Many generations ago, Morrigan slighted the Fae. She had been given a great boon and used it for her own ends turning a whole village into dragons on a quest of revenge. While she never directly killed anyone the end result was the destruction of the village as knights and heroes came from all around to make a name for themselves or liberate the area from the monstrous dragons not knowing they were simple villagers. Some say it was because of a lover who went astray, others believe a family had snubbed her, for she was very proud and vain. A small few gave her the benefit of the doubt and considered that she was just taking back the land for the Fae but she vanished from sight so the reason will always remain a mystery. In three short years the village was barren, leaving the forests to overtake the land once more. While the Fae may have benefited from such an arrangement, it was needed to proclaim Morrigan at fault and strip her of her powers, the side effect was the curse.

Each of her female children would become monsters, just like the village she turned into dragons. Whenever they used their magics they turned into monstrous versions of themselves. Morrigan only had one child but that daughter passed on the curse to her children and thus their fate was sealed. Crystal, learned how to weaken the curse, for at least one of her children. Cyrwrynn would shift into an astral version of herself, something that still could potentially kill her in Medieval society, but at least was able to be masked with glamour. Kittrynn refused to cast spells, instead preferring to mix and brew her magics, cultivating a green thumb and making her way through life without casting a spell. And then there was Amirynth.

Rynn was born a twin, her brother being an anomaly, the first male to be born of the line in over five generations. Alaistair showed no aspect of the curse, he was fit, handsome, intelligent, and charming. Yet he had no magical aptitude whatsoever. Amirynth however, was born a monster. A long serpentine body from the waist down, her features could be hidden as a child but as she grew up it was realized that she needed to hide herself away. All the magic she had was woven into a spell to foster an illusion around her, the glamour keeping her monstrous features hidden away from all.

But that was not all. One day, while she was arguing with her brother she reached in within herself and took hold of her magics that was keeping her illusion visible, and launched a great spell. Alais grew as white as a sheet, stumbled on his feet, and then crashed to the ground not breathing. At first Rynn was stunned by her power before realizing, that wasn’t just her. Her magic power within was used to stabilize the illusion, and on her own, wasn’t much. But Alais, he was not magically inept… he was a living magical battery, A magical battery that only Rynn could pull from; a feat that almost killed him. She realized that all those times she had sneaked around and practiced magic by herself, the power had to come from somewhere. Alais loved his twin sister greatly and so never said anything, it had been pure luck that she hadn’t killed him sooner. She nursed him back to health and then vowed to keep her promise and never cast magic again. Alais’ life depended on it.

The porch swing creaked quietly as Delilah stood up. She’d been meaning to ask her grandmother about the brewing of one particular charm and she could hear her slow, shuffling footsteps moving about the kitchen. Leaving the heavy spellbook outside on the swing— it would always come home unharmed— she headed indoors. The wind was starting to blow over the cornfields anyway, and she was beginning to get a little chilled. On her way back, she picked up the little bowl near the bottom of the porch steps; it was running low on milk and she wanted to refill it. The field mice always brought her news and occasionally supplies when they were bribed.

The kitchen fan whirred quietly overhead as Delilah walked into the kitchen. Outside the window, in the gathering dusk, she could see the very edges of the fields and the arrow-straight stretch of road that bordered them. Just at the corner of the window, almost completely hidden behind the rather gnarled oak tree, was one of the signs ubiquitous to this part of the country, reminding them all that “Hell is Real.” Having seen it all her life, learning to spell out the words from her great-aunt Eulalie’s lap, there was something strangely comforting in it. The women of her family had lived in this sprawling, somewhat ramshackle old house for longer than anyone cared to remember, their wards buried in the earth surrounding the four points of its foundation. Of course boy-children are sometimes born to them, and they’re loved just as much as the girls, but they never seem to stay past adulthood, heading off to the coasts and the cities as though the wind has blown them away like chaff. They send postcards and rare ingredients and they’ve all inherited the gift in their own way just as much as the girls have, but they’re not tied to the land. Delilah doesn’t envy them their rootlessness, especially not with the safety and sense of community that was to be found at home. Here, she knew, there was always someone to turn to.

