Summoning Demons

Many Years Ago... 

"Have you seen my necklace?"

"Which one?" The servant carried on her chores, dusting away at cobwebby corners of the room. The keep was in a rather... unkempt state, Their room in particular. They had a habit of strewing their things about without a care. They found it better then the bare, cold stone left unadorned. 

She didn't even look at them when they asked their rather simple question.

Rude.

"The gold one, the chain? The one I always wear around my neck?" They gestured with painted nails to their own throat, stretching it so that the servant could get a good look of just how bare it was, at present.

"No, Master."

"Think I prefer Mistress today."

"No, Mistress."

They gave the servant a squint. Doe eyes, brown hair, the same uniform as all the others, a droll black and white. Fit, tall, and almost stern faced. 

As if they were one to talk about black and white. They rarely chose any other colors for their own wardrobe either.

"Are you new?"

The servant girl finally looked over, feather duster paused mid-swish. "Yes, Mistress. Since this morning."

"Hmph." They turned away from the girl and snatched up the nearest discarded garment from the back of a chair. Oh, they liked this one; a bit lacy on the back, open front, very flowy, showed hip and midriff with the right pair of pants.

Ugh, pants.

"Well," they continued, moving on to their dresser to poke around for undergarments, "for future reference it is customary to knock before you barge in on me. Who knows that the Lord would have me be doing in here." They cast her a curious glance. "Thought the others would have filled you in, but I guess not."

"Apologies, Mistress."

They pulled out a pair of equally flowy, cinch-ankled harem pants and held them up. Oh these were the ones with the little bells on the tie! Yes, that would do nicely. As for undergarments? They scanned the room and then settled on the view outside their window.

Bleak and gray and hot. The kingdom was dirty, and poor, and it was because of this stinking, addled Lord. 

Another day on Earth, they supposed. Thus, it was too nice a day for undergarments.

"On second thought, I think I would prefer if you called me Master."

"Yes, Master."

They smiled, pulling the pants on one leg at a time. They looped the found blouse over one arm with a sigh. 

"Then again, no one calls me by any title here. I would have assumed someone would have filled you in on that, too."

They felt something cold and sharp press against the small of their back, and their spine straightened. They pulled in a long, slow breath and their eyes went wide with amused surprise. 

"Oh dear. Here to kill me then?"

"Yes." The servant girl was rather close now, dangerously close. For her, anyway.

They could feel her breath tickle the feathery hair at the back of their neck. A few black strands fluttered in their vision, catching on their long lashes as they slid their eyes to the side. Yet they did not move away.

"How many attempts does that make? Four? Five?"

"Seven." She pressed the tip of her blade a little harder against their flesh, and they let out a soft hiss as it broke the skin. "Seven. My success will make eight."

They chuckled, the smile wistful and elegant, matching the gleam in their dark left eye. "Not sure what you hope to accomplish. I'm not the one enslaving you."

"You're a loyal pet to the Lord. A powerful one. And if I kill you, he has one less pawn to use against us."

They could feel the hatred in her voice. It trembled across their skin from their bare toes to the tips of their curled horns. "Why not just kill him, hmm? Kill him and our servitude ends."

"Lies."

"I keep trying to tell you people this, and you always say the same thing. But why would I lie, exactly?"

The blade pushed further, and they arched their spine, an involuntary movement. Their head tilted back and another sigh brushed past their lips. 

"To save your own skin."

"My skin hardly needs saving."

"Enough talk."

"Then stop talking and kill me already." They snorted. 

The girl behind them edged the blade a fraction deeper, and they let out a surprised hiss. Her voice was hard, but confused as she hissed her next words. "Why aren't you fighting me? I thought you were supposed to be powerful."

"Oh I am."

"I could kill you right now."

"But you won't."

"I will."

They sighed at her persistence. And then, they started to turn around. The blouse they had been holding slipped to the floor, and they felt the tip of the blade glide across their skin, leaving a thin crimson trail. They stopped when it was aimed just above their bellybutton, eyes leveled at that frightened, doe-brown gaze.

"You won't, actually."

She stared at them. They had to give her credit - her hand didn't so much as tremble as it held the blade steady, and she blinked, but didn't look away. However, she did seem at a loss for words.

"Shall I tell you why?"

She did not respond. 

They reached up one hand and ever so gently put it over hers, the one holding the knife. And then they brought their joined hands up higher, the blade pressing just beneath their ribcage. "Because I am not the one you wish to kill, of course. You need to kill the Lord. The one who summoned me."

"I... I can't. He's too well guarded, I would never--"

They reached up their other hand and gently cupped the side of her face. "I can tell you how. It'll free us both."

She stared at him. As they held her hand, the knife clattered to the floor between them. And in the instant it took for her to take a breath to speak, they had stepped closer. The air smelled faintly of winter air, blood, and jasmine. Their lips were an inch away from hers, no more, and they spoke again.

"I hate him as much as you do. Let me help you. Free us both."

A whisper in a larger room. The faintest echo of the fallen blade, and this girl's heartbeat. She impulsively reached out to put her hand on their chest, to stop their movement, perhaps?

"I - I have nothing to give you, I cannot pay--"

"I don't like being paid." They looked over her face, a ghost of a smile playing on their lips. "I like gifts. Nothing more. And I wish for closeness. I wish for warmth. I wish for... a kiss, maybe."

"A kiss? And you will tell me how to kill him?"

They dropped their voice to something more like a purr. "Oh you know how to kill him. for a kiss, I'll tell you where. And for perhaps a second one, I'll tell you when."

They could feel her heart skip a beat as their eyes met again. They could watch as she steeled herself for this arrangement, straightening her spine and setting her jaw. 

Oh that wouldn't do. 

They brushed their thumb along her cheek, and felt some of those muscles relax. "Please. I will not harm you. And despite the... teeth I bare, I will not bite."

Please. Just this once, kindness would be so very nice.

"M-my name...?"

"Only if you wish to tell me."

