and without much warning, the room around me begins to change; it shimmers at first, then the illusion breaks and instead of my living area, which had been bare but warm thanks to the fireplace, is a square, brick room, empty except for a tattered bed. There is one window behind me, showing the setting sun. The woman in white is no longer on the other side of my front door, but behind thick metal bars meant to keep things in.

This is a prison.

That cannot be possible; this is wrong, so wrong. I shouldn’t be here. These witches in their uniforms have tricked me, lured me like a child and a candy house… only I cannot remember that.

I press myself against the bars, shocked when they burn me.

“Silver,” she says as an explanation. That confuses me more.

“Where is my sister?” I demand to know. Where are you, Gretchen? What have they done to you? “I was talking to her just moments ago.”

“No, you weren’t, Harry,” she tells me gently. “You were talking to yourself again. You always are.”

“That’s not true!” I yell. “Gretchen!”

“I’m here, Harry,” you tell me. I spin around and find you leaning against the wall, smiling contentedly. “I’m always here.”

“I know,” I reply.

“No one is there, Harry,” the witch tries to trick me again.

“Shut up!” I scream at her. “And let me out!”

“You know we cannot do that, you know why you are here,” she says. “We’ve told you before.”

I hear whispers in my head, trying to tell me things I can’t understand. “No.”

“Your sister is dead, killed by a wolf.”

“No! A wolf killed a girl; my sister was with me when it happened.”

“Your sister was the girl and you were the wolf.”

“NO!” I push my hands over my ears to shut out the whispers, the nightmares, of you screaming my name… begging me to stop. “NO!”

It’s not true. I am not the wolf and you are not dead. You are with me right now.

“I’m right here, Harry.”

“When you were bitten by a wolf, it infected you, made you like him,” the witch lies. “You have the lycanthrope disease and you killed your sister.”

No!

“Remember, Harry; what did the girl look like?”

I try hard not to, but the memories come back anyway; I see her dark, curly hair and her thin frame, reminding me too much of you, Gretchen. I remember not being able to see her face because it hung too low, after the wolf had ripped out her throat… with its teeth.

It sunk its sharp teeth into her skin and fed… just like in my nightmare. My nightmare of you.

“Don’t listen to her, Harry. She’s tricking you,” you promise me. And I want to believe you, but you lie to me so much these days.

“Come back to the real world, Harry,” I hear the witch say. “The sun is setting, you need to prepare.”

She holds out a vial, tells me that I need to drink it. I back away. “You will poison me.”

“It will help you.”

“LIES!” I shout. “All of you, all you do is lie!”

“If you do not drink it, you will become too dangerous,” she pleads with me. “You might get out, and then you will kill another innocent. Like your sister. You will not be able to stop it.”

“She is not dead!” You are not dead.

“I’m right here, Harry.”

I ignore the burn that comes when I grasp the bars of my cage, pulling myself as close as I can be to the witch. She jumps back in fear; her gaze goes to the window, to the setting sun, and I know that it is too late to drink her poison. I feel my body go hungry, my urge to feed and kill so apparent I fear myself for a moment. It disappears as the sun does. You stand beside me, a smile on your face as you tell me that you won’t leave me. Your dark, curly hair frames your face, your throat is red – blood.

Blood and hunger and the frantic beat of her heart; I need it.

The witch lets a tear fall, frozen, too scared to move.

“When you go into the woods tonight,” I whisper, ready to rip into her skin. I see claws grow from my hands and my back goes crooked when bones break and change. She runs away and I scream at her.

“Don’t go in alone!”

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I pin him closer, wanting all of this, and I feel him smile against my mouth. It only spurs me on; our actions become heated, our wants driving us over the edge and bringing us so close… so close…

Then he moves, and leans back to hover over me. He keeps his face just a couple of inches above me, teasing me. “What?” I murmur.

“Wake up, Snow,” he whispers, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. It scares me. “And run.”

***

The panic jolts me awake; I find myself back in my room, alone in my own bed, as though none of my night had actually happened. And it never does; they’re dreams, every single one starring him is a dream, starting off so good and then the fear comes and wakes me. He always tells me to run. I don’t even know my imagined lover’s name.

The cry of my name is what has me getting up; at least I try to. The energy it takes just to sit up is almost too much and I fall back onto my elbows, using my hands to push me to the edge of the double bed and using the post to get to my feet. I wobble, the action making nauseous and causing my eyes to blur for a moment. With every effort and willpower driving me, I manage to get to the desk and the mirror that sits on it; I grasp the sides to keep myself up and look at myself.

I have always been pale, ever since birth, but this is not natural; my skin has become sickly, a grey tinge to my cheeks, my eyes is bloodshot and I have lost weight. Too much weight. No one will tell me to my face, so I tell myself – I look terrible, I look like Death is knocking on my door and is waiting for me to let him in. And I do not know why; I haven’t a clue what could be causing this, or why, but I do know that it started with my dreams.

If only I could tell people when they asked if I was okay, but who would believe the idea that inappropriate dreams about another boy were making me so ill? I don’t even believe it. There must be another, more rational, explanation for my condition. I just have to look harder.

“Gawain!”

“I’m coming!” I yell back, wincing as I hear my throat croak. It feels like I’ve rubbed my insides raw with sandpaper.

I push myself away and get dressed; I know they’re connected with my illness, but I wish I could return to my sleep – I feel safer in my dreams.

***

Breakfast is a quiet affair, same as every other day; I sit at one end of the table, my step-mother sits at the other and after each saying good morning, we eat in silence. I try to pretend that nothing is wrong with me by putting food onto my plate; it’s not much, a slice of toast and some scrambled egg, and I don’t think I can keep that down. I pick at the toast, eating the moist, buttery parts in small pieces and leaving the crusts on my plate. I’m halfway through my toast and have had a couple of forkfuls of egg when my step-mother chooses to speak to me.

“I have called the doctor, she’ll be here in an hour to look at you,” she says monotone.

I honestly can’t remember use saying a word to each other since my father died a year ago. He was always the one who kept us talking, and that was always directed at him, never each other. I can only nod in response.

I don’t want the doctor to come, to give me the same words as last time – I don’t know what is wrong with you, Gawain. Here’s medicine that won’t work and try to get a good night’s sleep.

I admit, they may not have been her exact words, but that is all I heard. I don’t think it would be a good idea to tell her that a good night’s sleep seems to be the problem.

She says nothing more and after another bite, I excuse myself and wait in the sitting area for the doctor. The room is spacious and light and quiet, not the uncomfortable silence that exists whenever my step-mother and I are in the same room; it’s… nice. I spend my time reading, hoping it’ll calm my nerves and clear my head, help me to think and figure out what is going on with me.

Only I don’t get that far; I’m two pages in and have barely met the hero when I feel my eyes droop and all I see is black.

I doubt I’ve been asleep for very long when I’m shaken awake. I look around, confused as to where I am for a minute. Seeing the doctor watching me surprises me more than it should have; has it been an hour already? I also find myself disappointed; I shouldn’t be, I shouldn’t want a person who only exists in my head as much as I do, but I hate that I didn’t dream of him while I slept in the sitting room. I didn’t dream at all.

“How are you feeling, Gawain?”

“I’m okay,” I mutter sleepily. I don’t try to get up, not this time.

The doctor sits beside me on the edge of the couch, her puzzlement soon becoming worry as she examines me. It’s the kind of worry that has me genuinely fearing for my health; I’m not wondering what’s wrong, what’s wrong is becoming painfully obvious – I’m dying.

Run. His voice comes back, haunting me and warning me.

“You’re getting worse, Gawain,” she tells me, reluctant to give me the truth. Maybe she doesn’t want to tell me until she knows why it’s happening, or maybe she hopes she doesn’t have to because she’s going to find a way to stop it; I’m just glad she doesn’t say the words out loud.

“Are you taking your medication? Are you sleeping properly?” she demands gently.

I nod. I think it’s a nod. “I take it every day as prescribed and I go to bed at a reasonable time and I sleep through the night.”

And I dream.

“I don’t understand,” she mumbles, checking me over again. We share the same concerns. She pauses to process a thought she has, nodding determinedly and watching me intently when she knows what to say. “I’m going to give you a stronger dosage, I’ll bring it by tomorrow, and I’m going to make you an appointment for further tests. They should tell us what’s wrong.”

“Okay,” I answer because I don’t want to hurt her feelings by telling her I don’t believe they’ll help.”Thank you.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine.” The doctor places her hand on my face and smiles reassuringly, but her eyes tell me differently. “Get some more rest, Gawain. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I do as I am told; I don’t hear her leave the room.

***

The sun is starting to set when I wake up and I still didn’t dream of him; I can’t believe that she let me sleep, there is usually a list of chores for me to do, and being ill doesn’t stop that. They tire me out, it’s part of the reason I go to bed so early. Her letting me sleep all day is not normal; I pull myself up off the couch and go looking for my step-mother. I don’t particularly want chores, especially now, but I am hungry and if she has me making dinner at least I can make something I like and might be able to keep down.

The best place to look is always my father’s old study, which she took over the day after he died. The thought of going inside brings back memories I’ve tried so hard to force down, bringing my heart rate up alarmingly; I haven’t near the room since he died, hated myself for not being with him that die. He wasn’t meant to die, not that die, not for years; the doctor said his heart just gave out. And I should have been with him, but had chosen instead to go out.

Maybe my illness, whatever it may be, is my punishment.

Taking deep, quick breaths and hoping I only have to go to the door, I turn the corner… and stop. The door is already open, her voice harsh and soft. I have to strain to hear her, have to peer into the room just to see what’s happening. She’s talking to someone, someone who isn’t there – all I see is a mirror, smoke circling it from inside and no face that I can see, just a voice. It’s male, that much I know; it’s a low hiss, unrecognisable to me. He’s making my step-mother angry.

“Why is it taking so long?” she snaps at him, pacing the room. Her back is to me and with the mirror full of smoke, I’m allowed me to watch unnoticed. “It should be over now.”

“Patience, it’ll be over soon enough; he is dying, is he not?” the voice whispers to her.

What? No, this can’t be. I have always known that we would never get along, but to want me dead is something I have never considered. To have someone do it for her is even worse, somehow.

“How long until Gawain dies?”

“A day, two at most,” he replies.

A day. I will die in a day. I step back, more and more until I’m pressed against the wall furthest from her and the magic mirror. I need to go, that’s all I tell myself, I need to go. He can’t kill me if I’m not here, he can’t touch me if he can’t find me. I need to go before he finishes his poison.

Run. His voice comes back, loud and clearer than ever; my warning. Yes, I need to run. So I do. I sneak away, leave my belongings and head for the door. Then I run and I don’t look back. It’s a lot of effort, almost too much for me thanks to the poison already running through my body, but I don’t let myself stop, not for a moment. I push on through, past the estate’s gates, through the village and into the trees that surround my hometown.

Only when my lungs are constricting in my chest and my legs are burning, do I stop. It’s not by choice; I can’t keep myself up any longer. I can’t see; dots blind me and I fall to my knees. I roll onto my back, watch the moon shine over me and shut my eyes; I’m lost in the woods, hidden by the dark and all I can do is sleep.

***

In my dreams, I’m strong again, healthy. My skin is still pale, but a normal white rather than a sickly grey; my hair is black as nice and soft, not straw-like and dying; my lips a full and red. My knees don’t buckle and my hands don’t shake. And he is here.

His skin is paler than mine, which I never thought was possible; his hair is light brown, creating a golden shade when the sun hits it. He is unnaturally beautiful and all mine. I wish he is real every night. His hand, cold against my skin, brushes my cheek and I lean against it. He hovers over me, as he always does, and lowers his head to mine; it’s my turn to move back before he can seduce me.

“What?” he asks, our roles reversing tonight.

