

Cult Classics for the Modern Cult II (Heartbreakers for the Modern Cult). Please do not reproduce, copy, or download any part of this work without permission. Short sections may be used or quoted for the purposes of reviewing. This story is protected by Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 Canada (CC BY-NC-ND 2.5 CA), 2015.

****SMASHWORDS EDITION****

Cover art copyright Katie de Long, 2015. "Hold Me Closer, Necromancer" copyright Michelle Browne 2015; "Into the Blue" copyright Tina Traverse 2015; "The Dead Girl" copyright JC Eggleton 2015; "Gris Noir" copyright Mags Carr 2015; "Romero and Juliet" copyright Nicolas Wilson 2015; "Shades of Drunken Inner Demons" copyright Rachel Savage 2015; "Cold Feet" copyright Stacey Koshynsky 2015; "My Lady, the Bug" copyright L.K. Hatchett 2015; "Full Moon Private Eye" copyright Virginia Carraway Stark 2015;

"Remade" copyright Katie de Long 2015. All stories have been used with permission of the authors and may be reprinted at their discretion only.

Formatting and typesetting by CL Foster

Caution: the book you are about to read includes scenes of violence, assault, and explicit sex which may not be suitable for all readers. This collection carries a trigger warning.

On a less serious note, be aware that Canadian spellings appear in "Hold Me Closer, Necromancer", "Into the Blue", "Cold Feet", and "Full Moon Private Eye".

# Hold Me Closer, Necromancer—Michelle Browne

I used to be a ballerina, but the trouble with being one of the undead is that your joints just don't hold up.

The day I died, in fact, I was walking home from an audition for a modern piece. I was pretty sure I'd nailed it, too—not a big role, but hey, that's how you build your career. Then a bus flattened me. I'm not exactly sure what happened after that, but I woke up on a table in someone's basement with the worst headache I've ever had and a keen awareness that parts of me were _missing._

I remember blinking at the dim, shitty light and feeling as though I was coming out of a tunnel. I was cranky—imagine being yanked out of a warm, lovely bed and into a snowy, cold day. Then imagine being set on fire and kicked in the ribs repeatedly, at the same time. Everything hurt.

"Fuck off," I snapped at the blurry figure overhead. "I was comfy." It was worse than that, too. I felt uprooted. Not just from the earth or a coffin, although I'd been pulled out of both, but uprooted from something else. Wherever I'd been—and it was a _somewhere_ , I sensed—it had been pleasant. Maybe it was just the endorphins flooding my system, but I was almost entirely positive that where I'd been was nice. Better than a cold basement, at least, where everything _hurt._

"Uh, I summon thee, by Hades and Hecate I summon thee; comest thou back from the Styx and the Gates; come thou back from Xibulba—"

"I'm back. From shee-bull-bah," I thought out loud, my lips and tongue flailing over the words. I tried to sit up, to move. That was a bad idea. My joints protested. "What's going on? Where am I?" I tried to say. If I was "can't remember my own name" drunk, this was a new level. But I couldn't remember drinking. Or my own name, for that matter.

"Uh..." a blurry face overhead shifted. A soft male voice said, "my, uh, lab."

"Where is your lab?"

"Mumble mumble."

"Where?"

"My basement," he said, snapping a little.

"Why am I in a basement?" It came out more like, "Whamamababa?" I tried to swing my legs down and sit up.

"No, don't!" said the man—boy?—urgently.

Searing pain rushed through me. "Nap," I said. And all was darkness again, but the darkness of sleep, not the transition-place.

When I woke up again, my body felt weird, but it hurt a little less. My eyes were still blurry, but at least the pins and needles were receding. "Carly," I said out loud, and my tongue was less thick. I could make out the word more, at least. My name, I realized distantly.

"Feeling better?" said the male voice. This time, I could see a beard and a narrow-brimmed hat on his head, and could tell that he wore a t-shirt. His shape still wavered in my vision, but I could tell he was bearish in build, muscular and fat.

"Little," I managed.

"I realized your cartilage was in terrible shape and that you'd undergone significant nerve damage post-mortem," he said apologetically. "I've been replacing your broken bones for the last week."

About three-quarters of the words registered. "Post-mortem?" I said.

"Uh, yeah." The figure scratched his curly brown hair, his light skin gleaming dully in the halogen lights.

"Post- _mortem?"_ I shrieked.

"Shhh, please," he said softly. "My roommates upstairs will hear."

"What...who are you?!"

"Mumble mumble."

"Speak up!" I snapped. I'd taken more dance than dramatic arts classes, but I'd still been drilled on elocution at least a bit. And this guy's enunciation was pretty bad, like he didn't talk much. The blurry figure's face turned red.

"Sandwich guy," he said at last. "At Marconi's. You know, near your dancing company's studio."

I'd gone there for lunch a lot. Turkey on pumpernickel was my favorite. I tried to open my mouth and lift an arm to argue, but squeaked in pain instead. Pain and greyness swam behind my eyes, and I felt faint.

"Hm," he said. "I need to look up some fortification spells. Can't have you falling apart." He patted my head gently. I fell asleep again.

When I woke up _again,_ I felt a little better—more hungover than taser-victim, and my skin was less grey and more caramelly-beige. I could smell things, too, like chips and soda and nachos and pizza and—oh, _god,_ I was hungry.

"Breakfast?" I managed.

"Morning to you too," said Sandwich Guy. "You okay there? You keep conking out."

"What do you mean, conking out? And why am I not in a hospital?"

Shy brown eyes behind glasses looked at me, and blinked. "You got a whole sentence out, Carly!"

"Carlita. Carlita Mendes. The fuck am I doing here?"

"For a ballet dancer, you sure swear a lot."

"I'm a dancer, not a kindergarten teacher." I wiggled, and this time, felt leather belts on my limbs. "What the hell?"

"Just a precaution. You dislocated your elbow last time. I didn't want you to break something. The spells are holding, but it's a little patchy. That bus really did a number on you."

"Bus?"

Well, _that_ brought it all back. I went from hazy, alarm-clock-just-went-off-on-a-Monday level cognition, straight to hyper-aware, going-to-miss-the-bus-to-my-interview jitters. And then, the word "bus" connected fully, and I realized I'd been _hit_ by the bus on my way home.

The hunger changed to nausea. I retched, but nothing came up, and rolled back and forth in my restraints. Sandwich Guy released me, awkwardly patting my limbs.

"Are you okay?"

My eyes burned, and I clasped my fingers over them, wincing and moaning. "Oh god! The bus hit me! I died!"

"I saved you," said Sandwich Guy softly.

"Who the fuck even are you? Did I get the part? The audition went well!"

"You died," he confirmed, "but...I followed you to your audition to wish you luck. And as soon as you went through the hospital and the morgue, I went back for you. I brought you here so I could fix you." He stroked my hair, trying to calm me. "Shhhh."

I screamed and screamed and screamed, and when my fragile vocal chords broke, I tried to cry myself to sleep. A needle went in—one of many tubes going in and out of me—and I went out forcefully this time.

"You can't keep doing this," said Sandwich Guy sternly. "You're breaking parts. I have to keep fixing them."

I moved my lips, and experimentally exhaled. My lungs pulled in more air this time, and I felt a giddy rush as oxygen flooded my system.

"I gave you new lungs, too," he added shyly. "You were pretty oxygen-deprived before. Did you smoke?"

"Nope. Asthma."

"Me too!"

I inhaled and exhaled experimentally. I did feel a lot _better._ That explained the blackouts. I lifted a hand slightly, and saw subtle patchiness on my wrist. I wasn't bound this time, at least.

"Uh, had to use a healing spell and Neosporin. Sorry."

"Where are you getting all these spare parts from?" I managed. The horror washed over me, but it was pretty unreal. I was almost getting used to it. Either that, or I was still in shock.

"I have...colleagues. We...recycle a lot. Um. Some people don't donate...everything. When they donate organs."

I shuddered a little, then felt pleased that I could shudder. I touched my own chest lightly, the deep scar between my small breasts still fresh. Then it occurred to me that I was _naked_ under the surgical tarp over me, and I pulled it against myself and glared at him.

It hadn't really penetrated until now that he'd been _touching_ me while I was naked. Without asking. And the tarp wasn't protection enough.

"Oh, no," he said softly. "God, this is so much easier when you're out."

I turned horrified eyes on him. My connection to my body was tenuous, and I was floating. I fixated on his surprisingly clear skin. Considering what it smelled like in here—greasy food boxes filled corner garbage bins—he was fortunate, because he didn't have a single zit. I looked past him to a weight set in the corner. Clearly wasn't working.

"Oh, god, I'm so sorry," he said again. "I didn't mean it like that. Just...I...um. I haven't done anything to you while you were out," he said. Was that wistfulness?

Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Make it stop. God, someone make it all stop. Kill me now.

"I almost finished med school, you know," he said reassuringly. "Well actually, I did get in. But I had to drop out in second year."

"What? Did a giant basilisk eat your classmates?" I snapped.

His face lit up. "This is why I had to rescue you, Carly. I mean, no, it didn't, but. You were always so funny. So special."

Well, that was just confusing. He put a reverent hand on mine. I recoiled.

"I promise. I won't hurt you. I haven't, and I won't, and I never would, milady." He stepped back. "Um, hey! Looks like your muscles are working better."

"So, when did they teach the Dark Arts in med school?"

"Oh. Uh. I kinda picked that up on my own. Mumble mumble."

"What?"

"Teenage Wiccan," he managed.

I stared at the ceiling. So, a geeky, morbid, invasive freak with a tendency to be gentle and great skin. Was I a captive here? I'd slapped the man in the boat to capture fantasies a few times, but this was entirely different. One hell of a lot less sexy. This time, I wasn't in control.

It was terrifying, but—as I glanced at the medical equipment around me, eyes taking in fine details and lettering this time—it was also absurd. The "fantasy weapons" on the walls and "Crit or die" poster with a giant twenty-sided die, twenty-side up, weren't exactly sinister. Well, the fantasy weapons kind of were, but any idiot who knew things about swords would be aware that the average "fancy dagger" couldn't cut a damn sausage, let alone disembowel someone.

"Do you want help sitting up?" he offered. "The IVs and your feeding tube are a bit delicate."

I nodded grudgingly, pinning him to the wall with my eyes.

Eager as a puppy, he came forward and offered a hand, waiting for me to touch him. Huh. So, what, I was fair game when out cold, but a Real Live Girl was Kryptonite? Whatever. I took his hand gently and concentrated, moving upwards.

Bit by bit, I sat up. I'd had a horrifying flu once in eighth grade that had put me out for weeks. This felt a bit similar. Especially the random switches between nausea and starvation.

"You did it!" he cheered, hopping from one foot to the other. In spite of myself, I smiled.

Then I caught a whiff of myself. I smelled...well...a little dead, and a little stale. "Oh, jeez. I smell like death. Literally. Can I shower?"

He glanced at the floor. "You just barely sat up," he said. "It's been three weeks. I've had to replace your lenses and corneas, too."

Well. That explained why everything was so clear. "So you're saying I'm still hella fragile?"

"Yes. I'm so sorry. But I can fix it!" He came a little closer. He offered a cautious smile, and a wave of mint hit me in the nose like a left hook. "I can fix anything you need me to."

I slowly drew my legs up, inch by inch. At least they just felt sore and achy now, rather than like fire and ice. "Can you let me out of here? Let me dance again?"

He offered a shoulder for me, drew his arm around me. He smelled like warm bread and salt and pine, and above all, fear. "It's not...safe yet. I still need to make you identity docs. But the dancing...I can work on it. I don't think you can stand on your own yet."

That undid me. I was weak, sure, but it hadn't _hit_ me that I might never dance again. I mean, being brought back to life was nice, I guess, but however long it lasted, not being able to _dance_ was pure torture, even just as a thought.

I bent my head. Still no tears, just itching. It was like diving face-first into a fire-anthill.

I didn't go to sleep after that, though. No; we finally started muscle tests and reflex tests and a million other things. Sandwich Guy put some Elton John on in the background. Considering the van art metal posters around, I'd expected some shitty band like ManoWar, but no; soulful seventies piano crooning it was.

I didn't mind. It gave me something to focus on while he was in Doctor Mode. Sandwich Guy tended to be terse and non-conversational when that happened.

"Left knee," he said.

"You know, I didn't want to be brought back," I said suddenly. "It was nice on the other side. Feels like a dream now."

"Just neurons misfiring," he said crisply.

I bit my tongue. He had the stethoscope. And the other tools. And he held my life, or unlife, or whatever the fuck this was, in his hands.

"Spread your legs."

"WHOA! No way."

He gave me an annoyed look. Full Doctor Mode. Didn't even realise what he was doing. "I need to make sure nothing's gone septic. I've done a lot of stitching. Spells and all."

"How about I look and tell you?"

"You don't have any medical education. You won't know what to look for."

"You won't be able to look if I break your nose with my kneecap," I growled.

He ripped his stethoscope off and slammed it down on the counter. "FINE! Just ruin all my hard work, why don't you? Get a yeast infection or something, or worse, have the whole thing prolapse."

" _Your_ hard work? I'm a person, you asshole," I snapped. My eyes burned. "Got that? OW!" I clutched my eyes.

He turned his back to me as I whimpered, clawing at my tearless eyes. After a few long moments, he sighed. "Hold on. Eye drops. You can put them in yourself. If you can even hold the bottle steady."

I snatched the plastic squeeze bottle from his cold, dry hands. My fingers shook a little, but I got my drops in each eye. Sweet relief.

"I should look at that blockage," he muttered.

"You should give me my info and let me get the fuck out. I had an apartment, you know."

"You mean the apartment full of stuff that your parents handled?" he said. Was he fucking taunting me?

"I had a roommate!"

"You're dead, Carly," he said harshly. "Or you were. All that's holding you together right now is my magic and _my_ surgical work. If you even get off that table..."

That made fire surge in my veins, and not the burning, tingling pain kind. The kind that had made me almost break my knuckles on a few faces. I set a foot down on the floor.

"No! You can't!"

Another foot. My legs were shaking. I was still leaning on the counter, though. Not really putting weight down.

"Carly!" The chilliness dissolved as he rushed forward. Ready to spit in his face, I balanced on both feet and put a hand on the stainless steel table...

...And wobbled. Heartbreak. I couldn't even stand on my own two feet, literally. He bullrushed me and gently pushed me back on the table.

I turned on my side, sobbing dryly again, my tongue barely wet enough to make sounds.

He stroked my back. "Shhh, shhh. I'm sorry. Let me check on you to make sure you're not broken."

This time, I let him, staring at the ceiling like a doll and waiting.

When he was done examining my reflexes, reactions, pulse, and poking and prodding, he said, "Your muscles are really having to work hard. I've got you halfway back from death. But if you want to be functional, I'll have to start working on physiotherapy."

"I just want to dance," I said.

There was a long pause. I turned to look at his face. "If I help you dance," he said slowly, "and if I cure you of death completely..."

Cured? For the medical breakthrough of the century, he barely seemed excited about the meaning of his own words. He was staring at me.

"Yeah?"

"If I cure you, would you be my girlfriend?"

There was a long pause.

"I don't even know your name, Sandwich Guy," I said bluntly.

That got him. He started to cry, then wiped the tears away with his hand instantly. Boys don't cry, I guess. I watched enviously and wished he'd keep crying. It felt good to hurt him back, even though it hurt me too, but I wanted him to keep crying. At least I could remember what it felt like. I reached for my little squeezie bottle and put eyedrops in, hating him.

"Beck," he said. "It's Beck."

We didn't talk much for the next two days. I hadn't said I'd...well. But he got to work on some kind of contraption, shooting me martyred looks once in a while, big, wet, sad-eyed glares that said he would rather bite out his own tongue than hurt me. Whatever. If he _really_ meant it, he wouldn't have revived me from a perfectly satisfactory afterlife—which I remembered only as something pleasant—to be his undead sex goddess/slave wife/whatever.

Not that he'd touched me like that. Medically, he took liberties, as if I was a frog to dissect, but I was about as responsive as said frog. When he was out of Doctor Mode, Beck was shy. Terrified. As I slowly learned to balance my weight and regain fine motor skills, he let me on the computer. Just a bit, in case my eyes got worn out or tired.

But still. I saw him complaining in forums online about things. Most people didn't believe him, but in the hidden chatrooms, concealed through an elaborate pathway on the dark flip-side of the internet, other people related, and commiserated. Most of them were men, talking about girls they loved who'd passed on, or were gone, or had left them. A few were just lonely, and were...trying to build girlfriends. A lot of them were just there to talk and vent.

Still, the way they talked, especially about women, bothered me. It seemed like Beck was mostly lurking rather than posting, but it wasn't comforting.

I wondered how many other undead girlfriends were out there, and decided I didn't want to know. Not like I could do anything, anyway. I couldn't even cry.

Still, between his spells and frequent minor surgeries, I was getting better. And Beck, for an asshole captor, was less awful than he could have been. As the week ran out and turned into two weeks, he softened up, even in Doctor Mode.

It was kind of cute the way he got excited when I managed pablum. And when I managed a hardboiled egg, he cried with joy.

"When do I get chocolate?" I joked.

His eyes lit up. "Chocolate ice cream? Want to try it at your next feed—meal?"

I cringed. "Feeding". Of course. "I'm surprised you haven't offered me brains yet. I thought that was the standard dietary constituent."

He laughed until he cried, wiping his eyes. "Oh, man. I guess I should have offered that first. Do you want brains?"

"I'm good."

"Hah. Man. You're so smart for a dancer. It's amazing. How did you grow up so geeky?"

I got what he was trying to say, but it hurt like a slap. I turned away. "Same way anyone does."

More silence, after that. He spent a lot more time on his forums.

I graduated to a cot that night, though, instead of just a pillow and blanket on my table. When he set it up, he looked at it longingly. I scowled at him. I'd taken to wearing a t-shirt and sweats most of the time, now. His, obviously; they were too short and far too loose, but it was better than being naked and freezing. And the surgeries were happening less often, so I didn't need to be naked all the time.

"Scoot," I said, and turned over to fall asleep.

"Sleep tight, Carly," he said.

I grunted, shifting my limbs in their too-loose chains, and fell asleep.

The morning after, I woke to the smell of frying eggs. Beck had a big smile, and was singing—belting it, really—along to Elton John.

" _Undead baby, zombie lady, cold and chilly hands_

Pretty eyed, bloody smile, you'll do what I demand

Ballerina, you must have seen her, now she can't even stand

And now she's in me, always with me, missing organs in my hand

People freak out in the street

Got hit by the bus

Turning back, I just laugh

She rises from the dead

Super nice man makes his stand

In the crematorium

Looking on she rises up

Now she's blinking, death she knows, and she's numb

But oh how it feels so real

Lying here with no one near

Only you and you can hear me

When I say softly slowly

Hold me closer, necromancer

Don't follow the lights back up to heaven

Get me up before I'm interned

Came back from the dead today..."

I shook my head and laughed in spite of myself. Maybe it was Stockholm Syndrome at last, but it was actually kind of cute and sweet.

"Good morniiiing, beautiful," he sang out. "I have eggs and..." with a dramatic flourish, he uncovered a small dish, "chocolate ice cream!"

I couldn't cry, but I wanted to—for a good reason, this time. I dug into the ice cream, eating it gingerly, the spoon shaking in my fingers. I got through the tiny scoop and then the fried egg with the same intensity and focus that had earned me a tryout for Dulcina in _Don Quixote_.

"I'm so proud of you!" Beck exclaimed. He lifted me in a hug. As he wrapped his arms around me, squeezing the breath from me, I felt safe for a moment. Then one of my ribs cracked.

He let me go, crestfallen. "I guess we better fix that."

I nodded, disappointed beyond words, as he got to work on a bone-mending cantrip.

He seemed to be eager to put the frozen zone of the last few weeks behind us. He started bringing me little surprises. New pyjamas, for one thing. Ones that fit. Two tanks in soft jersey and some black yoga pants and slippers, and a black and red, lacy corset thing that looked like it had fallen out of the Warlock "special supplement" from one of the D&D playbooks.

I scowled at him for the corset, but I had a stupid urge to try the thing on. It was tacky as hell, but after all the pampering and muscle massages, maybe rewarding the guy wouldn't be so bad. Not that he deserved it, but he kind of did. Once I'd mastered getting the pants, underwear, and tank with built-in bra on and off, I practiced doing the corset up and undoing it. When I finally mastered the stupid thing, I put it on and showed it off to him. My body was still in a state of "post-mortem, neo-vivified fragility", as he put it, so I had to be careful with my ribs, but it did fit.

The look on his face—greed and lust flashing to something much softer and deeper—was kind of worth it.

I let myself soften up. It helped when he showed me the IDs he'd had made for me. New last name. "I was thinking we could get you some air. Can I take you out?"

A date? I was ready to cry. It sounded amazing. "I don't know if I can handle standing for that long," I admittedly reluctantly. "But yeah. I'd love to get some air."

He flinched a little. "I could, uh, take you to my D&D session." He seemed to wait for ridicule.

"I'd like that. I played it a bit."

I swear to god, he almost fainted.