"Myra. I'm Myra." Her eyes softened, and with such trepidation, her one hand slid up along their chest, over the firm ridges of their abdomen, and to their neck. Delicate fingers, worn with hard work, but slender. Soft.

"Myra." They breathed, repeating it tenderly. They shut their eyes a moment, letting the name convalesce in their mind. A name freely given. It sent a shiver down their spine. What a gift. They leaned a fraction closer. Their warmth mingled with hers, roaring softly between them, unbeckoned. 

This was where real power came from. Their power. These gifts. 

"Your... name?" Her breath was a soft whisper as she gazed at them. They opened their eyes to receive the question, tasting her shallow breath on their lips.

The time between them stretched for an eon as they listened to the cacophony of their racing hearts. And the moment before their lips met, and a delicious, forbidden passion claimed the both of them, they whispered their name in the silence between.

"Darius."

Stay Close

 “Stay close.” Mother said.

The forest around us slowly and steadily darkened. 

There were eight of us in this group. Two weeks earlier there had been twelve. Before that I can recall maybe twenty at its largest number.

I speak for 'us' but these were not my people. They discovered me, as they tell it, in the woods. I had been wilder, lengths of corded hair and a fawn’s gangly limbs. Young enough then to warrant their sympathy and care, but not anymore.

I was perhaps twenty six? Twenty seven? As old as thirty, maybe? I didn’t mind not knowing. It was one less thing to count down to.

We were always counting down. Count down to dusk. Count down to dawn. Count down our rations. Count down our members. Count the steps to the next safe place to hide.

“I said stay close, Stray.” Mother yanked on my arm and I took a few stumbling steps to keep pace.

Mother was not my real mother. Mother was what everyone in our group called her. She acted as mother, lawman and punisher. She had eyes that sliced through lies and false hopes alike. She was practical and knowledgeable. Her hair was always cut short around her ears, and her eyes were dark and her skin was very dark, and her voice was dark. She was second in charge only to Wizened. 

Wizened was like a Father, though no one called him that. He was older and taller than mother,  and lean from years of running and hiding. His hair was white as snow, and covered by a ragged cap that hung like an empty pouch to his shoulders. He led the group across the land from safe haven to safe haven.

I remember Wizened mentioned that there used to be fifty people in our group. How hard it must have been, I wondered, to move unseen?

I also imagined that was why they were gone. 

My insides shout warnings at me. They have for as long as I can remember. At first, I didn’t tell anyone. I was afraid they would think that I am a Dark Thing and cast me out. But after there were twenty, there became seventeen. And after seventeen there were sixteen. And after sixteen there were only the twelve of us. 

The last time my insides screamed at me, I had nightmares. I tossed and turned and woke Mother, who scolded me for the noise, saying I would draw Dark Things. So I told her about the screaming warnings that echoed inside me, and she shushed me back to sleep with a dark glare.

Then of course, they came. 

Despite the distrust the survivors showed me after that, I did have a friend. His name was Atta Boy, and he was good at staying out of danger. He liked me a great deal. Kissed me once or twice. (It was warm and sweet at the time, but I didn’t know any better.) He was dark like Mother and had light eyes like Wizened, a matching shade of morning blue.

Perhaps that was why I only half liked him.

“Pay attention to your steps, Stray.” Mother hissed at me. 

I turned my attention back to the beaten road. It was always flat, wide enough for our aged wagon and the lone, emotionless beast that pulled it. (The Horse was old, and had trouble sometimes, but they never spooked. We called him Husk.)

The sun was still just above the tree line, turning everything just past it’s reach golden and gray. The tension that came with twilight gripped the group, and as it usually happened, dark looks flitted in my direction. 

Mother kept her hand on my arm to lead me onward. 

Always at the front of our group, Wizened held his hand up and gestured for the pair of men just behind him. They were called Rusty and Copper, a pair of twins they always sent as scouts. The two of them darted ahead, down a side trail that Wizened pointed out. Their slinking shapes could just be discerned ahead, if one squinted. 

The group held their breath. Eight left, including myself. Two off to check the safety of a trail. All of them clung to the hope that it was clear at the other end and a good place to hide, because darkness was coming.

This path led off of the flat, mossy road and down a slight hill. It curved up a distant embankment and into a darkened structure that was backed up against a curtain of dense wood and stone that reached well up over the roof. 

We six that remained held our breath. Even I felt the pounding of blood in my head with my effort to remain still and silent. Wizened stood straight and tall, gazing out over that clearing as a beacon for the others, as if his will alone could bid them to return. 

When Copper and Rusty returned with smiles, the group let out a collective sigh. 

“It is safe. There is another inside, but he means us no ill. He’s a trader.” Rusty reported in an excited whisper. 

“A Trader? What does he trade?” I asked.

Rusty shrugged. “I don’t know. But he had a great big pack on that made him look like a huge turtle. I heard clanking when he took it off.”

I settled with that clue.

Atta Boy came up behind me as Mother released her grip to help Husk down towards our evening reprieve.

“Haven’t seen a trader in a while. I wonder how he’s survived on his own?” Atta Boy chirped quietly at my elbow. He always sounded like he was chirping.

I shrugged. 

“Hey, I asked Mother about marrying you. She said it would be all right!” He grinned. 

I sighed. “Sure thing, Atta boy.”

“Hey you could be happier about it.” He scowled. 

I remember how I put a smile on my face to please him as he drifted off towards the others. 

I slowed to remain behind the group. My own pack was light in comparison to theirs. I received less from the times we went out to hunt or scavenge.

I was not ‘theirs’ and thus was not as valued.

Rusty and Copper helped the others set up the portable firepit we had stashed in the cart. Atta Boy and Mother took care of Husk. Wizened and Pala handled rations. Gully set out the sleeping bags and blankets in a tight circle. The entire process was quick - perfected, regardless of the loss of life over the past months. Everyone had their tasks except for me. 

I was lean, like Wizened, but not old. I was not blessed with his gift of navigation, nor was I commanding like Mother. I was not as strong as Atta Boy, nor was I as quiet or quick as Rusty and Copper.

