Coffee and Spirits

Preface: Greetings, all!  What follows is my winning entry into the “Everyday Lives of the Undead” writing contest here on TFT, which is also a stand-alone part of my Appalachian Monstergirls modern setting stories and is based on the suggested prompt by Hanii Aburame.  No prior knowledge is required, but it does include minor cameos of other characters referenced in those stories (and, for those familiar with those works, is set briefly before “The Sweet-Dreamer’s Sleepover”).  The primary monstergirl in this work is a ghost.  This story does feature sexual content and focuses on a single romance.

     And, to conclude with a standard disclaimer: The monster girls featured in this tale, and many elements of the setting, are based off of the works of Kenkou Cross, and as such this work is intended to be a tribute to their creativity. The characters, however, are my own. Pray neither sue nor steal; I have very little to take, but I love that which is mine.

Coffee and Spirits

Ghosted

     “Tiara!  Coffee’s up for Ms. Tiara!” The words rang out across the coffee shop, needlessly loud in the sparsely-occupied lounge area.  The blue-aproned bellower, a werecat with her hair and fur dappled in shades of orange and black, beamed a wicked grin as she pretended to search for the patron in question, her searching eyes deliberately skating over the glowering grimace of the woman in question.  The werecat’s citrine eyes all but glowed with mischief as she faux-searched the half-occupied coffeehouse, but somehow her gaze snaked past the fuming woman glaring at the counter as she stalked forward to claim her mislabeled steaming beverage.  That tall – as in the height, not its size, which was instead another confusing word meaning ‘large’ – paperboard cup proudly bore its misnomer in brilliant pink flourishes, complete with a heart above the ‘i’, just above the logo of Flask’s Coffee: a burly sailor with a winning grin, inked in a deep blue close to the shade of the plastic lid that barely contained the superheated brew as the clawed hand of the misheralded ‘Ms. Tiara’ snatched the container from the still-grinning werecat.

     The affronted patron glared at the unfazed barista, her barbed tail lurking over her shoulder like an unspoken threat.  The manticore was dressed sharply in professional attire, though its seductively-straining fit left questions as to what that profession might be.  Certainly it involved customer relations, considering how public-facing her generous assets were; her shirt was unbuttoned just a bit too far for decorum, and the next button in line held on for dear life against the swell of her chest, much of which sunbathed in the dim fluorescent glow of the fragrant shop.  Her skirt, too, emphasized toned legs that ended in dense fur and plump claws like the ones dimpling the coffee cup.  Her lips were as red as the bulbous, barbed tail and furled wings that lurked behind her, and her blonde hair hung far down her back, swaying as she shook her head in tense disapproval. “I’ve been coming here for weeks,” snarled the manticore, glaring balefully at the werecat’s blithe smile, “and you have successfully gotten my name wrong every single time.  No repeats, either – that takes effort.  It’s T-i-r-a… it’s not hard, it’s four letters.”

     “My bad.  I’ll get it right next time,” lied the werecat, her toothy smile advertising her recalcitrant glee and utter lack of repentance. 

     Tira stared at the barista for a moment longer, her nostrils flaring in impotent fury, before turning to stalk away towards the exit, her tail swiveling as if to glare back at the werecat as she exited with all remaining poise.  Behind her, the werecat, whose flourished name tag proclaimed her as ‘Calypso Cox’ with the ‘o’s stylized as hearts, waved jovially, her grin only revealing its true deviousness once the door closed behind the manticore.  Cally paused for just a moment, pulling a sheet of paper from beneath the counter to draw a line through ‘Tiara’ in a lengthy list of near misspellings of the manticore’s name, before returning to her job with renewed contentment.