"Yeah, totally, you're welcome to come, then." Beck said. "We usually play at Dan's house." He cringed. "But I didn't think he'd...you know. I think he might be...uncomfortable if I explain our arrangement. He's...kind of..." his face twisted. "Soft."

That was a new expression. I didn't like the way he said that word. Like softness meant being broken somehow. Considering how delicate Beck usually was when he touched me, it was downright hypocritical, too.

"You don't have to explain the whole undead magic thing. Just tell him we're friends," I said crisply.

His face fell like a rockslide burying a town in the Rockies. "Sure," he said hollowly.

But he was watching his step. The next day, he brought me shoes. Like everything else, they fit perfectly. They were very, very red, and lifted me off my heels. I wasn't doing pointe, of course, just struggling with regular shoes, but goddamn, they were beautiful. I knew he was trying to buy my affection, buy peace, but it was hard to care. After a couple of months in a man cave, I craved beauty, something feminine. And I didn't have anything that was mine anymore. Death had taken it from me, taken my personhood.

But even a hurt, difficult person is better than no company at all. So you'll have to forgive me if I kissed him for the shoes, and cried dryly, especially when he gave me a swishy red skirt and a soft black t-shirt to wear. It was kind of a softly gothy look, like a lazy pinup look. Before I'd died, I'd gone for a practical jock thing. But who cared? They were real clothes. If I had to change a little after dying, I could handle that. And the skirt was so soft.

We practiced eating more solid foods.

The night of the D&D game was as exciting as prom is supposed to be. He helped me wash in the shower, mostly standing guard while I leaned on him and rinsed myself. He did my hair, washing it—in a swimsuit, though that didn't prevent the awkward boner from springing up—and putting it in a simple bun. The black-brown waves of my back-length locks framed my face, dangling out of my bun fetchingly. And when he produced basic makeup and helped me get it on, with my directions, I felt like a princess.

Finally, he presented me with a black velvet box. At this point, I was beyond overwhelmed. As he cracked it open, I gasped. Sterling silver studs, a necklace, and a ring, all featuring tiny skulls. It wasn't what I would have chosen before, but they were a little too damn cool to resist.

"This must have been—thank you!" I threw my arms around his neck. It all fit, of course. Everything had.

"You're welcome," he muttered, kissing my neck, my cheek, working his way down my shoulder.

I sniffed. "I'm kinda glad I can't cry, or I'd wreck my makeup. Where'd you get all this stuff? Isn't it expensive?"

"I know people," he said grandly.

I kissed him back, noticing absently that his beard had clearly been freshly oiled and even styled. He'd put some effort in. No tux, but a button-up, new cologne, and a new trilby. Not a cheap, crappy one, either. And—now that I looked—he'd lost some weight. Must have been carrying me around all the time.

"Can you manage the stairs?" he asked breathlessly. I had a feeling it wasn't because of the asthma.

"I dunno," I said. I still had my arms around his neck, and put my legs over his arms. "Can you carry me?" I asked, mascara'd lashes fluttering as I smiled.

He puffed out his chest and carried me up the steps. I took my first breath of fresh air that wasn't from an open window in weeks, and curled against his chest, shaking with dry tears.

He carried me to the shotgun seat of a Toyota Tercell that had obviously been cleaned for the first time in a while. It might as well have been a frickin' gilded chariot. We drove in munificent silence and listened to the radio. I left the window down.

"It feels so good to be out and about," I said loudly. "Oh, man. I feel like a new woman."

Beck eyed me anxiously. "Are you okay? Not hurting?"

"I'm okay! I feel great!"

And I kept feeling great. He carried me out of the car and up the steps of a modest duplex, then set me down on the step and rang the doorbell.

A plump, amicable guy answered. He had a beard, a grin, and friendly brown eyes. "Hey, Beck!" he said, lisping slightly, and embraced his friend. "Who's this?"

"This," said Beck, as if receiving an award, "is Carlita Moralez."

"I'm a friend," I added, and managed a smile.

Beck deflated like the American economy.

Dan didn't seem to notice. "Nice to meet you! This your first session? Or are you just watching today?" He bounced up the stairs.

I went up one step at a time, slowly. He glanced back with a raised eyebrow, concerned. Well, at least he was considerate. Beck looked embarrassed. "Muscle thing," I said crisply. "Disorder. I'm a little slow. But yeah, I'd love to play a bit. Been a long time."

Dan held out a hand absently to help me up the stairs, and called, "Hey, honey, you're not the only girl today!"

"Awesome!" a woman called back.

I was so relieved, I almost fainted. A real life human being! Several of them! I'd been a bit of a party girl back in the day, slipping fluidly between jocks and geeks, the way a lot of us did in high school, but now, the mere thought of socializing with people seemed impossible. As I mounted the stairs, I prayed I would last the night, and that the chairs had backs.

Beck kept a close eye on me, hovering all night. But being around people—even if the others were chubby male geeks who kept staring at my legs and tiny rack—made me feel like my old self again. I held my own, laughing and taking the piss and dickering about how many hit points I'd scored against a lich. He kept touching me, putting a hand on my back, on my neck, on my chin, and once, patting my ass. I shot him a look after that one. But we didn't have real trouble until the beer made its way around.

"Oh, not yet," said Beck, moving the can out of my reach. I stared at it like it was a healing potion and I was at zero hit points. "Your medication," he said. "Will interact with the beer badly."

I withdrew my hand and fiddled with the sterling skull on my ring. It stared back, offering no suggestions. I forced a bright smile. "Slipped my mind. So, who wants to spank this Dire Rat hoard? They won't kill themselves. But actually," I added, wobbling to my feet, "I'll be right back."

I hobbled down the hall, into the bathroom, and made it in. Real food was still sitting heavily in my gut, and peeing was always a little scary. Basic bodily functions get a lot more intimidating when you stop being used to them. At that, I remembered Beck cleaning my ass a few days earlier, and shame turned my ears bright red.

But—were there voices down the hall? I listened.

"What's up, man?" said Dan.

"What do you mean?" said Beck.

"With Carlita."

"Oh. Well."

"Oh well, what? She looks kind of sick."

"Autoimmune thing."

I could almost hear them glaring at each other. I prayed Dan would press him further. The fantasy played out in my head: his wife, Juniper, would interrupt their fight and offer to have a girls' night with me. I could sleep on their couch for a couple weeks, get on my feet...but where did that leave Beck? Guilt twisted my stomach. I didn't want to abandon him, but I needed air.

Cleaning myself with shaky but determined hands, I flushed and hobbled over to the sink. As I washed up, inspecting my ragged nails, I listened in. They were still talking.

"...are you still hanging out with those weird Necromancy people?"

"It's not a big deal," said Beck.

"Dude...you need to understand that it's a metaphor, okay? I'm...we're starting to get worried about you."

"It made me confident enough to make myself a girlfriend," Beck hissed back.

Make?

"Make?" repeated Dan, frowning. "Are you, like, bribing her?"

"What? No! I mean, meet a girlfriend. And she's so perfect." Beck's voice went dreamy. "She's smart, she gets my jokes, and she's got the sickness thing, but she's so strong. So brave. And I don't feel like anyone's ever gotten me the way she gets me."

I threw up in my mouth a little. Frantically, I pirouetted around to the toilet. I retched up some cheese pizza and flushed again, then grabbed the mouthwash to swish and spit. I felt bad borrowing some, but come on. Guilt washed over me, and affection.

"She called herself a friend, man," said Dan. He'd been a sweetie, but his voice was cold now, not playful at all. The kind of voice a Dungeon or Game Master used right before a character failed a saving throw. "I think you better make sure you both know what's going on."

"Of course," said Beck stubbornly. "We're taking it slow."

"Good," said Dan. "I'd hate to see a nice girl like her get hurt. You better treat her well."

Beck snorted. "What, you think she's my only chance?"

"I think she's a nice person."

There was a stony silence. "Oh, hey, look at the time!" said Beck brightly. "Well, guess we better wrap up."

I hobbled out of the bathroom slowly, smiling. "Hey, guys. Did I miss anything?"

"Nope," said Dan, glaring at Beck. "Just finishing up the session. It would be great for you to come next week."

"Totally," said Juniper chirpily. She ruffled her short, curly brown hair, her tanned skin a warm amber in the lights of the modest dining room. "We should hang out, if you want! Here, I'll give you my number."

"I, uh, don't have a phone," I said awkwardly. "It's, uh, in the shop."

"I'll take her messages," Beck offered.

I didn't miss the alarmed look that passed over Dan's dark-skinned face, the expression jumping like electricity between him and Juniper as Dan met her worried eyes. "Sure," said Juniper, looking at me evenly. "But here's my number." She scribbled it down one-handed and slid it over to me.

I smiled and went to tuck it into a pocket, but realised I didn't have one.

"Time to go!" said Beck. He scooped me up unceremoniously and carried me down the steps and into the car. We waved to the other nerds, and I smiled. On stage, they told us to smile. I could do that.

The drive home was very quiet. I left the window down but didn't turn on the radio. No Elton John, this time, though the stupid song kept playing over and over in my head.

This was unfair. But what could I do? Start a Twitter campaign to recognise inequality with undead rights? #YesAllUndead. #FrankengirlfriendSpeaks. _#NotAllNecromancers_ , my brain countered. Pointless, then. And if I went public, never mind the publicity mess, I'd probably have eight or ten Becks trying to make me their new girlfriend, some kind of Day of the Dead fantasy bang.

_Well, I could make good money as a stripper or hooker_ , I thought to myself. But those were risky, and I was fragile. Not opposed to the work, though, I thought with surprise. But was it so different from being a sugar baby now?

_You didn't get to choose being a sugar baby, though,_ said a nasty voice in my head. _If you were a real sugar baby, you wouldn't be this helpless._

I glanced at Beck, who looked through the windshield, trying not to cry. What did he have to cry about? "What?" I said, as softly as I could.

But he shook his head, refusing to say a word. Great. I couldn't even apologize if he wasn't going to talk. And I didn't want to. I was a person, not a slave or a pet or a child. But despite his willingness to do things for me, he seemed to think a girlfriend was some combination of all three.

He carried me down the stairs carefully when we got home, still silent as the grave. Well. What I assumed the grave would be like. I didn't remember a feeling of aloneness after death, but maybe that was just hormones, like Beck had said. Brains were so unreliable anyway, breaking down. If only I really was a mindless monster feeding on grey matter.

Beck set me on my cot and leaned against the doorframe. My eyes burned, refusing to admit tears. "Do you need help getting undressed?" he said bluntly.

"I'll be okay," I said, my throat thick. With trembling hands, I pulled my clothes off until I stood in my red and black corset and nothing else. Well, sat. I couldn't stand.

Beck stood in front of me, a strange, cold look on his face. He looked me up and down. "You know, you're lucky," he said. "I saved you. I've fixed you. A few more weeks or months and you'll be able to blend in with the rest of them. Most of your systems are functioning weakly, but they're working. But those scars? I could fix them if you want. But I don't want to fix them. They show every place I've touched you. Every scar, every nick, every little bit of you that works at all? It belongs to me."

I leaned over, suddenly furious and tired. "What do you want, Beck? You basically own me. I can't even go up the stairs on my own."

"I don't mean it like that!" he said, slapping the table. He looked at me intensely, resentment and anger on his face. "I mean that I've done everything for you in the last few weeks. I brought you back _from the grave._ "

"I know. And I didn't ask for it. But thank you, I guess."

"Thank you? That's it?" He slapped the table again. "I've talked to other guys who are going through this. Women like you do this all the time. You lure us in, you promise the world..."

"Like me? I didn't do any of this! You brought me back!" I snapped. "And because of that, I can't even dance. Do you know what that's taken from me? Even if I had been trying to promise you shit, which I haven't, what would it mean next to dancing?"

He looked hurt. "So what, I don't matter? Being alive doesn't matter?"

"It's not about you! God! Can't you let me heal up, or whatever? What's with all the demands?"

"I'm not demanding anything! This is just what's fair!"

"What's fair?" I said. "What does that even mean?" My throat ached, raw from yelling. "What do I have to do?"

"It's not about that! It's about what you refuse to do! And it's not like I'm not trying! But you're always holding out on me, pushing me away..."

"I have no place of my own!" I cried out. "No mental space! No role! Do you understand? You can give me things, but I have nothing. My family thinks I'm dead, my friends think I'm gone, and I can barely take a shit on my own. And it's because of you. I just want..."

'What do you want, Carly?" His face was red, and he clutched the table so hard, I expected to see it dent inwards. For a moment, I had a stupid desire to slap him, or to have him slap me. But it was just the thought of touch—of not having to offer something—that I craved. I wanted a damn hug that didn't involve an awkward boner or a longing look or a resentful sigh. And no matter what gifts he tried to press on me, he wouldn't give me that---he'd always wander into my room, his lab, whenever he felt like it. He made excuses to help me with things, especially to see me naked. I was starting to feel like a hunted animal, and perhaps even a lack of simple, non-sexual affection was better than no privacy at all.

"I want to be left alone a bit."

"I give you space! What, should I put you out on the street? Let you turn tricks so you can have your precious freedom? I can protect you, Carly. And all I want...is it so bad?"

"It's not about whether it's bad," I said, collapsing. "I want to be more than your girlfriend. But apparently, I'm too fragile for that. You win, okay? Just..." I flopped on my back.

He started crying. I wanted to punch him. Before, I would have. "I don't want to win, Carly, baby," he sobbed. "I want you to love me."

"Come love me, then," I said. And for the moment, I meant it.

He looked at me with wild hope in his eyes. "I love you, Carlita. I've always loved you."

"I love you too," I said. I can't tell you whether I meant it. It hurts too much to think about. I think I did, a bit, but part of me was also just tired. But suddenly, I was horny, and I needed to scratch the itch. It had been _months_ since I'd gotten laid, and listening to Beck quietly getting himself off while I was alone hadn't helped.

He advanced slowly, dropping his clothes as he went, and climbed into my cot.

It was awkward and delicate. Imagine a toddler trying to play with a butterfly. He lifted me on top, helped move my body around, touched me gently. It wasn't great, really, but it was good in a way. I dug my ragged fingernails into his chest as I ground against him. My whole body started to hurt, but I didn't care. Things between my legs felt good, at least. And there was a gaping hole in my soul, eroded away by the last couple of months, that felt full. At least for a while.

After, I laid next to him. He cradled me like a broken thing. Which I was, really. He turned to me, panting. "Let me do something," he said. "Can you do another round?"

I shrugged and flinched, my collarbone screaming. I must have dislocated something while I was on top.

Beck got out some herbs and a ritual dagger and some strange dried things, and got to work. He cut a thin line down my chest. It beaded up. I hurt enough that I barely noticed the cut. Or the Latin and dead languages he muttered.

But I felt something else take hold. I felt bones fixing, muscle filling out. As Beck gasped, I shut my eyes.

Life and light and fullness. I wanted to eat a whole pizza, dance for an hour, screw someone's lights out—

It was a burning need. I pressed up against him and flipped him over. He started to protest. I kissed him. "Come on," I said breathlessly. "Let's see how well it works, this magic of yours." I looked down at my own body, glowing with health like I'd come back from a vacation. "Damn; I'm not into girls, but I'd totally do me right now."

"Oh yeah," he said. "Come on, baby."

I rode him hard, crying out loudly. The bed shook. And under me, he slowly turned paler and paler.

I kept going. Magic filled me out. Muscle returned, then a little fat. My breasts seemed to plump up as I worked. Beck gasped, his skin an ashy grey. My scars faded, shimmering under the surface, until my old sun-kissed golden tan had returned.

I felt him come inside me, hard. Too hard. He rasped my name. I howled his, and in the moment, I might as well have been howling my own instead. Something inside me twisted fiercely, and Beck stopped thrusting. He sagged.

I threw a leg off him and bounced off the bed, onto my feet. "That was awesome! Beck?"

There was a pattern of scars all over his chest, his arms, and his belly. His frame had shrunk, his skin sagging. And he wasn't breathing.

I shook his shoulders. "Beck!"

He didn't breathe. I stared at his scars for a while. I knew where they went, and where they'd been. Where they weren't, now. My skin was smooth, glowing with health.

"You belong to me," he'd said. Not a lover's demand or a master's command in a kinky roleplay. What had he been doing? What had I interrupted?

But I knew. The way I felt—the fact that it wasn't going away, was settling into my bones—told me what I already knew.

I got up, rifling through my clothes. I'd tucked Juniper's number into my bra. It was still there.

With steady hands, I dialed her number. "Juniper?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you or Dan come pick me up? Something happened. And...call 911."

"Carly! Are you okay?"

I looked at Beck. Tears of anger, of relief, and regret flowed down my face. I sniffled and cried, doubling over. "Yeah," I said. "I'm okay." I'd tell them he'd had a heart attack while we were frisky. It had happened, after all. "Just...come soon."

"You're at Beck's, right? We'll be right there."

"Thank you," I whispered. The line went dead. I stared at the cooling body of my captor and held his hand for a moment. The emergency services would be coming in a few minutes. I needed to prepare for a second, or third life. Time for Carlita M to come back to life—for real, this time.

About the Author

Michelle Browne is a sci fi/urban fantasy writer from Calgary, AB. She has a cat and a partner-in-crime. Her days revolve around freelance editing, jewelry, phuquerie, and nightmares. She is currently working on the next books in her series, other people's manuscripts, and drinking as much tea as humanly possible.

Twitter: <http://www.twitter.com/scifimagpie>

Facebook: <http://www.facebook.com/scifimagpie>

Blog: http://www.scifimagpie.blogspot.ca

# Into the Blue—Tina Traverse

Kaelin

The heavens sent earth a deity that no others can compare: perfect in every way. I love admiring my fisherman as he wields his craft on the open water. His sculpted muscles flex under the strain of the rapid, jerking movements of his jigging. I'm mesmerized by the skilled movements of that golden hook dipping fluidly into the water. The sun glistens off his dark skin. He wipes away beads of sweat from his brow with a free, calloused hand. Suddenly, the god's concentration is broken for a moment when his stare travels in my general direction. I duck behind the rock which serves as a daily perch that I use to gaze fondly at my sea prince. My heart thunders in my chest. I hope that he didn't see me, for I might die of shame. Thankfully, he returns to his task.

I first noticed the stunning fisher known as Seamus O'Toole at this same spot, on a warm summer's day. He was standing in the same place, with one foot braced on the side of the boat, while finding his fortune at the end of a hook. It was love at first sight.

My painful shyness prevented me from approaching the object of my desire, but it didn't stop me from learning what I could about him. My only friend works at the fish plant where Seamus sells his wares. David Yeong socializes with Seamus's inner circle, so he is a wealth of information.

"Kaelin, for God's sake, get out from behind that rock and let Seamus see you."

"Christ, David, you startled me."

"Okay, sorry. Next time I'll wear a cowbell."

"Hah, funny. Don't quit your day job. What brings you here? Spying on me?"

"No, I want to see if you want to go out to supper."

I peek through the grass and resume my voyeurism and discover my dream has disappeared.

"Thanks for distracting me. I missed my chance."

"For what? To approach the gorgeous sea miner and ask him out? We both know that wasn't going to happen."

"Fine. Where are we going to eat?"

"Come, me lady, I'll escort you."

Ocean waves lap at the pier below the cafe's patio. I gaze out across the water and yearn for what's mine and what I can never have. The heat of David's stare pulls me from the cocoon of self-pity. He studies me with a cold, hurt expression which quickly evaporates.

"You can't stay away, can you?"

"No, David. There's something inside of me that keeps calling me back. I can't escape the pull."

His grip on my shoulders both comfort and alienate me. As my friend, he can comfort me, but as a city dweller, he doesn't understand why I love the home I left behind.

"I have the perfect way to distract you and put a smile on that beautiful face."

"What could you possibly do?"

"I have two tickets to the hockey game. Seamus and I were going to go, but I have to babysit for my niece that night."

"Y-you want me to go with Seamus? I rather babysit for you."

"Come on, Kaelin, I thought you'd be thrilled."

"I'm shit baked. I can't go out with Seamus."

"I thought you were in love with him."

"I adore him from afar. I'm not ready to meet him up close, especially with you not around."

"I can't always be around. Attending a public event is the best way to be with the man of your dreams and to eliminate any awkward alone time."

"David, please."

"No, Kaelin. You're going."

Thrusting two tickets into my pocket, the relentless office manager leads me from the patio and walks me home.

Seamus

The home team is up by three, and the room is buzzing with excitement. I wish some of it would rub off on my mysterious date. The angular young woman with a shock of purple-blue hair rubs her gloved fingers over her legs.

"You cold?"

"Wha? Yeah, a little. I guess I never dress warm enough."

"First game?"

"Why would you say that?"

"Someone who's attended a game before would know to wear more than just leggings."

My date sinks back into the collar of her fleece jacket, shielding her embarrassment with her hands.

"Kaelin, it's okay. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass you. Do you want to leave?"

"N-no, I'm all right. I don't want you to miss the game."

On closer inspection, I notice Kaelin's skin is goose-bumped, and her lips are the same shade as her hair. She stares blankly at the blur of uniforms skating up and down the ice. Her hands tremble and teeth chatter in the chilled air.

My companion is scaring the shit out of me.

"I insist. Come on, I'm taking you home."

"I said I was fine."