I was never given the opportunity, then, to prove otherwise.

My insides screamed when danger was near, but to admit that it was useful would make them admit that I was useful. And if I was useful it meant that such a feeling was not an ill omen. And everything that could not be explained away was an ill omen in those days.

The enclosure had a roof overgrown with vine and moss, but was otherwise open, save the back side which pressed against the trees and stone of the ledge. The wagon had rolled easily in, and it and Husk were tucked against the safety of the cliff wall. 

Everyone began to lay down their burdens and relax. Save for me.

My blood ran quickly through my veins that night. I could not seem to unwind from our day of walking. I could feel that something was coming. I felt the undeniable urge to run, and squashed it. (No one would listen to me, so what was the point?) 

The sight of the Trader did nothing to ease my mind.

He was incredibly large. Like a bear on his hind legs, but an extra man’s width across the shoulders. His hands were giant, likely able to palm someone’s face and lift them off of the ground with no effort at all. What I thought had been a hood turned out to be a full mane of curly, ink-black hair. His face was dark, but not as dark as Mother’s. This was the dark of a man who spent days in the sun, with his face turned skyward. His eyes were deep set, and his brow was broad and creased with worry.

He sat on a log that had been pulled into the enclosure who-knows-when. Even seated, he still looked enormous, as if this place was too small and frail to hold him. Beside him was his mountainous pack, nearly the same height as his hunched form.

His eyes peered over each and every one of us before they rested on me. 

I waved.

I am not certain, even now, why I waved at him.

He didn’t wave back. But he did watch me walk by, with those deep, dark eyes. 

He looked familiar, somehow. Like from a dream.

I didn’t realize the significance of that. Not yet.

The giant man had a can before him, and a fire had been started within it. It was small, just enough to warm his fingers, not nearly enough to warm the entire enclosure. It let off very little light, but what it did reveal as light descended were the unsettled shadows on everyone's faces.

I claimed a small edge of cement for my own pack and blanket. I was not invited to join the group's tight circle of sleeping bags. I never was.

It was as if they were hoping I would get picked off. After my screaming nightmares, I did not blame them.

Perhaps that is unkind to say. They did their best. They could have left me where they found me. I am alive today because of Wizened’s kindness and Mother’s administrations. 

Everyone spoke quietly among themselves, for the first time during the daily trek. Once camp was made, it was as if there was safety and everyone dared make some noise.

Never a lot of noise. 

No one spoke to me if they didn’t have to except for Atta boy. Which was fine.

They never listened when I spoke anyway. 

“Hey. You. Girl.” 

The voice was exceptionally deep; deep enough to startle me into thinking that it was a growl. I turned to regard the Trader, mouth dropped open and eyes wide with what must have been comical surprise. 

I think he laughed then. It was hard to tell between laughing and grunting and coughing with the Trader, to be honest. He beckoned me over; a slow sweeping gesture that seemed like he was moving a great weight with it. 

Atta Boy, somewhere behind me, hissed a warning as I stood to walk over to the Trader, but it was fleeting. I felt the heat of his scant fire in a few steps.

It was dense around him, like the air was thicker, as if I walked into a wall of fog. I felt myself taking a deep breath in an attempt to get past it. The air felt humid, but no less chilled by the evening breeze.

“Do I know you?” The Trader asked me. 

I shook my head. 

“You look like someone I know.” He continued.

I looked down at myself, trying to imagine who he must have met before me. A skinny girl? Easy enough out here to find. Worn poncho, dirty shoes, cap with holes in it? Also common wear for a traveler. Pants with patched knees, gloves with some fingers missing, a many-times-mended pack, an old length of rope for a belt. I looked like every other traveler in the group.

“Them eyes. It’s the eyes I’ve seen before.” The Trader murmured.

I looked pointedly at the ground then. I’d seen my own reflection before in tarnished metal, in water or glass we pass by. I don’t have a memorable sort of face, but my eyes were different. It seemed like everyone else had dark eyes like Mother or blue eyes like Wizened. 

Mine are green. 

I never used to like them. I thought they were too bright and too noticeable. 

The Trader watched me for a minute in silence. I could feel his eyes on my face as I scrutinized the cracked cement at my feet. I thought about how there was a hole in the toe of my right sock, and how the sole on my left shoe would need to be replaced soon. I thought about marrying Atta Boy, and how that might be nice, anything but how the giant Trader was staring at me. 

“Must have been someone else.” He grunted.

His gaze passed. 

I released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. 

“I’m sorry.” I managed to mutter before scooting back to my pack.

“No problem.” The Trader rumbled back at me.

At a safe distance, parted from the weight of his presence, I felt I the air thin again and sat down on the cool floor.

Then I realized that the squirming in my blood had returned; which meant that in the Trader's presence I hadn't felt it at all.

Words In Stars

 Parking Ticket.

Par-King Tick-Et.

Parkingticket.

... Had he truly taken a vehicle out here? How interesting! How had he managed that? He couldn't even remember if he knew how to drive! How novel!

It didn't look familiar.

Mr. Perkins made a slow circle of the vehicle, PARkingTICKet between two fingers, flapping slowly back and forth. This was a 2015 Honda Civic. Front wheel drive, automatic, in line 4 cylinders, 16 valves, banana yellow.

He knew nothing about cars, what a waste of time. Mr. Perkins tucked the parKING tickET under the windshield wiper with a friendly pat pat.

"There you are!" He turned and faced the world and it spread out before him like the end of a rainbow.

Lets see, lets see... Rose Marie and the burglar on 5th and Main, well that's just around the corner!

He strolled right through traffic. He ignored the honking horns and waved slender fingers at the drivers as they passed. He stepped over a homeless man and dropped several steel buttons into his hat. No no, not steel. Copper? Perhaps tin. Whatever they were, they clinked merrily together, and the homeless man smiled and waved.

So many people up and about! It smelled like a buffet! A bouquet? A bucket. A slightly dingy bucket. Yes indeed. A bucket.