The room was warm and richly scented. Pork roasting, probably pork that had been bartered to the family from one of the surrounding neighbors. The kitchen was very often a focal point in the house, where people tended to converge. The proverbial heart of the home was indeed their modern version of the hearth; there were reasons for some of what was said of witches, Delilah supposed. Taking in a deep breath, she stepped around the heavy carved table. Her grandmother was enscounced in the big armchair tucked into one corner of the kitchen, out of the way but well-positioned to see everything that was happening in the big room, doing something complicated with lace-weight yarn. Delilah watches for a moment or two, curious and eager, always, to learn. But she knows that the potion in question needs to be brewed during the waning moon, so it needed to get done.

Still, it takes time to coax her grandmother into heaving herself out of the chair. Grandma, who moves with the speed of a rattlesnake strike when riled, frets and grumbles about her old bones and refuses to be budged until Delilah starts making noises about asking Great-Aunt Eulalie to help her instead. At that point, Grandma’s out of the chair like a shot. She stomps to the stove, still muttering under her breath, then stops beside it, one ham-hock-sized hand resting on her hip.

“You have the makings?”

“Yes, Gran,” Delilah says, and goes to get them. Bringing them back quickly, she laid them out, along with everything she’d need to combine them. This particular potion was particularly tricky in that it needed to be put together cold, and heated up after. Quickly grinding together the dry ingredients in her mortar and pestle, pouring them into the black bowl she’d laid out to hold it all, she held her breath as she poured in the liquid to distill it all and just as carefully stirred, her grandmother’s work-roughened fingers at her elbow.

Leaning back a little, she watched it carefully it a second or two. If it was gonna explode, she didn’t want to get a face-full. When it seemed to stay inert and safe, she carefully transfered it into the little pot, putting it on the stove to heat. There was a pot of dumplings on another burner, cheerfully bubbling away, but she ignored that. She needed to focus. The charm was kind of an ominous color, a deep dark red. She turned the heat up a little, needing it to reduce for it to be effective. But she was still worried that it would all somehow go sideways. Her grandmother nudged her gently, reminding her that sometimes, in moments like these, potions-work was almost indestinguishable from cooking and Delilah was proficient enough at that, stop fretting. For all that her words were harsh, her hands as they made minute adjustments, remained gentle. The potion remained stubborn and unchanging for a while, but she knew sometimes it just took patience.

As they both stood over the stove, waiting for the potion to start to cook down, occasionally giving it a gentle stir, they chatted idly. Other family members drifted in and out of the room, some pausing to look over their shoulder, her aunt coming by specifically to check on the dumplings and announcing they’d soon be done. It was nice, Delilah thought, to be surrounded by so much family, and most of the time they even got along. There was so much magical talent in this family, nurtured and cultivated and passed back and forth like recipes and hand-me-down clothes. She was almost never at a loss for any length of time, since there was always someone willing to help. And being able to get a hug any time she wanted was pretty great, she wasn’t gonna lie.

The next time she stirred her charm, making sure nothing stuck to the bottom, it suddenly and visibly reacted. A little puff of smoke rose like a miniature mushroom cloud, and it began to get darker and thicker, coagulating a little like blood. Delilah grinned and continued to stir it gently, though she switched her movements to stir it widdershins. It had reduced considerably in a short amount of time. Even the foam looked different, changing then melting into the body of the liquid.

When Grandmother touched her shoulder, she pulled it quickly off the heat and poured it into the little vial she’d had standing by. It was a little bit of a struggle to stopper it and seal it up without burning her fingers, but it had to be done while it was hot or the charm would lose all effectiveness. Still, when it was all finished, she fished an oven mit out of the drawer and held it up to the light. It was perfect. Now she had everything she needed for her ritual. She leaned down, pressing a heartfelt kiss to her grandmother’s cheek.

“Thank you, Gran.”