"No arguing. Come on."

When my hand grasps hers, I feel Kaelin's flesh heat. By the time we reach my car, the colour has returned to her cheeks.

"You okay?"

"Yes, I'm better. Thank you."

"Kaelin, please don't do that again."

"Do what?"

"Lie. You scared me back there. It looked like you were suffering hypothermia."

"I'm sorry; that wasn't my intention. I was just a little cold."

"Even though you told me you weren't."

"Again, sorry."

"Forget about that, I'm just glad that you're okay. What street did you say?"

"15 Seaside Crescent."

"Seaside? Cool. That's down by the government wharf. An ocean gal, then?"

The timid young woman lets my comment dissipate, focused on massaging her legs. Her expression is panic-ridden.

"We're here. Home sweet home."

"Thank you, Seamus, I had a lovely evening." Kaelin hesitates for a second, her indigo eyes concentrating on the waves lapping against the shoreline. Her lip quivers. "Would you like to come in for a drink and some food? It's the least I can do."

The moon illuminates Kaelin's profile, accentuating her striking features. Beads of sweat trail down her cheek over her pale lips. Her tongue sweeps across and wipes them away.

"Yes, I would like to come in. Thank you."

"Okay. Follow me."

The sound of a dog barking the distance is the only disturbance of the tranquil scene. Kaelin opens the rustic wooden door, and we emerge into a sparse, but well-tended living room. The bare, bright orange walls are out of place with the faded black couch and chair. Entering the equally scarcely decorated kitchen, the introverted young woman peers inside a fridge that looks as though it's straight from the 1960s.

"Anything in particular you like to eat and drink?"

"What do you have?"

"I afraid I may have jumped the gun when I invited you in. I forgot I didn't go grocery shopping this week. All I have is beer, water and Coke, and..." She riffles through the cupboards. "Popcorn."

"Beer and popcorn sounds good."

A six-pack and a huge bowl of popcorn loosens Kaelin's reserves. Soon, she is giggling like a schoolgirl; her body leaning into mine for support. Her scent is intoxicating, an unusual combination of salt air and blueberries. My host has shed her outer clothing, leaving on a shape-defining t-shirt and leggings.

Feeling giddy myself, I whisper an off-color joke. My shirt smothers her drunken laughter. Glancing at her exposed nape, I notice a blue and purple patch of skin. I caress the smooth spot.

"Kaelin, is this a bruise?"

She stiffens in my arms. Kaelin pushes herself out of them so rapidly that she nearly topples off the couch. Her shirt raises a little as I catch her. I notice more of the strange markings.

"Are you okay?"

"Seamus, please leave."

"Why?"

"Don't ask, just leave. Please."

The timid wallflower shrinks against the wall, her arms wrapped around her waist. I take a step closer, but her panicked expression stops me from moving closer.

"Kaelin, I know we only met this evening, but if you're in trouble, I want to help."

"I-I'm not in trouble. It's not what you think."

Kaelin trembles violently, her breathing ragged. Her legs swell, and the bruise-like patch spread across her exposed flesh. I swallow my shock and fear and embrace my date.

"No, p-please, go away. I don't want you here."

"I'm not leaving. You need help. There's something horribly wrong with you. I'm taking you to the hospital."

Kaelin's visage of fury buries her humiliation. Apprehensive, I let her go and scribble my number on the popcorn bag. Tearing the piece off, I press it into her hands.

"I'll go, but if you need me, call. I'll check up on you later."

With one last glance, the quivering young woman eyes lock onto mine, her eyes have a pained, unwavering intensity. It chills me to the bone.

Kaelin

Seamus's leaving did little to calm the agony. Moments away from transformation, I tear through the back door and run down to the shoreline, stripping along the way. I dive into the water and swim into the depths. The euphoric release of endorphins melts away the perturbation as my tentacles sprout, and the sea air permeates my lungs.

A gentle hum vibrates from the ocean floor, summoning me. I fly through the waves and arrive at my destination. A majestic presence greets me.

"Daughter, you made it home."

My father's telepathic baritone enters my consciousness.

"Yes, father."

"Have you completed your mission?"

"I found him, but progress is slow."

"That's expected when your fear keeps you from showing your status."

"Father, it isn't easy up there. The humans are intimidating."

"Nonsense. You're the princess of the North Atlantic. The daughter of the Kraken king, and half human. Are you in love with this fisherman?"

Converging the feelings in my heart into words is daunting. The king forbids anything more than a physical relationship with a transformed human. A lie forms on my tongue, but I swallow it. The king of the ocean demands the truth, and can sense dishonesty.

"Yes, I love him."

A sharp intake of breath makes my stomach churn. The great mystical sea monster is exercising restraint. His long, massive black tentacles flair in the air and tumble to the sea floor, distributing the habitat around us. Fellow squid and other creatures swim by hastily.

"You know the rules, and you choose to defy them."

"It was never my intention to do so, but he is such an excellent specimen physically and spiritually that he is hard to resist. I'm sorry."

Father pauses for a moment. Gliding his stately form around the throne room, Hague Terre-Neuve contemplates in silence. After several, drawn out nerve-wracking minutes, the Kraken king speaks.

"Perhaps I've rushed to judgement. Your feelings for this young man may work in our favour. Does he return that love?"

"I'm afraid not. Tonight was our first encounter. David was the one to arrange our meeting."

"David. He's the human that befriended you when you first arrived on land?"

"He's my only friend."

"Would it be possible for David to replace the fisherman?"

"My friend will not be a suitable candidate for the mission. He isn't strong enough."

"All the more reason to ensure that Seamus O'Toole agrees to and carries out what I need him to do."

Hot water rains from the showerhead, loosening my stiff muscles and cleansing the aquatic residue. My skin flushes, returning to its normal human hue. I emerge from the steam-enshrouded room on wobbly legs. My limbs have yet to adjust to the humanoid form. I slip on a towel and go fetch a drink.

Two figures are lurking in my living room. One shadow leers from the glow of the lamp. A tall, hulking figure with wide shoulders steps toward me, his hand reaching out.

My ear piercing scream echoes off the walls. I put my hands up in defence, forgetting about the towel. It drops to the floor, leaving me more vulnerable.

"Shh, Kaelin, it's Seamus and David. We came by to check on you."

David flicks on the light switch, bathing the room in light, exposing me. Embarrassed, he shutters an apology and rushes to hand me the towel. Before I can cover myself, I swear I see a flicker of lust light in Seamus' eyes. He is briefly fixated on my nudity, and his lips curl in a small smile.

"T-thank you, but please, next time, call me. You scared me."

"We did call you several times, and when there was no answer, David and I got worried."

Averting my gaze from the fisherman's heated stare, I push past the uninvited and scurry to my room. I take my time getting dressed, using it as respite from the disaster outside my door.

"Kaelin, are you alright?"

"I'm fine, David. Be right out."

Sauntering over to the open window, I inhale the salt air. All is calm. Distant humming vibrates from the ocean floor. It's my father, reminding me I had a job to do. The stillness of the night is interrupted by a crescendo of seagull cries. Sighing in defeat, I return to my guests.

David and Seamus rise from the couch when I enter the room. The tense awkwardness between us is palpable. My best friend is the first to approach, stumbling over his apology.

"Please stop, David. This is painfully uncomfortable enough. I'm okay now, so please, take Seamus and go home."

"David may go, but I'm not leaving until I find out what in the fuck happened earlier."

"Don't push it, Seamus."

"I need to know."

"Why?"

"David, I need to know what happened, so if it happens again on our next date, I know what to do."

"Wait, wha? If I may interject, did you just say you want to see me again?"

"Yeah, I do. Erasing the two times you frightened the shit out of me, I had an amazing time with you tonight. It's been a long time since I laughed that hard and was able to be myself with a woman."

"You really feel that way?"

"I'm not lying, Kaelin. I spend the majority of my time on the water with a bunch of angishores and arseholes. You're a breath of fresh air. I want to spend more time with you."

"I would love that, but does spending time with me come with the condition of telling you about the cause of your alarm?"

"Well, tell me just this. Do you have a medical condition that could endanger your life? Something that I would have to know what to do?"

"No, what you saw wasn't anything life threatening. It was something I don't feel comfortable telling you about, at least not yet."

"Then, that's all I need to know. Would you agree to a second date?"

"I will."

"Perfect. I'll call you tomorrow, and we can make plans."

"Okay."

"Come on, David, time to go and let the poor gal get some rest. She needs it after tonight's trauma. Good-night, Kaelin."

"Good night, Seamus."

Slipping beneath the covers, I fall into a peaceful sleep, with the lasting effects of Seamus's kiss on my lips.

Seamus

Shaking off the sense of foreboding is near impossible. Like a ghost, it's been haunting me since that night six weeks ago. Kaelin hasn't had an episode since our first meeting, but I'm on edge every time we're together. While she has shed her timid shell in favour of a confident, outgoing and sexy as hell one, Kaelin stiffens whenever my hand grazes her inner thighs. I ache for my ocean princess. Lustful yearning battles with chivalry, and it's a close race.

"Mmmm. Hmmm."

My girlfriend's moan of pleasure redirects my attention. Her ruby lips leaves a euphoric path down my chest, stopping just above my belt buckle. Teasing, Kaelin hesitates briefly before undoing it and continuing.

"Stop, babe."

"Why?"

Grabbing the mischievous lass and pulling her to me, I passionately kiss along the side of her neck to her collarbone. Today she smells of sunshine and rain; fresh, innocent and inexperienced.

"Are you ready for this?"

"I can't be more ready."

Capturing her lips, our kiss rapidly becomes consuming. Sinking into the sheets, we tear at each other's clothes and melt into each other's arms.

I can't help but let go a good-natured chuckle, watching Kaelin twist her multicoloured hair into a sleek chignon.

"Stop laughing. This is hard; I never had to style my hair for a fancy party before."

"I'm sorry. Here, let me help you."

"Since when did you become a hairdresser?"

"I had to find something to do in the offseason."

With a few intricate maneuvers and spritzes of hairspray, I finish my masterpiece. Twirling around to study her new hairstyle, Kaelin gasps.

"Not to your liking?"

Her fingers glide over the prismatic weave. Kaelin's admiration with my work boosts my ego.

"It's beautiful, Seamus. Thank you."

"You are quite welcome, me love. Ready to attend this shindig?"

"Lead the way."

The grand ballroom of the Avalon-Burin Estate is draped in soft ivory and regal blue banners. The flame of hundreds of lit candles cast the room in a warm glow. Lively music from a classical quartet fills the space over two hundred simultaneous conversations.

A waiter dressed in a pressed white shirt and black pants strolls by, carrying a silver tray filled with champagne flutes. I select two.

"Wow, do they usually go all out for a fishermen's ball?"

"They do. This is the one time of year that members of the Fishermen's Union congregate and socialize."

"It's stunning."

The quartet strikes up a waltz, and the guests pair off.

"Care to dance?"

"I'd love to."

Leading my date to the dance floor, Kaelin faces me. Putting her hand on my chest, we begin an easy loping dance across the cavernous ballroom. My partner's steps are awkward at first. She stumbles, and I correct her footing. Soon, Kaelin is gliding in sync with me. The song bleeds into another upbeat tempo. Refusing to continue, the shy dance novice slinks off the floor.

"Where are you going? Stay and have another dance."

"I can't, not after that disaster. I have two left feet."

"At first, but you got better as the music wore on. Come back; practice makes perfect."

"I'd rather get some fresh air on the terrace."

Behind a thin veil of clouds, a full white moon hangs in the sky. A small group of people litter the wrap around patio, lost in private conversations. Kaelin gazes stoically at the rows of pine trees. Whispers of wildlife register in the air.

"Are you okay?"

She turns toward me. Under the moonlight, her expression is unreadable.

"Why does this house only face the forest? Where's the ocean?"

"The union b'ys agreed that we see enough water while we're working. A view of the woods is a nice change of pace. You don't like it, do you?"

"It's not the sea. I feel claustrophobic, and want to go home."

I reach out and touch Kaelin's shoulder, turning her toward me. The muscles in her neck are tight, and the flesh is cold to the touch.

"Let's go inside and rest. We just got here, and we shouldn't miss the best part of the evening."

"I don't care. Please, take me home."

Her hands seductively stroke the muscles under my shirt. She presses her mouth to mine and waits for reciprocation.

"Stop, Kaelin, we can't do this here."

"Then do as I ask."

"I can't leave."

"Why not?"

"I'm the emcee. This is a banquet honouring our union leader. It's important that I stay until the dinner is over and the dance resumes. Just have patience with me until then, please."

"O-okay, I'll stay."

"Perfect, that's all I ask. I promise once we get home, I'll make it up to you."

"It better be good."

Shooting my ocean princess a coquettish grin, I rain devilish kisses down her collarbone and nibble on her ear before escorting her inside.

Kaelin

Erica Kane proudly displayed her lifetime service award in her arms as she mingled. The leader's hazel eyes still showed the remnants of her humble joy. Lingering next to my date as I waited for his conversation with the guest of honour to conclude, I scanned the room. Two women, one a bottle blond, the other with hair the colour of a ruby, stare daggers at me. They make no effort to hide their disdain as they point and snicker. I tug on Seamus's arm to get his attention, but the topic they are discussing has him captivated. I slip into the washroom. After finishing my pee, I emerge and am greeted by the staring shanks.

"Well, would you look at this, Ag, the alien girl pisses like a regular human."

"Don't be so sure of that, Louise, we didn't see what hole it came out. It could've been her ear for all we knows."

"That's right. I didn't think of that, Maid. Tell us, honey, what hole does piss come out?"

"Heh. Do you even have a pussy?"

The blond bully addressed as Louise pins me to the bathroom stall while her partner snakes her hand through the side slit of my dress. I thrash around, but the wench has amazing upper body strength.

"Please, don't, get away from me!"

"Shut up, you fucking queer. It's not going to hurt or take long," Ag taunts.

My protests are ignored. The ruby-tressed assaulter cups my sex, her fingers probing deep inside. Releasing her hold, Ag smells and licks her fingers.

"Mmmm. Feels like a cunt and smells like a cunt. You do have a pussy to piss out of. Score for you. Good thing, because that gorgeous piece of black meat will need something to fuck."

"Hell, if that African god needed a cunt to ram, I got one right here."

All I see out of the corner of my eye is a flash of a naked mound. I hear the sound of mocking laughter echo behind me.

Sobbing, I run until can no longer breathe, collapsing onto the ground, and cradle my head in my hands. A freezing wind whips around me, and I tremble. Raw from violation, the cold does nothing to numb the pain of humiliation.

"Kaelin, what happened?"

I almost push away the hand on my shoulder when I recognize the gold and sapphire high school ring.

"David?"

"Yeah, it's me. Kaelin, what's the matter? You bolted out of there like someone was chasing you."

"It was awful. I-I..."

David slips his jacket over my arms and embraces me. "Whatever this is, Kaelin, you can tell me. It'll be just between us."

"I was assaulted in the ladies' washroom."

My friend stiffens, his voice raising an octave.

"By who?"

"Two women confronted me accusing me of not being human, and t-then..." I collapse into David's arms and sob.

"You don't have to continue if you don't want to. Take a breath."

On the verge of hyperventilating, my rescuer encourages me to breathe deeply. Once I'm calm, I feel the need to finish. "I struggled to get away, but they pinned me and groped me between the legs."

Furious, David rises from the ground so rapidly that I nearly fall back down. "Where are they now?"

"I think they're still at the party."

"Stay there."

"Wait, where are you going?"

"To confront those bitches and teach them a lesson."

"No, David, please don't do anything. Just get Seamus so I can go home."

He seems to contemplate my request for several moments before agreeing.

"Okay, but I'll take you home and call Seamus to let him know where you are."

Trusting my friend, I take his hand and allow him to guide me home.

Seamus

Kaelin is lost. Searching the building with little luck and asking each of the guests proves to be futile. Until the guest of honour catches up with me before leave to search outside.

"Seamus, I heard that you're looking for your date?"

"Yes, did you see her?"

"No, but Ray Collingwood's wife said that Kaelin tore on out of here about an hour ago."

"Did she say why my girlfriend would rush out without telling me?"

"No, Louise just said that Kaelin looked upset."

"Thanks, Erica. I'm going to track her down and see if she's all right."

The wind screams as I explore and stagger through the pitch-black parking lot. "Kaelin! Kaelin, where are you?"

The "Happy Birthday" song interrupts my search.

"Hello?"

"Seamus, it's me, David."

"Yeah, David, watcha want? I'm kind of busy."

"Seamus, I'm with Kaelin."

"What? Why?"

"It's a long story. Why don't you come over to my place and get her?"

"I'll be there in ten."

Three musical chimes award me with an open door and a cheerful greeting. David welcomes me into his modest salt box style home and offers me a drink.

"No thanks, David. I just swung by to get Kaelin. Where is she?"

"What's the hurry, Buddy? Your gal is just fine, she's in the bathroom. Have a seat, and we'll have a yarn while we wait."

"Yeah, you can start by telling me what happened and how me girl ended up here?"

"I was out for a walk when I heard sobbing and discovered Kaelin. She was on the ground, bawling."

"Jaysus, what happened to her?"

Running his fingers through his thinning auburn hair, the former author turned fish plant employee frowns pensively.

"Come on, b'y. Tell me."

"It's not easy to say, but Kaelin was sexually assaulted by two female attendees."

"By the Lord dine Blue Jaysus, fuck! Who?"

"She didn't know who they were."

Bolting from my chair, I stomp towards the bathroom and call her name. Receiving no answer, I open the door and find it empty.

"What's going on, man? You said Kaelin was in there."

"I said she was in the bathroom. I didn't say which one. Come on, I'll bring you to her."

Filled with rage, my mind is centred on finding Kaelin, so I don't notice that David has escorted me into the dark recesses of his cellar. Feral wails penetrate the silence.

"What in fuck is that?"

"You'll see."

Under the glow of a wan, yellow light, David's visage seems to take on an eerie, demonic expression. Foreboding chills my blood.

The old wooden door whines as my host opens it and into seventh circle of hell.

Kaelin

Limbs thrash about like electrical wires. Piercing shrieks barely contained by a tear-stained gag. With surgical precision, my tormentor plunges the syringe into my jugular. Moments later, the searing liquid renders me still. From the workbench, the mute, macabre physician retrieves a scalpel. Paralyzed and helpless, I can only watch as she slices open my right inner thigh. Her fingers explore inside the wound, poking and probing through the gore for some unknown treasure. The nightmarish doctor doesn't get far. She is ripped from her position and goes flying across the room, hits her head against the concrete wall. It takes a few seconds for me to process what has transpired. Seamus is frantically attempting to rescue me, but a shotgun to the head stops him.

"David, put that gun down and let me get my girl to the hospital, or you'll be eating it."

"Not a fucking chance, motherfucker. I didn't devote two decades of my life in search of the monster just to give it up on a Neanderthal's demand."

"What in de Jaysus are you blabbering on about?"

"On this table, we have a rare specimen that will make me a very rich man." I shiver as David strokes my face. "Kaelin Terre-Neuve is the daughter of the legendary Kraken. Can you imagine the bounty that she'll bring?"

"David, I think you've been on the Screech a little too long. It's giving you delusions."

My captor waves the gun around haphazardly, furious.

"I'm. Not. Fucking. Delusional. Kaelin is a squid; she's the princess of the North Atlantic."

The manic look in my former best friend's eyes scares me. Seamus's grim countenance speaks volumes of his opinion of David's state of mind.

"I know you think I'm nuts, but I will prove it to you. Think about the first time you met. The strange discoloured patches of skin, the uncontrollable shaking, and the magnetic pull to the sea."

"That doesn't prove sweet fuck all. All that can be explained logically."

"Okay, let's see if this convinces you. Take your lady love and toss her into that bath."

"Fuck no."

"Do it!"

Time slows to a crawl. Reality distorts into a surreal abstraction. Seamus gathers me into his arms, eying the distance to the door. Surrendering logic, the daredevil books it to the gate.

A gunshot rings out. The solid punch of a bullet tears through Seamus's leg, bringing him to his knees.

"Argggh!"

The concrete floor rushes up at me, and I slam into it. Stabbing pain shatters my consciousness, and I fall into the void.

Seamus

The report of the bullet entering my flesh echoes and fades, leaving only the sound of a thundering splash. Swallowing the agony, I redirect my attention to the raving psychopath laughing at something in the bathtub.

"See, Seamus me son, I told you what she was. Do you believe me now?"

Writhing violently through the water, Kaelin franticly attempts to escape. Shame colours her pallid flesh, and eight long purple tentacles protrude from where her legs used to be. Attempting to save the shred of dignity she has left, Kaelin shields her breasts with her arms. Amidst her horrific humiliation, the human/squid hybrid peers into me, seeking redemption.

The world around me disappears, leaving only me and the woman who betrayed me. The squirming snake-like arms, flawless alabaster skin and two toned waves of silk cascading past her waist encompass my vision. Kaelin's lush rose petal lips that once brought me pleasure, now quiver with the effort of restraining her tears. Her sultry siren voice begs forgiveness.

"Please, Seamus, I'm not the monster I appear. I'm still the same person that you fell in love with."