Thunder cracked around him and Perkins raised a hand to shade his eyes from the moon. He peered at the sky. Curious! Not a cloud in the sky! It smelled suddenly like blood, and clouds certainly didn't bleed! Well unless you count the rain. Rain could be sky blood, how gruesome!

He giggled as his hand snapped out and caught the throat of a man.

Mr. Perkins turned to regard him with delight.

"You shot poor Rose Marie in her living room!" Like an old friend, he squeezed until the man's hands came up to claw at Mr. Perkins's slender fingers.

"Oh that won't help! Perhaps if you said please? We are a world of manners, you see. They just crop up like weeds in the sidewalk, all manner of manners. See? Even words have manners. How courteous..."

A great whirling sound started echoing down the street. Oh dear, how long had he been standing there? Mr. Perkins looked back over at the man in his hand. He put him down in the street and straightened his collar. Wouldn't do to be buried a rumpled mess, hmm?

Rose Marie's apartment was quite spartan, but well furnished. The stairs were a quick sprint and the door was open with a dangling lock without a key. No looking through this keyhole, pshaw, modern locks were such trouble.

Mr. Perkins popped a squat next to Rose Marie's gasping body and tut tutted. "And it was such a lovely blouse, like a goldfinch. Or a goldfish. Or crackers, those little fishy ones that don't taste at all like fish."

"H-help me..." She gasped from the floor. "P-please?"

Mr. Perkins beamed down at her. "Such courtesy! Oh but of course! I shall be happy to help!"

He locked eyes with her.

See the truth and be well, dear Rose Marie!

Her eyes went wide and wild and her body went still as they flickered and fluttered and stared and stared. And while she gasped about how her life had been a lie, Mr. Perkins had lunch.

And when he had finished, he wrapped her in her nice Egyptian Cotton and slung her over his shoulder.

The banana civic was waiting patiently, and the paRKingtICKet waved a merry greeting, and together they somehow managed to drive away, with groceries in the back for home.

Or a body. Oh yes. Rose Marie! How very delightful!

Madness

Madison sat in the living room. The news had cut out yesterday, after a particularly disturbing broadcast about how to destroy the living dead.

She tried the channels anyway. Only thing she could find was some desperate preaching from the evangelicals. She turned it off. Hugging the collar of her green bathrobe, she looked out the front window, past the hole in the sheet she'd tacked up over them.

No one out walking today. The car across the street was still smoking, and the corpse was still sitting there, just outside of the open door. It's arms were still moving, despite the weight of the car's front wheel pinning it's torso in place. 

Madison wasn't sure how to feel about that. She looked away, then at the clock across the room. It was already 4:00. Jordan said he would be back with supplies half an hour ago. Not that he'd ever been great with time management before, but...

Madison looked down at her engagement ring. It was pretty, but not much of a comfort. She still felt empty and hollow and -

She got up and made coffee.

Ten minutes later the back door was unlocked and opened. "Mother fucking, fuck--"

Madness scurried to the back room, hovering in the doorway. "...Jordan?"

"Who the fuck else would it be? Christ." He spat back at her. He was a good looking guy, blonde hair, blue eyed, strong, an engineer... He'd never been very nice though. She'd known that from the beginning. Dated him anyway. Loved him anyway, best as she knew how. But who really knows what love is? Does it HAVE a definition?

"Are you... all right?" Madison looked him over, pulling her hands into the sleeves of her robe. Jordan hadn't let her leave the house. Been afraid she'd get hurt, or bit, and bring it back inside and get him too. He was afraid she would mess something up, make too much noise, hurt herself, etc...

"Take this, do something with it." Jordan snapped, handing Madison a bag of stuff.

She took it and hurried to the kitchen to put away the canned food items, the batteries and the other stuff Jordan managed to find. She noticed, with a tick of her eyebrow, that he'd neglected to find any canned vegetables. Only Chili and Chef Boyardee. He also hadn't found any TP. Damnit, she'd made a list. She would have said something - but he was cussing from the other room, and she didn't want to get into it with him right now.

"FUCK." Jordan kicked something. Madison heard a crash, and she winced. Slowly, she edged back into the door frame. He was holding his arm. His hair was wild, and he'd stripped off most of his rugby gear. Madison came into the room.

"Jordan? Let me see--" Madison reached out for his arm and Jordan slapped it away. The sting of it snaked up her arm and she winced, recoiling.

"If I want your help I'll fucking ask for it. Fuck." Jordan started peeling away his sleeve.

Madison felt the tick in her eye. When had he started acting like this? Had it been when the outbreak started? No... No she remembered it from before too. Little things. Insults. Condescending. Controlling. Had she just... put up with it? How? Why? Something sparked and lit in her belly, chasing away foggy thoughts. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"What the hell Jordan, I'm just trying to help." She felt the burbling anger in her chest, coming up from beneath layers of floor boards she'd tried to bury it under. "TOUCH me like that again and I'll--"

Jordan peeled the sleeve away and exposed a nasty looking injury. A bite. A tear in his fine skin by human teeth. It oozed, dripping blood onto the floor as he glared at it.

"You'll what?" Jordan croaked.

Madison looked up at him. "Jordan you -"

He reached out, grabbing Madison by the wrist and pulling her close, hissing into her face.

Oh shit. Oh shit he's lost it. Madison felt panic churning right alongside her anger and she snarled back at him. "Get off Jordan."

Jordan shook her. "Touch you like that again and you'll WHAT, you useless bitch!?"

Madison yanked her hand away and growled into his face. "I'll fucking kill you!"

Jordan laughed in her face, spittle catching her cheek. Madison rubbed it away in disgust, about to say more, when the slap sent her spinning.

Right across the face, a burning hand print. Madison caught herself on the kitchen door frame, stunned. Jordan didn't say anything, but Madison wasn't listening. She held her cheek and padded quietly away.

"...Madison. Madison, I'm sorry." Jordan called after her.