“What’s your name?”

I need to know; something is coming and if this is the last thing I will ever know, I’ll be happy. I just need to know him.

“Lucius,” he whispers and I know that tone from somewhere. No…

He kisses me, his lips softer than ever before, his touch gentle. I stay still, my fear returning faster on this night than it usually does. I can’t bring myself to stop what’s happening, though I know my dream is turning into a nightmare. And I know the ending.

“How did you find me?” I ask, gasping for breath as reality and nightmare come together.

Lucius cups my cheeks. “I’ll always find you, Gawain.”

“But you told me to run,” I sob.

“Well, I didn’t want her to kill you,” he says, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Saving that job for yourself?”

He laughs softly and lowers me to the ground, shaking his head. “Oh, I’m not going to kill you, Gawain. You have my word.”

He kisses me until my world goes black.

***

Lucius hovers over Gawain’s sleeping body, listens for his faint heartbeat. The sun is barely beginning to rise and soon the snow that fell in the night will melt, leaving no trace of their encounter behind. Lucius sits for a while, watching the boy he’s come to know so well; he might honestly be sleeping, but Lucius knows better – he didn’t take Gawain’s entire life force, he couldn’t, so now he will lie comatose, unable to move or age or die. But not fully alive either.

To say he is sleeping will work for now, but it is not true. You can always wake from a sleep. Gawain will never wake.

At least not naturally.

The post PRW Runner-Up Tour: Unnatural by Sam Hardy appeared first on REUTS | Boutique Book Publisher |.

I was a freak, an anomaly in a world where it was dangerous to be different. After all, our ancestors had spent centuries toying around with genetics, playing with strands of DNA until they had devised the Perfect Human. Sure, those experiments had led to countless civil wars, and produced thousands upon thousands of diseased, mutated Imperfections, but that’s why places like Elysium existed, to provide a genetically pure safe haven that would keep Perfect people producing Perfect children 99.9% of the time.

I was the 0.1%.

My own parents barely acknowledged my existence, ashamed to have created something that even distantly resembled an Imperfection. They brought my brother and sister into the world, in rapid succession, as if to atone for my imperfection. They covered me up like the fluke I was, a mistake that would perhaps be pardoned by the births of two acceptable, Perfect children.

It got to the point where people accused me of being disrespectful to our Great and Mighty ancestors by committing the colossal crime of existing. It wasn’t that I was especially foolish or ill-mannered. I got along with my siblings quite well, until they were old enough to be let in on the secret of my status as the 0.1% oddity. Even then, I never screamed or flew into fits. I was docile, obedient, and patient.

I just wasn’t Perfect.

After Lea, more and more children began to disappear. They were stolen away one by one, as to be discreet. A girl wandered into the forest that hedged our town in and never returned; a few weeks later, a boy took the long way home but never arrived. It was only after five children had vanished under similarly mysterious circumstances that the townspeople began to notice.

The Council issued an edict stating that both the forest was forbidden to any unsupervised child. Back then, they were foolish enough to believe that the disappearances were simply the victims’ fault, the result of children losing their way and stumbling into the darkness beyond the town, or perhaps running away in a fit of madness.

There were a few, like my parents, that weren’t so quick to believe the Council’s reassuring lies. How, my mother asked, could a child be lost in Elysium? Our town was nothing more than perfectly paved streets joining at perfectly perpendicular angles, hardly a labyrinth of old. Even the toddlers, barely knee-high, knew their way around before they knew how to read. Under normal circumstances, no one entered the forest at all. It was a gloomy, unsettling place that could give a grown man nightmares. The teenagers sent one another into its depths on dares—they’d almost snatched Adam as part of a kiddie initiation—but other than that, the forest remained untouched. It was our safety net, separating us from the “imperfect” beyond the gates.

Well, except for that dastardly 0.1%.

To suggest rumblings of discontent in Elysium, my father chimed in, was outrageous. Everything and everyone was Perfect, they’d chime together. The Perfect Protocols were their mantras; they tossed them into the conversation whenever they could, another way to compensate for my imperfection.

Protest or not, for a while the edict worked. Children clung tightly to their parents, the braver ones walking in huddles from place to place.

But like so many passing trends, our false sense of security only lasted so long.

I remember when the Call first came.

My parents were getting us ready for bed while nattering on and on about Council gossip.

“Evelyn! Adam!” Mother called sweetly down the hall. She tapped the side of her glasses and the hologram floating in front of her face flickered in response. A long wall of text appeared before her eyes, the electronic glow illuminating her mud-brown eyes. She swivelled her head towards my father, the text turning with her. “Stephen, would you look at this! It’s the latest poll for Mayor; looks like Thornton’s got a run for his money.”

Father shifted in his leather couch, reading the newspaper.

I sat on the couch across from him, hoping they’d forgotten about me—they did it so often. I didn’t know what I’d do with an extended curfew, but I sure wasn’t about to decline it.

As if reading my thoughts, Mother’s eyes jumped from Father to me, narrowing as they honed in on my right leg. My hand came to rest on it involuntarily.

“Don’t think you’re any exception, David,” she murmured. I shrunk back at the sound of her sugar-sweet voice. I later recognized it as the voice she used to speak to the Councilmen’s wives, right before coming home and insulting them with my father. “Get to bed.”

I swallowed a sigh, glaring at the floor as I picked up my crutches and heaved myself into a standing position. Both my parents watched my painstaking progress, hawk-eyes tracking every movement. I shuffled into the darkness, leaning awkwardly on my good leg to push open my bedroom door.

Across the hall, Adam and Evelyn were play-fighting, shoving each other around in a battle for the sink. I lowered myself down on my bed. They squirted toothpaste at each other, guffawing when it sprayed over their hands and splattered the bathroom mirror. They brushed their teeth until their mouths foamed over with Whitening No. 5, making garish faces at the mirror and at each other, acting like they had rabies and pretending to bite each other.

Their faces paled in synch as they heard approaching footsteps. I shrank back in bed, equally afraid though I had done nothing wrong. As Mother took one look at the dirtied mirror and the foaming mouths and erupted into a stern-faced lecture, I was suddenly glad to be buried in the shadows.

Still, I realized with a bitter envy, even though Adam and Evelyn were mischievous and sneaky and sometimes broke the rules, they were the ones whom my parents kissed goodnight, though they protested they were too old for it. They were the ones paraded in front of our parents when we had company, while I sat trapped in my room, staring at the blank walls. They were the ones who were showered with gifts and affection. All because they were Perfect and I was not.

I had stopped crying a few years ago, when my parents forgot to celebrate my sixth birthday. I had holed up in my room, waiting for the tears to come, but instead found only a hollow anger that burned through my lungs without the decency of making me feel something. So now, all I had left was that gnawing, acidic anger that was never strong enough to justify anything.

I was on the cusp of falling asleep when someone shook my shoulders, effectively startling me into full consciousness. I opened my mouth only to have a clammy hand clamp it closed.

I was just shy of hyperventilating when a well-known voice whispered, “Shh, David, it’s just me.” Me being Evelyn. The strong hands pushing me off the bed and forcing me into my slippers must have been Adam, then. “Promise you won’t scream?”

I nodded quickly, wanting nothing more than to have her damp, slimy hand off my lips. Once she complied, I asked quietly, “What’s going on?”

“Alan’s having a party,” Evelyn murmured.

“In the forest!” Adam piped excitedly, his words scattering the silence.

“Shut up!” Eve whisper-shouted.

My eyes adjusted to the darkness, revealing Adam and Evelyn outfitted in black hoodies and jeans, the toes of their sneakers glowing neon yellow.

“Glow-in-the-dark sneakers? Really?” I asked cuttingly.

I could almost hear them rolling their eyes.

“Just come,” Evelyn barked. Adam had the decency to wait for me to grab my crutches before half-guiding, half-dragging me out the door and into the crisp night air.

We didn’t talk much as we walked down the paved streets, trading the quiet reassurance of the suburbs in for the thrill of excitement of the forest. Well, they walked. I hobbled, arm slung around Adam’s shoulders.

Finally, I couldn’t contain my curiosity any longer. “If Alan’s party is such a big deal, why are you bringing me?”

I saw Adam and Evelyn exchange a look. I swallowed dryly, hoping that maybe, just maybe, they’d correct me, tell me that of course, they wanted to include me; I was their brother after all. But we all knew the truth. People don’t bring freaks to parties.

“You’re our invitation,” Adam finally said, watching Evelyn as if for a cue. “He…” Here, he looked down at his feet. I could feel him tense.

Evelyn snorted. “You’re such a baby, Adam.” She turned to me. “Alan wants to see an Imperfection up close.”

My jaw fell open with the shock of it. I’d been called names before, but never an Imperfection. Imperfections were humans mutilated beyond recognition, their genes so distorted they were basically half-animal.

I lowered my eyes, fighting the stinging in my eyes.

“David,” Adam began to say, a twinge of remorse in his tone, but Evelyn held up her hand and he was quiet.

I frowned. Since when was Evelyn the boss in their relationship?

We went on in silence.

Even with Adam for support, my lame leg was throbbing. I was going to tire out before my sadistic siblings could use me for their twisted game of show-and-tell. But just as I’d found a glimmer of hope, our destination came in sight.

A large, billowing tent was pitched in a clearing a stone’s throw into the forest. Adam and Evelyn giggled nervously, increasing the pace until we were almost running towards the tent.

They shoved me inside first. I was overwhelmed by the putrid stench of sweat and incense; it sent me reeling backwards as if I’d been struck in the face. I barely felt Adam and Evelyn come stumbling in behind me.

Pinching my nose to avoid the odour, I made out a big blonde boy with piercing gray eyes and a smug grin. Holding a smoldering candle in one hand and an old, careworn book in the other, he sat at the head of a circle comprised of several girls and boys, mostly from the younger grades. I recognized a few of Adam and Evelyn’s friends, who gasped and pointed like it was the first time they’d laid eyes on me. I guessed the blonde boy was the Great and Mighty Alan, judging by the way everyone in the tent gazed reverently at him.

“Greetings, Adam and Evelyn. It is a pleasure to welcome you into the Inner Circle,” he intoned, his stormy eyes meeting mine. Any fear I might have held for him melted into the shadows; it was clear that he was nothing more than a boy playing pretend.

I had no problem staring back at him.

“Freak,” he said, addressing me. “You are also welcome. Unlike the ancestors, we appreciate and understand Imperfections.”

The children’s eyes all grew wider; a nervous murmuring spread through the circle. Adam and Evelyn ran out from behind me, pushing children out of the way so they could sit on Alan’s left and right.

“I’m not an Imperfection,” I growled softly, so quietly I was sure no one had heard, until I noticed Alan’s eyes glinting maliciously. Maybe there was something to be afraid of after all.

Alan raised a hand for silence. The mutters and giggles came to an absolute halt.

“Tonight,” he declared, in the voice of a boy pretending to be a man, “we will cleanse the world of its Imperfections!”

I dropped to the ground out of pure exhaustion; this was the farthest I’d ever walked in one stretch. Still, I wanted to be a thousand miles away. Alan might have been just a boy, but there was something eerie about the words he spoke. Something dark and dangerous.

“We begin with the story of how the Imperfections came to be.”

Despite myself, I settled in. I couldn’t help it; my interest was piqued.

Alan began with the history lesson we’d all been taught in school. Scientists had created genetic cocktails to inject into unwitting victims, who soon found their bones shifting and cracking and rearranging in inhuman ways. These victims spawned leagues of mutations known as Imperfections. Each generation became less and less recognizable as human. Rumours spreading in the big cities told of the Imperfections possessing animalistic qualities and supernatural abilities.