Hyasynthetic - Wow!  I was surprised when Wisteria turned from a kind woman into a Nightmare.  This is an intruiging story with a lot of sorrowful notes — I hope Wisteria continues to be able to protect Echo!
Malis - The nature of Rynn and Alais’s relationship seems complex and it was fun to read about their history.  Rynn is paying the price for a mistake made long ago —  a hard life to live.
Losty - You’ve created a very vivid, heartfelt story and the pictures were a wonderful touch!  This was a pleasant read and reminded me of cooking with my own family.
Hawkins - The transformation of Annie’s attitude from the beginning to the the end of the story was interesting to see.  She is definitely stuck in an unfortunate situation but is trying to look on the bright side.  I hurt for her and hope that she can be happy!
Vysal - Alora seems very intimidating.  I wonder if her rule will and up helping or hurting the people beneath her?  Eventful times are certainly ahead with her in charge!
Cien - Such a good scene, full of imagery!  It leaves me wanting to read more, to know more of Omelas story and to find out who his own bond companion is!
SocialBookWorm - It sounds like Sophia has lived a fairly challenging life! It’a great to see that she’s so proud of her heritage, but it’s really too bad that her and her parents have such an unbridgeable gap between them.

The porch swing creaked quietly as Delilah stood up. She’d been meaning to ask her grandmother about the brewing of one particular charm and she could hear her slow, shuffling footsteps moving about the kitchen. Leaving the heavy spellbook outside on the swing— it would always come home unharmed— she headed indoors. The wind was starting to blow over the cornfields anyway, and she was beginning to get a little chilled. On her way back, she picked up the little bowl near the bottom of the porch steps; it was running low on milk and she wanted to refill it. The field mice always brought her news and occasionally supplies when they were bribed.

The kitchen fan whirred quietly overhead as Delilah walked into the kitchen. Outside the window, in the gathering dusk, she could see the very edges of the fields and the arrow-straight stretch of road that bordered them. Just at the corner of the window, almost completely hidden behind the rather gnarled oak tree, was one of the signs ubiquitous to this part of the country, reminding them all that “Hell is Real.” Having seen it all her life, learning to spell out the words from her great-aunt Eulalie’s lap, there was something strangely comforting in it. The women of her family had lived in this sprawling, somewhat ramshackle old house for longer than anyone cared to remember, their wards buried in the earth surrounding the four points of its foundation. Of course boy-children are sometimes born to them, and they’re loved just as much as the girls, but they never seem to stay past adulthood, heading off to the coasts and the cities as though the wind has blown them away like chaff. They send postcards and rare ingredients and they’ve all inherited the gift in their own way just as much as the girls have, but they’re not tied to the land. Delilah doesn’t envy them their rootlessness, especially not with the safety and sense of community that was to be found at home. Here, she knew, there was always someone to turn to.

The room was warm and richly scented. Pork roasting, probably pork that had been bartered to the family from one of the surrounding neighbors. The kitchen was very often a focal point in the house, where people tended to converge. The proverbial heart of the home was indeed their modern version of the hearth; there were reasons for some of what was said of witches, Delilah supposed. Taking in a deep breath, she stepped around the heavy carved table. Her grandmother was enscounced in the big armchair tucked into one corner of the kitchen, out of the way but well-positioned to see everything that was happening in the big room, doing something complicated with lace-weight yarn. Delilah watches for a moment or two, curious and eager, always, to learn. But she knows that the potion in question needs to be brewed during the waning moon, so it needed to get done.

Still, it takes time to coax her grandmother into heaving herself out of the chair. Grandma, who moves with the speed of a rattlesnake strike when riled, frets and grumbles about her old bones and refuses to be budged until Delilah starts making noises about asking Great-Aunt Eulalie to help her instead. At that point, Grandma’s out of the chair like a shot. She stomps to the stove, still muttering under her breath, then stops beside it, one ham-hock-sized hand resting on her hip.

“You have the makings?”

“Yes, Gran,” Delilah says, and goes to get them. Bringing them back quickly, she laid them out, along with everything she’d need to combine them. This particular potion was particularly tricky in that it needed to be put together cold, and heated up after. Quickly grinding together the dry ingredients in her mortar and pestle, pouring them into the black bowl she’d laid out to hold it all, she held her breath as she poured in the liquid to distill it all and just as carefully stirred, her grandmother’s work-roughened fingers at her elbow.

Leaning back a little, she watched it carefully it a second or two. If it was gonna explode, she didn’t want to get a face-full. When it seemed to stay inert and safe, she carefully transfered it into the little pot, putting it on the stove to heat. There was a pot of dumplings on another burner, cheerfully bubbling away, but she ignored that. She needed to focus. The charm was kind of an ominous color, a deep dark red. She turned the heat up a little, needing it to reduce for it to be effective. But she was still worried that it would all somehow go sideways. Her grandmother nudged her gently, reminding her that sometimes, in moments like these, potions-work was almost indestinguishable from cooking and Delilah was proficient enough at that, stop fretting. For all that her words were harsh, her hands as they made minute adjustments, remained gentle. The potion remained stubborn and unchanging for a while, but she knew sometimes it just took patience.