He was always sorry. Always sorry they never had time to go out or do anything. Always sorry he never invited her out with his friends, or did anything for their anniversary, or their birthdays, or holidays. Always sorry when he couldn't pick her up from work. Always sorry that he was short on bills, or left his dishes around, or went out without telling her. Always sorry about his casual insults. Always sorry. Never sorry.

She made it to the hutch in the hallway and wrapped her hand around the nearest object.

"Madison?"

She turned. He was bitten, his look said it all. He stood at the other end of the hall. Madison gripped he screwdriver with white knuckled intensity. "...You don't even really love me, do you."

"...What?" He seemed surprised.

"...You just figure I'm good to have around and pay bills and clean house and stay in my fucking pajamas all day. So you can feel like some big strong man. 'Don't wear your makeup like that, hun, you'll get cat calls.' 'Don't get those boots, you'll never wear them.' 'Turn off that trash music,' 'smile more'--" Madison ran one hand through her hair, the only haircut she'd gotten that she liked and he hated it. Said it made her look... nevermind.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Jordan snapped.

"You're bit, Jordan." Madison lowered her hand, and brought up the screwdriver.

Jordan snorted. Sure. Probably thought he was immune. Idiot. Not even his egocentric ass was immune to this shit. He looked over her face as if he didn't recognize her, then his eyes filtered down to her hand. "...What are you doing?"

Madison felt the anger pounding in her ears, the panic screaming in her veins, fire, fire everywhere. She launched herself at him, screwdriver out. Show him how useless she is! Show him he's not right all the time!

Jordan caught her wrist. He was strong. Stronger then she was. He pushed her back to the floor with a growl. "You gonna kill me? Well you're fucking doing it wrong."

Madison hit the floor with a thud. She kicked out at him and he came down too, clawing to get the screwdriver out of her hand, pulling her close to disarm her. But she wasn't going to let him disarm her. Not again. Nope. Nope. Noperoo.

She bit his hand. Not hard. Hard enough. She brought her knee up viciously, catching him in the groin. Jordan rolled, stunned & gasping. She climbed up on top of him, and she was grinning, and she spat right in his face, and she drove the screwdriver down into his beautiful, surprised blue eye, and she felt the resistance until there was nothing else to go through, and she sat there panting for a whole minute before she shambled up to her feet and went to the bathroom.

Madison watched Jordan's corpse from the bathroom doorway. He didn't move. Guess the TV was right.

Gatta get them in the brain. Small enough target in this case. She must have good aim.

A laugh bubbled up from her chest. It felt inappropriate, but she was way past caring. Before long she was laughing and sobbing on the bathroom floor, watching the slowly extending circle of Jordan's blood creep towards her. Somewhere in the manic laughter and hysteria, she'd crawled back over to him and yanked the screwdriver out, wiping it spitefully on his stupid t-shirt. She was shouting and cussing and crying and laughing--

By the time she had calmed down she was sitting on the couch again. She turned the TV on. The evangelist was quiet, marked by a humming 'standby' screen. She turned the TV off again and peered out the window.

....Bout time someone took care of the zombie under that car.

A Civilian's Account

I was at a party.

I mostly know how I got there. (I'd been drinking.) I was new to town and desperate for friends, that much I remember. I'd taken a cab into town and climbed my dolled-up ass into the first bar I saw, and I struck up conversation like a pro. I met these three people hanging around the dart board, dressed really nicely too. They were all incredibly good looking, that's really clear.

There was a woman with two men, all raven haired, all dark eyed and all whimsically attractive.
I saw Whimsically because I can't seem to think of any better word. Remember, I was also drunk at the time.

The hour that followed the initial meeting of these people was a blur - I think I got names, though I can't remember any of them now. (We'll call them David, Percy and Glenda, for the story's sake.) I think we were laughing and having a good time.

This was the part of the night where the initial world-spinning happened, and the universe started to get fuzzy. Sort of like drunk twilight, how it's only partially clear, you know?

Anyway.

Glenda proposed that we all go to this fancy party down the street, at another club. I didn't think I was as fancy as they were, but Percy insisted that I looked great and even offered to cover the door for me. Weird, but generous. I was under the misguided presumption that I was incredibly charming, though, so I didn't question it.

I.e. Drunk.

The club was a spectacle. On the outside, no more then tinted glass doors, faintly back-lit purple, and starlight. Massive bouncers with cliche sunglasses-at-night flanked the door, and when we approached we were welcomed with no hesitation. Inside was all chic darkness, chrome backed bar chairs and neon lights flashing in rhythm.

We were all laughing. Glenda held my arm as if we'd been friends for ages. It was comforting, but cold, like a popular-girl control gesture rather then friendship. The trio waved politely at people I didn't know, and they brought me right up to the bar: shining black marble, so clean I could see the flawless reflection of the overhead lighting in it's surface.

"Go ahead, order yourself a drink." Glenda winked at me, and of course, I obliged.

Just before I got the drink in hand though, I remember the guy at the bar. Distinctly.

He had on this old fedora, sorta dusty. He was wearing flat gray and black, with suspenders. I remember the suspenders. I remember thinking, 'who the hell wears suspenders anymore?'

He glanced over at me, with a tilted sort of smile, white teeth flashing in a pale face. He had some sort of tattoo around his eye, gave me the creeps. I mean, he looked cute enough, but the face tattoos creeped me out.

I nodded at him with a brief smile. He raised a glass of something or other at me with a wink. I tossed my hair over my shoulder and drank my drink without bothering to ask what it was. I remember that it was delicious.

(Big mistake of the evening, I tell you that.)

There was dancing afterwards. Percy and David were relentless, awesome dancers, they moved like liquid fire, and I was drunk. Cranked. The world was tilting, and their movements were comforting and damn hot, I tell you.

Well. Anyway.

For whatever reason, I managed to dance myself away from the group I came in with. I was bouncing around, happily moving to the music, when I bumped into that guy again. He was super smooth about it. He took my hand and spun me around real close, and my nose was tucked into his neck, breathing him in, when he spoke into my ear.