I avert my eyes away from her inky black gaze. "No, you can't be the same, because you're not even human. You're a freak of nature. I can't believe you kept what you are from me."

"I'm sorry, but how was I going to explain my nature? Would you believe me if I told you that I was a squid?"

"Probably not; I would've questioned your sanity."

"See? It's not an easy thing to reveal."

"True, but you could've tried. Shown me that you loved me enough to trust me with your secret."

My head spins and the beginnings of a migraine pulsates behind my eyelids. A maelstrom of emotions spin inside leaving confusion and heartache in its wake.

"I need to know something, Kaelin, so be honest."

"Of course."

"Why are you here on land?"

"To fulfill a mission for my father."

"The Kraken?"

"Yes."

"Fucking Jaysus, this gets weirder." I take a deep breath to steady my nerves. "What mission?"

"I'm to pick the perfect human specimen to bring into the deep to become my husband and sire an heir."

"So, I assume that I'm that perfect candidate?"

"The chosen one was someone that I would feel an instant attraction to. The man had to be strong both in body and mind and be willing to make a sacrifice."

"I can guess what sort of sacrifice, but enlighten me."

"The male would have to forfeit his human nature to become a hybrid, and exchange his life as a land dweller for the sea."

"That's a lot to ask someone."

"I know, but we have no choice. Our species is dying. There's only fifty of our kind in the world. Father needs to repopulate the kingdom or lose our heritage forever. King Poseidon and his tyrant merman will rule the ocean."

"So?"

"Let me explain how this would affect humans, if you don't care what happens to the squid. Poseidon and his army of merman and mermaids will destroy all sea life that didn't suit their needs. No sea life will mean the end of the ocean habitat as we know it."

"I understand the effects on our oceans if this were to happen, but I'm not giving up the life I know, not even for you."

My stomach tightens at Kaelin's mournful cry. Icy silence hangs in the air. Grief threatens to suffocate me.

A strangled shriek catches my attention. David hovers in the air, struggling to evade Kaelin's death squeeze. Like a boa constrictor, tentacles crush the madman's throat. A nine-inch blade clamours to the floor.

"Kaelin, don't, you're killing him!"

"Good, 'cause that's the goal. Here's your chance; run for it."

"I can't let you kill him."

"Don't tell me you want to protect the bastard."

"Of course not, but he's a human being and you'll never live with the guilt."

"Then stop me."

The discarded shotgun lies next to the rusted tub. The clock is ticking on David's life. I have to react swiftly. Skipping the gun, I whisk the blade off the ground and plunge it deep into her homicidal appendage. Kaelin's ear-shattering shrill reverberates off the walls, shaking the foundation. Her kidnapper collapses to the floor, dead. The scream creates an earthquake effect, tearing through the air. Our surroundings crumble around us.

"Hurry, Kaelin, we got to go before this house caves in and traps us."

I hoist the injured woman beast out of the bath. Her tentacles transform into legs the moment she's out of the water. The knife still protrudes from Kaelin's thigh.

"Can you walk?"

"No."

Sweeping the ocean princess into my arms, I limp the stairs and out the door. I can barely feel the bullet wound, too high on adrenalin. Sunlight filters through the dense fog. Falling to my knees onto the dew-slicked grass, my sternum burns as my lungs struggle for air. Kaelin is reclining against an evergreen, slowly extracting the knife from her leg.

"Don't remove the knife; it'll make you bleed more. I'll take you to the hospital."

"Forget it, I'll be okay. Argh."

Dropping the bloody weapon to the ground, Kaelin glides her hand over the wound, healing it. Exhausted, she staggers to her feet. She tosses her mane over her shoulder and exposes her majestic nude form. A brisk wind washes over us, causing this strange being to shiver. I slip my tuxedo jacket over her shoulders.

"Kaelin, we need to talk."

"No, I talk, you listen," she demanded. "You said enough already."

"Okay."

"First, stabbing me wasn't necessary. I will not apologize for defending myself against the monster who held me hostage and tortured me to near death just to collect a bounty. Second, I'm proud of what I am. Being a human hybrid affords me gifts that I thought were burdens. Third, you're not a conquest, but the love of my life. I just wish I was yours. I still love you, but can't you empathize with my situation? I've absorbed a lot of information tonight. I need time to wrap my head around it."

"I understand, but I heard what you said back there. You're unable to sacrifice for me. I can't be with you."

"Where do we go from here?"

"We return to the lives we had before we met."

"Can you do that? 'Cause despite the cruel words said out of hurt and anger, I can't go back. You're hard to forget."

Dropping to her haunches, Kaelin strokes my cheek, pressing her forehead against mine. Her breath caresses my lips, her voice hypnotic. "I'll never forget you either, but I have to move forward."

Kaelin's fingers dance down my arm until she finds my fingers. I look up from where our skin mingles and our eyes meet. Sirens wail closer to the ruins of David's home, but we are hidden from view, in the thicket behind the property. Our faces draw close, and our lips meet in a consuming, passionate kiss. Parting, I look into her eyes and see tears welling in them. I reach out to embrace her, but she slips from them and walks away. Watching her disappear into the mist, I commit this single, lingering moment to memory. It is warm, honest, and the best and worst moment of my life.

Kaelin

The Kraken King roars with delight as his grandchildren chase him through the waves. Schools of fish scurry away, and a pod of killer whales part to make a path for the royal party. His laughter shakes the ocean floor.

"You'll never catch me, you scallywags!"

The triplets collapse in a fit of giggles as Father stops to catch his breath. I grin at my children's antics and how they can keep the imperturbable deity on his tentacles.

"The boys are extra active today, Love."

My husband kisses my jaw down to my collarbone, while his hands cup my naked breast.

"Mmm. Keep that up, and you might get more than you bargained."

"Is that a threat or a promise? If it's the latter, I'll take you up on it right now."

Blaise flashes me his irresistible, seductive smile. I quickly melt into his embrace and give in to his fiery kisses. It doesn't take long before we intertwine, one body and soul.

I met Blaise Peterson during the turbulent months after Seamus and I parted ways. Owner and operator of a small, quaint, and famous seafood restaurant on the waterfront, Blaise graciously gave me a job and rescued me from foreclosure. For several months, we developed a close friendship, a relationship that grew into love. Blaise and Seamus are only similar in their striking appearance. Where my first love was tall, muscular with beautiful dark skin, Blaise is small in stature, and tattoos cover his pale skin. At first glance, the entrepreneur is intimidating. He prefers tight tees and ripped jeans to a suit and tie. His lush golden hair is concealed under a doo' rag. Blaise's compassionate, loving nature is veiled by the biker facade.

When the time came to reveal my true nature, I was a bundle of nerves. Convinced that revealing this secret would end our relationship, I couldn't eat or sleep. Astute to my turmoil, Blaise kept his arms and mind open. His reaction was unexpected. He didn't freak out. Instead, he welcomed the news and admitted that he was excited to meet my father. The faith and support he gifted overwhelmed and touched me. The Kraken King embraced Blaise instantly and presented him with the proposal.

"The sacrifice you are suggesting is a great one. It's one that it would be an honour to accept."

Hague Terre-Neuve concealed his joy. It took several decades to achieve, but my father was on the path to gaining an heir and saving our kingdom.

A year later, Blaise and I were married in a grand, underwater ceremony. My father metamorphosed my husband into our species.

Midnight, and all is quiet in the palace. I swim to the surface and perch on the rock on which I used to observe Seamus O'Toole. Movement through the bushes alerts me to stay on guard. I perform a quick surveillance and discover a lone figure on the dock. He presses a bottle of beer to his lips, savouring the taste. The man isn't alone for long.

A statuesque woman with a head full of bouncing red curls emerges from a boat. She leans down and kisses him. Her fingers dance inside his open shirt and strokes his muscular chest. Their lips part, and the man caresses her rounded belly. Bliss etches on his handsome features. Enraptured, I keep watching until the happy couple disappears onto the boat. Contented that the handsome, heroic fishermen who was the first to steal my heart is happy, I dive back into the sea to live my dream.

About the Author

Tina Traverse is a passionate writer, avid reader; a self-proclaimed Autism Warrior Mom and Proud Newfie Gal.

Tina hails from a quaint little hamlet on a quaint little island known as Canada's youngest province, Newfoundland. The desire for writing came at an early age when she wrote her spin on the Bible's Good Samaritan story for her third-grade class. When she fell off the traditional publishing path, Tina stumbled onto an exciting new path called, self-publishing. It's been a thrilling journey, publishing not only her work, but being a part of numerous anthologies.

In her spare time, Tina enjoys leisurely strolls in the great outdoors, playing Thomas the Tank Engine with her youngest son and being beat at Wii bowling by her teenage son. Tina lives with her husband of too many years to count, in a scenic town by the bay.

Front row seats are available to Tina's work and ramblings in a variety of ways.

Website: http://www.tinatraverse.com

Twitter: <https://twitter.com/TinaTraverse1>

# The Dead Girl—J. C. Eggleton

It was the Halloween of 2007 when I met the Dead Girl. I was drinking at Kurt's Orchard on a Wednesday night. Despite it being a holiday, there was no party. It was too early in the week to really get down with costumes. All the real partiers were saving the dress up for the weekend. I've never really been much of a traveler, but in Alabama, Halloween tends to be a pretty flexible day. If it's on a Sunday or too early in the week, we don't mind putting it off for a little bit.

I had gotten off work at six that day and had left my bullshit job in a hurry. Station attendant at the Jet-Pep; not gonna hold my breath until mom calls to say she's proud. I got paid a butthair above minimum wage to turn the gas pumps on and off, on and off, _hey kid, this ID's fake, you can't buy smokes, what's that in your pocket, put the candy back on the shelf before I call the cops_. So much fun and excitement I could just staple my head to the wall.

Sometimes this life is too much for me to stand.

I got drinking earlier than normal, and I knew I couldn't afford it. I wasn't gonna hit the hard stuff 'til later in the night, but I wanted to get my drunk on in a hurry. I had seen a few faces I knew, but nobody worth more conversation than the usual _how ya been, good to see yas_. It was dead until about nine o'clock, but even then the bar never really came to life. A band was playing, but it wasn't really anything special. Just a bunch of guys I had graduated with back in oh-two, guys who were holding onto their boyhood dreams of stardom as they turned into men and life passed them by. They were doing classic rock covers, not that any of the drunks noticed.

Stephen was handing me my Guinness when a sultry voice above me asked for a White Russian. He just kinda stood there, not sure what to say. I turned and saw her. She was one of the tallest women I'd ever seen, probably a good six feet if she took off those heels. She wore a black dress that hugged curves already exaggerated by a corset worn on the outside. The black leather corset had loops of chains hanging off, the kind you see in bondage pornos and never in real life.

Weirder still was her face. Painted up like one of those Mexican sugar skulls, all white and black, with purple, pink, and silver stones glued to her face. She had gone all out, with a bouquet of fake roses tied into her hair.

She probably should have taken off those boots; she swayed on her feet already. Every time she leaned to the left, she bumped my knee and flicked her hand as though to wave me off.

When the bartender came back with the vodka, she turned up the milky drink and asked for another, holding out a ten dollar bill. While she waited, she turned and watched the band. It was kinda off-putting how still she was, save for the occasional sway and wave of the hand. She was evaluating the band, sizing them up with glassy blue eyes. Her painted lips were turned down, so we probably held them in the same esteem.

I worried I was gonna creep her out with the staring, but she seemed to be used to it, being the only one in the bar dressed for the occasion. She was just so strange, I couldn't take my eyes off her. When she got the second White Russian, she turned back to the bar and met my eyes for just a second. For that moment, I saw the same measuring stare she had given the band. Her eyes danced across my face. Then the second ended, and she picked up her drink. She didn't look at me again when she turned to face the band.

This drink, she only sipped on, and continued watching the band. One song faded into the next, bringing a smattering of applause. She didn't join, instead opting to pull a cigarillo out of her purse and light up. The pine forest smell of cloves clouded the air and made me sweat. The band pulled another song out of their vault, this one more recent than the rest.

"Sheets of empty canvas, untouched sheets of clay," the singer drawled, beginning Pearl Jam's "Black". For the first time since she had gotten here, the Dead Girl smiled. Her swaying began to match the rhythm of the sad song. Even over the music, I could hear the jingle of chains and creak of leather from her corset.

In the middle of the song, she stopped and held out her glass. To me. I looked at it, then at her. She turned, her glazed eyes staring at me from amidst a sea of rhinestones. She leaned forward until her face was inches from mine.

"Anyone watching?" she slurred. My mouth worked, but my brain refused. "Bartender? Bouncer?" she tried, clarifying.

I shook my head and took her glass.

"Cover me," she said, leaning over to pick up an invisible something or other from the floor. While she was down there, she pulled a flask from the top of her boot. She pulled heavily from it and sat up, smelling of tequila, vodka, and cloves. The orgy of scents was so intoxicating, I found myself grinning like an idiot.

The Dead Girl returned the smile, and I saw that the teeth painted onto her lips were perfectly aligned with the teeth she'd been hiding with a frown. I also noticed her lip was split at the corner, but didn't say anything. It wasn't bleeding, but it looked fresh.

"Happy Halloween," I said.

"How could you tell?" she asked, looking around at the other drunks.

"Well, we're dressed up, and that's what matters."

"We?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm dressed as a jackass."

"You're doing a damn good job of it," she laughed. "But not half as well as those boys," she said, waving a hand at the pool tables. A game was going on, and every player was dressed for Team Douchebag, with collared shirts and baseball caps.

"It just doesn't come natural to me. I tried to be a jackass once, but I couldn't afford the hair gel."

She laughed at that and turned to watch the band. We were quiet for a time, but it was a comfortable silence. Pearl Jam came and went, making way for The Animals. She seemed more comfortable, tapping her fingers against her glass. I was feeling better too, and not just because of the company. I was definitely feeling the beer.

Afterward, the band took a break. The vacuum of noise was replaced by chatter and laughter.

"I'm Howard, by the way," I said.

"Dorcia."

"I like your name better. Wanna trade?"

"What's wrong with Howard?" she asked.

"Everyone calls you Howie or, if they were born in the eighties, Howard the Duck. I hated that movie."

"It's better than Dorcia, believe me. Back home, Dorcia is a pretty common name."

"Where's back home? I've never heard the name before."

She looked at her drink for a few seconds before noticing it was empty. She asked for another Russian and took to staring at her hands. I was surprised at the number of rings to be found there. They were of various shapes; some thick, some thin, spoon rings, plain bands, and a large skull-shaped one.

The knuckles on her right hand were bruised and raw, reminding me of the cut on her lip.

"I'm from down south, in The Hollow." she said in a flat voice. I had never heard of the place, but it made me think of the black holes that exist in between towns, those spots that seem to suck up the dregs of society. They were the dirt roads and trailer parks that formed a no-man's land of junkies and hillbillies.

"Well, I'm from here in Brookhaven and we don't have any Dorcias. It's a special name. You should love it," I said. She smiled, but didn't look at me.

Why is this such a bad subject, and how do I get away from it?

"I'll be right back. Watch my drink," she said, getting up and heading for the restrooms.

_I can't figure her out. One minute, she's living it up, the next, she's down in her drinks._ _She probably thinks I'm just a creep or a nut, or maybe it's the other way around. I've never seen a woman drink with such enthusiasm and still be standing. For all I know, she could be a mental patient on a bender before the white coats drag her back._

When she got back, the band was taking the stage, and I apologized for upsetting her.

"No, it's fine," she said, "I would just rather not talk about it. I'm here to have fun and there's nothing fun about home. You didn't know and-"

The band was playing a guitar intro, and she stopped to listen, eyes wide.

"All our times have come", the singer began as they played Blue Oyster Cult's "Don't Fear the Reaper". The rise and fall of Dorcia's breasts quickened, and she clenched her bruised knuckles.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Ten-thirty," I said, checking my watch. "Are you okay?"

"Do you dance?" she asked, ignoring my question.

"Not really..."

"Me neither. Want to?"

_No._ "Sure."

When I took her hand, I was shocked at how cold it was. She had been holding those drinks for the past hour, and it had turned her skin to ice. I ignored her and got pulled down in front of the bandstand.

She was taller than me in her boots, but I didn't care. I was more focused on my own awkward and feeble attempts at dancing. I was worried what she would think, but only until she stepped on my foot. She wasn't lying when she said that she didn't dance. I was acutely aware of her large breasts rubbing against my chin and the way her hips bumped my stomach. I could feel everyone's eyes on us, but just said _fuck it_ and let myself go. To all the other drunks, we looked like a couple of idiots, but we were enjoying each other.

In the back of my mind, a voice was shouting that her skin was cold; not just her hands, but her entire body. I didn't listen. I was too distracted by the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra. I nuzzled her neck, breathing in the smell of her, and she pushed herself against me. When I kissed her neck, she shook, and whispered into my ear, "Make me warm."

We paid our tabs and drove back to my place. Looking back, I'm ashamed to think of how drunk I was behind the wheel, and am lucky I didn't get us killed. I should have hailed a cab, but I was too drunk to care. All I could focus on were the lips on my ear and the hand in my lap. Somehow, we got home and inside the apartment in one piece.

When we got inside, we didn't even make it to the bedroom. I pulled the straps of her dress down right in the living room, only closing the front door as an afterthought. When I tried to unlace her corset, she slapped my hand and placed it on her bare breast. I was pleasantly surprised to find that her costume didn't end at the neck, as her nipples were painted like roses, with reflective stones accentuating her cleavage. Her naked body was as pale as bone.

She got down on her knees, her blue eyes focused and alert for the first time that night. In my drunken haze, the shining stones ringing her black eye sockets made her look like some kind of skeletal spider. I had a moment of doubt before she again asked me to make her warm and took me into her cold mouth.

I made her warm.

Afterward, I dozed off with her in my arms, the two of us crammed onto a crouch built for less. I don't know how long I was out, but when I came to, she was sitting at the end of the couch with her back to me. The smell of cloves was thick in the air as she smoked one of her cigarillos. Her shoulders were shaking, but she was trying not to let me hear her cry.

"What's wrong?" I asked, sitting up beside her.

"Just go back to sleep. I'll be gone in the morning," she said.

"You don't have to—"

"Yes, I do. I just wanted one last taste of Heaven before I go back to Hell."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. _Oh god, I was right. She's crazy and about to kill me._

"What would you do if you knew you were going to die tomorrow?" she asked. I looked around, and was depressed when I couldn't find anything I could use as a weapon.

"What we just did?" I offered. "Drink and fuck?"

She turned to me then, and I stopped worrying. She was crying, but was smiling at me. There was no malice in her, just sad happiness.

"At least you're honest," she laughed. "Most people would try and be all up in themselves, say they would spend their time at church or with their families. They act like they would do something meaningful and deep, but that would sell themselves short. Their ego would keep them from truly living their last moments. Self-righteousness is never becoming."

"It's why I go to the bar. Jesus freaks can talk about temporary pleasure 'til they pass out, but I think it's the only pleasure we get. The world's a piece of shit, so why not let yourself be happy?"

"I like that," she said. "Can you hold me?"

I wrapped my arms around her and found her skin warm. She rested her head against my chest, blowing ribbons of smoke into the air. It coiled through the air like a snake through water, swirling in eddies before fading away altogether. I was sobering up, but the wall at the foot of the couch was blurry in the darkened room. It seemed to yawn, black and wide like the mouth of a cave.

It grew cold as the night grew old and I lay back to sleep again. I don't know if I fell asleep or not, but the next I knew, it had grown very cold. A freezing wind was blowing through the room, and I opened my eyes to find Dorcia standing in the wall. She was passing into the darkened cave, and I rose to follow her. The chill in the air had grown teeth and was gnawing at my skin, so I wrapped a blanket around my naked body. I called her name, but she stayed ahead of me as we went deeper into the abyss. Snowflakes were blowing by me, carried by a howling wind, and ice crunched under foot.

My whole body shook, forcing me to wrap the blankets tighter about me. I had spent my whole life in Alabama, so I had never felt anything this cold. Still, I chased her through this impossible cave that had opened in my living room. Soon, I pushed through the mouth of the cave and I fell to my knees into the snow beyond.

I looked up into a sky that was raw and naked. Thousands of stars stretched out from one end of the horizon to the other, marred only by the neon sparks of what could only be the Northern Lights. Ribbons of color danced across the heavens, impossibly huge serpents of cosmic fire. Beneath their light, I saw Dorcia.

And them.

Dozens were crowded in a circle around something. Men and women, wrapped in thick furs and mail armor. The aurora above reflected off faces painted to look like skulls and encrusted with jewels. On Dorcia, the markings had been sexy, but there was a hardness to these people. On Dorcia, it had been makeup. On them, it was warpaint.

I climbed the hill, slipping in the snow on numb legs. She slipped unseen through the crowd, pressing herself towards the middle. When I got close, I saw her standing beside some...body? Some...thing? It was wrapped in black robes and bedecked in human bones. A hollowed skull was resting on its head like a football helmet, the jawbone broken and tied with leather straps to hug the sorcerer's own jaw.

Dorcia stood quietly beside him, looking down at the still body of a woman. The bone-thing had one hand placed between the corpse's breasts, chanting in a shrill voice and gesturing with its other hand toward the lights above.