As they both stood over the stove, waiting for the potion to start to cook down, occasionally giving it a gentle stir, they chatted idly. Other family members drifted in and out of the room, some pausing to look over their shoulder, her aunt coming by specifically to check on the dumplings and announcing they’d soon be done. It was nice, Delilah thought, to be surrounded by so much family, and most of the time they even got along. There was so much magical talent in this family, nurtured and cultivated and passed back and forth like recipes and hand-me-down clothes. She was almost never at a loss for any length of time, since there was always someone willing to help. And being able to get a hug any time she wanted was pretty great, she wasn’t gonna lie.

The next time she stirred her charm, making sure nothing stuck to the bottom, it suddenly and visibly reacted. A little puff of smoke rose like a miniature mushroom cloud, and it began to get darker and thicker, coagulating a little like blood. Delilah grinned and continued to stir it gently, though she switched her movements to stir it widdershins. It had reduced considerably in a short amount of time. Even the foam looked different, changing then melting into the body of the liquid.

When Grandmother touched her shoulder, she pulled it quickly off the heat and poured it into the little vial she’d had standing by. It was a little bit of a struggle to stopper it and seal it up without burning her fingers, but it had to be done while it was hot or the charm would lose all effectiveness. Still, when it was all finished, she fished an oven mit out of the drawer and held it up to the light. It was perfect. Now she had everything she needed for her ritual. She leaned down, pressing a heartfelt kiss to her grandmother’s cheek.

“Thank you, Gran.”

“This is stupid,” Carver said. “I’m not sick.”

“Yes, you are.”

Annoyed, he shut his eyes, blocking out the two-foot-high letters on the wall that spelled out QUARANTINE. The pillow under his cheek might as well have been a rock. This was not a hospital that cultivated an atmosphere of comfort.

“I don’t feel anything wrong,” he tried.

“And how do you know what an alien virus is supposed to feel like?”

“They said humans who contract it get a fever and start hallucinating. And I feel fine.”

“Are you sure? You do look a bit red-faced, in between all that hideous ink.”

“Who asked you, anyway?” Carver’s eyes snapped open and he shoved himself upright in a surge of aggression. Captain Gabrien stood at the foot of his bed, arms folded, feet planted, wearing a particularly obnoxious smirk. “Why are you even in here?” Carver demanded. “I’m under quarantine, in case you didn’t fucking notice.” He flung an arm at the word on the wall. “They’re not letting me out until tomorrow.”

“I thought you might want a bit of company. Surely you’d rather have me than her.” Gabe nodded to one corner. Carver’s mother stood there, hands folded primly and head bowed as she shook with quiet sobs. His gut tightened with an old mixture of guilt and defiance.

He tore his gaze away. “Maybe,” he agreed grudgingly. “It’s a special situation, though. I don’t want you, normally.”

“Liar.”

Carver’s gaze strayed back to the captain. He looked the way he always did, but even more so, somehow—tan and lithe, with a mischievous grin and eyes that hid clever secrets. He wore that stupid (sexy) coat, of course, that gave him the illusion of height. It was sometimes startling to realize that Gabe wasn’t a particularly tall man; his presence filled any space he was in, expansive and dramatic and always with that wicked edge of cunning.

Carver cast his gaze down at the bedding, feeling suddenly sulky. “So what if I’m lying? You’re the biggest liar of anyone. I can see it, you know. Some kind of—I don’t know what—going on beneath the surface. You lie and pretend and act, and I bet not even Nia knows all your secret places.” He paused, picking at a loose white thread. “I never will.”

“What, and that hurts your feelings?” A mocking, sing-song note entered Gabe’s voice. “You want me to share all my demons and vulnerabilities? With you? Don’t forget who you are, Bones.”

An army of people filled the room, each one marked head to toe with the same skeletal tattoos that marred Carver’s own skin. He couldn’t see Gabrien anymore, but his mother yet wept and shuddered in the corner. Terrus was at the head of the group, sneering down him.