I should have been afraid, I think. But I wasn't. Maybe it was the booze? Maybe it was how assuredly he moved? Pfft.

"I think you're in the wrong club, kiddo." He had a rough edged voice. Like he'd recently been screaming for hours.

"Who're you?" I asked, slightly slurred. Slightly.

"I'm Jack."

He smelled like cedar. Is that weird? He smelled like cedar and I think sandalwood. And ash. Smokey ash. It was actually really nice, and as I said, I was drunk, you know how it is.

"I'm Drunk." I'm a master of charm. I think I may have snorted when I giggled, though I sincerely hope I didn't. "Do you have a better club, then?"

Jack had one hand on the small of my back, and the other one clasped my hand in the air, as if we were going to break into a tango. I heard him take a breath and chuckle. I felt his laugh on my ear, it was cool. Literally, cool, like a brush with autumn air.

"I might suggest one where your friends don't plan to eat you, for one thing."

I laughed. Who says that sorta thing? Was that a dirty joke or something? When I pulled away from Jack he didn't stop me, but he kept hold on my hand. This close I would be able to get a good look at his face. I was morbidly curious about his tattoos.

Another blurry part of my memory here. I seem to remember feeling badly that I winced. See, Jack's face didn't have tattoos. His face was all cut up. As if his skin had cracked and broken open, in a perfect broken-glass sorta pattern around their eyes.

Their red eyes.

Why this didn't alarm me more, I dunno. Maybe because my 'friends' were all gothed out and I assumed they were contacts or something? Who the hell knows. I. Was. Drunk.

I was about to say something apologetic  when one of the guys I was with, Percy, grabbed Jack's shoulder. Like magic, we were suddenly in an open dance floor, the sea of patrons pulling away from us like the tide.

"Hands off, corpse." My 'friend' said.

Jack was holding my hand still. As if we were casually walking down the street. I remember how cold his hands were, and thinking it was funny that it wasn't MY hands that were cold for once. I scowled at my 'friend' for his rude comment.

"Hey don't be a dick -" Me, trying to be ballsy.

This is where more weird shit started happening.

First, I got slapped. Hard. In the face. I dropped Jack's hand and spun around with the force of it. Suddenly, Glenda and David were holding me up. They didn't seem friendly about it though, and when I tried to assure them I was fine, they did not release their grip on me.

"Oh, that wasn't the smartest thing you coulda done." Jack said. His eyebrows, vividly expressive, dipped in disappointment.

His voice was carrying - or maybe the music had shut off? It didn't matter. I could look around the room and watch as every single person there turned to regard the situation. Some were smiling. Some looked mildly offended, and I couldn't figure out why. All of them were beautiful.

All of them also had some very sharp teeth.

"Get out of our house." Glenda hissed at Jack.

"You all right, kiddo?" Jack addressed me, ignoring everyone else.

I reached up to feel my cheek. The sting was delayed but oh, I felt it. Or rather, I would in the morning. I smiled and nodded at him, currently thankful for the drunk numbness.

"If you don't leave right now, we'll tear you apart, Ghoul!" David said, jerking on my arm as to use me for emphasis. I winced. The guy had a real good grip, and long bony fingers.

Then something cool happened. (I THOUGHT it was cool in the moment, don't judge me.) Jack raised his hand. He raised it as if he was holding a glass of wine, his fingers making a bowl. Maybe it was the booze talking, or the lighting in the club, but then this funky, purple, bubbling fog came up out of his palm, and started to stream out between his fingertips. He locked eyes with the guy holding onto me, David, and tilted his head ever so slightly to the side.

Too Dashing. (I'm weird.)

 "What did you call me, leech?" Jack's grin got wider. His fingertips twitched, ever so slightly, and a splash of purple light flickered out like a tiny solar flare.

Suddenly I was released. David let out a strangled noise, and as I staggered to my knees, unbalanced by the sudden shift, I could see him clawing at his throat in desperation. Glenda ditched me and went to him as if she could help.

"How DARE -" Percy shook Jack's shoulder while he spoke started talking - and then stopped. Jack used his other hand to gently brush the guy's fingers off of his gray shirt like lint. His outstretched fingers were still roiling with purple clouds, lined with black, illuminated from somewhere in his palm.

Neat trick.

"I think you all have to have some words with mamma about bringing dinner home. You have a herd for a reason, don't you?" Jack raised his hand up above his head, and the purple smoke coiled down his arm and across his chest. He casually stuck his free hand into his pants pocket.

I was watching him now, as I heard the room churn itself into a panic. Someone behind me was hissing. But this guy, this Jack, turned in a slow circle to address the room like he was giving some satanic toast to the group.

"What are you?"
"WHO let YOU in!?"
"What is he doing!?"

Words shouted from the back of the room criss-crossed the space, and I put my hands up over my ears. I was getting dizzy and unwell, and I was freaking out a little bit from the whole dramatic scene. Eventually, I just shut my eyes.

When I smelled cedar and ash I slowly opened them again. I was moving, but I wasn't walking. I lifted my head up and there I was, in Jack's arms like some damsel in distress. He didn't seem all that strong, but evidently I was no effort at all.

He grinned over at me. "Ah. Sleepin' beauty wakes up. Don't worry, you're almost home."

I blinked around. I felt so tired now, and I clearly didn't care how this guy had found my address. I just kept hanging on to him, dozing in and out, until I was on my own bed.

"You're hurt?" I asked, as he pulled my arms away from his neck and started to tuck me in. I caught the brim of his hat in the process, and placed it on my own head with a grin.

Yes, I'm an idiot when I drink.

It made him laugh though, and he sat down. "Naw, I'm fine."

"But.... your face."

Jack shrugged, gently reclaiming his hat and affixing it where it properly belonged. He gave it  a knavish tilt. "Yeah. It happens."

"When does that happen!?" I remember how clearly astonished and also horrified I was. Obviously I thought it could happen to me at any moment.