“Ever heard of werewolves, children?” Alan asked us. I almost laughed; he was a child himself. He prattled on about the early experiments combining human and animal DNA, and what repercussions that had on the test subjects. I had to admit, he was pretty smart for a kid just turned twelve. When some of the younger children began to fall asleep, he changed the tone of his story. Suddenly, his voice was reed-thin and taut with suspense.

“These mutilated monsters prowl this very forest,” he said, swaying slightly. I could see the fear rising in the children’s eyes; I felt my own heart clenching in anxiety. “Their leader once walked among us.”

A few children fluttered awake.

“They called him the Piper,” Alan murmured, lowering his voice so we all had to lean forward to hear him. A wicked grin danced at the corners of his lips. “He was a third-generation Imperfection, which meant that he had the face of a human but the DNA of a monster. Rumour has it that he was part rat.”

Adam’s face twisted in disgust; Evelyn bit her lip. I folded my hands and stared down at the grass poking through holes in the tent.

“Anyways. He was summoned to Elysium because once, our town was not always as perfect as it is today.”

His words elicited a few gasps.

“Back in its earliest days, Elysium was infested with rats, tiny creatures with long tails and sharp claws and bristly fur all down their backs. They’re ugly animals who deserve death as soon as they’re born.”

Involuntary shivers crawled down my spine.

“Legend has it, this Piper could call to the rats because, like I said, he had their DNA in his blood. He had a special bond with them. So the founders of Elysium agreed to pay him off if he could free the town of the rats. So he did.”

At this point, we were hanging on to every word as it dropped from his lips.

“He called to the rats, and as the sun set, they came to him. They did everything he asked; he could make them sit straight, he could make them run. He could even make them dance.”

Alan’s hands animated the story, moving jerkily as if to demonstrate dancing rats. It lightened the mood just enough; the children giggled into their hands.

Then Alan’s face grew as stormy as his eyes. The smile died on my lips.

“He could also make them fight to the death with their little rat teeth and claws.” Alan pantomimed clawing and tearing and death. Nobody laughed. “In the end, he summoned a thousand rats and made them dance all the way into the river at the heart of the forest.”

Complete silence. Alan cleared his throat.

“But when it came time to collect his reward, the founders refused to give him the money. He was an Imperfection, after all. He’d surely drink himself to death with such a large sum. They say he was so angry his eyes turned black. That day, almost a hundred years ago, he swore he would take revenge. But after that day, he became obsessed with black magic and other silly, superstitious things. He pushed the experiments to their limits, even trying to revive the Imperfections who hadn’t survived. His foolish experiments led to a massive fire that swallowed him whole.”

Alan’s voice dropped to an all-time low.

“But, impossible as it may seem, he has returned, children of Elysium! Lea. Cal. Abby. James. Robyn. John. They have all been claimed by the Piper. And if you don’t be careful…you’ll be next!” Alan roared.

Every child jumped or screamed or wetted themselves.

I did a combination of all three, to my lasting shame.

Alan laughed, but it was hollow.

“Now,” he continued, “Here is the final test. I have invited you all here because of your exceptional daring and courage.” He said that last part with a condescending ring; he was mocking us, us babies who were terrified of ghost stories.

“But what about us?” Evelyn cried. Her face was drained of colour, her eyes wide and pleading. “We brought the Freak—” here she pointed quite rudely at me. “That was our test. You said!”

Alan curled his lip at her; she shrank back. “That was too easy.” He turned to face the rest of us. “Tonight, we will cleanse the town of the Piper once and for all!”

It was meant to be a rallying cry to war, but we were hardly fit soldiers. Most of the children were whimpering softly, folding in on themselves.

“Now,” Alan started to say, but he never got that far.

Soft, unearthly strains of music began to emanate from the forest. We all paused, cocking our heads, confused. I felt the world fall away. There was nothing but the Call, its melody haunting and dark and beautiful. My eyes fell closed with the weight of it, and the blackness behind my eyelids gave way to the vast shimmering of the stars. In that sea of infinite light, I ran as I had always dreamt of doing. There were no limits or weaknesses or fear or hatred. I was flooded with light and warmth and strength and everything I’d always hungered for. The emptiness was no more and I was whole and I was good—

The music stopped. Suddenly I was plummeting through the stars, erupting into flame as I fell to the Earth. I gasped, my eyes flying open as unbidden tears trickling down my cheeks. I was consumed with the need to follow it, to obey its commands, to do anything and everything it asked of me, just to feel that alive again.

There! The faintest strains murmuring outside the tent.

My heart leapt. There was hope. Every nerve was live-wire, an electric buzz creeping through my veins. Without a second thought, I crawled outside the tent, pushing myself off my knees and to my feet. The Call danced on the breeze, just loudly enough for me to smell the stars. I ambled deeper into the forest, face upturned, ears cupped to trace the evocative music. I shifted to auto-pilot, letting my feet guide me. Even as I drifted into the unknown, being afraid never occurred to me. I was too lost in the wonder of the Call.

Here, the moonlit sky leaked through a web of spindly, gnarled branches. In the faint, silvery glow, I could see dark figures left and right, lurching towards the source of the music. I saw Alan and his invitees up ahead, faces upturned. We didn’t have to say anything—one look revealed that we were all chasing the same elusive Call. I don’t remember much about that night, but I do recall merging into one perfect single-file line, traipsing silently towards the mystery of the music.

I only noticed that my siblings had come as well when they came crashing clumsily through the undergrowth. I turned and saw their faces that were so familiar yet so foreign; they too were transformed by the allure of the Call. Their lips were frozen in an awed smile and their eyes shone and glimmered in the moonlight. I probably looked just as spell-bound.

The stars began to appear in the corner of my vision—I reached for them as they shimmered in short, staccato bursts. I saw the others doing the same, though I did not know what they reached for. Selfish indulgences, perhaps? Or maybe they chased the simple freedoms that I did. Either way, we were united in our pursuit. Despite the amazement and awe, no one uttered a single sound. There was nothing we wanted less than to crowd out the Call.

It was then, as our desires danced before us, that the Call rose to a crescendo. It shattered our silence, keening so wildly it almost hurt. The stars were flung wildly across my vision, flashing and popping so brightly it was just shy of too much to handle. Once again, I felt the music tug at me, calling to my inmost being. I was the puppet and the Call was my master, pulling all my strings at once.

Suddenly my heart was galloping with excitement and just a shred of terror, and it was all lights and noises and bells ringing in the distance, a light guiding us through the shadows. A voice sang along with the music, a voice so timeless it was to be trusted even as it led us farther from home than we’d ever been. It called us to come, come quickly now, come before the big bad adults hear, come before it’s too late, come quickly.

Our line sped up obediently, all thoughts that once belonged to us scattered, replaced by that one short command: Come. We hurried through the trees, through the underbrush, ignoring the jabs and stabs of thorns tearing at our ankles and knees. We clambered up hills and through deep thickets, winding our way through the army of trees like silent spies.

That was when my lame leg gave out; I had pushed the pain down so deep my body hadn’t had enough time to warn me. I leaned against a tree, trying in vain to get my leg to work again. Adam and Evelyn, behind me in line, were too captivated by the enchanting music that they didn’t notice I’d stopped. They tumbled into me in a mess of arms and legs. I hit the ground so hard my teeth knocked together and the air came rushing out between them with a soft whoosh.

Reality hit me with a sickening crack. All the pain that the Call had saved me from rose up inside of me in a nauseating wave of agony. I cried out in despair, tears springing to my eyes, but no one took pity. Instead, they cast me hateful glares for distracting them from the beauty of the Call, which I realized with deep and utter desolation I could no longer hear.

They walked on without me.

I fell into the abyss, crying out for what seemed like eternities. I cursed my leg, I cursed the world, I cursed the day I was born. It was the most torturous moment of my life. With all the strength I had left, I limped after the receding line.

I followed them to the crest of a hill, collapsing in a tangle of bushes and tree roots.

Beneath me, I could see the river, a vast cacophony of roaring waves and the hiss of spray where water met rock. The children stumbled down the slope, coming to a halt on a small cliff leaning out above the water littered with tiny bones. Without the Call to distract me, the horror of the situation was imminent.

He appeared out of the darkness, emerging from the water and stepping out onto the riverbank.

Even from the safety of my perch, I was deeply and truly afraid. I could see the grotesque way his limbs were mashed together, the skeletal grace he moved with. He held a golden pipe to his lips, an instrument from the olden days.

It was then that I noticed the rats. They swarmed at his feet, mapped out his mutilated figure with their scurrying bodies. He tipped back his head and laughed and I saw rats crawl out from his lips.

“Come, my children,” he uttered, in the same unearthly voice that had sang along with the Call. It carried all the way to me on an invisible breeze. “It is time for the Dance of Darkness, to submit to the waters and return in magnificence!”

I watched, frozen in terror, as the children shuffled to the riverbank. They stepped off the edge, plummeting into the abyss with the casualness of stones dropped one by one into darkness.

My mouth opened and closed but no words escaped me as Adam, then Evelyn, toppled over the cliff and into the raging river. I waited with foolish hope for them to break the surface, to gasp with breath and life, but no heads emerged once they’d plunged into the water. The moon rose higher into the sky as the Piper paced back and forth, that chilling voice murmuring foreign words into the night air. Tears coursed down my face, but I barely felt them.

Especially when the children rose from the river.

My heart soared with hope—perhaps it was not too late!

Then the Piper led the procession up the hill, towards me, and I saw them in the pale moonlight.

These were not the same children who had so innocently followed the call. No, they were twisted and monstrous. Their eyes were blank, the pupils swallowed up in a milky whiteness. Their lips were blue, their skin bloated. They were the walking dead.

Fear dug its claws into my flesh. I muffled a scream with my hands, crawling behind a thick copse of trees until I was certain that I could see them, but they could not see me with their dead, empty eyes.

There was Lea, her golden curls damp and hanging limply around her neck. I choked back a whimper. I recognized the children who had gone missing; Alan’s morbid ghost story had come true. Adam and Evelyn were the last in line; their familiar features were warped into something foul and malevolent. And, teeming at their feet, a plague of skeleton rats, a few of which scuttled over my fingers and slippers. I felt a despicable warmth spread between my legs, but I knew it would be my death to utter a single sound.

After I was sure they were too far away to hear me, I dragged myself after them. At that moment, my addled brain could focus on one thing, and one thing only: returning home. It never occurred to me that with the Piper’s return, there might not be a home to return to.

I don’t know how I did it. A rush of adrenaline, or primal desperation perhaps. Either way, I made it out of the forest in time to watch Elysium burn. I could hear the terrified screams as the Piper and his corpse army ravaged our town.

When the smoke finally began to clear, days after, hunger drove me into the charred ruins.

I don’t remember much, but I do remember crawling on hands and knees through the ashes, staring at the pile of rubble that used to be my house.

I remember curling up and finding one last tear to shed.

I remember, just before I fell into a dreamless sleep on the empty street, a pair of black eyes and the gentle brush of rat fur against my cheek.

I have long since fled Elysium. A neighbouring town was kind enough to take me in, but only long enough for me to be back on my feet; I was soon abandoned to wander as an Imperfection. That has been my life, up until now. Time and bitter memories have brought me back to the place where it all began. I’ve built myself a humble home in the dark forest to wait out the rest of my days; it’s in this modest cabin that I allow myself to relive that fateful night.

I sit in the whispering darkness, bones rattling with age. My leg is as lame as ever; some things never change. Nor do I wish them to; my weaknesses kept me alive. But not for long. I can hear the scrabbling beneath the floorboards, the sound of small sharp eyes watching from below. In the grass around the cabin, a million tiny pawprints merge into a trail of slender footprints. The Piper will come for me, the one who got away.

And this time, all the luck in the world won’t save me.