“Go away,” Carver snapped.

The army of skeletons didn’t move. His old commander clucked his tongue. “Just look what you’ve been reduced to.”

“I said fuck off.”

“Poor little Carver and his soft little heart. Couldn’t handle that war means sacrifice. You said you were devoted. You said you were one of us.”

“I was.” It came out in a whisper. “That’s the scariest goddamn part, you know. I believed in all your anti-alien bullshit. It’s not like I was just going along with the crowd. I fucking believed, Terrus.”

“You never should have stopped.”

“I didn’t choose to. But after the—the little girl…” He exhaled slowly, refusing to meet Terrus’s gaze. “When I first joined, I wanted to be you. You were so in control. You had a purpose. And when I was your brother, I had one, too. But it was the wrong purpose. You’re all sick in the head, you know that?” He raised his head to glare at them. So many old friends. Terrus, Nix, Annie, Ever, Derion… “You want to know something even more fucked up? I miss you. All of you.”

As if that had been the trigger to dismiss them, they were gone. He stared at the empty space for a moment, then choked out a bitter laugh. Why was it that he had felt more welcome and happy amid a group of genocidal terrorists than he did now? “I’m defective,” he pronounced to the wall. His mother cried louder.

“And you need to shut up,” he snarled, rounding on her. “Stop crying for me. You don’t even know me anymore. I’m a stranger, not your son.” The words had an echo of familiarity, and he frowned before they clicked into place. “Don’t you remember? You told me that, when you saw the tattoos.”

She just went on weeping.

Gabe sat on the edge of his bed, ankles crossed, leaning back on his hands. “What is it you want, Carver?” he asked, musing, dreamy.

“What do I want?” he repeated. For some reason, the answer was fuzzy, nebulous. “I want a family,” he ventured tentatively. His mother vanished from the corner, replaced by Kal. Something in the older woman’s scowling face made him want to smile. She wasn’t as prickly as she let on, he thought.

The other members of the crew shimmered in and out of existence, too. Nia with a streak of grease across her nose and a bright smile. Tiny Shura tending to a sizzling pan. Even weird little Sal, creeping around by Gabe’s feet for some reason.

“And I want… you know… other things…”

Gabe was quite suddenly naked. He quirked an eyebrow, grinning, and Carver choked on his own spit. By the time he’d recovered, the coat was mercifully back in place.

Carver sat for a long while, thoughts drifting, before he added, “I want to be forgiven.” A little alien girl, an Osanni, giggled and clambered into his lap, poking at his face and tugging at his hair.

Gabrien looked sad. “Some things can’t be forgiven.”

The girl was dead, lying across Carver’s arms with a frozen face and a hole in her head.

When his mother started weeping again, Carver joined her.

Why, oh why, do I always let you drag me into these messes?
How Nox always managed to find these strange passages deep in the shadowy depths of the cave that lead into unknown realms, she didn’t know. Why she always went along with them when they tried to drag her along with them, she also didn’t know. What sort of nightmarish beast she’d just escaped from, she didn’t know (And, being frank, she hoped never to find out). All she knew was that gods, this was exhausting, and that gods, she hoped to never return to that mess of a land again.
Just as she began to rise to her feet from where she lay panting, the Cave Shadows Ineki pounced out of the passage and landed right on her head, laughing like a madman. Lana groaned into the rock and dirt.
“That was awesome! Did you see that? It was all, ‘Grahhhhh! I’m gonna get you!’ And then I was all like, ‘Not if I get you first! Shiiiing! Fwish!’” Lana groaned as Nox bounced happily along her back, no doubt holding a mock sword fight with the dank air of the caves. “And you were all like, ‘Aaaaaaahhhhhhh!’ And I was like, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll hold it off!’ It was so great, right?”
“Mmph,” the Golden Glow replied through a mouthful of dirt.
“Oh, whoops, sorry!” Nox hopped off of her and pulled her head up, grinning excitedly. “Man, though, that was awesome! We should totally go back there again!”
“Urf… Peh!” Lana spit a bit of soil into the murky shadows. Her head was throbbing, and she thought she felt the world itself turning. “Y-Yeah, sure…”
“Haha, yeah! We should stock up on supplies and head back next week!” Nox grinned, dropping their grip on Lana’s fur. She could only moan weakly as she fell face-first back into the dirt.