She turned and saw me, a look of naked terror on her face. She screamed at me to go home, but was cut off as she was pulled into the body at her feet. It was as though she had dissolved into air and was breathed in by the corpse. It shuddered and gasped, throwing its arms over its naked body. It tried to shield itself from the sudden cold. A strangled cry escaped its lips, and the bone-thing threw a fur over her.

Dorcia's real body stood and turned my way, sadness in her eyes.

I fell into the snow then, staring up at the sky. It was beautiful, a wonderful last sight to see before you died. The cold was robbing me of any sense of being, and in moments, I would be gone.

The last thing I saw was Dorcia, standing over me.

"You can't stay in The Hollow, Overlander."

When I woke up, I was on my couch. I was naked, and Dorcia was gone. I got up and pressed my hands against the wall, trying to push through, back into that terrible and beautiful other world. When that didn't work, I had pounded on the wall until the neighbor threatened to call the cops.

To this day, I wonder if the whole thing had just been a dream. I had first thought I had dreamt up Dorcia, until I found one of the roses she kept in her hair. It had fallen into the couch, crammed down by the movement of our bodies. Maybe she just left before the sun came up, like she said. I tell myself that, because the alternative is much more frightening.

It's been six years since that night. I've gotten on with my boring life. I got a different job, met a girl, and settled down. She's no Dorcia; I can't let that stop me from loving her. We have three kids together, and they need a dad.

They say the barrier between worlds grows thin on Halloween, that the souls of the dead come and visit the living. Maybe they're right. I've never gone back to Kurt's Orchard, especially at that time of year. I guess I'm afraid to risk seeing Dorcia again. There are just so many questions I wouldn't want answered. Would she still want me, now that I've gotten old and given up the dream of youthful abandon? Would she be older; would she notice that I am? She would probably just want a single wild ride with a younger man, not letting that night stop her one night of fun.

Most of all, I think I'm afraid of what I would think. She gave me one wonderful and horrifying night. The memory might be enough. Memories are the only thing that we truly take with us. Money, love, fame; it all goes away pretty quickly. Memories stick with you until, like stars before the dawn, they fade away. All that remains are the colors without names.

About the Author

Joey Eggleton lives in Gadsden, Alabama with his wife, Maggie Fox, and their son, Xander. He is an alumni at GSCC and his soundtrack is Queen's Greatest Hits.

# Gris Noir--Mags Carr

She was easily the most gorgeous woman I had ever seen in my life. She had shining, ash-blond hair, enormous dark eyes, and a luscious, provocative pout. She was wearing a gray tweed suit, perfectly tailored to her flawless curves. Her legs were pilfered from a marble statue of Venus; her shoes were silver and black open toe pumps.

"Silky Grey," she said, offering her hand. "Mrs."

I shook her hand, admiring the unblemished smoothness of the skin. "What can I do for you today, Mrs. Grey?"

She settled herself in the chair, crossed her long, long legs at the knee. I sat down, too; I didn't dare stand for much longer. It would have been indecent.

"I'm widowed, Mr. Hill. Recently, in fact. And there are many things about my late husband that I still don't know. Do you mind if I smoke?"

I pushed the glass ashtray on my desk closer to her. She took a silver case out of her clutch handbag and withdrew from it an unfiltered Lucky, which she placed between her perfect, perfect lips. I was quick enough with the Zippo to light it for her. I never wanted to be a cigarette so bad in my life.

"There is at least one, possibly more, hiding places that I still haven't found. I believe it was deliberate, on his part, to keep them hidden from me. But now that he is deceased, I must know what he has left me responsible for. You understand."

"So you want me to track down where your husband might have stored his stuff? Don't you have lawyers for that?"

"His lawyers can't know," she said quickly. "They have been tasked with destroying these hidden holdings in the event of his death. It is crucial that they do not succeed."

"Aren't they your lawyers?"

"They were never mine. You have to find these hiding places before they do. Your reputation for efficiency and discretion speaks for itself; I'm willing to pay you in full, in advance."

She placed a check, already written out, on my desk. I picked it up, unfolded it and looked at it. I barely managed to keep my jaw from dropping. It was easily five times what I would charge for a case like this.

"You must start immediately, Mr. Hill." She snapped her handbag shut, stood up, and walked out. "Please keep me updated on your progress," she tossed at me from over her shoulder.

I couldn't figure why she would be willing to pay so much for a simple digging case. Maybe she was just that rich. Sometimes rich people throw more money at a problem than it would actually cost to fix, to be sure it gets solved. But not in advance. I had a sinking feeling, so before I headed out to City Hall, I put my shoulder holster on under my jacket, just in case there was something Mrs. Grey wasn't telling me. Like that this could be dangerous for me.

Based on matters of public record, Donald Grey had worked as a fisherman for thirty years, then met Silky and immediately retired. They set up housekeeping in a lavish apartment in the city and got busy spending money like it was going out of style. Where the money was coming from, I couldn't figure out. Grey's retirement couldn't have been sufficient for the lifestyle they were living, and as far as I could tell, Mrs. Grey had never been employed.

I nosed around a little more. They had never had a wedding, or filed a marriage license. Their marriage was a matter of common law. It got better. Silky Grey didn't have a maiden name. She didn't have a birth certificate. She didn't seem to be real.

A little more digging, and it turned out, Donald Grey had very little to hide, but he started hiding it right about the time he married Mrs. Grey.

What was Donald Grey hiding from his wife...and what was she hiding from me?

At any rate, it was child's play to find some real estate holdings Donald Grey had been trying to keep on the down low. I didn't much like the idea of giving this over to Mrs. Grey without knowing what it was, so rather than call Mrs. Grey to give her the update, I followed up on the lead myself.

The address was a warehouse in the middle of bumfuck Egypt, in a gated lot surrounded by a high, wrought-iron fence. I used bolt cutters to snip the padlocks that kept the gate closed, and got back in the car and drove straight in. I would have closed it after me, but it wasn't the kind of gate that latched; it just swung open if it wasn't chained shut. The warehouse was just a huge metal building with a high ceiling and a lock on the door. What was weird, though, was that there was also a wrought-iron fence, similar to the one that surrounded the lot, built up right around the building itself, about an inch from the steel walls of the warehouse. The chains and the lock on the outer gate of the warehouse were iron, too; they looked fancy and old. It was almost a shame to take my bolt cutters to them. As I did, it occurred to me that I wasn't doing anything Mrs. Grey couldn't have done herself, or hired someone else to do prior to her husband's death. It made me suspicious.

The warehouse was full of crates and boxes, and the air smelled musty and stale. I don't know why I went in. I don't know why I walked down the central aisle and stopped at a particular pallet of crates. I'm not even sure why I opened the second box down from the top. But in restrospect, I'm sure Mrs. Grey knew this was exactly what was going to happen.

I set aside my crowbar and bolt cutters and lifted the lid off the crate. On top of everything else inside, there was a beautiful, silvery fur coat, like silver fox, but shorter and more dense, and speckled with darker gray. There was very little light coming through the door from my car headlamps, but what there was, the fur picked up and reflected. I put my hand toward the fur. The fine underhairs seemed to stretch toward me. It was hypnotic. Then a shadow fell across the open door, and the voice of one Mrs. Silky Grey echoed off the walls: "Do not touch that, Mr. Hill."

I froze. She must have followed me.

"Step away from the fur, Mr. Hill," Mrs. Grey said. "And I'll ask you to raise your hands above your head."

I turned. Mrs. Grey was there, flanked by two men in fedora hats, their revolvers pointed at me. I never even had a chance to reach for my own.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Do as I say, Mr. Hill. If you touch that fur, my men will shoot you dead where you stand."

I believed her. "Take it easy, fellas," I said, backing away from the silver fox fur, my hands in the air.

Mrs. Grey went to the fur coat, picked it up, and draped it over one arm. "I have what my husband was keeping from me now. Everything else in this warehouse will be destroyed in a fire in short order -- including you, Mr. Hill, if you're still here. I recommend you leave." She admired the fur with a strange look in her huge, dark eyes, stroked it lovingly, like a long-lost pet.

I was incredulous. "So this whole time, this whole thing...was about a fur coat?"

"Did you get paid, or didn't you?" There was steel in her voice, ice behind her eyes.

I didn't answer. I was too stunned.

She said, "Be seeing you, Mr. Hill." And she turned and walked away, the coat draped over her arm. Her bodyguards holstered their weapons, tipped their hats without a trace of irony, and followed her out the door.

It may have been my imagination—in fact, it must have been, because the warehouse never did burn down—but I thought I smelled gasoline, so I split.

I don't know why, I followed her. It was four o'clock in the morning, the worst possible time to be awake. But I had to know what was so all-fired important about that coat. She parted ways with her fedora'd friends, got into her car, and drove an hour and a half to get to the shore. If she saw me following her in my own beater, she didn't try to lose me. And she must have seen me. It was like she couldn't have cared less.

There were parking areas at the beach, but she ignored them. She drove the Jaguar right out onto the sand. I couldn't follow. I cringed in sympathy to the engine of the Jag, parked my own car on the street, and got out. I ran after her a little ways, but I couldn't keep up, so I stopped and just watched her.

She parked close to the water, almost in the waves that licked the shore. The sun was rising, a little breeze blowing that tasted of salt. As I watched, Silky Grey got out of the Jaguar, still holding the fur coat as if she hadn't let it go for a second, the whole trip to the shore. Maybe she hadn't. I watched as she took off all her clothes, every stitch. Gray wool suit, black bra and panties, garter belt, stockings. Then she shook out the silvery fur coat, slipped it on over her flawless naked body, and walked out into the tide.

It may have been my imagination, it may have been lack of sleep, it may have been the early-morning sun in my eyes, but I would swear before God she turned into a seal and swam away. All that was left of her was a little pile of clothes on the beach and a Jaguar parked next to the water, the driver's door open, waves lapping gently at the tires.

But what the hell. The check cleared.

About the Author

Mags Carr has enjoyed writing speculative fiction and poetry since 1993. She lives in Florida with her husband and their three pet gerbils.

# Romero & Juliet—Nic Wilson

One, Romero

Even now, standing in the morgue, shivering while an unfortunately balding twenty-year-old scanned the records scrawled on a notepad, I couldn't believe my Juliet was dead. "Here," he said, and knocked on one of the drawers. "The fifty bucks gets you twenty minutes. You think you need more, it's fifty every twenty. You can run out for more now, and I won't count it against your time, but if you go over, you get out. And use a rubber; I'm not cleaning up whatever oozes out of her."

He set a condom down on the metal table between us. I wanted to hit him, but I couldn't know how much of that was apprehension or grief. I could always find him later and beat him, if it still felt warranted.

"I'll give you some privacy. That soap makes for a decent lube, if you need it."

I felt the cylinder in my pocket, wrapped my fingers around it, and it gave me something like hope. I pulled on the drawer, and it slid open.

I knew her body immediately, starting at the perfect curves of her little toes. Her flesh was an extension of mine, and seeing it pale and cold confirmed what I feared: I was already dead.

I wasn't certain why she'd done it. I heard her father was pressuring her to marry one of his lieutenants. It seemed she'd decided we would meet in the next life instead. I touched her cheek. Even in death, she was the loveliest creature I had ever seen.

I pulled the vial out and removed the cap. It had a dropper built into it, but I wanted death, and wasn't concerned for how precisely I arrived at that destination. Juliet's friend found the vial when she found her body, and spirited it away to me, along with the news of her passing. It meant we could die by the same method; my only regret was we couldn't go together.

I upended the vial over my lips and downed its contents. I kissed Juliet and climbed atop the metal shelf with her. It was the closest we could hope to be, resting together.

The drugs were quick. My muscles would hardly respond enough to slide the drawer back inside the wall. The metal box was claustrophobic, but I took in one breath of Juliet's scent, and was at peace.

Two, Juliet

I woke up surrounded by warmth. The doctor had warned me I would be freezing, that I would be taken to the morgue and stored cold. But I was surrounded in warmth, and a smell I loved more than the beating in my breast.

He came for me—came as I knew he would, and we would escape together, to a life we could not have dreamed before.

"Romero?" I whispered against him. He didn't stir. I tried to shake him. I listened for the sound of his heart against my cheek, or the passage of air from his lungs. There was nothing. My body tensed.

Then I heard another man from outside. "I said twenty, and I meant—Hell. Where'd he go?" There was a pause, and then, "And he didn't use the condom. Damnit, I went to school because I didn't want to mop up come anymore."

I was dizzied by sudden momentum as Romero and I were yanked from our rest into motion. The locomotion was violent enough that Romero fell away from me and tumbled noisily to the floor.

"Jesus," the other man yelped, jumping back. But he ignored the body at his feet and became suddenly transfixed by the body on the slab before him— _my_ body. His breathing sped up, and he leaned forward and touched my cheek. I tried to move, to tell him I wasn't dead, and I sure as hell didn't want his hand on me, but the poison's grip was still strong. While my mind was awake, my body wasn't responding.

I heard a groan from the floor, and suddenly the man fell. He hit his head on the edge of my shelf on his way down, and the clang of metal on bone resonated. I forced my fingers to move, then my wrist. I was vulnerable, exposed. I needed to move. My forearms lifted off the slab, only to smack down against it an instant later.

My entire body was heavy, but the muscles in my neck responded, and I leaned up. I still couldn't see anything past my shelf. I forced myself to roll. I hoped the sensation of hanging off the edge of the shelf would be enough to jump-start my nerves. It wasn't, and I fell painfully.

From the floor I could feel limbs tangled up in mine, several sets. I scrambled to get away, but the harder I struggled, the stronger the limbs that bound me became.

All at once, I broke free of them and tumbled headfirst into a metal cart at the center of the room. It held tools for dissection, and they scattered as I knocked the table off its wheels. I could feel the warm wetness of my blood drooling from my forehead. Each pump of blood made me horrified. I didn't understand what was going on.

Something cold and metal rested against my arm. I picked it up, as much for curiosity as anything. It was a scalpel, and holding it made me feel more capable and less afraid. I forced myself up off the ground awkwardly. My muscles still refused to respond with any regularity.

Something cylindrical crunched beneath my foot. Even in the dim light, I knew it for the vial that held my poison, meant to create an illusion of death. It was empty, none of its contents loosed upon the floor. And however had it come to be here?

I heard a noise, half of a groan and partway to a sigh, and I knew the sound as well as I knew his smell. Romero. He sounded like he was dreaming or incredibly drunk. I remembered the last we drank together, tasting the wine on his lips when I kissed him.

The memory made me lick my lips again, and I could still faintly taste the poison on them. I shuddered as I realized the truth. He saw me dead, and drank the poison—all of it, far more than the drops that made me appear dead—and kissed me one last time. God. What had I done?

I saw a corpse, perhaps two, lying beneath my slab. My dear, sweet Romero was dead. That left only one thing for me. I raised the scalpel to my wrist and pushed it through the skin.

Then I heard the noises of meat, gnashing teeth, rending flesh, and stopped. The room was dark. I took a step forward, and my toes found a puddle, warm and viscous. I knew it was blood, despite never having stood in a puddle of it before. I heard a moan, something nearly human, but somehow not. Then I saw eyes, dead, barely looking at the world despite staring vacantly forward. In the darkness, I thought it was Romero.

What I could see was blood, smeared across his face, focused around his mouth. He took one stumbling step forward, and I gripped the scalpel in my fist. "Romero," I whispered, but I knew instinctively that he wouldn't respond— _couldn't_. "Don't," I whimpered, and held the scalpel out between us instinctively. "Please."

He stepped forward. I steadied myself against the autopsy table and looked to the door. It was a few steps away, but without the table to hold me up, I knew I wouldn't make it. My hands were shaking, but I tried to keep the blade between us, convinced it would buy me the time I needed to understand what was happening.

He walked into the blade, and it slid between his ribs like his skin was butter on a summer day. My grip on the scalpel slackened, and I gasped in horror. What had I done?

He didn't seem to recognize the injury. What he did notice was the blood trickling down my wrist. He walked past me, to a cabinet, and jerkily opened several drawers. When he found tissue, he wadded a handful and brought it back to me. He wrapped the tissue around my wrist and put pressure against the wound.

His head tilted as his face contorted. He was trying to understand something—trying to figure out why I was upset. "Romero?" I asked. He blinked at me. He didn't quite seem to understand who he was, but he wasn't an animal, either. There was something of him yet behind the milky cloud coalescing in his beautiful eyes.

My own eyes were slowly adjusting to the room and its darkness. Finally, I could make out the mangled corpse of the morgue attendant. "Did you kill him?" I asked.

Romero groaned.

I saw my blade, still sticking out of his chest. "They killed us," I said without melancholy. "We shouldn't allow them to escape that unscathed. We need to get you out of here." But the last thing I wanted was to arouse suspicion, so I needed to take him away without a knife sticking out of his chest. I took hold of the scalpel before he could argue and pulled it loose. It was held only by meat, so it came without effort. I dropped the blade on the floor and took him by the hand. "Come on," I said, and he made a noise like growling. But when I pulled on his arm, he followed.

I found his car parked outside, but that was only half the trouble. I needed his keys, and I could tell he wasn't in any shape to fish them out, for me. "I need your keys," I told him gently. He didn't respond, just stood stock still. "I'll get them," I said.

I slid my hand into his pants pocket, where I knew he usually kept them.

Suddenly, he came alive and lifted me against the hood of his car. It reminded me of the first night we met, in the parking lot at my sister's wedding. The moment seemed so perfect, yet so stolen, like we weren't supposed to have it, and wouldn't be allowed it if anyone had known. His lips met mine and we kissed. His mouth was passionate, like that night, but without any of his usual grace; it was forceful, crude, even. He was an animal, to a degree that frightened me.

"Romero, please, stop."

He did. His eyes were welling up with tears, but there was an anger and confusion behind them. "It isn't you," I said quickly, kissing him. "I still love you." I kissed him again. He rested his head against my cheek and let out a wracked sigh. He knew something was wrong, even if he couldn't understand what. I found the keys in his pocket and pulled them free. "I should drive," I said.

He never let anyone else drive his car, and I saw a flash of that before his shoulders went soft. He wasn't able to follow, but knew not to trust his usual instincts—and to trust mine, instead.

I opened the passenger side for him, and he crawled in, like it was the first time he'd entered a car. I sat in the driver's seat, and adjusted it so I could reach comfortably. Romero laid his head in my lap. He didn't have his seatbelt on, but I wasn't exactly worried about his health, and at least he was hidden behind the car door.

I needed to see my doctor. He was supposed to pass my message to Romero, to tell him I was well and where to find me. But now I needed to know if there was anything to be done for him, or if my initial dread was correct.

I remembered the way to his office. It was outside his hours, but he lived in an apartment over it, and it was late enough he would almost certainly be home. I parked by a hydrant, because it was the only spot where I could still see the front door from the car. "Can you stay here?" I asked.

Romero groaned, but made no effort to get out of the car. I knocked on the door. There weren't any lights on. I wondered how late it was. I tried again, this time louder. A light came on. I heard footsteps on stairs. Then an aging woman opened the door. I recognized her as my doctor's secretary.

"I need to see the doctor," I said.

"So did he," she said.

"Beg pardon?"

"You haven't heard." Her eyes were puffy, red. "He was struck by a car, two days ago, coming back from a house call. He's been in the hospital since, completely unresponsive. A coma. They don't know if he'll make it," she said, starting to cry. After a moment, she remembered I was still there, waiting, and forced herself to be composed. "I can refer you," she said, "if it's something serious."

I didn't know what had been in the vial; I suspected some proprietary blend of medications and chemicals. Another doctor wouldn't be any help. We were dead—but that didn't mean we had to curl up and wait to decompose. "I'm sorry," I said. "I hope he gets better."

She nodded, and closed the door. I walked back to the car. Romero was watching intently. He didn't like being left behind. Seeing his dull eyes made the rage boil up from my intestines. Old men, with their old Goddamned grudges, had done this to us. We were dead, but that didn't mean we had to let our murderers get away with it.

I got into the driver's side and kicked the car on.

"Where, to?" he asked, each individual letter a struggle that broke my heart.

"We're going to go get my father's blessing," I said through hot tears.

The feud was in full swing. Romero and I...we inflamed passions, reopened long-scabbed-over wounds. That was a part of why my father reacted so violently, why he locked me in my room until I agreed to marry one of his lieutenants—Stefano, specifically.

I stopped the car outside of the gate, and walked on foot up to the guardhouse. Stefano was there with another of my father's thugs. The thug wanted to shoot me; I could hear him loudly debating it. Stefano wouldn't let him. "It's just a girl," he said. "No guns. You really think shooting up a girl is what the boss would want? Or you think telling her to scram is less likely to bring heat to his front door?"

"All right," the thug said. Then he frowned at me, squinting through the car's headlights. "Wait. Ain't that...weren't you?"

"Juliet," Stefano whispered. I reached the gate and put my fingers on the bars.

"I need to see my father."

"We heard you was—"

"Shut up, Mike," Stefano said. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," I lied. "I just need to see him."

"I'm sure he'll want to see you, too." He looked back at the car, and could tell it wasn't empty.

"I've got a passenger," I said. "Romero."

"He's the enemy," Stefano said, tensing. "We're at _war_."