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Lingering in my hiding place, a dark, litter strewn shop doorway tucked away down a side street, I scanned the blinding whiteness for signs of others. There was no-one else around – just me and her.

Drawn to her in a way I had never experienced in thousands of years, I couldn’t leave her alone. Her laughter had been the first thing that caught my attention. I’d followed her for weeks, seen her miserable life, and had no understanding of what she found to laugh at. Faced with begging for money, or even scraps of food, her appearance repulsed those that passed her. I noted the people who treated her with disgust. I’d leave them for Death – trapped souls in a world where there was no rest, no peace. At least Hell was a place that you could live in – your soul was still with you.

I had spoken to her last night, breaking the rules – not caring. Her name was Annabel, she was eighteen. When I had offered her a cigarette, that sealed her fate in more than one way, I had known that she wouldn’t last much longer. Displaying the surreal grey pallor of a dying person, and the stench of internal rot that always accompanied those about to depart this world, she was at the end of her life. I had stayed on a snow covered earth since yesterday, keeping a centurion watch on her and the dark doorway she hid in. She was so near the moment when death would stretch his grisly hands and try to claim her as his, but it seemed that both myself and the angels had other ideas. Death wouldn’t have a chance to claim her tonight.

I often heard people refer to me as the Devil, but they had little, or no understanding of what I did. It suited me, although I must admit, I preferred people to not call me by the name that He had once given me. There were only a few left who knew what had happened to me, or cared enough to think of the events of that day. I growled quietly. Today was not the day to reminisce.

Pulling the collar of my coat higher around my neck, I sighed – bored. My warm breath clouded in front of me as I huffed at the weather. I’d have preferred rain. I adored rain. It affected their wings, made it harder for them to fly. I enjoyed seeing them struggle; their tiny bodies fluttering even more than the damn snowflakes that were still falling around me.

Digging my hand into my pocket, I retrieved a pack of smokes and a lighter. Cupping my bare hands around the cigarette, I lit the end, drawing in a deep lungful of nicotine-tainted poison. It was the perfect way to wait.

Narrowing my eyes, I took another long drag from the cigarette as I saw her move. Uncurling from the ball she had slept in for the last few hours, she shifted her position. Her clothes were shabby and torn, the result of many months living on the streets. Even in this weather she had bare feet. The only item providing her with any warmth was a tatty brown blanket thrown around her shoulders. I smirked, silently promising her she’d not be cold for much longer.

Slipping my hand into my inner coat pocket to retrieve my phone I tapped in a well-known number. I balanced my cigarette on the edge of my lips, waiting for Cerberus to answer. On the third ring his gravelly voice greeted me.

“Master.”

“Is everything prepared for my return?”

“Yes. You have been gone for too long this time.”

“I’ve had a very good reason. You know that.”

He didn’t speak for a few seconds. I knew he hated my absence. “So, you intend to return when… tonight?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask if she will be with you?”

“Yes. She is near, so very near.”

There was no response, and as I looked into the sky, I saw the distant flicker of wings. Damn them. “And everything is ready for her as well?”

“Yes, Master. Everything is prepared. We all know she is yours. We look forward to welcoming her.”

“Good. I shall not be long. I sense her final breaths. Check everything again. I need things to be right. Make no mistakes.” I growled at him.

“Of course, Master.”

Finishing the call, I scowled at the snowflakes as they fell, hiding the multitude of wings that descended from the sky. I snorted, hating their interference at the best of times.

Alert to Annabel’s every movement, I watched as she tried to settle in her usual doorway directly across the road from me. Surrounded by cardboard boxes already soaked through from the melting wetness of the snow, she continually shifted, like a cat padding down his bed, trying to get comfortable. The street was peaceful, deserted, but I waited. My timing had to be perfect. Too early and the tiny flutterers would persuade her to go with them. Too late and they would snap her away from me. Although, tonight, I would put up a fight to have her with me. I was prepared to fight dirty.  Damn angels wouldn’t win tonight.

It wasn’t often I got the chance to take a young female back with me. Their innocence and general good health meant that they died in accidents, unexpected occurrences or unfortunate circumstances. The angels had inside knowledge about when a person’s life would end, and were always ready for them. I had no such information. I had to watch, wait, and try to be in the right place at the right time.

Timing was everything. Never mind the constant threat of the angels getting her first – there was Death. If I approached her too early she’d still have enough life left in her to be scared of me. Too late, and – well – I’d miss her departure. However much I hated the angels and their higher than thou attitude, I’d rather a person go to them than remain unclaimed. The unclaimed were the worst – the ones who wandered the earth as lonely spirits. Trapped between life and death, there was never any escape for them.

A loud hacking cough sounded from across the road, and I cocked my head. Raising a perfect black brow at the noise, I took a long drag from my cigarette. It was time.

Crossing the street, I looked up to the sky again. The glow of the street lights caught the wings of the angels as they continued to descend in swirling clouds of glitter. Hearing their distant high pitched singing I lengthened my steps, quickening my pace to get to her first. The little critters moved quickly when they wanted to.

“Happy New Year’s Eve,” I said, standing in front of her.

Her darkened eyes looked at me. I was sure I saw a hint of recognition in her gaze.

“I spoke to you last night,” I offered, trying to jog her memory.

She nodded slowly.

“C..c…cold. So c..cold.” Her stuttered words forced through blue tinted lips.

“You want a smoke?” I asked, removing the white stick from my mouth, already knowing her answer.

Dirty gloved fingers reached for the cigarette. Like a coal in a red hot fire, the tip glowed bright red as she held it to her quivering lips.

Crouching down, I took her free hand, warming her freezing skin between my hot hands.

“You’re so warm.” Her words were a whisper.

“I don’t feel the cold,” I explained.

“That must be…nice.”

Removing my coat, I placed it around her bony cloaked shoulders.

“Thank you.”

I smiled at her before realising she wasn’t looking at me. Her eyes had closed.

The humming of wings was close, very close, and I swatted at a few of the angels that had arrived before the main throng of their party. One of them hit the wall, wings broken, before sliding down to the wet, oily ground. She didn’t glitter any more. Her little angelic life had left her, just as life was leaving the girl I was crouched next to.

“Annabel?” I said, wanting her attention.

She opened her eyes, the effort so hard, before a loud rasping cough escaped her. Her whole body shook as she coughed and she curled up, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Do you like the warmth, Annabel? Do you never want to feel cold ever again?”

Unwilling to turn my attention away from her, I blocked out the sound of the many singing voices that currently filled my ears.

“Would you be willing to come with me? I promise I’ll look after you and you’ll never be cold again.”

“P…p…please.” Her hand grasped at mine, showing remarkable strength for someone who was dying. “It…hurts. So…so much.”

“I can make it go away. I promise I can. Do you want me to make that happen?”

Her eyes met mine and I was stunned by the depth within them, the fire that I had seen hidden within her was already there.

“Please… I know you can make it stop. You can help me. You must.”

Leaning closer to her, I sheltered her body with my own large frame.

“I don’t like the noise.” She shivered even more. “I keep hearing them. It scares me.”

“You can hear them?” Could she hear the annoying relentless singing?

Her hands reached for mine and she seemed to gain some strength from our connection as she spoke clearly and succinctly – no chattering of teeth, no stuttering of words.

“They’ve tried to take me before, but I didn’t want to go with them. I hate the noise, the brightness, the speed at which they fly. They make me dizzy.” Tears began to crawl down her dirt covered cheeks. Their path left a clear track across her face.

“But you would willingly come with me?”

“I dreamt of you last night when you’d gone. I saw you in my dream. I felt safe with you. You kept them away. I was with you. It was warm.”

Another angel fluttered past my face, and Annabel pulled herself even closer to me.

I flicked the angel away – she joined her friend on the wet ground.

“Annoying, aren’t they?” I asked.

“They frighten me.”

“And I don’t?”

“No.”

Caressing her cheek, I wiped the tears away.

“No more crying,” I told her. “It’s not necessary any more.”

Placing a kiss on her lips, I sealed her fate. Seconds later, life left her as her eyes shut. Her breathing stopped. She was mine.

Carefully wrapping my arms around her weak and fragile body, I cradled her against my chest. Her head rested against my shoulder as I stood up, ready to face the angels.

A shrill male voice spoke up. “She is ours!”

“Not this one,” I replied as three bright white lights danced before me. “I have already sealed her fate. You are too late to take her with you!”

“We are never too late. You cannot win this one, Lucifer.”

I hissed as he used my old name. “You have no hold over me any longer. None of you do!”

“We cannot let you take her. We will do everything in our power to stop you.”

I felt the skin on my back tighten. I was cornered, surrounded by their pounding wings and their high pitched singing.

“You say you are angels, and yet you cause pain to those you take. They are stuck with you, saving others. You are unable to form relationships with anyone. It is frowned upon by Him. You live only to serve Him. What kind of life is that? At least I have a life, I’m free to love who I like, lust after what I want – take whatever I need. My life has meaning, unlike yours!”

“You left us.”

“Left you?” Stupid, misinformed angel. “I had no choice. I was thrown out; left to survive as best I could. My wings were taken from me. I was left to rot. It’s taken thousands of years for me to be able to stand against all of you.”

“You betrayed us!”

“I fell in love.”

“You felt lust!”

I sniggered. “And for that I was thrown out. Well, little ones, I have news for you. I still feel lust, love, and I wouldn’t return to Him if you asked me to.” Looking at their ghostly white faces, I couldn’t stop myself from winding them up even more. “Besides, red’s more my colour these days, not white.”

The itching on my back increased significantly. Was it happening? After all these years, was it finally happening?

The angels buzzed around me like annoying bees. Unable to knock any of them away, I sheltered Annabel from their attack. They dived and swooped at me, some aiming for my face, others trying to connect themselves to Annabel. My anger began to surface as their strong attachment tightened and I felt Annabel lift slightly from my arms.

“No!” I snarled at them.

My back burnt intensely, and I quelled the scream that was trying to force itself from me. Was this His way of punishing me? Could he still reach me after all this time?

Standing still, defiant as ever, I felt the back of my top split open. The pain was incredible, practically unbearable as it mingled with the vision of Annabel slowly drifting away from me.

I roared into the quiet evening, as I realised what was happening.

My old wings began to grow and uncurl.

The angels stopped what they were doing and released their hold on Annabel, dropping her back into my open arms. Fluttering further away from me, backing away, they stared, transfixed at my transformation.

I hadn’t had wings since I was cast out of Heaven. But as I stood there, protecting what was mine, my wings pumped out to their full glory. I flapped them once, experimenting with the forgotten weight of them as they continued to grow. They soon extended well beyond my body. Each glorious wing was at least six feet long. They weren’t white or golden feathers though, instead they burnt like the fires I lived amongst. The flames of my wings licked into the winter air around me.

Fire – the one thing the angels couldn’t fight. Too afraid they would get singed they kept a significant distance away. Their high pitched singing stopped, only their wings hummed as they hovered in the air.

Smirking at the formation of my wings, something I had long forgotten about, I tipped the end of one of them forwards. Pointing at the angel who had spoken to me before, I glowered at him giving him my message.

“Go and tell Him that I have found what he told me I would never find. My wings have grown back because of the strength of feelings I have for this girl. Tell him that I will be able to fight you properly now – with wings of my own. You will have a true battle on your hands every time we both want the same person. I will not only take the bad, Death can have them. From now on, we are equal!”

“You can never be equal to us!”

I raised my brow, stretching my wing out to the angel who had spoken. As soon as the tip of my fiery wing touched him, he burst into flames. I laughed.

“Anyone else?” I asked, looking at their silly, scared faces.

They didn’t move.

“Go, leave me alone, or I will toast each and every one of you!”