Nox had boundless energy, and was always so ready to explore and battle and chat and conquer. In a way, it was a nice counter to her more introverted personality… But on the other, it was endlessly tiring. More often than not when her friend dragged her off on an adventure, it was filled with danger and struggles and fear, and Lana was left wishing she was at home with a nice book and a cup of tea instead.
As the duo made their way back towards the main caverns, Lana sighed quietly. Nox, she thought, I love you. You’re my best friend, and I’m glad to see you happy and enjoying life, even if it does mean you’re risking your health and safety with these adventures. And most of the time, I’m okay playing along, too. But gods, when we’re being attacked with a fifty-foot demon with three rows of fangs and claws sharp and tough enough to slice clear through diamonds…
Lana watched in silence as Nox gladly chatted away about the adventure while they climbed back up the steepening terrain, seemingly unaware that their friend wasn’t listening… Or perhaps simply talking to themselves without a care in the world.
You’re my best friend, but sometimes I’d love to punch you right in the jaw.

“Are you sure about this? Really sure? It’s not too late to undo it.” Iracundia Labyrinthus asked worriedly. He rushed to keep up with Leria. Though she was on the small side for a kelph, and he rather tall, she had the advantage of excitement to quicken her steps.

“Why, of course I’m sure! I’ve never been more sure about this in my life! Besides, you’ve already asked me several times in the past few minutes.” Leria responded, glancing up at the taller kelph. “You sure you’re okay? You’re never this worried.” The house they shared with Aurata was coming into view, causing her to push just a little bit faster. “And before you ask me again, yes Aura knows, and she approves. Just like I’ve told you the last four times.” Just thinking of the prospect of listening to Ira ask the same questions yet again made her roll her eyes.

“I don’t see how Aur could possibly approve of a shotgun-mihlanaku…” Ira grumbled under his breath. For Sorceress’ sake, how could Leria possibly be sure of this?! She’d only been courting her prospective partner for a few months now (Okay, maybe more like a year), how could she already know for sure? This was serious, and here she was, treating it like it was nothing! His spines rattled just thinking about this partner. Who were they to think they could just waltz in and woo his Leri? Ira had been so sure this was just a fling, nothing serious, that he hadn’t even tried to get to know this suitor, hadn’t even made the effort to learn their name. And now, suddenly Leria was already in a geness without his knowledge, moving out of the house and in with her new partner.

While Ira had been lost in his thoughts, just standing there, internally fuming, Leri had packed as many of her things as she could carry and was ready to leave. “You sure you’re okay, I-Lab? I’m getting worried about you.” She paused. “You know this isn’t goodbye, right? I’ll still visit, it’s not like we’ll never see each other again…”

Ira sighed. She didn’t understand exactly how much of a goodbye this really was. “Yeah, I’m fine. Now go on, it’s time to move in with your mate.” As the petite kelph excitedly hurried out the door, he sat dejectedly in the living room. You’ll never understand why this really is goodbye, Leri. You’re moving out, to go be with…them. I screwed up and was too afraid to say anything, and now my chance is gone. He made no move to get up, even as he could see through the window Leria turn back and wave one last time before dashing off. I love you.

“There are things in the dark,” Mrgl said, waving her spiderlegs at the sprouts gathered around her. Their eyes were wide with attention and a little bit of fear. “More things than you can even imagine. Some are dangerous and some are fearsome, but some are small and timid and as afraid of the light as you are of the night. But if you listen carefully,” She put a paw to her lips, making the universal “shh” gesture, “If you learn to listen, to hear their mind and heart and allow your own to be heard in turn, you might find a friend!”

Shifting from foot to foot to foot to foot to foot to foot, Mrgl danced lightly around the sprouts, leading them through the village and singing her teaching songs of darkness and night. The songs named the mushrooms and creatures and smells of the darkness, full of clever mnemonics for wayfinding and reminders of which things were dangerous and which were good to eat or talk to.