"This has nothing to do with your blood feud. He comes with me."

"We can't," the thug barked.

"It's all right," Stefano said. "I'll ride up with them, in back. Anything happens I don't like..."

"We're both supposed to man the gate," his partner complained.

"You really think this is a two-man job?" I asked him. He frowned, but retreated back to his shack.

Stefano walked with me, back to the car. When we were halfway between it and the shack, with the greatest chance for privacy, he asked, "You love him, don't you?"

I considered lying, to spare his feelings. Despite the circumstances, Stefano had tried to be a gentleman. But lying would just prolong the inevitable. "I do."

"Always kind of knew that." He sighed. "And I'm sorry your dad tried to, I don't know, give you away like a party favor. I knew it wasn't right, but I just—you're worth getting excited over, even if I'll admit I got over-excited. But I guess I always figured this was what you wanted, so, I'm as hands-off as I can be."

"I appreciate that," I told him.

He got in the back and immediately aimed his gun at Romero. He was subtle about it, which was probably the only reason Romero didn't hop into the back seat and pull his fingers off. Even before he was a bundle of aggressive instincts and crossed wiring, Romero always had a hair-trigger.

When we reached the house at the end of the drive, I got out first, then opened Romero's door. They both got out of the passenger side, and we walked together to the front door.

I knocked.

"The hell's going on?" I heard a man ask as the door opened.

"Boss's daughter's back," Stefano said.

"The fu—"

"And she wants a word with her old man."

"Yeah, okay. Who's the guy?"

"Just take us inside. And follow."

We made it past half a dozen checkpoints in that fashion, and at each one we picked up a larger escort. Dad was eating a bowl of ice cream in the dining room. He dropped it when he saw me, and it shattered on the floor. "My girl?" he asked, and ran towards me. He picked me up and kissed me. "My baby? How's this possible?" he asked, on the verge of tears. "You're my miracle."

I couldn't smile, or be happy to be in his arms.

"And who's this?" he asked, barely glancing at Romero. "Is he okay? He looks kind of—"

"He's as good as can be expected, Dad. He's been poisoned. This is Romero."

Dad's eyes became sharp little points. His hand started towards the gun he kept inside his jacket.

"I wouldn't."

"Who the hell do you think you're talking to?"

He was one of my killers, but I wasn't here to spit in his face, so I didn't tell him that. "We're getting married, and I want your blessing."

"He's one of _them_ ," he said.

"What concern is that of yours?" I asked. "This is a joyous occasion, an opportunity to bury old grievances with shared celebration." At least, it should have been. "We had planned to elope. When you locked me up, you stopped that. So plans have changed. We're getting married here."

"He's not well."

"I love him, and that's _clearly_ beside the point."

"What about Stefano?" he asked.

"I never _wanted_ to marry him. I took _poison_ to get away from that. Would you rather I take a lethal dose instead?"

My father and Stefano exchanged a glance and a nod. "I didn't want _that_ for you," he said.

"It's not your choice," I said. Romero tensed along with my fists. "This is. You killed us, Dad, as surely as if you'd put a bullet through each of us. For that, I'm taking the family from you. But there doesn't need to be any more blood. We just want peace."

My father nodded emphatically, and Stefano raised his pistol. "No!" I screamed as he fired. The bullet smashed through Romero's shoulder, sending him sprawling against the wall. But he was moving in an instant.

Whatever had dulled his brain didn't seem to impact his reflexes, because he leapt across the room at Stefano faster than I could follow. He seized his gun arm, and pushed it up and back, so Stefano's gun was pointed at his own head. Then Romero made him pull the trigger.

Stefano dropped, and his gun went sliding across the floor, knocking off my foot before coming to rest a few feet away. I knelt down to pick it up.

That was when I saw the corpse. Stefano's bullet had passed through Romero and into my father's head. His brains were splashed across the wall behind where he fell.

I picked up Stefano's gun and stood up. I heard another volley of gunfire as another of his men dropped, screaming. Romero had his thumb in one of their eyes, like a demented Jack Horner, and his fingers _inside_ a second man's throat, wrapped around his windpipe. I braced myself for what came next. He pulled the man's trachea out in one swift, horrific motion, and plucked out the other man's eye. He whipped the trachea into a different man, then sucked the eyeball off his thumb and snarled.

I'd lost track of how many shots had been fired, but there were three men dead at his feet. Twice that number were aiming, trying not to shoot the men Romero was in the process of murdering. I raised Stefano's gun and fired into them.

I downed all but the last one of the gunmen before the hammer clacked impotently against an empty chamber. He realized that I wasn't trying to help them with Romero, and turned his gun on me. I felt the shot hit me in the ribs, at least, that's what I told myself as I fell. The world was on fire, and I was tumbling. I smacked my head against the wall, and slid to the floor.

It felt like I passed out, but I don't think I lost any time. I opened my eyes to see I had landed in a puddle of my father's brain chunks. But I wasn't dead yet. I forced myself up as I heard gunfire. Then, as the last gunman's pistol ran dry, the end of the gunfire.

Romero snapped another man's neck, then turned towards the last gunman. He had another magazine, but he was shaking. Romero took three massive steps and shoved him. He lost the magazine, and his gun, as he fell backwards onto the bottom of some stairs. Romero straddled his chest and pushed his fingers hooked and meeting in the center, into the man's neck. Then he pulled them apart and opened his throat up like a curtain, dousing both of them in a shower of ichor.

That brought me back to reality. I grabbed a gun from the floor, and another, and starting searching bodies for matching additional magazines.

I heard the thunder of more feet, men from upstairs, men coming in from outside. At their head was the man from the gate. "Jesus," he whispered. "What the hell?"

"Change in management," I said, slipping one of the guns into my waistband. "They protested the new direction. Anybody else have concerns?"

The remaining men glanced around the room, and most of their eyes stopped at Romero. Whatever happened, they knew they weren't prepared to handle it. That didn't mean they wouldn't regroup and later try to put a bullet in us, but for the moment, anxiety prevailed.

"Good," I said. "Get rid of the bodies."

"Where are you going?" the gate guard asked.

"This war's gone on too long already," I said. Romero fell in behind me as I walked. "I'm going to see Monterrey."

We walked back out to the car. The gate guard came with us and saw us out.

I hadn't wanted more death. But I always knew it was a possibility—no, a likelihood. Men like my father, power was their lifeblood. Taking his was the same as killing him, as trying to take Romero from me—and I from him—had been _our_ death.

My blood thundered in my ears. Remembering how Romero had torn a bloody swath through my father's men, it wasn't just bloodlust anymore. The violence—seeing his raw _power_ unleashed—had unleashed something in me, something familiar and primal, and before I was even aware of it, my hand was in Romero's lap, reenacting earlier, happier nights. Romero groaned as he pulsed against my hand, and I pulled the car to the side of the road. It was a dark street, because one of the lamps was out. I climbed over the shifter and straddled him.

Whatever was beneath his skin, or in his head, some part of him was still _mine_. Not even death could bury him completely. I burned with pride and lust for him, kissing him with urgency despite the taste of God even _knows_ how many men's blood on his lips and skin.

His teeth tore into my shoulder, a little too roughly, and I gasped. Somehow, the action felt right, transcending the pain in my body, letting him take me at his most animalistic. Dimly, I realized I was bleeding, and I couldn't figure out whether my lightheadedness was earlier bloodloss or newfound queasiness at the knowledge. I'd never had a strong stomach.

But Romero was everything, tenderness glinting in those milky eyes, and something of his old self in the softer moments of his touch.

For a moment, I could let myself believe there was something waiting for us, some bit of the life we'd originally wanted. A life together, free from our families. A chance to decide our future for ourselves. Possibly even children, though we'd never broached that discussion before.

A million potential futures, all stolen from us. Our very essences, flickering within our bodies like candleflames in a hurricane. Only this moment left, Romero inside me, his garbled moans close enough to human to let me imagine he was still truly _alive_. Or maybe my garbled moans, close enough to death for us to feel we were _one_ , one last time.

Chapter Three, Juliet

I collapsed against his chest, panting heavily. His breathing was still quick. I wondered if he actually needed to breathe anymore, or if it was all a reflex. But he was still mine; I could see it in his eyes. "I," he paused to lick his lips, and seeing the pain of groping for words made me want to straddle his face, envelope him in love and pleasure to erase it. "I love you."

"I love you, too," I whispered, stroking his cheek. He smiled ever so slightly. "You ready to finish this?" I asked.

He shook his head, and I crawled back onto the driver's side. The engine turned over, and we were off.

The Monterreys worked primarily out of the docks. Made smuggling easier, and made it harder for my father's operation to compete. Specifically, they met inside a cannery, or, when they were on lockdown, hid there.

I knew the way without troubling Romero. He fell asleep, and I heard him snoring in the seat beside me. It became almost a snarling growl as it went on, but still it reminded me of the stolen nights we had together, before reality hit us like a streetcar.

I stopped at the first guard posted at the cannery. "This ain't no place for lookie-loos," he told me. I rolled down the window, so light from a nearby lamp cut across Romero. He stirred, thanks to the conversation. "Whoa. He ain't supposed to be here. Boss wanted him _gone_."

"You know who I am?" I asked.

He frowned. "Like a red-headed Veronica Lake?" he asked. Then his eyes narrowed. "You're the Capastrano girl."

"Capastrano _Don_ ," I said, setting my pistol against the windowsill. "I'm here to talk peace."

"Then you brought the wrong kind of olive branch," he said. "Boss is as likely to shoot your boyfriend, after what he pulled."

"He pulled _for me_ ," I said. "We can discuss that. But I'd prefer a discussion, to a shootout."

He shrugged. "I'll ring ahead. Drive slow and leave the piece in the car."

We drove the rest of the way inside. A couple of men flagged us over to get us to park off to the side. They waited outside the car with their guns. Romero and I stepped in front of the car. "Sorry, ma'am, but I'm supposed to check you for weapons." He got within two paces of me, and Romero snarled.

"I wouldn't. He can be very protective."

He looked from me to Romero, and then I think he recognized the amount of blood coating him. "I'll just take your word for it, then."

"He smells funny," the other man said. "He okay?"

"No," I said, and didn't elaborate. He shrugged, and they led us into the big wooden building.

"Up them stairs." We continued to the top floor, to an office with a window overseeing production below.

An old man glared at us from behind a long wooden table. "You got a lot of balls coming back here," he said to Romero. "I'm inclined to have them cut off you and dropped in the center of my table, just for an opening gesture. But there's a lady present, so why don't you tell me why I shouldn't."

"You should be addressing _me_ ," I said. "What Romero did, he did for me. So your beef is with me."

"I doubt you got balls, honey," he said, "but we might be able to cut some gonads out of you, if you prefer."

"The only reason any of you in this room might recognize balls is because you spend half your time sucking the flavor out of each other's teabags. As of tonight, I am the new head of the Capastrano organization. As of tonight, Romero is going to head up Monterrey."

"Like _hell_ ," a balding ginger muttered.

"We took over Capastrano together—the two of us. I'm still wet with my father's blood. It didn't have to be the hard way. But if we have to kill every man in this room, this war ends tonight. You play nice, and you can all just go about your business."

"We can take this bitch," the balding ginger said, sliding out of his chair. I put a bullet just above his right eye. Before he could fall, Romero slammed him to the table and sunk his teeth into the man's naked scalp. He pulled as much flesh away as he could before it tore, then loudly gnawed on the skin until it was compact enough to swallow.

"And what about me?" the angry old man asked. "If this rabid mutt is the head of our pack? You can't leave the old alpha dog kicking around." He was looking for an excuse to rush us.

"We're not dogs," I said. "Everybody else just moves back a step—that's all. And when it comes to violence on the streets—that stops. We work out territorial lines that everybody can live with, and we work together, like businesses out in the world do. We can do that because we're people. But if you insist on being a dog," I leveled my gun at his head, "I can put you down."

A thin smile cracked his lips. "And Capastrano's _really_ dead?" he asked. "No disrespect, doll, but that prick had a mean streak a mile long. I can't tell you how many bodies there are on his temper alone. If the Capo _is_ gone, you can have your peace. Day to day isn't run through you, though. Without autonomy, everything we got falls apart."

I lowered the gun, and slid it back in my waistband. "Sounds fair. I'm not looking to tell you how to run your business—I just don't want business getting sidetracked with gunfighting."

"That I could drink to. But if you don't mind, we got a lot of business now in need of discussing. You're welcome to stay, but, uh..."

"Day-to-day isn't any of our concern," I said. "We'll be in touch."

I wasn't sure if they'd try to double-cross us, same as with my father's crew. But it didn't matter, we were already dead. I wondered if the reason I'd been less hostile with the Monterreys was because I hadn't seen what they did to Romero. But it seemed that most of our tragedy came out of the Capastranos, and I knew the old man was right about my dad. He was a stubborn, prideful old prick.

I wasn't sure where to go. Maybe Romero's old place, which he shared with another Monterrey, in a building owned by a subsidiary of the cannery. My place was at my father's, and I didn't know if it would really feel like mine. But the only other alternative was to hide away at a motel. And I was done hiding what I had with Romero, done hiding what happened to those who got in our way.

I drove to my home.

The guard at the gate opened it for us. "How'd it go at the docks?" he asked.

"We've got peace," I told him.

"That's good," he said. "The guys was discussing how to handle you. Consensus was if you screwed up, we could disavow; you know, distraught daughter tries to whack the competition. But if you managed it—your old man was the only one really wanted this conflict. He had eyes bigger than his pecker—'scuse me—had a big ego, but it was fragile. So I'm glad this fight's behind us. And I hope it'll last."

I started rolling up the window. "Oh. We got a call while you was gone. Your doctor came out of his coma. He's talking, and asked about you."

"They say which hospital?"

"St. Jude's."

"Thanks." I turned the car around in the circling driveway, and we left.

I wanted to be hopeful, to think that finally, this maybe meant that we could save Romero. But I'd spent too long coming to grips with the fact that we were both already dead to feel it.

I asked the nurse at the front where my doctor was. After a little confusion, she took me to his room.

He smiled when he saw me. "I was so worried," he said, "when I couldn't pass along your message." I stepped to the side, and he got a look at Romero. "Dear God," he whispered. "He took the rest, didn't he?"

I shook my head. "There has to be something you can do."

"He's a corpse already—you can _smell it_. He's going to keep decomposing until he's just a puddle of organ juices and rotten meat."

I pressed my gun into his throat.

"There's nothing I can do for him. At the dose he took, he was dead as soon as he swallowed."

"There is something you can do," I said. "Mix another dose." It took him a moment to put together why. His face contorted in horror.

"I _can't_."

"You will. Or I'll shoot you and eat a bullet instead."

"It's _tragic_ , what happened to him, but another tragedy doesn't right the first." His eyes begged me for understanding.

"My life ends with his, one way or another. I don't blame you for the happenstance that landed us all here, together. But if you want to do right by me, you'll let me die how I want."

"I swore an oath to do no harm."

"You did it anyway. Now I'm asking you to mitigate that harm. Let me rest with the man I love. Let us decompose together."

"You're so young, with so much life left ahead of you."

I removed the gun, put it to my own chin, and pulled the hammer back on the revolver. "I swear to God, another word, and I'll put a bullet through my soft palate; Romero will blame you, and he'll mutilate you before he lets you die." I rolled up my shirt enough to show him my bullet wound. "I'm dead. Accept that—I have. You can't save me. All you can do is keep hurting me."

He closed his eyes. "All right," he said. "I'll need to check myself out. It will take a little bit, and more still to brew your concoction. Sunrise, it should be ready."

"Thank you," I said, and kissed his cheek. "And if possible, could you increase my dose? I'd like to catch up, so we can die together."

"I'll see what I can do."

We left. I noticed a small chapel, and saw a black shirt through a window in the door. I pulled Romero inside. A priest was praying at a small altar. We sat at the rear, and waited until he was done. "I was wondering," I said when he stood, "if I could trouble you."

"No trouble," he said. "What do you need, my child?"

"I was hoping you could marry us."

"Now?" he asked.

"Romero hasn't long. He's been mine in this life, and I want him to still be mine into the next."

"I can perform the rites," he said, "but the process I can't expedite. If you send the paperwork to my office, I can sign it."

"But you'll read our vows now?"

"If you like," he said.

"I would. And would you mind not using the biblical version? It's...it would feel out of place, given our circumstance."

"Of course. Your name?"

"Juliet."

"Please, both of you, join me at the altar." We walked to him and faced each other.

"I can see the light of love shining from within both of you. You have already sacrificed much to be here together tonight. Love is sacrifice, love is work, but it is also the fruits of that labor, and the joy that comes with the release of pain and strife. Juliet, do you promise to love Romero, and to honor him, whatever hardships may come?"

"I do."

"And Romero, will you love Juliet, and honor her, no matter the cost?" Romero groaned and nodded. "Then in your eyes, and mine, you are wed, and in a few days' time, when the ink all dries, the church and state will see it, too. Whatever life the two of you have left, I hope it's filled with love."

We kissed.

We hugged the priest, thanked him, then left. The sky was already the color of a blood orange, so I drove to the doctor's office. He heard our car pull up, and brought a second vial out to me. He kissed my forehead. "I won't try to talk you down again," he said. "But good luck."

I hugged him. All he had ever tried to do was help me, and even though it had all gone wrong, I appreciated it, nonetheless.

We arrived back at the morgue in time to watch the sun rise over the horizon together. When it was done, we stood together outside the car and stared into each other. I retrieved the vial from my pocket, and opened it.

Romero grunted, put his hand over the vial, and shook his head. He didn't want me to drink it.

"I know you want me to live. To go on without you. But what you see as your sacrifice, I see as my exile. Every moment I'm without you is torture. Same as it would have been for you, and why you chose to take the poison yourself. You can't deny me the choice you made—not if you love me."

A tear slid down his cheek, but he dropped his hands to his side. "This is so we can be together, even into death." He took my hand, and held it as I swallowed the poison. It took me fast, and I collapsed. He was quick enough to catch me.

He carried me back into the morgue. In my head I heard the _Bridal Chorus_ as he carried me over the threshold. I scarcely had the strength to hold up my head as he marched me down the stairs. My drawer was still open, and I thought it would make for a fine marital bed—provided it was strong enough.

He laid me down on the slab, then climbed on top of me. "Be gentle with me, my love," I said. My strength was returning, but slowly, and I wanted to savor every last minute with him. He grunted, and pulled our drawer shut. But through the crack, voices still penetrated.

"I'm just saying, the kinds of screwed up person who would beat a morgue attendant to death just to get his rocks off in a corpse, is not the kind of person who would balk suddenly because the body-count doubles. Hell, maybe that's foreplay for that kind of sick bastard."

"No arguments, here. I'm just hoping I can get away while they're screwing your corpse. Um. Huh. Speaking of. That sound can't be...are those corpses humping?"

"Yeah. I believe they are."

"I'm going to give them the room."

"Seriously?"

"You really want to try and break it up?"

"No. No, I do not."

About the Author

Nicolas Wilson is a published journalist, graphic novelist, and novelist. He lives in the rainy wastes of Portland, Oregon with his wife, four cats and a dog.

Nic's work spans a variety of genres, from political thriller to science fiction and urban fantasy. He has several novels currently available, and many more due for release in the next year. The second installations in the Sontem Trilogy and the Gambit are due for publication Summer and Fall 2014. Nic's stories are characterized by his eye for the absurd, the off-color, and the bombastic.

For information on Nic's books, and behind-the-scenes looks at his writing, visit nicolaswilson.com.

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# Shades of Drunken Inner Demons—Rachel Savage

The lights in the club are low, and the beat from the music pounds in time with the blood pulsing through my veins. There's a crush of bodies on the dancefloor. I'm not feeling the urge to throw myself into the hot mess of limbs and sweat tonight. Instead, I direct my attention to a few lonely ladies perched on the plush stools lining the bar that takes up the back wall of the building.

One particular brunette with fuck-me-hard eyes winks and pats the empty stool next to her. There's no way I can resist such an invitation. Not when my inner demon is nodding and panting and getting ready to hit me with a cattle prod.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

She lets her eyes roam my figure as I wait for an answer. "Of course you can, honey. I like Kraken, neat."

My inner demon is howling like he's just stumbled out of an old Rex Avery cartoon. I signal the bartender to give her another, and ask for whatever amber ale they have on tap. The urge to loosen my tie comes with every look she gives me, and I'm rather glad no one can see below the top of the bar right then.

"I don't think I've seen you around before." I smile as she brushes her hand against mine.

"I'm usually prowling the dance floor."

"But not tonight?"

"I'm fine right where I am."

As endless drinks go down our throats, we both begin to loosen up. I have to admit I'm nearly as drunk as my inner demon usually is when she promises me the ride of my life if I take her home with me. How can a lonely man turn down such an offer? Not every day a random woman in a bar will offer up a wild night of sex when you've just barely exchanged names and phone numbers.

"I need to go powder my nose; don't go anywhere."

I nod my head, part of me praying that I don't have the same goofy-ass drunk grin that my inner demon usually sports in such situations. After I've collected my card and paid off the damage to our livers, I leave a tip. The bartender scoops up the money. She must have been tipsier than I remember, because I have to save her from falling off her heels when she returns.