Within seconds they dispersed, heading back into the white flakes of the falling snow. I glanced at Annabel. She looked like she was sleeping. She’d think she was. Her final breath had been taken when I silently promised her that she would be mine. My kiss had sealed her fate. Even if the angels had taken her, I knew she would have been cast out in years to come. She didn’t belong with them. I had seen the fire in her eyes when she looked at me. It matched my own. If I hadn’t already developed such strength of feelings for her before I saw that, then I certainly would have done then. I had never seen fire in someone’s eyes before they died.

Carefully wrapping my wings around my body, I enveloped both of us. Walking steadily into the empty building behind us, I encouraged the flames to spread. Heat radiated around the large open space I stood in. Metal warped as the temperature rose, wood burned as everything ignited.

My own fiery angel had requested warmth, and I had promised her that she would have it. Held in my arms, protected from the flames all around us, she stirred, awakening from her sleep. Gone were the dark shadows under her eyes, her skin was no longer deathly grey, but colourful and bright. Her eyes locked on mine.

“I knew you’d come for me, eventually.” She smiled. “I had to fight the angels off every night because you were taking too long to claim me.”

“You waited for me?”

“Of course.”

Joy spread throughout my whole body at the knowledge that she had waited for me.

“Are you ready to leave this world?” I stared into her eyes that reflected the dancing flames around us.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Then it is time.”

As the beams of the building crashed to the ground, I beat my wings, hearing the loud thump of the air displaced by them. The curse thrown at me when I was cast out of Heaven and hurled to earth had been lifted. All because of this girl.

Fire fuelled my desire, and as I looked at the girl in my arms, seeing her own fiery wings start to grow, I knew I had chosen well. My newly returned wings meant I could fly with the little blips of light that regularly descended to earth, and now I had someone else to help me torment the bright annoying do-gooders.

My life in Hell, damned to a never endless world of hate, greed and envy, had hardly been bearable. It was an existence, nothing more. But, I had managed to find the one thing that He could not control. That He never thought I’d find.

Hell wasn’t such a bad place to be, not when you had someone you loved to share it with.

~oOoOo~

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A throat clears behind me, sending my thoughts skittering into the hidden corners of my mind.

I cast a weary glance over my shoulder. Another polizei come to pick at my wounds. “You have my statement. I’ve nothing left to tell.”

“Unsinn! I’ve read the reports. Such a wild imagination,” the man snickers. The slapping of a hand against metal echoes off the sterile walls. “I’ve no interest in fairy tales, rinne ratte.”

A chair screeches a complaint against the stone floor. “I am the Kapitän of Göttingen. You will give me the truth, Greta, or my dogs shall rip it from your throat. Now. Sit!”

I reluctantly pull my body into the chair, numb to his threats. Food and water have been replaced with a steady diet of intimidation. The Decretum is known for its hospitality.

The Kapitän paces the length of my cell, a predator circling its prey. Every click of his boots makes me cringe.

“Start from the beginning—-from the haus in Grimm woods,” he demands, breath heavy with liquor and cruelty.

“We were gathering wood for Papa. We–”

“We? Who else was with you?” Kapitän prods.

“My brother, Hans,” I sigh, tiring of the tale. “We spied Frau Bose sneaking through the forest. We followed her to a small cottage, one deep in the woods.”
“And what did you find there?”

“Behind the cottage was a large garden, overflowing with fruits, herbs, vegetables and grains. We’d never seen so much food.”

“An illegal garden. It is forbidden to grow your own food. You should have reported it to the Decretum immediately,” the Kapitän barks, slamming his fire stick into the table. Sparks of blue light jump from its tip, landing on my arm. I swipe at the place where fire meets flesh. “Did Frau Bose share the spoils?”

“No,” I whisper. Our land was steeped in famine. The food we found would have saved most of our village.

“Tsk, tsk. Your own mother kept it all to herself and let your woodcutter father and you starve. Not very nurturing of her.”

“She wasn’t our mother!” I yell, voice dripping with venom. “Mama died when we were six. Frau Bose was our stepmother–nothing more.” I wouldn’t have survived Mama’s death if it weren’t for Hans. He was the strong one.

“I don’t blame you for hating her. I would have. Reason enough to kill her,” he whispers in my ear.

“I didn’t kill her. I wouldn’t–”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Tell me, what happened after you discovered your stepmother’s treachery?”

“She made us a promise. If we didn’t report the garden, she’d let us have the food. We went back the next day. Inside, we found food piled everywhere. For the first time since we could remember, we were happy.” And we were. Happy. But happiness proved as elusive as freedom.

“Your happily ever after didn’t last long, did it?” the Kapitän purrs, relishing the torment.

I rub at my arm, blood seeping through my sleeves. “We weren’t alone. There was an old, blind woman sitting near the fire. She greeted us with a smile and asked if we’d sit and eat.” Her eyes were haunting clouded marbles.

“And what did you do?” he asks.

“We ate until it was dark.” Never in our lives had we eaten so much. It was a foreign feeling, being full. We were drunk on food and the warmth of a welcoming fire. “We stayed until it was too late to walk home.” Too late to live…

“This is where your little tale gets interesting. According to your report, the old woman, Frau Hexe, tried to, what was it…oh, yes, eat you,” he offers, mocking in his delight. “Was she a witch, intent on adding a bit of child to her chowder?”

I swallow the bile climbing up my throat. “No. She was something much worse.”

Images of the beast she became scatter across the ravaged landscape of my mind. We were asleep near the hearth, dreaming of the treasures we were to bring home. I awoke to a scuffle–a shift in the air. Through eyes heavy with sleep, I witnessed the old woman slip from her skin into that of a monster. The creature’s howl pierced the air, turning my blood to ice. In a blur of hair and teeth, it fell upon us…my screams swallowed by darkness.

“You say your brother, Hans, was the one who killed the old woman. Is this true?”

“Yes. He saved me.” Hans had protected me. When I lay helpless, he tirelessly fought the beast. Like the old woman, the monster was also blind. Hans was able to push it into the large brick oven…but not before it tore a piece from his arm. The jagged mouth opened clear to the bone. We cleaned and wrapped his wound as best we could. When he recovered enough to travel, we filled our sacs with as much as we could carry and returned home.

“Unfortunately, the remains we recovered of Frau Hexe aren’t enough to reveal whether she was a crazy old biddy or savage beastie. I did discover she was the oma of your dear stepmother. It appears she wanted less mouths to feed,” he gloated.

Hans discovered this upon our return. We knew our stepmother wanted us dead. I’ll never forget the shadow of shock that fell upon her face when we walked into our little cottage, sacs bursting with food. She never mentioned the cabin in the woods or the beast that was meant steal our lives. We never spoke of the secret garden to anyone. Even Papa stopped questioning where the food came from. We went back several times, bringing enough food for several families in our village. We stayed clear of the patrolling polizei and ever watchful of the wicked woman in our house.

“You claim it was, Hans, who also killed your stepmother?”

“She tried to kill us, again.”

Hans swore to protect us. He had a plan to rid us of the wicked woman. But Han’s bite from the beast never healed. In a week’s time, he took sick. He fell with a terrible fever, burning to the touch, that covered him in a sheen of sweat. He wouldn’t eat or drink for days. Even sleep slipped through his grasp, his mind plagued with nightmarish visions.

Distraught, Papa called the village doctor, offering food as payment. The doctor said he was cursed…there was nothing he could do.

“We’ve searched your village, and all of Göttingen for Hans. There’s no trace of him. Tell me, Greta, where is the boy?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

Days later, he broke into fits of violence, forcing me to bind him to the heavy banister. He still refused to eat, and lunged towards anyone who came near. I would sit with him and read the stories our Mama once told. Tales of gingerbread houses and bread crumb trails, of candied jewels and wicked witches.
I would comfort him with memories of the days before the Decretum. Before they stole our freedom. Before they kept us hungry and hopeless and afraid…before they stole our mother.

“If we don’t find him, you will be charged with the murders of Frau Hexe & your stepmother. The penalty is death.” He relishes this, I can hear it in his words. Even if I knew where Hans was, I wouldn’t tell them. They took my mother. They won’t have him.

“I haven’t seen Hans since that night…” I reply.

Days passed without any relief. Winter laid its claim on the woods, its icy fingers reaching through the cracks of the cottage to wrap around our bones. Any hope I harbored of Hans recovering was lost under a blanket of ice. He grew weaker, and so, he became easy prey.

“What did your stepmother do, Greta? What was the final straw that led to her brutal slaying?” he prompts, tapping his boot against my chair.

Stepmother crept into our room, thinking we were fast asleep. She wielded Papa’s axe, its sharp edge winking in the moonlight, promising a swift end.

“She told us a secret.” I say.

“A secret worth killing over?” he asks with interest.

In the cover of darkness, she surrendered her deepest secret so that we may take it to the grave. We laid so, so still as she towered over us. The words spilled from her lips and stabbed into our heart. She had been the one who alerted the polizei of Mama’s transgressions. She told them our mother was healing the sick, providing illegal care to the wounded. It was her who brought the wrath of the Decretum upon our village.

“Some secrets are worse than others,” I seethe.

Rage raced through our veins, hungry for vengeance. Hans broke free of his bonds and his skin. Before my eyes, he shifted into a fearful beast. He chased our stepmother from the house into the woods. Before she could scream, his claws tore the terrible secret from her throat.

Hans stood in the red stained snow and howled in anguish for the loss of our mother, the loss of innocence…the loss of hope.

“You have a secret, don’t you, Great?” I can feel his piercing stare driving daggers into my back. “Tell me where your brother is.”

I look through the window and watch as floating crystals sizzle into vapor, their beauty burned by an unseen barrier.
“I’m not inclined to share my secrets with the Decretum,” I spit.

He reaches a gloved hand under my chin, forcing my gaze to meet him. “Do not play games with me. The Decretum is begging for another execution.”

His face swims before me. Fear scurries against the cage of my chest. Memories claw their way to the surface.

The sky rains down blood and blue fire. People running, stumbling over bodies. I’m choking on smoke and screams. Mama’s hand slips. Cries tear from my throat. Mama! A polizei stands over her. Crimson rivers spill from her dress onto the soil. My heart splinters.

“You…you killed my mother,” I gasp.

“It’s possible.” He edges closer. “I’ve killed many rinne rattes, including mothers.” His lips spread in an awful grin. “When did your mother meet her maker?”

“Ten years ago. I was six. You raided my village…you shot her in the street…she bled to death in my arms.” I cry, the words strangling what little control I had left.

“Ahh, yes. The healer. Well, you can’t blame me for upholding the law, now can you? And here you are. Like mother, like daughter,” he laughs.

“Hans won’t let you hurt me,” I warn, my skin prickling with a burning heat.

“I’m counting on it. Once he shows up, I’ll have the pleasure of hosting a double execution. Twice the fun, I should think.”

“You’re a monster!” I shout, raising my arm to strike.

The Kapitän catches my blow, his glove slipping on the blood beneath.

“What is this?” He pulls back my sleeve to reveal a barely healed wound, its edges jagged and raised.

“A bite, courtesy of the old woman in Grimm woods,” I smirk.

He tosses my arm aside. “Looks like the bite of an animal–not an old, blind woman.”

Anger slides under my skin, shifting and shaping my fury, whispering of vengeance.

“You want to know where Hans is? He’s here,” I taunt. He is, I can feel his presence.

“Excellent. My guards will have him in custody, momentarily,” he beams, heading for the door.

“He’s here, in this room,” I add.

The Kapitän turns, confusion and suspicion waging a silent battle in his eyes. “Impossible,” he dismisses.

Underneath the metal table, my fingers stretch into claws.

I pin him with a wicked grin. “Some secrets are worse than others.”

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If only that were the worst of it.