Jack's grin returned, a broad, black line. He pulled the blankets up under my chin and kissed me on the forehead. "Don't worry about it. You just have to damn yourself to an eternity of Undeath. Now go to sleep."

"Like.... like a Vampire?"

Jack frowned. "Naw, those idiots in the club were vampires. I'm much worse." He winked.

I remember turning all sorts of red and covering my face with the blanket. Why did I think he was cute? He was a goth sorta punker twenties scarface guy, and his eyes were red, and he was bone cold and pale and said that there were vampires, and that he was undead or something...

But Cedar. Sandalwood and Ash. When I woke up he was gone of course. But that scent lingered for a day or two.

I didn't mind.

I also NEVER went to that bar again.

M3M0R135

T00th had done it.

She opened the door. Past curtains and chains of code and firewalls there it was everything The Borogov had ever been. All it had taken was holding hands and letting her look, and when the Borogov opened their eyes, they could see it too. Years of memories hidden in the dark.

Most of it.

Their name is Lyriwyn. Their people dancing around the fire pit, mead and merriment at a long table, fireflies glowing among the storytellers and the laughing people of the earth.

The Borogov tapped iron-tipped fingers along a length of their iron jaw. They remember what they looked like when all that they were was flesh and bone. They were shorter. They were physically weaker. They were certainly better looking, could speak without pain and dance without stumbling.
They remembered doing magic, once upon a time, but could not remember how it felt. They remembered a lot of emptiness now. A lot of sadness, and they couldn't connect it to a specific memory.

As if they didn't want to remember.

The Borogov was used to being afraid, but their comfort zone had been beneath the ground for so long that they were uneasy in the tall, swaying trees and gleaming, glowing loam. They hadn't ventured this far from the ruins and the rebel camps before.

The Borogov trudged onward anyway. It shouldn't be far now. They glanced back at their friends. Some had offered to go with them, others they had asked. Their presences gave The Borogov strength, and there were so many of them. Kind souls all, surprise friends found in dark places. The Borogov smiled back at them, growling roughly through jagged iron clamps,

"N0T F4R N0W."

And as if some greater power was listening, the forest opened and spilled into a clearing, overgrown with gleaming mushroom caps and silvery moss. At the center was the great, charred claw of the Tumtum tree gathering post. It pointed with accusation up at the sky, broken at the center with it's charred surface peeking through the glittering growth. The Borogov tore their eyes from it.

"Th3 F1r3 c1rcl3 w45 th3r3..." The Borogov pointed. A small bowl remained in the earth where the pit once was. Strange, red-capped fungus spilled out from the center of it like drooling flames. They crept outward from the sunken pit like veins, curling around fallen rocks and sapling trees.

Feylio would beg for stories to be told before feast time and elders would meet to discuss a hunt or a festival. We would talk of the other creatures in the wood and those strange humans beyond.

The Borogov turned away, walking slowly further into the clearing. There were more then a dozen lumps beneath the verdant mosses. So much smaller, shrunken upon themselves, shriveled like prunes. They pointed to the one second from the far right. "...Th4t w45 my h0m3..."

Sage bread cooling on the window. Glittering lightning glass, dangled from twine in the doorway to catch the light. My mother's amulet resting on the stone shelf by my pallet... 

Blue capped mushrooms with lengthy stalks, short, squat green ones with yellow spots, glowing pink and orange... It was certainly beautiful. They did not know what they had expected - a graveyard? A scene of destruction, after all this time? The earth was reclaiming the land. It was almost comforting.

Just past the first line of mounds, old homes of Borogoves they used to know and laugh with, they stopped. They gestured ahead, and shadows began to creep into their mind.

"4nd th4t 15 wh3r3 w3  w3r3 p0150n3d  4t3." Two sentences said together past clenched teeth, Iron burning their skin, unfamiliar anger bubbling to the surface to bring about ghostly images of things that happened ages ago.

How long? How long had it been? Since someone came into their life and everything changed? How long since Their Heart had betrayed them all?

The Borogov felt it all rush towards them like a mob of angry ghosts, bombarding them with the images of a losing battle, of imprisoned friends, and scientists. Scientists in white as if they were pure, treating Their people as if they were the unclean ones, in this place, this revered place, a place of spirits and ....

A dance in moonlight, unfamiliar steps and laughter, a blush. Stories about adventure in the wilds and crimson haired spirits. New faces and excitement at their strange ways and fascinated questions. Join us, join us for feat time, we would be honored if you stayed. How long? How long did they stay among the Borogoves, with their notebooks and questions and inquisitive eyes? An age? I don't know, but I know ... a heart beats differently in time with another, a dance, a blush in the moonlight...

There was a toxin in the food. No one had noticed until little Feylio fell over during the games. The little ones fell asleep first, then the elders... The scientists got up, and used strange devices, and then more came, more in white, more with iron chains and cages, and as I stood there, asking why, pleading why would they do this, you answered - 

You answered with an apology. I could feel the poison in my veins, leeching at my magic, turning to lead in my veins, even as I tried to fight them. But it wan't enough. They took everything. They took my friends, they took my father's circlet--

They took you. 

I had failed. I failed them all.

The Borogov shook their head. They looked down at themselves. Encased in iron, bound with wire and steel, leaving hollow footprints in the glowing plantlife. They were kneeling now, clawed hands planted in the wires in their hair. Slumping as if exhausted, The Borogov dropped their heavy iron limb into the moss and a chiming 'clink' answered the gesture.

The Borgov peered o the ground and gently parted the mosses and mushrooms, reaching for the item that had made the noise. Shining silver answered, and the Borogov withdrew -

The Circlet. Their father's circlet.

The Borogov clutched it to their chest, and every wire-ending and fastening joint and iron clamp burned in protest to the proximity. When they couldn't bear the pain anymore, the gently dropped the circlet back onto the ground before them. They gazed around them, lost in a place they once called home.

What am I now?