"Let's be off then, shall we?"

She gives me a nervous smile. "Oh, but—"

"Don't worry, I've already paid up."

There's only a slight further moment of hesitation before she grips my arm tighter and I lead her out into the cool evening air. I'm not sure why, but it seems as though she's cooled off a bit from earlier. My inner demon isn't much help either, as he's spinning himself round and round in an office chair. Not quite sure where the furniture comes from, but I try not to worry about it too much.

She giggles and ducks her head when I start to make a move on her in the elevator. Maybe she likes to play the innocent card from time to time. Except that doesn't quite seem to fit the image I have of when she first called me over earlier tonight. Why would a woman suddenly change her methods? I feel like that inner bastard has made me dizzy, yet when I glare at him, he does little more than shrug and wander off in search of more beer.

I give her as suave a smile as I can as I open the door to my place. It may not be much to look at, but it's clean. "Can I get you something to drink? I'm afraid I don't have any of that rum you seem to like."

"Some water would be nice."

"Water. Right."

My inner demon stops polishing his horns with a toga and mouths the word _water_ as though he can't quite believe his ears. _"Dude...what happened to the rum swiggin' hottie?"_

I just keep the smile on my face and grab a bottle of water from the fridge, along with a beer for myself. My happy buzz seems to be wearing off a touch sooner than I'd like. A couple of healthy swigs later, I return to where I left her hovering in the living room. She gives me that same nervous smile, and this time there's even a girlish twitter behind it. My demon and I are still wondering where the sultry vixen laugh has suddenly run off to.

As I let my fingers trail gently down her arm, it's hard not to frown a little when she flinches. I'm not really into the poor innocent bird routine. But I'm horny, and somewhat drunk so I figure I can ignore it. Demon boy just shrugs and plops down next to his cooler.

"Maybe we should slip into something more comfortable, like my king-size overpriced satin sheets."

She sucks her lower lip between her teeth, her hand nervously fiddling with an errant strand of hair. With a tremulous sigh, her soft glossed lips open, and I ready myself for what's to come. My whole body tingles with anticipation.

"This is all so sudden. I mean, I've never even pleasured myself."

There's no possible way I just heard the words that drifted past her sweet lips. I clear my throat as I straighten back up. "So, you've never—like, never? Not even by accident? You've never even sat on a washing machine or ridden a bike down a cobblestone street?"

"No." She blushes and lookes down at her shoes.

I'm not sure how I managed to not stumble back a few steps. My inner demon was just standing there, slack-jawed in shock, as beer dribbled from the corner of his mouth. How does one even respond to such a declaration? My brain felt like it wanted to pack its bags and head for Hawaii.

" _Dude,_ " my inner demon was whispering for some reason. _"What the hell—where did you find this one?"_

I didn't have an answer for him. She had seemed so cool and collected at the club. This was looking less and less like the very flirty filly who had promised me the ride of my life not that long ago. Was it possible I somehow managed to bring the wrong girl home? Hard as it was to admit, I very well could have done such a thing.

" _Maybe she has a not-so-sexy twin or something._ " My inner demon snorted as he popped the top on another beer. _"Because this is just fucking tragic, man."_

"Um, can I get you something else to drink? Tea maybe?" I offer awkwardly.

She's still staring at her shoes, so I look down at mine. Then we catch each other staring at the other's shoes, and the elephant in the room seems to grow exponentially larger. I move towards the kitchen in slow motion, waiting for a laugh track to kick in—anything, really, for the reassurance that this was nothing more than a foolish nightmare brought on by one brewski too many.

" _Tea? You're gonna offer this limp noodle tea?"_ The demon was picking something out of his navel. _"The night is still young. We can always send this bird off and go find ourselves another willing subject to bring back to our den of fun."_

I did a mental inventory of the "den of fun". Expensively furnished, yet bland. If the frat boy in my head was talking about the bedroom, I wasn't sure a small collection of nipple clamps, a couple dusty vibrators, and some handcuffs constituted an actual den of fun, per se.

He snorted and rolled his eyes. " _Hey, it's not like you're giving me much to work with here, man. Though you could maybe add in some colorful throw pillows and a riding crop. Bitches love riding crops."_ The demon belched and reached for another beer. _"Except this one apparently. Your sex partner radar must be malfunctioning tonight."_

I poke my head back into the living room. "Can I call you a cab or something?"

"Ooh, I didn't know you were British. Ah do luv me a British bloke." She either has a serious eye twitch or the poor thing's attempting to bat her eyes. The effect is more like a pair of gimped butterflies trying to mate.

My inner demon was laughing his ass off at me now. I'd let my accent go again; probably shouldn't have chugged that beer when we first arrived. Damn thing was harder to control then. "Yes, well, New Zealand actually, luv. Would you look at the time, terribly late now. Long day ahead of me tomorrow, you know."

I start herding her towards the door like a mentally challenged Corgi trying to urge on a reluctant cow. My inner demon was standing there watching me with his arms crossed as I watch her teeter down the hallway towards the elevator. I jump as the phone in my pocket starts to vibrate. The number isn't one I recognized right then, but I'm desperate enough for a distraction to answer it.

"Hello?"

"You're a dick! I said I was just going to powder my nose real quick and you left the club with some other bitch? What kind of motherfucking freak are you? Get a girl all hot and bothered and then ditch her! Fuck you, asshole, I'm going home with the bartender. Lose my number, you limp-dicked freak."

My inner demon hit himself in the head before falling backwards into a pile of empty beer cans with a bitter groan. As my phone clatters to the floor at my feet, I contemplate how many times I could bash my head against the door before I make myself pass out.

About the Author

Mrs. Savage is a crazy lady with too many hobbies. One of which is letting her own inner demons gain control of the keyboard. Otherwise they're distracted by piles of yarn and fabric, and the occasional ball-jointed doll.

Website: www.realmofsavage.com

Tumblr: realmling.tumblr.com

# Cold Feet—Stacey Koshynsky

"Wow, you look beautiful." A voice came from behind Sofia Hoffman, and she slowly twirled around. As she moved, her wedding dress danced around her like a gentle snowfall. A large smile filled her face as she saw Jason Hyde, her fiancée. As she stood in front of the full-length mirror, he was speechless.

She was flawless, and in spite of his freshly pressed tux, Jason looked like a wreck of nervousness. Although she had always known him to be more comfortable in his in his ripped jeans and retro band shirts, he looked absolutely handsome. Finally, the man she had fallen in love with looked more like a grown man than a little boy.

"Thank you, but you know it's bad luck to see me before the wedding." Sofia let out a small laugh as she bustled towards him to shoo him out. If her mother heard about this, she would have a fit; she had always been the superstitious type. With a couple steps forward towards him, she lightly placed her hands on his shoulders to move him out of the room.

"Wait. Sofia! I have to tell you something!" Jason flailed. His suit restricted his movements to a gentle flutter.

"I'm sure whatever it is, it can wait until after we get married." Her voice was gentle as she let out a soft sigh. Perhaps her mother's beliefs were getting to her; she could feel her stomach doing flips. She hoped that she wouldn't muss her pinned hair or smear her makeup in nervousness. Hours of primping and beauty rituals had gone into her looks, and repeating them was an unsavoury prospect.

"No, it really can't, Sofia. I just... I just..." He dropped his gaze, as though he was ashamed of whatever he had say. This was not normal for Jared, not in the slightest. But ever since he had gotten back from his trip to Africa for his bachelor party, he'd been acting strangely. But every husband-to-be suffered from nerves at a time like this.

"Darling, I understand if you're nervous about getting married. Everyone gets nervous before a wedding. I'm even a little nervous; I am almost certain that if I bend the wrong way, all the bobby pins Brittany managed to put in this morning are going to fall out!" Sofia gave a small chuckle as she lightly caressed his cheek.

"No, that isn't it. I'm just..." His voice was heavy. Beads of sweat began to trickle along his brow. He grimaced, as though in pain.

"Well, then, what is it?"

"I'm hungry."

Sofia let out a mixed cocktail of a laugh, then sighed. She'd thought he was joking, but noticed heavy, transparent drool was beginning to drip from his lips and onto his once clean tuxedo. Horror filled her face as she quickly reached into the breast pocket of his tuxedo to pull out the silver handkerchief.

"Well the reception is in a few hours; we'll be able to eat then." As smoothly as a painter, she lightly wiped away the pool forming on his jacket. Disgust filled her face as she continued to clean him up. She wasn't expecting to have to do this until they decided it was time to have children. Every stroke seemed to elicit more drool.

"Seriously, Jay, you're getting it all over your tux." Sofia's voice tightened with frustration. He was acting so childlike that it was really beginning to bother her.

Yet the pool was constant, drizzling onto her arm. But instead of being the usual clear color, it had now changed to what appeared to be a mossy green sap. Sofia's eyes widened as the liquid continue to pool slowly. She tried to pull away, but Jason's vise-like grip stopped her. A heavy growl resonated through the room, and her panic deepened.

Glancing upwards, Sofia met Jason's eyes. His normally warm, gentle blue eyes had become black, soulless pits of hunger.

Before she could speak, something exploded through his mouth. Heavy, long, slime-covered tentacles began wrapping around her head.

But with every attempted scream, another tentacle ripped through his face. The smell of rotten flesh filled the air as his skin fell away like a banana peel. An octopus-like creature emerged from the skin suit, meat hitting the floor with a wet slap. Sofia fought, meeting the creature's eyes again.

He pulled her closer, into the mire of tentacles. A final, muffled scream forced her closer. As her former husband-to-be pulled her close, almost as if to kiss her, Sofia saw a circular row of razor-sharp teeth opening like lips pursing for a kiss.

About Stacey Koshynsky

In the beginning, Stacey Koshynsky spent many of her years wandering the Great White North in order to learn her survival skills through vicious battles against not only man, but polar bears as well. As the polar ice caps began to melt, she decided the best course of action was to head south.

Currently, Stacey resides in Calgary where she is eagerly studying English at Mount Royal University. In her spare time, she spends her time writing, crocheting, fighting crime, and pleasing the Elder Gods. In the future she hopes to continue her career as Batman and keep the Calgary streets safe from crime.

### My Lady, the Bug—L.K. Hatchett

She comes to visit every day. Small and quiet, she scurries across the floor and stops at my feet. There she is now: segmented body, long antennae, numerous slender legs, red with black spots. She is so beautiful.

Why do I have to be human? My heart longs for her. It's unexplainable. I bend down to let her crawl on my hand. She allows me to rub her tiny back, stretching out her delicate wings. All I do is smile. I want to crawl next to her.

She walks across my fingers, extending her wings wide to flutter them exquisitely for takeoff. I always leave the window open, just so I can watch her fly out of it. Sad to see her go, my heart is still content; she will be back tomorrow.

As she flies away, I call out, "I wish to spend my life with you."

Something in the distance flashes in my eyes. Blinking, I hold my hand up to shield them from the glare, but notice how golden the light shines. Not bothering with the door, I climb out of the window to follow the flashing light.

It leads me across the road and down the hill to the edge of the woods. It winks out.

I turn in a circle, sweeping my eyes over the area. So many leaves are covering the ground, so I kick at them. What was that light? Where did it go?

My toe comes in contact with something hard. I get down on my knees and brush the leaves aside with my hands. Finally, I see it. It appears to be a half-buried round golden bowl. As I dig it out, it takes the shape of an old oil lamp.

Holding it up, I say out loud, "This looks like a genie lamp." My statement sounds as ludicrous as finding something shaped like a genie lamp.

"This is a genie lamp." A voice sounds from inside the lamp, the lamp flashing gold with each word.

I drop the lamp, my heart racing.

"I am a real genie." The lamp seems to read my mind. "Rub the lamp once, and I will grant you any wish you desire."

"Any wish?" I say, my head spinning in disbelief.

"Take as long as you need," the lamp flashes. "You only get one wish."

Don't genies usually grant three wishes? I shake my head at myself. There is only one thing in the entire world that I long for anyway.

"I wish to be with my Lady Bug." I rub the lamp as instructed.

"As you desire," the genie says.

I am suddenly surrounded by a burst of thick purple smoke. It whisks through my hair and swirls around my body. The world around me seems to grow. Everything looks larger. The grass is so tall that I mistake the blades as trees at first. I can no longer see the tops of the trees, the trunks are so huge. As the smoke clears, I look at myself. I have numerous legs. I have wings. I am a bug!

Trying to thank the genie, my voice catches.

"You cannot speak," the genie clarifies. "You are now a bug."

Instead, I bow my antennae in thanks and begin the journey back up the hill to my house. Of course I can fly, but it feels like my stomach is going to fall out of my mouth. The possibility of running across my Lady Bug has me wobbly on my legs and my wings useless. Despite my nervousness, I'm elated. What will she think about me? Will she be as happy as I am? Will she want to be with me?

It takes longer than I first realized to get back. It's almost dark as I slowly crawl to the front door. There is a light on inside. I don't remember leaving a light on. The air feels cool with the setting sun and I notice smoke coming from the chimney. I know I didn't have any wood burning in the fireplace.

As I approach the door, I notice there is a crack in the doorsill wide enough that I can crawl under. As I crawl into the warm living space, I hear a female voice say, "Where is the quiet human?"

What? What did she mean by that? I look up to see the most gorgeous woman I have ever laid eyes upon. She has green eyes and brown hair, and a cute round body in a polka-dotted red dress bows towards me.

"Hello, little bug," she says.

I sidle up to her feet, twirl my antennae, and walk around in circles. She leans down further, reaching out her hand to touch the floor next to me until I crawl onto it. I bat my wings and she rubs my tiny back.

"I used to come here every day," she says, "to visit a quiet human. He was so handsome. I wanted nothing more than to be with him." She continues to rub my back and I nuzzle up against her finger. "You are such a handsome beetle. Where were you when I was a bug?"

My small heart stills at her words. Oh no, could it be? My antennae shake erratically, and she stops rubbing my back.

"A genie came to grant me one wish," she continues. "My wish was to be with my Quiet, Handsome Human. The next thing I know, I'm human, so I came back here to join him." She holds me up to her face and I reach out to it. "I wonder if you're him."

After a while, she walks to the window. I fly out on a desperate search to find the genie's bottle. Day after day, I look everywhere, but it is no use. I know I will never see it again.

I visit my Lady Human every day. Each day, she sings to me. Each day, as I fly from the window, she calls out, "I wish to spend my life with you."

About the Author

An Archaeologist in a former life, L.K. Hatchett is now a professional woolgatherer. She writes strange tales that include dung beetles, sharks, vampires, aliens, rabid reindeer, zombies, and gopher people. Her works appear in the dark humor/horror anthology "Frost and Other Stories" and the best-selling B movie anthology "Cult Classics for the Modern Cult." She is currently working on "A Zombie, An Alien, and A Vampire Walk Into A Bar" and writing short stories for QuarterReads.

Website: <https://quarterreads.com/writer.php?id=14>

Blog: <http://lkhatchett.blogspot.com/>

Twitter: @LKHatchett

# Full Moon Private Eye—Virginia Carraway Stark

The girl who walked into my office late one evening after closing could have been me thirty years ago. She was frightened and disheveled. When she handed me the stack of neatly written notes, my first response was to tell her to do the thing that I had once refused.

"You need to go to the police and report this. This is a serious crime."

She looked at me, her jaw set stubbornly. She took a piece of paper with my letterhead from my desk and started to write, only pausing between pen strokes to watch me.

It was the darkness of a new moon that night. Most people don't notice something that is defined by its absence. The only time you notice something like that is when it is your task master, your slave driver. The girl who had come knocking with her sheaf of papers and some money crammed in her purse had known the sting of being put down by a taskmaster. I imagined it was a different master than my own.

Her pages had been written and rewritten. Several pages had had whole sections blacked out—by her hand, I assume. She put a new note in front of me.

"Fuck the cops. They don't believe a word I say. Maybe it's because I'm a woman and I'm reporting a rape. Maybe it's because they know the man who raped me. Maybe it's because I can only write and not talk to tell them what happened. What do you think, Ms. Barkley? Which reason are you picking to dismiss me?"

I read the note and then tossed it on the desk. "Call me Rita, Honey, that's what everyone calls me."

Honey watched my lips and then jotted another note. "Fine, Rita. Tell me if you believe me or not."

"It's not about whether or not I believe you..."

I paused, waiting for her to interrupt me with another note. I knew that if she could have spoken, she would have stopped me. As soon as she turned her head, I was talking to myself anyway. I wondered why I was choosing not to believe her for any of the reasons she had given. Maybe it was just that her story was hitting too close to home for me. Maybe I was just scared.

"Do you believe me?"

I picked up the notes of the account again. She had blacked out the name of the man she was accusing, among other things. That was the one thing that made me doubt her. "Why did you black out parts of this note? It makes you look like you're hiding something, or changing your story. How can I believe you when you won't tell me the truth?"

"I don't want to be laughed at again."

"Because you've already shown the whole story to someone, and they laughed at you?"

"Yes. The police."

"Be fair to me, Honey. Tell me the whole story before you ask me to believe you. Tell me everything, and I'll do what I can to help you."

She looked at me, gauging me, and then nodded her head once.

"It was exactly two weeks ago today. I was walking home from work at the end of my shift. Usually I walk home with my roommate, who works at the diner as well, but she stayed home sick, and so I had to walk the six blocks home on my own.

"I don't mind walking home after work; usually it's nice, a chance for me to clear my head after running around for other people all day. Tonight was different. There was this creep at one of my tables. I had seen him come in a couple of times before, but I hadn't ever had to serve him before. When he realized that I couldn't speak he became angry with me. He teased me and called me a retard."

I glanced at Honey at this part. "How do you manage to take orders when you can't talk?"

"I use a chalkboard," she replied in the margin of the paper she had written. "A lot of people say they like it; it's fun, like a game. Deaf and dumb people can do lots of things."

"I didn't say you couldn't," I replied, then returned to reading her story.

"He was getting really rowdy with me. The worse thing was that when he had come in before, I had seen him in uniform. He was a policeman. All the other cops had always been very nice to me, and I didn't know what to do. He pinched my bum, right in front of the whole crowded diner, and even though he wasn't in uniform, it was like everyone knew he was an authority, and everyone just laughed at me. It was like I hadn't gone to work that morning. It was like everything I knew was upside down, and work was a nightmare place.

"He grinned at me, and it scared me. He told me to do things, and I did them. He made me shake. He kept grabbing my chin and forcing me to look at his lips when he talked to me, and it was too close. I could smell his breath. His breath was real bad, like he had been eating rotten meat."

My own hands shook when I read the description. I scanned down the page to where she had written and underlined the man's name. Officer Jim Swanovan.

I had known a James Swanovan, but he would be an old man now. He hadn't been young when I had met him; maybe it was a strange coincidence, or maybe it was James' son...bad fruit from a bad tree...

Her note continued, "I knew it was him following me. I could tell by the feeling around him, but by the time he started to follow me, it was too late to turn back and I could only hope that I could race the dark blocks home and maybe run into a helpful stranger.

"I walked quickly, but I was afraid that if I ran, that he would run, too, and then it would change from stalking to open pursuit. I couldn't hear him, but I could feel and I could smell. I was so scared. I wanted to look behind me. I felt every minute that I would feel a hand on my shoulder and then...well, I still can't think about that.

"I couldn't hear if there were footsteps, and finally I decided that I must be being silly, that it must be in my imagination. So I stopped and I turned and I looked behind me. That was when he struck.

"He wasn't human. His body was covered in long, dark, matted fur, and his face was still Swanovan's. It was his eyes above an elongated mouth filled with teeth. He looked like a wolf, and when he saw I had stopped to turn and confront him, he lifted his head. I'm sure he was howling...and then he attacked me.

"I thought he was going to eat me, but he didn't. It was just the bite, the attack...then...the other thing."

I put the paper down again. "How do you know that he wanted this?"

She wrote down, "Because he didn't eat me. That's all. He was a monster, and he wanted me to live. Like I was an animal, like him. And then he...violated me."

I didn't know what to tell her. I knew that she was telling the truth, because except for her personal circumstances, her story was my story. I had been working dispatch when Swanovan had attacked me. He had stalked me. No one had believed that he had changed, that he had become a monster. Hearing the story from someone else, I saw how hard it would be to believe it, if you hadn't experienced it yourself.

Honey didn't even have the distinction of working with the men who she'd brought her complaint to. I had worked with them every day. They had trusted me with their lives and their communications, and they still hadn't believed one word I had said.

"Honey, I believe you." The words left my mouth. She scanned my face to search for the truth there, and then slumped with relief.

It was the new moon now; I didn't want to tell her that in another two weeks she would feel the changes come over her, the way I had all those years ago. I had to make her believe, or she would take lives. She would kill the way I had, before I had accepted my new nature and had taken steps to stop myself.

"Honey, do you know the stories of werewolves? Swanovan, he's one of those. I...I know how it goes. I need you to promise me that you'll come back before the full moon, Honey, I don't know any cure for what happened to you. It happened to me, and I haven't found a way to cure it, but sometimes it does come in handy."

"What if I'm pregnant?" she wrote in a hurried scrawl.

I shook my head. My own trauma made it hard to speak. I wrote down the answer instead of speaking it. It seemed somehow safer and less like tempting fate. "Let's pray you aren't."