With a trembling hand, Bel reached out to wave her gloved fingers under her uncle’s nose. No wheezing breath left his mouth, but that wasn’t what she worried about. She was fairly certain she had done it right, like the doctors had instructed over the radio. The icepick had gone straight through his skull between his eyes, invading his brain with its sharp length.

Be brave, she told herself as she finally reached out to touch his lips. Nothing. His eyes, half shut, didn’t shoot open. His mouth didn’t snap at her fingers. A breath left her lips as she took a step back. She had silenced him right. He would not be coming back from the dead like so many other flu victims.

She took off her gloves and threw them away on her way out of the room. Just for safety’s sake, she locked the door behind her. It would take days for anyone to come and remove the body. There were too many victims, too many calls for the hospitals and funeral directors to clear out homes of the dead. Priority was given to the undead still roaming around the city of Abets.

“Belinda?” A wheezy voice called out from down the hall. “Belinda, dear? Will you—”

A violent cough cut off her father’s words. Her heart seized at the sound, twisting in her chest as if it were hiding from the situation. Shortly after her uncle had fallen ill, her father had developed a cough. Yesterday it worsened. What had she done wrong? Every meal held onions — plenty of onions. They were supposed to help fight the flu. Even before Uncle fell ill, they had placed salt in their nostrils. Every day, even though it was blistering hot outside, they would burn brown sugar and sulfur on hot coals to keep the flu away. How did it find its way into their home?

Since her school shut down, she had been forbidden from leaving. Father and Uncle still had to work at their shop to bring in money, even though no one left home anymore. If only … if only they had closed the shop and locked themselves inside like Bel had. Then she might not risk being left alone.

What would you do if you were here, Philip? she wondered as she went to the kitchen and got a new pitcher of water for her father. Her older brother had always been the strong one. A part of her wished he were there. A bigger part was grateful he was away, even if it was at war. At least the dead remained dead there. Coming back was a plight reserved just for Abets, and the people were doomed to suffer through it. The military cut them off from the rest of the world, making certain their plague didn’t spread like the Spanish flu had.

She readjusted her mask and went up to her father’s room.

The hospital in Abets was overflowing. Her school had been converted into a make-shift morgue, though that’s not what they called it. It was an “extra facility for treating the ill”. In reality, it was a place to wait and die. A place where the military waited to silence those who came back.

“There’s nothing we can do for them,” a doctor had told her when she went to request an ambulance to transport her family. “We don’t have a cure. We don’t even have room for them.”

“Here, Papa,” Bel said as she took his glass and filled it with more water.

He looked worse than before. The skin below his eyes sank and was purple, his wrinkles were carving deeper into his pale skin, and sweat glistened across his balding head. She took a cloth from her apron and wiped his brow. His eyes used to be bright and blue — as blue as the ocean just a few miles from their home. Now they were beginning to cloud with red. It reminded her watching her Uncle lose his leg in the ocean to a shark attack years back. The way the blue had swarmed with red, fusing and yet fighting one another. Bel had thought the water was trying to reject the blood — it was unnatural and had no place within the ocean.

“You’re going to be fine, Papa,” Bel said. She was grateful for the mask, for she couldn’t even muster up a smile. Her eyes stung like gale force wind blew in them. If her father asked, she’d blame it on the sulfur soaking through their house.

He forced a smile for her. “You’re a good girl. The best daughter a man could—” he coughed again.

It shouldn’t have jarred her, shouldn’t have made her jump, but it did. After his fit passed and he took a drink of water, he said, “How is Charles doing?”

Belinda looked away. How long did her father really have? Did she need to tell him that his dear brother was gone? “Not well. I’m going … to go check on him. Call if you need anything.”

##

“But that’s outrageous!” Bel cried. “You can’t charge that. No one could afford to pay it.”

The shopkeeper shrugged. Behind his mask, Bel was certain there was a scowl on the disgusting fiend’s face. “Go buy your onions and sugar somewhere else then, girl.”

She couldn’t. He was the only one in town with any onions. She had already tried three other shops. With her father no longer working, their bills were starting to pile up. Could she really afford to pay three times the price she normally would? Her eyes returned to the sack of onions. They hadn’t been helping so far … then again, she wasn’t sick. Yet. Perhaps they were helping?

“I can’t afford the other produce,” she said as she pushed the bread, rice, and other items away. “Only the onions and brown sugar, please.”

It was theft, what the man was doing, but she had no power. She was a poor shopkeeper’s daughter … soon to be an orphan. What would she do then?

“You lie,” the one behind her said in an astonished voice.

“It’s the truth,” her companion replied. “Mr. Griffin is still very sane. My husband saw him just the other day.”

The women were silent for a moment. Bel gathered her brown bag after paying the horrible excuse for a human being and stood aside. She pretended to be interested in the newspaper, but kept her ear pointed to the ladies.

“But … he died, didn’t he?”

“Yes, months ago, but when he came back, he came back sane.”

“How strange. How do you think … he managed that?”

“I don’t know. He’s not like the others.”

“How odd.”

Bel left to make her way back to her house at the edge of town. Mr. Griffin … where had she heard that name before? After she cooked a soup of onions and took it to her father, she asked him about the man.

“Mr. Griffin is the recluse who lives up the hill,” her father said. “He’s richer than God, they say. Why do you ask?”

“I just heard something odd about him in town, that’s all,” Bel replied. She reached out her hand to place it upon his forehead. Even through her gloves, she could feel how his fever had risen. He was faring better than her uncle, but only by a little. By this point, Uncle Charles had been delirious.

Soon her father would be, too. Soon … she might have to silence him even. Her blood burned at the thought. No, no, no — she would not, could not, do that to her father. Perhaps she could not find a cure to the flu, but if Mr. Griffin could stay sane even after death, then her father could.

##

Dark oak trees hid the Griffin Manor from view. It had seen better days certainly; now it was wrapped in vines and its once white stone was blemished with gray. The black roof tiles were just barely hanging on, and the shutter in its top window was about to fall.

Three times she knocked before the door slowly opened, but only a crack to reveal a slit of black.

“Hello?” Bel called. She tapped to see if the door would swing open a little bit more. There was something on the other side keeping it ajar.

“What can I help you with, ma’am?” a voice asked from within the void. At first it struck her as odd — as if it was coming through a barrier, but then she realized what it was. Whoever spoke was wearing a mask, just like her.

“My name is Belinda Ness,” she said. “I was hoping to have a word with Mr. Griffin.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Ness, but Mr. Griffin isn’t taken visitors.”

“It’s very important,” she said quickly when the door began to close.

“I’ll tell him you stopped by.”

“I will not leave without speaking to him,” Bel declared. She placed a foot between the door and jam. With all her strength, she pushed the door open. Something crashed against the floor — she cringed at the sound of glass breaking. Had she knocked a vase off its stand? The sun broke into the entryway to reveal a decrepit house. The stairway sagged in the center, the ceiling held water damage, and the floor was in serious need of polishing.

It wasn’t a vase that had broken, Bel realized, as she looked behind the door. Oddly enough, a mannequin was tipped on the ground and one of its white porcelain hands had broken. What had it been doing there? Where was the person who had spoken to her?

The mannequin moved. With its good hand, it pushed itself up and turned to her. The face caused her skin to blossom with bumps. It looked upset.

“That was very rude, Miss Ness,” a voice said. The mannequin’s lips did not move, but the voice seemed to come from within the creature.

She had gone mad. The flu was in her, that was the only explanation. Somewhere along the way, she had fallen ill and now was at home, delirious and in bed dreaming of this nightmarish place.

“You … can’t speak,” she said. “You … you can’t be.”

The mannequin shook his head as he kneeled down and began to put the broken pieces into a pile.

“What madness is this?”

He looked up at her for a moment, then back down at his work. “I suppose I will have to allow you to see Mr. Griffin now. There’s simply no way I can allow you to leave.”

At that, the door shut. She heard a click as she turned to it. When she tried to pry it open, nothing budged. She ran to the next room where a large window looked out onto the dead front yard. Yet no matter how much she pried, the window would not open. She was trapped.

##

The mannequin had led her up the stairs and each yawned under her weight. She had held her breath, praying that they would not break and allow her to fall through them. At the top, she was asked to stay there while he went to speak with Mr. Griffin.

There were other mannequins working around the house. Some small, some tall, some women, and some children. It was like a dollhouse had come alive, but none of them were cute — none would be bought and taken home. Belinda tried her best to ignore all of them and rationalize the situation. There was an explanation.

“Mr. Griffin will see you,” the mannequin said, causing her to jump. She almost fell down the stairs, but the mannequin grabbed her and kept her up.

“Thank you,” Bel said shakily.

“Mr. Griffin will see you,” he said again as he nodded toward the door to his left.

She went to the door. Cautiously, she reached out to grab the once golden knob that was now covered in black gunk. It squished under her hand as she opened it. The room was dark. Curtains were closed across all the windows, with only a small slit allowing a slim ray of light through. When she was halfway in the room, she heard a voice.

“Come in all the way, Miss Ness. Close the door behind you,” it said. The voice was smooth like velvet, but as cold as the ocean in the winter.

“I would rather … not.”

“You came all this way to see me. You burst into the door and broke Mr. Bain’s hand, I believe the least you can do is come all the way.”

She swallowed as she took the final steps, but didn’t close the door. If she did, she was certain she wouldn’t be able to see.

“Now, why don’t you tell me what it is you want, Miss Ness?”

Her gaze flickered around the room. She couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from. All the corners were shrouded in darkness. To her far right was a bed, but the curtains had been drawn around it.

“Miss Ness.”

“I heard in town you had died of the flu,” she said. “Is that true?”

Silence answered her.

“You died and you came back — but not as a carnivorous beast like the others.”

“I am a beast.”

There was movement in the corner. She backed up as she heard the rustle of clothes and footsteps. A tall figure appeared, but he was still just outside a ray of light.

“If you can come back and be sane, so can others. How did you do it? I must know.”

“Are you sick, Miss Ness?”

“No.”

“Someone you love is sick then?”

“Yes.”

“A husband?”

“No.”

“A boyfriend?”

She didn’t like this line of questioning. “My father.”

“Aw, well, isn’t that sweet? A daughter on a quest. What are you willing to do to save your father, little girl?”

“I am not a little girl,” she retorted.

She heard a humph and imagined the cruel man smirking in the darkness. It made the hair on her arms stand on end.

“What is going on in this house? Why … why are there dolls walking around?”

“You have so many questions.” He took a step forward, entering a slit of light.

Bel felt ill. She had to choke back her breakfast as she turned away. It was true. What those women said at the shop — it was true. No living person could look … look like that. Have skin so … putrid and rotting right off his bones. His hair had all fallen out and his eyes were a cloud of red.

“How unkind of you, Miss Ness,” Mr. Griffin said.

She closed her eyes and willed the sight out of her mind. Perhaps she had just overreacted. There wasn’t that much light in the room. It could just be making the sight seem worse than it really was. Slowly, she opened her eyes and turned back around. He had taken another step into the light, revealing more of himself. His hands seemed to be nothing more than bone and skin.

A shiver wanted to break through her spine and consume her body, but she refused to allow it. She swallowed.

“It is true. What they said … it is,” she said.

“It is.”

“How did you do it?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Out of compassion?”

He laughed once. “I have no compassion. I do, however, have a price. If you are willing to pay it, then I am willing to tell you my secret.”

Anything crossed her mind, but she knew better than to say it out loud. “What would that be, Mr. Griffin?”

“I require a lover.”

Blood seemed to drain from her head, causing her to almost collapse on the ground. Her hand caught hold of the doorway to keep her from falling.

“Let me be more specific,” Mr. Griffin said. “I require someone to love me.”

If that beast thought she would ever … even as much as touch him, he was fatally wrong. She had half a mind to run out of the house. It didn’t matter if the front door wouldn’t open, she burst through one of the windows — she’d do anything to get away.