A huge, grand old kelph covered in foliage and glittering forest magic slithered from the village pond to watch the procession. With a laugh of greeting, Mrgl skittered up their branches, using her webbing to swing from ivy to antler to branch and back again, before sliding down the old kelph’s tail, followed by the very bravest sprouts while the others watched in awe. “Thank you, esteemed forest spirit,” Mrgl began solemnly, her eyes glittering with laughter even if her words rung with serious ceremony, “I am indebted to your eternal wisdom, and am ever grateful for your invitation to orate. What songs of wisdom I may deliver unto our youth are paltry, but they are given with a happy heart.”

“Indeed.” The kelph nodded to Mrgl, voice equally formal and eyes equally glad, “We are thankful for your unique teachings and gift of eloquence, for no formal education can be complete without knowledge of the night. Go well, princess of spiders.”

Mrgl bowed once more to the ancient kelph, then continued her dance through the village. Her tail held high, the red hourglass on its underside glittering in the torchlight like a beacon, she hopped and skipped from house to house. She was greeted everywhere with warm smiles and laughter. Many parents and other ineki and drasilis came out and clapped in time to her songs, singing along at the choruses. She greeted and bowed to each one in turn, delivering the children home from their lessons, accepting small gifts and packages of food from the grateful parents.

Something in the caves high above shifted with a distant rumble, diverting an underground stream and causing the slow water to find a new path of least resistance. That path happened to culminate in a tiny crack on the ceiling of a cavern. The water beaded, growing slowly until it became a big fat droplet, its own weight finally causing it to drop onto a small furry head with a splat.

Mrgl startled awake, blinking blearily into the darkness. She was still trying to find the thing that woke her when another fat drop landed wetly on her muzzle. She shook her head and danced away, pawing at her face. “Oh bother this damp,” she said, “it’s ruined a perfectly good dream!”

At least, that’s what she said in her mind. What came out was a grumbling moan that sounded a bit like “grrrrshhh drrrmp” and a low hiss.

She ran her too-big tongue over her too-big fangs. She opened her mouth to yawn, the pedipalps nesting inside her cheeks uncurling to wave and taste the air. She sighed, and the cavern echoed emptily with even that small noise. A damp draft blew through, ruffling her fur and making her shiver all over.

With the ghost of the dream’s thrall in her still, she took a few small steps towards a corridor, almost invisible at the edge of the cavern. Unused since she came through it years ago, it was the tunnel that led back to the village where she was born. She could almost see herself returning, almost see the warm smiles and hear the laughter… But the sound of one wet drop hitting the floor behind her brought reality flooding back. Torches, flickering and bright, hurting all six of her eyes and casting too many shadows for her to make any sense of the world of light. The voices, talking as if she couldn’t understand them, as if she were deaf instead of mute, saying horrible things to her parents in the house kept dark just for her, nasty threats and lies that they wouldn’t dare whisper in the light of day. And, worst of all, the looks of pity, of resignation, like she couldn’t help but be the monster they assumed she was.

Her name was Athena. Not that anyone called her that; mostly she was Atty. Atty was what her ma called sweet. Nice, kind, gentle. Helpful. She was all kinds of things people expected from delicate female heroines whose defining trait was overwhelming kindness.

As well she was lovely, if not precisely beautiful. She was graceful, elegant, and a girlish sort of pretty, even though she had to wear an eyepatch.

Her ma used to call it heterochromia. Atty had one stunning blue eye, and one red eye. And then the red spread and darkened, and the sclera turned black around it, and it never quite shined right, and Atty took to keeping that eye closed. Rosie, in a rare moment of quiet kindness, gave her the eyepatch. No one understood, but no one asked why Atty kept that eye hidden. Everyone deserved their secrets.

Atty liked to call her secret Rottington. Or maybe that was what her secret called herself; it was hard to tell, if Atty and Rottington were separate.

So Atty was sweet and kind and helpful. She loved her family and loved to see them happy and just loved in general. She would treat her worst enemy with kindness, would help a stranger and be overall good. She was mischievous too, and playful, and sometimes she teased, even played pranks. But she was always kind.

Rottington was not kind.

Rottington was cruel.

And she whispered to Atty, whispered her cruelties, and Atty wasn’t repulsed. Sometimes Atty wanted to do just what terribleness Rottington suggested. It was almost like a measure, of how to keep being Atty who is kind and gentle; never do what Rottington says.

But once—once she discovered something. Once she was a witness, when there was no one else to witness. And Rottington laughed and laughed, because those unkind thoughts Atty had just then were all her own.