I went to the diner where Honey worked. She wasn't able to leave her job. She lived on a narrow margin, and finding a new job where her lack of hearing would be accepted wasn't easy. I watched her serve tables. Her arms and legs were marked in difficult-to-conceal bite and scratch marks that her uniform didn't cover. I drank cup after cup of coffee and watched Swanovan come in and purposely position himself so Honey would be forced to serve him. She cringed, but bravely faced him.

I applauded her self-control. Her eyes didn't search me out in the crowded room when she was confronted by him. If he saw me, saw in the old crone the young woman he had once known, the game would be up. All I had on my side was the element of surprise.

His cockiness made him an easy target for me. He was used to being an alpha wolf, used to being unchallenged. Used to getting whatever he wanted. He acted like a domestic dog in many ways, ignorant of being observed, and tactless in covering his tracks. I knew where he lived, where he got drunk, and what precinct he was before a week was over.

The day before the full moon, Honey came to my little house. I led her down the steps to the basement. I had set re-bars in cement and made myself a crude prison. I now asked Honey to trust me and to enter into it of her own free will.

She walked in. Her shoulders were hunched, and she was quivering with nervous energy. "I don't feel well."

I smoothed her hair and wished I knew her well enough to hug her. After a pause I embraced her. She started to cry. I let her; she had good reasons for her tears, and if she had lives growing in her, as I suspected she did, then she had a lot more reason to cry than she could ever imagine now. She walked into the cage and sat on the cot, sighed heavily. She took out her pad and paper.

"I'm going to change into a wolf, into one of those things, like he was?"

Her hands trembled. I locked the door and put the key on a hook within easy reach through the bars. Wolf paws couldn't grab the fine keys, and it was perfectly safe to leave them there.

"I think you will change. I don't know for sure. I can only say that I change, and that he hurt me the same way he hurt you. There isn't any science for diagnosing it; only waiting."

There was a long pause. She looked...terrified didn't approach it. But still, there was resignation. Then more fear, deeper. "I can feel something moving inside me. What's happening to me?"

I shook my head and went back upstairs. I still couldn't speak to her about what was happening to her. All that I knew for certain was that we were ruled by the moon, and there would have to be time for me to confront what happened after the moon sunk tonight. I wanted to prepare for tonight, but there wasn't anything to get ready for. Normally I would have a large casserole dish of raw meat ready to munch on and a bone from the butcher's. It had proven to be the best way to prevent the neighbors from complaining about the howling, to make sure I sated the beast in me.

I had been about to do the same thing for Honey, but after she commented about the movement inside her, I didn't dare. I didn't have anything except a gut feeling that to feed Honey when the moon took her would make them grow faster. Swanovan had taken a lot from me that night; my ability to ever have children, my innocence, my future; but he had left me with a strong sense of smell and a stronger sense for my own gut. And that never lied to me.

After I had accused Swanovan of rape and been called a liar to my face by men I respected and cared about, I decided to leave my job as a dispatcher. I worked a few security jobs while I worked on learning the skills and testing for my Private Investigator license. I hadn't even tested for my license before the litter I was carrying became too much for me.

They grew much faster than human babies. By the time three full moons had passed, they were fully aware and vicious inside of me. By the fourth moon, they were causing me agony as they tried to rip their way out of me. In desperation, I called Lydia Gables, a friend of mine who was also a midwife.

In between agonized cries, I told her what had happened. To my surprise, she didn't call me a liar. Instead she examined me. She was experienced, and could feel that there were many babies inside of me. She could also tell, as I could, that they weren't human children, and that they were injuring me. She helped me. I believe that she saved my life.

I don't think Swanovan ever plans on leaving the mother alive. My theory is that normally the young eat their human mother and go on to become monsters like their father. Maybe they are always monsters, ruled not by the moon, but by their carnal desires for flesh throughout their entire lives.

Lydia took the were-pups out of me. They were growling and fierce-sounding to me, but she cleaned them off and put them all together into a kennel she had brought for the purpose. I didn't ask her what she had done with them. I was scared of the answer, no matter what it might be. She had sewn me up as best she could, but there were tears and wounds inside me. She had cleaned up, then called an ambulance to come to the house after she had left.

The surgeon had to cauterize my insides to stop the bleeding; it wasn't Lydia's fault, and I lied for her. It was the least I could do to thank her. She had saved my life, and I didn't have faith that an obstetric surgeon would have operated on me without asking some difficult questions.

That had been the end of that part of my life. I was still ruled by my cycles, but now the cycles had changed. The first three months I had committed crimes, Lydia had helped me to come up with the re-bars and cement idea, and she had kept more of my secrets. None of it was my fault, but people still died at my hand, and were rent by my teeth.

After the pups were born, I didn't have any more mistakes. I was an older wolf now, and my bones and my steaks were expected. I received few complaints of howling from the neighbors.

I called Lydia and told her the situation while I waited for the moon. I said little to her except that there was a new dog in the kennel and I thought there might be pups. She said she would come over when the moon began to wane and things calmed down a bit.

My stomach became fiercely hungry; the moon must be about to rise. I went to my room and opened the patio door so I could get out without breaking the window. Then I took off my clothes and lay down on the bed. My joints ached now, and along with the hunger came a headache. I felt restless, and as though something horrible was about to happen. It felt like this every full moon. It just so happened that on this moon I was right.

It would be a lie to tell you that I was all right with what happened that night, but it would also be a lie to tell you that it wasn't the most satisfying experience I had ever had. I wish I remembered it in full, but the wolf time is more of a blur than a story with a beginning and an end.

I remember that I became the old Gray Bitch, and I saw the moon on the horizon. I remember the satisfying feel of a howl, and then running with the damp, cool grass under my paws. It took all my self-control to influence the Gray Bitch. She hated Swanovan too, though, and when I whispered the name to her, she listened. I had prowled his route as a human, so I knew it like my own skin. Now I gave that knowledge to my other nature, and gave her the lead.

She escaped the yard and ran down the alley. It was several kilometers to where Swanovan would be. He wouldn't be dressed in his blues this time; he would be on all fours, as I was.

He was bigger than me. That was the first thing I noticed when I/we saw him headed down an alley after prey of his own. He was easily twice my weight, and I was an old wolf now, while he didn't seem to age. The only advantages I had over him were that I was approaching from downwind and that I had seen him before he spotted me.

The Grey Bitch knew he was a danger to her, and she listened to me when I told her we had to get high. She was light on her feet, and the alley was as bright as day to her eyes. She climbed up on a fire escape, and once we were up there, we knocked a potted plant down onto the ground beneath us.

Swanovan turned and scented the air. He was huge in the moonlight, and completely black, except for orange eyes that glowed in the night. The Gray Bitch hunkered down low, and we waited to see if he would come closer.

His curiosity got the best of him, and he abandoned his own hunt to come into our trap. The Gray Bitch leaped onto this back and bit hard onto the nape of his neck, searching for softer flesh to bear down on, clawed feet gripping him, keeping him from escape or from twisting to get his teeth around our neck.

I woke up in the alley. I was covered in blood. No small amount of it was mine, but even more of it was Swanovan's. The black wolf had been gutted, and his neck had been chewed through. The Gray Bitch wanted him dead, as bad or worse as I had. She had left no slight chance of him coming back. It was pre-dawn, and I could hear the human sounds of people getting ready to bring the city back to life. I was surprised at how quickly I could run. I felt like a new person this morning, and all the fatigue I had felt for the past decade seemed to have fled from my victory.

I got home and showered. When I cleared the mist off the mirror, I had another surprise: black threads of hair covered most of my head, where before it had been only grey. I looked at myself in the mirror; I looked like I had a decade ago. Where my skin had sagged, it was now more or less taut. I didn't look like a young woman by any stretch, but I looked like I had spent a fortune at the plastic surgeon's.

This was the answer, then, to Swanovan's source of youth. Let the beast hunt, and old age was kept at bay. It would be a way to live forever...I stared at my eyes, the eyes I had thought I would see every morning. Every morning, they seemed to get further away...

I had controlled the Gray Bitch once. What if I could do it again? What if I hunted rapists, child abusers, and murderers? Would I be any different from any superhero who dispensed vigilante justice? The payment could be immortality, and in exchange for my youth, I would make the world a better place...

What if I couldn't control the Grey Bitch? What if she didn't care about my words when it was someone other than Swanovan? That question could mean more guilt on my head, and I could become a monster, much like he had been.

I shook my head and tended my wounds. Most of them had healed up remarkably well, but some still needed to be wrapped. I started to make breakfast, and turned to the sound of the basement door opening. Honey looked wan and hollow-eyed. I didn't have to ask her if her own wolf had come. I made porridge for us, and neither of us talked about how good a steak sounded this morning. Honey did mention that I looked 'very pretty' today. Her hair was the color of her name, and I wondered if her wolf coat matched. She would be a pretty thing herself; it was almost like having a daughter, having her here.

I wondered again about the pups Lydia had taken from me at my request, and if they roamed the streets as well; if they had pups of their own or even grandpups. I wondered about the new black in my hair. I wondered if hunting always felt so good, and worried that I might not have the willpower next moon to lock the cage door quite as firmly as I should. I hoped I was a better person than that, but I worried that I wasn't.

Only the passing of the moons would tell.

About the Author

Virginia Carraway Stark started her writing career with three successful screenplays and has gone on to write speculative fiction as well as writing plays and for various blogs. She has written for several anthologies and three novels as well. Her novel, 'Dalton's Daughter' is available now. 'Detachment's Daughter' and 'Carnival Fun' are coming later this year.

Twitter www.twitter.com/tweetsbyvc

Facebook https://Facebook.com/virginiacarrawaystark

On the web: www.virginiastark.com

Website www.starklightpress.com

Blog <https://ihavememory.wordpress.com/>

# Remade—Katie de Long

She doesn't see me. Her eyes are swollen shut. But her cheekbones are lower, and will be perfect when the bruising fades.

She's conscious and can feel my touch, though. I hold her hand and wipe the tears away. I stroke her skin and tell her she'll be beautiful. She tried to talk a half hour ago, but the swelling around her cheeks cause her pain when she opens her mouth too wide.

We're past talking, anyways. Her voice is lovely, and I enjoy putting my fingers against her throat when she speaks, just to feel it vibrate. It's a special treat, though. Mostly, I bask in her presence, and her devotion.

Not everyone would give voice to my dreams with their very _body_ , their very _reality_. Every cut I make, every bone I shatter and reset is a testament to an adoration that astounds me.

"Are you ready for more?" I fight to keep the hunger out of my voice. If I need to let her rest, I will. But if she is willing, there's more work to be done.

She releases her breath through her teeth, and though I can't discern her words, I understand the motion of her chin.

_Yes_.

I part her legs, guiding them where I need them on the table.

I pick up the mallet and guide her hand to my waist. I bring the mallet down on her calf in one confident stroke, and she screams, regardless of the pain to her swollen face. The bone shatters with a noise like the cracking of the whip, and her arm clenches around my side, looking for some purchase to carry her away from the pain.

"Just one more, love. Last one." I pat her hand reassuringly and ready the second blow.

***

The sound of another bone breaking fills my ears, and I wish I could shut it out. The sound hits me almost before the pain does. But my screams won't do any good, won't ease anything. Just make my throat hurt until I can't swallow anything more than water. And he's right—I can't heal properly if I don't give my body the tools to do it.

I don't know whether I'm surviving to attain his image of perfection, or hoping to outlast it. He won't let me go outside, says the breeze carries germs that cause dangerous infections, or deepen scars. And his intent isn't to scar me.

He fawns on me, feeds me by hand when I'm too weak to hold the fork. His touch is the only thing in my life that doesn't revolve around pain.

At least, his touch when he's not working.

I've learned not to look. Somewhere below me, he's making incisions, and these I feel with _painful_ clarity, despite shock settling in: my invisible friend.

A sickening grinding noise. I have to peek. I can't actually see around his chest, leaning between my legs. But I can see enough. A small pile of viscera-soaked bone shavings, and a tool still in action.

The chill over my skin increases, and I get one deep breath before I black out.

***

She shifts slightly, and I pause my work to stroke her stomach, calm her down. The liquor I gave her before I started tonight's operations must be wearing off. When she settles, I return my blood-slicked hand to her leg. The bones are mostly wired in place, but shaved down slightly to remove that unsightly ridge right under her knees. It's grueling work, maneuvering around muscles and veins without cutting them. But I'm almost done. Soon I can seal her up, stitch her back together, bless each stitch with a kiss.

She's too bony, all muscle and sinew. She barely eats, but she eats for me.

Finally, it's time to put my tools away. I slide my chair around to her side. She looks like she's sleeping calmly now, and I lift one of her arms to tuck my head under it. Her breaths make her ribs brush against my face, and that whisper of potential and timelessness lulls me to sleep.

***

I come to in darkness, my eyes sealed between slabs of my own puffy flesh, the sun unable to reach me. His breath tickles my ribs, and his presence is what keeps me from crying out again. So long as I feel that wet touch against me, I'm not alone.

The touch recedes, and is replaced with his voice. "Are you ready to eat, love? You'll need your strength."

His footsteps fade as he goes to fetch food. Tears try to force their way through my lids, make the swelling itch. Without him, there's nothing. Just more deprivation and emptiness.

And the ache in my bones, a thousand stinging bugs throwing themselves against the walls of my flesh, begging for release.

***

I test the soup myself, to make sure that it's not too warm for her. I don't want to see that soon-to-be perfect face scrunch up in pain as she tries to swish the broth in her mouth until it cools enough to swallow.

I place her arm around me, and tell her when to open her mouth. She seems upset; I never would have guessed my brave woman was so terrified of being blinded. No matter. The swelling will go down in a few days, and she'll be her normal sunny self then.

When I stand again, she clings to me, tries to prevent me from stepping away. It warms me, and I decide to treat her. I get a bowl of warm water and a washrag, and begin wiping dried blood away from our night's work. She shifts under my touch, though the effort of it makes her moan a little louder—no doubt her legs are sensitive, and not up to even a little weight.

Her moans stir something in me.

I inspect every inch of her, my eyes tracing on scarred but unblemished skin, much paler than when we first started work, due to her enclosure.

Asymmetrical labia. That won't do at all.

***

His breath touches between my legs, and his nose stirs my pubic hair. His lips brush against me, a crescendo of sensation that becomes my world, makes even the searing pain in my legs and my face fade.

He pulls away, though his hand stays on my hips. The washrag comes back, gentle but a little itchy. This time, it washes between my legs in careful detail, and I feel the scrape of a razor on my inner thigh. I force myself to stay still, though it's unnerving not being able to see what he's doing.

He touches me again, and this time his fingers glide on bare skin instead of on damply curled hair. The sensation is different, and I relish it as he washes me again.

This time something's wrong. There's the sting of a stronger soap, and then the bite of peroxide. He's sterilizing me down there. And he's shaved me.

_Prepping for the procedure_.

***

She starts to fight, to struggle, when the antiseptics tingle. I stroke her legs and urge her to calm herself. I wish I could taste her again, replace her fear with sensuality. But that would defeat the point of using sterile tools, and trying to kill anything that might cause infection on her skin. I fold her labia between my fingers, judging just the right amounts to take off, the right angles.

She squirms again, and I sigh.

I get a shot of liquor and put it between her lips. She spits it out, and though it stings in my face, I smile at her. I throw a shot of liquor back, lean down to kiss her, and force it into her mouth through our joined lips. She chokes on it a little, and then swallows. I give her two more shots this way, one plain kiss, and then wash my hands again.

Now I can get back to work.

***

The world spins around me—I haven't eaten enough to settle the liquor, and the noises of his preparations only make my anxiety worse. It's almost a relief when his fingers brush my labia, hold them firmly.

But the first cut tears me to my core. There aren't swear words strong enough for the pain. He sets the first piece of severed flesh on the table, next to my thigh. I know that because it's close enough to brush against me when my legs tremble. It's still warm from my body heat.

The next cut falls into a dull void. I have nothing left in me to feel; I can only shake and whimper.

***

I help her to sit. Everything is healing nicely. There's bruising, yes, and still scabs to heal and stitches to remove. But that will come in good time.

The bruises begin to fade, a veritable sunset on her skin, but there's a bump on her leg when the swelling goes down. That bump comes to haunt me, and the day the bruises have faded, I pull out my hammer, and re-break the bone, open the skin to shave it off. The stitches are still new enough that the flesh parts easily for me.

She vomits on the floor, and nearly falls off the table. I've got to install some rails on this thing.

***

My third day after surgery, I can see. A part of me is horrified at the unfamiliar terrain below my waist. The rest of me is just numb. The scabs on my labia tug when I shift, and they crack open. It brings tears to my eyes.

I ask him for a mirror. I dangle my legs off the table, though it makes me feel like my legbones are rubber and bend with the air flow. I hold the mirror between my legs, and swear. It falls from my nerveless fingers, smashing on the ground

What's down there now isn't _me_.

Scabs aside, it isn't _me._

***

She does her best to scream at me. I can't understand it—she's healing nicely, and is already much improved. I can't wait until the rest of her recovery is advanced enough that I can savor my changes, feel those legs, now the perfect length and smoothness, wrap around my waist.

She doesn't calm down, so finally, I slip some sedatives into her soup, and curl up with her when they take effect.

It breaks my heart, seeing her like this.

There's a knock on the very front door, and I step into the main house to go answer.

***

I open my eyes, and realize he's gone. I felt his warmth leave me, heard a knock. Then nothing. I look around tentatively. I'm utterly alone for the first time in recent memory. I breathe deeply, then shallowly, as more tears overtake me.

I trace my body, trying to feel which curves are the same, which are different.

I don't recognize myself.

It's all his fault.

I push myself off the table, to go look for him, and my legs give way under me. Not the watery, rubbery feeling of being too drunk, or tired, or tripping, but a disjointed feeling that reveals the true extent of what he's done to my legs.

I'm not walking out of here.

***

The sedative should still be working well enough. I've dodged away from chatting with the neighbors too much, and if I don't make an effort to be social, they'll make my life unpleasant.

I do my best to nod and smile politely, but her face consumes me, more beautiful by the day.

I wish I could talk about it, tell the world how proud I am of her, how much I adore her.

But they wouldn't understand her sacrifice.

They wouldn't understand my initiative.

***

I feel the scabs on my labia, then I tear them off. He doesn't keep his tools where I might find them, especially without being able to stand, so introducing an infection might be my only chance of suicide. I already know there's no escape, not with my legs in pieces.

Freshly opened wounds sting, but this time, the pain brings me fury. I claw at my labia, willing them to lengthen to normal. Then, when that fails, I dig my nails into them.

Fuck his handiwork.

***

"What have you done to yourself?"

She is on the floor, her legs obviously out of the alignment I gave them, blood under her bottom. Her labia are raw, open, but the floor surrounding her is cluttered with pea-sized pieces of flesh. Pinch flesh hard enough, and it will separate. It's the principle behind ear piercing guns.

She's severed much of herself, the ragged edge of her petals like a poorly preserved butterfly wing. Her cheeks are wet with tears, and when I take her hands, there's swaths of skin under her fingernails.

A feeling of betrayal overwhelms me, then rage.

She'll never be perfect like _that_.

***

I barely register him dragging me back onto the table. But I do register the razor, once again, cutting into my labia, like he's trimming a piece of fondant. I try to kick at him, but my legs aren't responding below the knee, other than to send sharp shrieks of pain up my spine.

So I claw at him.

I get a lucky swipe in that catches the edge of his hand with the razor. It pricks my finger, but knocks the blade off course, across my thigh.

He swears and mops up the new blood. He puts the razor up.

This isn't over.

***

The idea of even one unnecessary scar hurts me. But I know she'll be okay once she sees the finished product. I just kept her awake for too much of it.

I try to ask for forgiveness, but the words won't leave my mouth.

I call it a night, and as soon as she dozes off, creep back to hold her hand.

Those fingers are too long.

***

Now, when he brings me water, there's drugs in it. I know because of how soundly I sleep. He forces me to drink it. I can't make myself throw it up before the drugs kick in. But he won't let me die, and running from one dreamland to another, I can't help myself.

He's confident. He doesn't even hide his tools from me anymore. He knows I can't reach them anyways, let alone use them. My fingers won't open or close.

I recognize myself less and less. But his smile grows more and more weightless.

He traces a finger down my freshly sutured thigh, and his eyebrows tighten.

He undoes the stitches, and picks up the mallet.

About The Author

Katie de Long lives in the Pacific Northwest, realizing her dream of being a crazy cat-lady. As a kid, Katie flagged the fade-to-blacks in every adult book she encountered, and when she began writing, she vowed to use cutaways sparingly. After all, that's when the good stuff happens. And on a kindle, no one asks why there's so many bookmarks in her library.

Katie is currently publishing _Queen of Clubs_ , a series of standalone romantic novellas following the staff and patrons of a strip joint.

Stay in touch with Katie:

Twitter: <http://twitter.com/delongkatie>

Facebook: <https://www.facebook.com/katie.delong.12>

Goodreads: <https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8158089.Katie_de_Long>

Website: http://delongkatie.com

Mailing list: <http://eepurl.com/CSk3n>

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