“You see, Miss Ness, I upset a witch.”

“Witches don’t exist,” she said.

“I used to believe the very same,” he said as he returned to his corner. She was grateful he was out of sight. It was easier to regain herself, to push up and stand straight. “Have you not seen my staff? She turned them into those … things. My home? It used to be a lovely place, and now no matter how much my maid scrubs, it won’t stay clean. She cursed me as well. I will live forever … likethis.”

The possibility of witches shouldn’t have been such a difficult idea for Bel to grasp. People shouldn’t be dying and coming back. The flu shouldn’t be raging across their country. Doctors shouldn’t be useless to cure the ill. The Great War shouldn’t be carrying on in Europe. Her brother, Philip, shouldn’t be there fighting, perhaps even dying, for the country.

“And … and what is it exactly you want from me? To … what? Love you? Marry you?”

“Not marry,” he said. “There’s a cure to my curse. If I could find someone to love me — a beast with a black heart, as the witch said — then everything will turn to normal.”

“I love you,” she said, hoping that by some magic that would be enough.

“I don’t believe that worked, Miss Ness,” Mr. Griffin said. “I feel the same.”

“Well, I don’t understand what I must do.”

“I would suggest you figure it out quickly, less you want your father to die and come back … unwell.”

Her mind flashed of Uncle Charles, his blue skin, his empty eyes, lying on his bed with a hole in his skull. She couldn’t do that to her father. Couldn’t allow it to be his future.

##

Her father’s cough was getting worse, and their supply of onions was diminishing. She knew she didn’t have the money to buy another bag full. Before she left the house, she placed some more salt in her nostrils. It burned, but it was better than the stench that filled the Griffin Manor. Mr. Bain let her in, with one hand still missing.

“I’m sorry about that,” she said. “Do you happen to have the pieces? I’m very good with puzzles.”

Through the night, she lay awake in bed pondering what she could do to make her fall in love with hideous Mr. Griffin and came up with nothing. Being able to work on putting Mr. Bain’s hand back together was back together would give her more time. After an hour, she had glued the pieces back together to near perfection. She told him to let it sit for a while, then glue it back on and hope that would solve his problem.

“I hope you succeed,” Mr. Bain said. “If you break the curse … we might return to normal.”

“Do you happen to have any suggestions on how I might be able to … warm myself up to the idea of …?” She didn’t know how to finish her sentence. “Perhaps you could tell me some nice stories of Mr. Griffin? Does he treat you well?”

“Oh, yes, he treats us all well,” Mr Bain said.

“How so?”

“He let’s us live here. He feeds us, pays us, clothes us — he’s a very good man.”

Really? That was all he had to say? Bel frowned behind her mask. What Mr. Bain had said was exactly what all employers should do.

Though she wanted to, she couldn’t delay any further. Mr. Bain showed up to Mr. Griffin’s room and after a knock, she opened the door and entered. This time one window was opened. It was a cloudy day outside, as if the sky was about to burst with rain, but it allowed more light in than before.

Mr. Griffin wasn’t there.

“Hello, Mr. Griffin?”

She waited for a moment, but when she heard nothing she began to explore the room more. It would be a fine time to explore his possessions to see if she could get a better sense of his character. Yes, it was an improper thing to do, but it was an improper situation to start out with. She went to his bookcase and looked around it. It was filled with nonfiction, mostly accounts of history and law. How dull. If he had fiction filling his shelves, as she did at her home, at least then they would have something in common.

His closet was filled with finest clothes. Another thing she couldn’t relate to. It was always a struggle to find a budget to buy clothes. Since she had turned fourteen, she had been tailoring her wardrobes from her dead mother’s possessions. It was easier to take those dresses in and roll up the skirts than to go down and buy clothes from one of the shops in town. Girls used to laugh at her at school.

How many of those girls are still alive?

It didn’t warm her heart to think that some, no matter how cruel they could have been, might be dead. Or worse.

There were hat boxes on the top shelves. When she moved one, it revealed a small jewelry box. It took standing on her tippy-toes for her to be able to reach it and bring it down. She shook the box but heard nothing at first. She did it again — there the faint sound of rattling paper.

Alas, when she tried to open the box it wouldn’t budge. She tried to peek through the heart-shaped lock, as if that would give her a hint to what was in the box.

She placed it back on the shelf and returned to the room, only to see Mr. Griffin standing in the middle of it. His arms folded, his red clouded eyes on her. Bel froze.

“And what, exactly, where you doing in there, Miss Ness?”

“Exploring,” she blurted out.

“My closet?”

She had nothing to say to that. It was all she could do to keep herself looking at the man without falling ill.

“What did you do to the witch?”

Mr. Griffin looked away, which was good, it meant she could avert her eyes from him as well.

“I refused to allow her to stay at my manor. She looked filthy — a street urchin.” He began to walk toward the door. “Come, you’re in time for lunch.”

##

As the women at the market had said, Mr. Griffin ate soup and vegetables unlike the other undead who would rather feast on their former family members. For some reason, this amazed her. Enough that she didn’t mind watching as he ducked down to suck up his spoonful of onion broth.

“Do you like onions?” she asked.

“They’re repulsive,” he said.

“Then why onion soup?”

He looked at her, as if she should know the answer. “For you, of course.”

A flush ran through her. She looked around the dinning room. Once it might have been nice, but the wallpaper was flaking and the chandelier had, apparently, fallen at one point and now its broken pieces had been brushed into the corner.

“That’s kind of you,” she said. She thought about asking him to buy her more onions, so she could take some home to her father, but her pride wouldn’t allow it. “What’s in your box upstairs? The one with the heart-shaped lock?”

His spoon fell into his soup. Her eyes returned to his.

“You shouldn’t be looking through my possessions.”

“If I’m to love you, I must know you,” she replied. “What’s in the box?”

“The past.”

“And what’s in your past?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

“I believe it does,” she said as she folded her arms. “Do you want me to love you or not?”

His brows furrowed as he contemplated this. The red murk in his eyes seem to rage, but she wouldn’t back down. “Eat your dinner. Then you may see.”

##

A thrill ran through her as she opened the box. Mr. Griffin had given her the key and left the room, which was fine with her. She pulled out the letters that were neatly stacked inside and began to read them.

Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn’t this. Love letters. Love letters written by a Dorian Griffin. Her eyes wandered to the door through which Mr. Griffin had left. The letters were dated a few years prior, and beautifully written. It was clear that Mr. Griffin was a well-read man. He even quoted Shakespeare to profess his adoration. There were letters from the woman, and many of them they were kind and loving.

Until the last set.

Dear Dorian,

I fear causing you pain, and yet I must. I have chosen to marry Jason Henderson.

It was a short and detached letter. It was not signed with a “Love” or marked with lipstick like the others. It just said that. Mr. Griffin had written to her again, but the reply was just a curt demand he stop.

He had been in love. His heart was broken. For some reason, that had warmed her heart to him just slightly.

“Thank you for letting me read those,” she said when she found him in the parlor.

“Hm,” was his only reply.

“Is that why you became a recluse?”

He closed his eyes and covered his putrid face with his bony hand. “I don’t wish to speak of it.”

She went and sat next to his armchair. After a moment’s hesitation, she reached out and placed her hand on top of one of his. “I’ve never loved and lost, but I imagine it’s very painful.”

He removed his hand from his face and looked at her. This time, it wasn’t so hard to look back. They sat there in silence, simply looking at one another. He took his hand away from hers and looked forward.

“I’d like you to leave,” he said.

“What? Why?”

He closed his eyes and sat back in his chair. “This won’t work. Leave.”

“I can’t—”

“I don’t know how to help your father,” he said. “I lied.”

##

“Please don’t leave,” Mr. Bain said before Bel could get out the front door.

“He doesn’t know how to help,” she said curtly. “I’ve been wasting my time.”

“Think about it,” Mr. Bain said as he gently led her away from the door. “The dead didn’t start to rise until after Mr. Griffin was cursed. They say it’s only happening in our town, do they not? Perhaps … if this curse is broken … it will stop.”

“He wants me to leave,” she said.

“Only because he has grown fond of you. He doesn’t want to force you to this any longer.”

“Did he say that?”

Mr. Bain shook his head. “He didn’t have to. I’ve known the man a long time.”

There was a part of her that wanted to stay. A part that was … curious about the possibilities. Why not? She returned the parlor, where Mr. Griffin still sat, staring at nothing.

“I believe if there is even a little bit of the man left who wrote those lovely letters, then I could learn to love you,” she said.

His eyes shifted up to her, and for once she didn’t feel a shiver at the sight of all that red. “Miss Ness—”

“I always finish what I start, Mr. Griffin,” she said as she walked over to him. She pulled a spare mask out of her dress’s pocket and placed it over his face. One of his brows raised high. Behind her mask, she smiled as she leaned forward and pressed her lips to where his would be.

##

Poetry was her weakness, and though he had hidden all of his Shakespeare works, Mr. Griffin had memorized nearly everything he had written. At first she wondered if his change, his kindness, was fake — simply a way to make her care. But she gave in regardless, because it was what she wanted.

And it paid off. One night, after a kiss without a mask, everything changed. The house seemed to shift under their feet — the dreary dirty home turned to something beautiful. Mr. Bain shrieked with joy at returning to his former tall, lanky, and tan-skinned self. Mr. Griffin … he changed the most. His wavy brown locks returned, his eyes cleared to hazel with flacks of gold, and his skin was perfection.

Her father was still ill, but it gave her hope that he hadn’t perished yet.

“Thank you,” Bel said as she closed her father’s new room at Griffin’s Manor.

“No,” Mr. Griffin said as he took a step toward her. He placed his hands on her sides and smiled. “Thank you, my dear.”

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Green fields stretching outward as far as the eye could see. Sun streaming down comfortably warm. One could almost think this is paradise.

“Arthur.”

Her voice calls, echoing along the sea of grass, drawing me forward. Suddenly I am in a wood, wildlife singing all around. One foot in front of the other, a path materializes before each step. Smiling contentedly I start to hum an old lullaby my mother used to hum. The cool shade of the forest gave way abruptly to a small, intimate clearing bathed in golden sunshine, a small pond reflecting the blue sky above.

“Arthur!”

The voice calls, more urgent. Stepping to the waters edge I look down, expecting to see my own reflection. Instead, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes upon stares back, smiling slightly. Her eyes seem to drink me in, as if I were the only person in the world.

She stretches out her hand which amazingly rising from the water. She is no mere image, but real. Tangible. Nodding to me, she silently urges me to take her hand, to help her rise. Without thought I stretch out my hand, feeling an overwhelming sense of longing, of desire. I knew that I belonged to her.

I stretched further, extending myself fully over the water, still absent a reflection. Our fingers inched closer, almost touching. I felt the faintest brush, a soft warmth across my fingers.

“ARHTUR!”

I jerked awake with a start, banging my head with alarming force.

“What? What’s going on?”

“We’re here.” A dry voice says beside me. Looking over I see John behind the driver’s seat of his beat up old jeep. With a crash, everything comes rushing back to me. “You fell asleep! Made me drive the three hours out here after our shift. No, couldn’t be bothered to offer and drive part of the way.” He shoved a wrapped burger at me. “Eat up and wake up. It’s almost game time.”

Indeed it was. The afternoon sun gleamed weakly over the rain slicked pavement as I absently began to eat the lukewarm burger. Mulling the dream over, I couldn’t shake the image of the beautiful woman. How much I felt like I needed her. Who is she? As cheesy as it sounded, I had this feeling that I had met my soulmate. Well, dreamed being the more accurate term.

