On nights when she couldn’t sleep, Mira would walk the empty street that led from her apartment building to the cemetery.
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On nights when she couldn’t sleep, Mira would walk the empty street that led from her apartment building to the cemetery.
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Reef pixies didn’t usually need midwifing, but there was a first time for everything.
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She still couldn’t smell the scent of gingerbread without breaking into a cold sweat, bile rising in her throat.
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There’s an old myth that I like to tell when their grief-heavy steps bring them inevitably to my door.
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They had been waiting for the storm to pass for eighty-six years.
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Melody shoved her hands into her pockets and peered around the bodies in front of her. There was no better place to witness the unspoken hierarchy of the city than in the waiting line for the rockets.
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That she had done all that with the dull point of a poorly forged knife was the stuff that they wrote myths about. But that didn’t make it any less true.
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A visit to the flesh menders, a tithe, and a promise, and she could fight again. She had to.
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As Iri crested the dune, her feet slip-sliding across the shifting sand, she did not expect to see a small improbable cafe nestled at the base on the other side.
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The girl glanced over at the sheet-covered body that had quietly bled out on the white marble floor, effectively ending what was supposed to have been the grandest ball of the century.
It would be the most memorable at least, Barnaby thought to himself.
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