     It was an hour after the lunchtime rush, and the crowd inside this particular Flask’s branch was far below its capacity, most of the plush chairs or benches sitting empty.  This store was the one nearest the commercial district, and was quieter than its siblings found near South-East Kentucky State University’s campus, which tended to be packed this close to finals week.  That didn’t keep the clientele from trending towards the younger side, and some were clearly refugees fleeing the noise of the more hectic locales in search of a quieter cup.  Most of those lingering within were the sort who treated the coffeeshop like a living-room-away-from-home, squinting at laptops over the brim of steaming cups.  Others enjoyed extended lunches, chatting with friends to pass the day in leisure on neutral ground.  Lastly were those who looked to have nowhere to go, lost in thoughts as dark as the brew they sipped, but that clientele was even fewer than usual this day, leaving mostly the dedicated regulars.

     Running his fingers back through his dark brown hair, one of those regulars blinked blearily at the screen before him, his eyes scanning dense, repeating lines as he searched in vain for a problematic snippet of source code.  Tristan Coleman was clearly a college student, though only recently so, just in his first year.  His broad shoulders and sharp jawline had drawn more than a few admiring glances from the female clientele, who savored a side of eye candy to accompany their beverages, but there was something in his demeanor that kept most of them at bay – perhaps the shadows beneath his intense blue eyes, or the tight set of his jaw, or just a quietly unsettling feel that hovered over him like an indoor umbrella.  Despite that, Tristan’s face did occasionally brighten; specifically, when he glanced over his shoulder at the workers in the shop, primarily one young woman whose role involved bringing drinks from the counter to those tables that made use of the newly-installed consoles that let patrons order fresh rounds without having to stand in line.  These caffeine-fiends were shielded from the indignity of having their names bellowed through the establishment like the to-go’ers, and instead one of the blue-aproned employees brought them their drinks garnished with a smile – like the girl that he occasionally looked back to search for.  

     She was the true epicenter of Tristan’s interest, and, in internal honesty, the reason for his routine visits to this particular coffeeshop, which was more than a little out of his way.  As much as he enjoyed the comparative peace of the store contrasted with his shared apartment, he had instead made use of the library for that purpose earlier in the semester, when his roommate had first started dating his current girlfriend.  The study rooms in the campus library had been even quieter, though having a drip-feed of coffee did help him keep struggling with this particular final project through the hours.  However, it was the occasional glances of the black-haired waitress that kept Tristan’s spirits high, and kept him returning to claim a particular small table in one quiet corner, until the regulars had mutely acknowledged it as his own, leaving it open each day for him with knowing glances between him and the waitress.

     The girl in question could have nearly passed for human.  When Tristan had first half-noticed her in his freshman math course just months ago, he had assumed that she was just as human as he was – but a closer inspection betrayed her true heritage.  It had been the gleam in her eyes that he had noticed first – a shimmering blue-green aurora in her eyes, and a drifting haze that settled around her sometimes.  When he had first walked past her, coming late into class, he had felt the temperature of the air drop as he neared her, a chill settling into his bones and not releasing until he was settled into his seat several rows down.  Her long, wavy black hair sometimes drifted in an absent breeze, and there had been times leaving class that he had felt her gaze lingering on him, even when she was nowhere to be seen.  She was a ghost, one classmate had shared with him, or at the least she was descended from them, though to Tristan it hardly made sense: she was pale, sure, and strikingly ethereal, but her round cheeks held a warmth that made him grin, and her curvy body seemed amply solid to his increasingly-admiring glances.

     And anyways, who was he, of all people, to judge someone rumored to be among the dead?

    Tristan allowed himself a subtle grin as he saw her chatting with a different regular, her smile showing her gleaming teeth as she laughed at the other woman’s joke, swaying slightly from side to side as she held her tray against the swell of her chest.  Feeling like he had refilled his lungs for the moment, he turned back to his laptop, forcing his nose back to the grindstone.  He had a week yet before this project was due, but, with intimidating comprehensive finals in several classes, he couldn’t afford to put the work off till the last minute.  Still, he had found it gradually more and more difficult to focus on the assignment, a dummy website that fulfilled an extensive list of required functions.  Earlier in the semester, he’d enjoyed the work, coming up with an ambitious concept for a website that targeted different types of monster women interested in local resources that catered to their own needs, but now he found such motivation rare and fleeting.  His faulty focus was undoubtedly the fault of his frequent indecision in higher matters; while he had come into college eager and ready to pursue a degree in digital media, his will had wavered months back – more than a few times by now.  He enjoyed the work and classes, true enough, but…

     Was that all he was supposed to be?  Just a web designer?