“So Arthur, remember. Vampires are extremely fast.” Startled out of the confusing thoughts, I began to calm my mind, focusing on the rhythm of my heartbeat. Allowing its soothing pulse to wash over me,  I turned my entire focus onto John and our task.

“They’re also stupid-strong. So DO NOT let one get close enough to get their hands on you. Much less their teeth.” John shuddered.

“I know what I’m doing, John. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“I know it’s not, but you seem distracted lately. Are you having dreams again?” He turned to face me fully and I could tell by the slight glow to his green eyes making them gleam like emeralds – that he was focusing his power on my response.

“I should have never told you about that.” I replied, breaking eye contact. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Really.”

“Alright, well… Get your head in the game. It’s show time.”

Glancing quickly up, I caught the last glimmer of sunlight over the roofs of the surrounding warehouses. With a startling abruptness it disappeared completely, and John shot out of the car, swinging quickly to the trunk. I followed, watching his efficient movements as he slid out of his designer suit and into combat fatigues.

I smiled  at the turn of events that put us each down our separate but intersecting paths. Seven years ago in high school, finding out that the things from stories – the things that go bump in the night – were in fact real was quite a shock. An even bigger shock was to learn how talented we both were in combating them. A few adventures and misadventures followed until college. I went to university on a lacrosse scholarship, John went abroad on academic. We stayed in touch, meeting up on holidays to hone our new craft.

“Whoa, get new cards?” I asked, holding up a thin metal business card. “Business must be booming, what is this? Steel?”

“Silver. It’s an easy test of who or what I’m dealing with.”

“Smart.” I looked down, reading the card with more than a little pride, thinking of the scrawny nerd from high school who was all book and no brawn.

JOHN MERLIN

PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

I set the card down in the trunk, placing my personal belongings beside it. Watch, keys, wallet and badge. Before setting it down  I slid my fingers slowly over the textured metal of my Washington D.C. Police Department badge. Still wondering if I made the right choice in joining the PD over going into business with John, I threw it down and started to get out my own equipment.

A tactical vest with ceramic plates went over my t-shirt. I slapped my pistol holster against my thigh, testing the distance quickly before cinching it into place. Sliding extra magazines into pouches on the vest, I made sure that I was grabbing the correct silver tipped ammunition.

As unfashionable as it may be, I attached a fanny pack around my waist filled with essentials,situating it comfortably for easy access.

Finally, I belted a sword and scabbard around my hips. Placing it comfortably on my left side, I looked up to see John nodding his approval.

“I’m glad you brought it.”

“Well, you keep nagging me to. Plus all the practice hours we’ve put in, I figured I ought to put it to use.”

“You’ve a gift with the sword, Arthur.” He said, fingering the ring he wore on his index finger. “Mine lie in… Other areas.”

“Yeah, yeah. Voodoo hocus pocus. I know.”

A wolfish grin crept onto John’s strong face. Not so nerdy or scrawny these days, I noted.

“It’s full dark. You ready Pendragon?”

“I was born ready, Merlin.”

——————–

“Dude, are we there yet?” I whispered, cringing as it echoed beyond appropriate proportion down the tunnel. John turned to stare emerald daggers at me, his face illuminated by the witchlight hovering gently over his shoulder. Glancing down at his palm, he grunted in disgust, wiping his hands together canceling out his spell.

“This is strange.” He said, speaking aloud. I looked at him incredulously. “Oh grow up. Whispers carry more than talking. Besides, our quarry is evasive. I can’t get a lock on them.”

“I thought you scouted this coven. You said you got a good fix on the elder, and that the rest were barely even blooded.”

“True.” John said, frustration tingeing his words. “It’s almost like something is interfering with my spell. I dunno, it could just be -”

A loud crash echoed to us from down the tunnel, drowning out John’s words. Without realizing, I had drawn my sword, feeling the blessed steel tingle slightly in my hands. Why didn’t I draw my pistol first?

John began casting a spell I hadn’t heard before, mumbling quickly in Latin and clutching his focusing rod. I glanced back the way we came, making sure nothing was sneaking up behind us. By the time I turned back around, John was already twenty feel down the passage, beckoning me forward.

I jogged to catch up, slowing at John’s admonishing look. We crept further along the tunnel for what seemed ages. Finally we came to an iron door with an old style wheel locking mechanism like you expect to see on submarines. As I stepped forward to grasp the wheel, John whispered a quick incantation. Grunting with effort, I managed to get the lock spinning, soundlessly. John and I had practiced this trick before, he silenced the door with a spell as I got it open. I pushed the door silently open, spinning to check our six, pistol drawn as he swept by with his shotgun up and ready.

He tapped  my shoulder twice, signaling my entrance into the room. I spun, pistol held low and stepped through the door.

Onto a catwalk overlooking an abandoned power station. John was crouched in the corner, already casting a location spell on the vampires. Crouching in the shadows next to him, I looked down in horror at the scene below.

“Dude, you said we were going up against vampires, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What are zombies doing here then?”

John opened his eyes and looked down, obviously for the first time. “Oh…”

At least twenty zombies milled about on the floor below us. There appeared to be another tunnel leading away on the other side of the eerily silent undead.

I slugged John in the arm.

“Not cool bro.”

“I had no idea. Vampires hate zombies. I don’t underst-”

A booming voice echoed up from the tunnel below us. John went rigid, the color draining from his face. “There’s a necromancer down there.” He whispered. For the first time since he first discovered he was a wizard, John Merlin sounded frightened.

“A necromancer? Like raises the undead, voodoo style?” I asked.

“Sort of. Necromancers harness life forces. Drain the life from one, put it into another. Summon the life force back from the other side. Even summoning the life forces of demons.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah. It’s bad, Arthur. I harness the energy inherent in the universe that is all around us. I can do great things with it, but it tires me out physically and mentally; like running a marathon. There’s only so long I can go without collapsing out of sheer exhaustion. A necromancer uses the life forces of others without tiring themselves. Essentially, as long as they have a source, their power keeps going on.”

“Bad juju.” I said. “Definitely bad juju.”

“Yep. Look, I think I can take out these zombies with a fireball, but it’s going to tire me. If I collapse, you have to keep going. Kill the necromancer.”

“Plug your ears and open your mouth.”

“What?”

I pulled two grenades from my fanny pack – not so sissy now, is it David – thumbed the safety clips off and slid my finger through the rings. “I said to cover your ears and open your mouth.”

I pulled the pins and opened my hands enough to let the spoons pop off, starting the countdown. “Get ready to move.” Grinning like a schoolboy, I tossed the grenades over the side into the massed zombies below. Crouching, I opened my mouth and plugged my ears just as a colossal BOOM echoed exponentially around the walls of the subterranean complex, an intense pressure almost knocking me off my feet.

Jumping up, I hauled John to his feet and sprinted down the stairs. Hurtling uncontrollably I realized a bit late that the bottom section of stairs were missing, ripped apart by the blast. I leapt forward, easily clearing the warped debris and landed, losing my balance briefly as I slid in zombie muck and… pieces.

An impact to my side sent me stumbling further as John landed beside me, falling into a heap of grunts and curses. Two zombies ambled forward out of the smoke, making their way to John. Regaining my balance I slid forward, sword erupting from its sheath as I launched myself into a fighting form John and I had researched: Headsman’s Axe.

The sword slid neatly through the neck of the first zombie, just as it was descending on John. With a soft sizzle, the head went careening away into the smoke as the body lurched to the ground. Completing the spin, my sword took the head of the second zombie before it could even register my presence. A flash of light passed inches from my ear, and as I turned a third zombie erupted into a mass of charred bits as John’s lightning spell did its work.

“Thanks, brother.”

“Likewise.” He turned to the tunnel, muttering again in Latin, slowly growing louder. He thrust out his hand with a final shout and a ripple of air shot from his fingertips, growing larger until it filled the tunnel, disappearing into the darkness. John’s shoulders slumped slightly as he reached to steady himself against the wall.

“Whatever magical traps should be dis-”

A groaning shriek of metal tearing and a bright flash came from the tunnel, dust billowing out of its mouth covering us in a thin layer.

“-posed of. I’m really getting tired of being interrupted.”

“Maybe you should time your speaking a bit better? Or your explosions, your pick.”

“Shut up.” He pushed himself from the wall squaring his shoulders and began walking down the tunnel. “Coming Pendragon?”

As I caught up we hurried our pace, trying for a mixture of stealth and haste. As we moved further down the tunnel, a faint red glow appeared in the distance, the chanting starting again.

“He hasn’t stopped?” I asked. “Isn’t he worried about who made the ruckus?”

“Oh yes, he’s worried. His summoning has picked up speed.” He stopped, head cocked to the side. “We have to move. NOW!” John shouted, breaking into a sudden run. I sprinted after, quickly overtaking him and leading the charge.

We found ourselves suddenly in a large room bathed in a muted red light. Looking to the corner, I saw a cloaked figure, arms outstretched. Holding a dagger. With a shout, the necromancer thrust the dagger down toward the heart of a man prone on a raised dais.

Without thinking my hand shot to the drop holster at strapped to my thigh. Bringing the pistol up I fired on pure instinct. Much to my surprise – possibly more so than the necromancer’s – the dagger was sent flying out of his grasp.

With a snarl, he turned to face me, face still hidden in the shadows of the hood.

“Nice shot.” John muttered, stepping up next to me. Stand down, necromancer. Surrender and we will take you for trial before the council.”

“The council?” The necromancer said in a low, menacing and extremely female voice. “I sincerely doubt you are with the council. Freelancers maybe? Never mind. Turn around wizard. Take your battle-born and leave me to my work.”

“Battle-born?” I mouthed to John. He shot me a silencing look.

“Necromancer.” He boomed, stepping forward. “This is your last-”

“Chance?” She mocked, a smile crossing her suddenly illuminated mouth. “I think not.” She stepped around the dais, putting it between her and us. “Poor little wizard. You’ve spent so much of your energy getting here. We’re you after the vampires?” She gestured to a pile of charred sand in the opposite corner. “There they are. Last chance. Take your prize and leave, wizard. You’ve bitten off more than you can chew.”

John smiled.

That’s it, just a smile. I knew that smile all too well. It meant that he knew something no one else in the room knew. It meant he was about to do something devious. Without a second thought, I threw myself behind some nearby debris as John brought his hand up, twisting the ring on his finger as he did. With a word, a blinding flash, a clap of thunder and darkness.

—————-

My ears were ringing. Someone grabbed at my arm, trying to pull me up. I jerked away, fumbling for my sword.

“Arthur! It’s me. It John.”

“John? What the hell just happened?” I asked, coughing on the dust hanging thickly in the air.

“I activated my insurance policy.” He said, pulling me to my feet and nodding toward the collapsed wall where the necromancer had stood.

“She got away.” He answered my unspoken question. “Threw up some crazy protection spell that deflected the energy. But I found something interesting.” John pulled me to the remains of the dais, and the body. “He was already dead. See these marks here?” He asked, pointing at the runes scrawled across his chest. She was trying to reanimate him with his conscious still intact. It’s supposed to be really, really difficult.”

“Um, ok? So what does this tell us, John? I’m afraid I’m not quite tracking,”

“It tells us she was looking for information. This type of spell has a limited duration. She would have only gotten a few minutes out of him before he, well, died. Again.”

“This still doesn’t help us. We don’t know what she wanted to ask.”

“Ah, but we do!” He said, holding out a scrap of paper. “Read it.”

R,

I have Christian. The process will be complete by Thursday, and I will then be in possession of the location of Excalibur.

Best,

“Excalibur?” I asked. When I said the name, a shiver went up my spine. “Why do I recognize that name?”

“No idea, dude. But it gives us a place to start. Excalibur and a female necromancer named M. C’mon. We’ve gotta go before the police or someone shows up. Between the two of us, we almost blew up a city block.”

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