The eyepatch was delicately set aside, carefully, a cherished gift from her strange sister. And then she turned to the ones who were even then watching her, even then planning aloud what to do with their one witness.

Rottington opened her eyes, both of them red and black from corner to corner, and grinned at them.

When they were done, Rottington slipped the eyepatch back on, and Atty surveyed the mess Rottington had left behind. She pulled out the grocery list ma had sent her out with, and walked off.

Her greatest secret wasn’t really Rottington. It wasn’t that she, or at least her body, had done things that would, that should horrify. Her secret was worse than that.

Atty wasn’t horrified by what Rottington did. She wasn’t horrified by Rottington at all. She wasn’t guilty or frightened or any of those kind damsel things.

Because above all else, Atty wasn’t kind.

“Love you.”

The words were barely uttered, Alan’s lips just close enough that the air brushed past Honest’s ear. The two of them were cozied up on the couch, Honest wrapped snugly in the dark-haired man’s arms. Across the room, the tail end of a movie’s credits were scrolling across the screen — some garbage film that they’d managed to agree on somehow; one that had quickly put them both to sleep.

Careful not to tense enough that Alan might sense he was awake, Honest bit his tongue; bared down until the first tinge of iron reached his taste buds.

Growing up, he’d learned that love was not a sentiment to be freely given. It was a tool — a means of control. It was a reward for compliance; a prize to be dangled just out of reach until he’d jumped through every last hoop his mother had set before him. It was a chain that gained another link each year — binding his hands, dragging heavy and keeping him locked at her side. Every furrow of her brow; every quiet sniff; every murmured, “If you loved me, you’d…” this, “After all the love I’ve given you, how could you…” that.

After eighteen years, Honest was sick and tired of that kind of love.

What he had with Alan was good, of course. There was tenderness there, sometimes. When they weren’t arguing or purposely stepping on each others’ last nerves, they had something that Honest would probably describe as adequate — maybe even sweet. Who would have ever guessed that of the two of them, it would be the waspish, easily frustrated Alan who wore his heart on his sleeve? Meanwhile, the guy whose name literally meant ‘Honest Truth’ cringed and changed the subject every time Alan attempted to express any sort of romantic sentiment. He just couldn’t do it.

It wasn’t that he thought Alan was trying to pull the same shit as his mother. Not exactly, anyway. Alan could be extremely bossy, but he wasn’t insane. It was a knee-jerk reaction, mostly. The fear that whatever crazy sort of love that his mother had to give might be genetic; that the moment he relented and returned the sentiment, Honest would become the demanding, overbearing monster that she was.

He didn’t want that. Not for him, not for Alan. He wanted things to stay just as they were now — quiet and cozy and warm, hugged together under a big blanket while the snow fell outside, muffling the street noise. And if he had to keep himself at arm’s length to protect that status quo, so be it. Maybe someday he’d change; maybe someday he’d be ready, but not yet. For now he was content to pretend he’d never heard the words and enjoy the gentle tightening of the arms around him.

“This is where you want to stop for the night?” Siva frowned, eyeing the soggy woodland before them.

Galen quit scenting the air to look back at her. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s just…damp.”

“Not if we dig up some dry leaves from under the trees,” he replied in a sing-song voice, shooting her a smile. She couldn’t help but give him one back.

“Okay, fine,” she said, padding over to help him search for usable leaves. “Anyway, I suppose this is better than the tundra we passed through the other day. Whoever this Seren character we’re tracking is, she certainly picked a lousy travel route.”

Shoving their findings together, they formed a decently-sized, relatively dry nest. Galen immediately crashed down on half of it, stretching out as much as he could and flashing Siva a grin. Rolling her eyes, she gingerly claimed the other half. “You can stop looking at me like that now.”

“Sorry, I just know how much you love sharing spaces.”

“Mhm.”

“Goodnight, Siva.”

“‘Night, Galen.”

Silence. After a few minutes, slowed breathing told Siva that Galen was asleep. Lifting her head, she turned her night-sharp eyes on the other ineki. In the quiet of the forest, with only the soft drizzle of sloppy rain in her ears, she repeated to herself the five words she’d made herself think every night since they’d set out.

I won’t let her kill you.