'Twas Mimsy

"The skies were perilous blue, and wavering high oft, plump clouds glyde free. A Brillig morn, had our hero ever seen one, I say, rife and flowing with the good fortune of adventure." They gesticulated out over the group of younglings, fingers dancing in the air. Their shining pendant bounced gently off of their white-marked collarbone, sending tiniest of lights into the captive audience.

The eager younglings had taken to their studies well this day, and so the story teller was awarding them with another chapter of an ever-ongoing tale, one they always told at the turning of day to night. A self-imposed tradition that had been going on for, goodness, years now.

"Now, for so they oft gyre about the landscape looking for a sturdy challenge, on this day one such challenge gimbled right to them!" They waggled their brow, the darkened markings dancing with expression. Their blue eyes flashed about the younglings with glee.

Little Allo was grasping their straw doll with excitement flashing at the ends of their tiny pointed teeth. Too-serious Beryun was sitting rigidly upright, their long ears twitching to betray their interest in an otherwise nonchalant pose. Quick-witted Feylio was practically bouncing in their seat, the very first of their white markers shimmering on their cheeks.

"Lo! A creature rode the wind! Laying upon a spring current as if reclined on the mosses of a fairy's glen, with streaming red hair billowing behind them like a living river! Shining garments, riddled with golden clasps and dusted with the crumbled remnants of shattered ruby, hung about them as a regal mantle. A wide smile, painted wildflower crimson split their face in two and they flew towards out hero with all the casual grace of a strolling tove."

The younglings let out a round of giggles as They pantomimed the floating crimson character. The wind assisted, picking up a stray leaf and pulling it between their fingers as they told their tale. They were warmed by the participation of the wind, and took it as encouragement to continue their tale. It was always wise to seek the approval of the spirits.

"Our hero halted atop the hill and watched, all Mimsy as the Scarlet creature approached. They delicately settled themselves upon the hill beside our Hero, easy as if it were a bird lighting on a branch. Easier! As if simply taking a step out of the air. Scarlet - for this is what our Hero has named this creature - turned to our Hero and --"

Someone called their name.

Their hands paused their movement as they glanced over to the source of the interruption. They saw a tiny prism of rainbow light chase their gaze as the dwindling sun caught on the shining silver of the circlet. It was their guardian's circlet. Sometimes they forgot they wore it. It was very light, and pretty. An heirloom of their people entrusted to the storyteller since their Outelian grew ill.

There was a small group around the Gathering post. This piece of the great Tumtum tree, bequeathed to the Borogoves in ages past, loomed over them in brightly decorated shine.

An unfamiliar face was among them.

A Human face?

They quickly looked back at the younglings. " --turned to our Hero and announced--"

" - Come greet out guests!" That same calling voice carried over the mossy earth and tickled the storyteller's ears. They nodded.

"--'My name is The Red Wind, and I have traveled far to seek your skills!' they bowed, and their hair continued waving about as if still flitting about the rolling hills, though the winds had ceased about the pair of speakers. Our hero smiled greatly and bowed in return, for one must always avoid frumious behavior." They winked at the younglings, warranting another round of giggles.

Footsteps approached. The storyteller knew their time was up for now, and came up with something quick to pause the current tale.

"Alas, the sun was setting on the hills, and the Hero knew that camp would need to be set. So, they entreated The Red Wind to assist, and together they settled in around a campfire to chat." They dropped their hands onto their knees. A scent drifted towards them in the hands of the wind, and they let it tickle their nose It was an unfamiliar scent. Cold, dense, oiled metals...

"And that is where I shall leave you, younglings."

"No fair! Nothing happened!" Feylio protested, bouncing to their feet.
"I wanna know about the Red Wind!" Allo piped up, hiding behind their straw doll.

They laughed as more protests rose from the group. They stood, holding out calming hands to gently push back their irritation. "Oh come now! I will tell you all about it soon enough, but the sun is going down, and you should all be getting ready for feast time, yes?"

The younglings grumbled, but Beryun marched them off in order. The storyteller turned to the group of his peers - and the stranger - now patiently awaiting their attentions.

"Forgive me. I had a tale to tell."

"I see you do more then tell stories?" The stranger said, gesturing at the panpipes hanging from the storyteller's silken belt. "I would love to hear you play."

The Storyteller glanced to their feet, always anxious in the presence of strangers. The Borogoves rarely traded with outside people. The Fae were self-sufficient, and generally reclusive in their nomadic behavior, so they had very little motivation to seek outside influence or aid.

Which meant of course, that this stranger had sought them out. The storyteller lifted their eyes to them with a smile.

"I would be happy to play for our guest."

"This is Outelian's childer, next of blood to the clan leader. They speak with the voice of us all, and can decide if you are welcome to stay for feast-time." The one who had spoken - Illynio - smiled at Outelian's Heir, the storyteller, and bobbed their head in a casual bow.

The Stranger and the Heir locked eyes. They found no harm in allowing this one outsider the chance to feast with them. Surely had there been any ill intention, such an act would already have been done. Besides, Illynio was an excellent judge of character.

"I say welcome to the Borogoves, stranger. 'Twould be beamish if you joined us for feast-time."

The stranger bowed, a strangely formal gesture compared to the movements of the half-feral Borogoves, and extended a hand. The storyteller looked at it, then at the stranger's face. Good-humor glittered in their eyes. "It is a gesture from my home. Put your hand in mind and I will demonstrate."

The storyteller, delighted by this new gesture, clasped the stranger's hand. With a smile the stranger slowly moved their hands up and down, in a simple handshake.

"It is nice to meet you, childer or Outelian of the Borogoves." Such strange formality! Such precise clothing, all right angles and well-fit. Sensible shoes upon their feet, intelligence in their eyes! Much changed from the humans of ages past, that was for certain.

The storyteller had a fluttering feeling in their chest, one they could not decipher from excitement or fear. But, they laughed, shaking their hand with friendly insistence. Distrust was not part of their nature, nor was it like them to question the intentions of a visitor.

"Please. You may call me Lyriwyn."