     Feeling his distracted ambitions tug the reins, Tristan shook his head, and took hold of his cup.  To his surprise, it was empty, with only a thin brown sludge smearing the base of the container, and he set it to the side along one of its peers.  He started to rise from his seat, but a glance at the line – a gaggle of chatting businesspeople, some of which stared up at the menu as if it had been written in hieroglyphs – convinced him to reach for the self-service kiosk instead.  It was a new addition to this franchise, and he allowed himself to silently judge the user interface as he scrolled through the menus to design the drink he desired – he had only recently developed a coffee habit, but already was set in his ways as to what he preferred.  A few minutes later, after he had allowed the device to nibble on his debit card, he returned his gaze to his project.  One menu in particular stubbornly refused to accept his inputs, and he swore to solve that issue before he called it a day and returned to his apartment.  That concentration was why he only fractionally noticed the whispering at the counter, one conspiratorial voice hissing at a meeker, richer one, until a triumphant chuckle announced the victor of the unregarded debate.

     Tristan felt a sudden chill settle into his bones, and blinked at his screen.  He paused, turning slowly to glance behind him, realizing that it wasn’t the confident tread of the yeti-girl who usually handled the drinks on this side of the store.  He had first sat in the section handled by the ghostly center of his attention, but after a certain incident- 

     And there she was.  She looked at him, her eyes wide and glowing with turquoise radiance, an awkward smile half-formed on her lips as she held a trembling cup in his direction. “A coff-coffee for Tr-tr-tris-”  A crimson heat settled in her once-pale cheeks as she met his eyes, and he tried, tried!, to be reassuring, offering her a broad, charming smile that he desperately hoped would keep this from being like the last time… to no avail.

     With a squeak, the girl vanished from sight instantly.

     Her clothes were slow to understand, crumpling to the floor as if searching for their own contents.  The tray fell sooner, clattering on the tile, splashed by the exploding cup of hot coffee that violently disgorged its contents across the floor behind his chair.  That dark fluid quickly began to seep into her fallen skirt, socks, even the blue apron, topped with a badge that proclaimed, in neat loops, “Lora.”  Over all of the mess, a shimmering green mist hovered, and at the edge of his hearing Tristan was sure he could hear a spectral wail of embarrassment as he discovered that the entire coffeeshop was staring in his direction – except for the werecat barista, who had palmed her face with one fluffy calico paw.

     And that bad luck, Tristan reminded himself with slumping shoulders as he reached for napkins to clean up the mess, was why he had to settle with admiring Lora Mallory from afar.  

 

******

 

     With winter well underway, the skies had darkened by the time Tristan made it back to his apartment, even though he still had hours of work to do between him and his bed, and the take-out he carried felt like an early dinner.  He descended the stairs to the ground floor of the complex, twinned apartments that faced each other in a darkened bay open to the sky, and struggled to shift his grip on the bag of food as he fumbled for his keys.  When he finally managed to crack the door to his apartment, he was greeted with a potent aroma of garlic, onions, and meat sizzling in the nearby kitchen. ‘Myrina is here again,’ he noted wryly to himself, ‘just my luck.’

     It was his roommate Zander, not the woman in question, that he found standing in the kitchen, delicately sipping the feijoada he was still working to master.  While Tristan himself was decently tall, Alexander Garman towered over him.  Tragically, at least for every ambitious basketball coach that had ever met him, his height was the only impressive physical trait Zander possessed.  He was scrawny and awkward, with a broad, goofy grin under a mop of curly blonde hair.  Zander’s good-natured clumsiness, combined with his chronic inability to take much of anything in life seriously, had kept life interesting for the both of them since middle school, but he was the closest friend Tristan had ever had, and one of the only people that overlooked Tristan’s grim reputation for bad luck.  Zander took any kind of luck with the same sort of shrugging acceptance that others might treat the weather with, and his careening impulsiveness meant that he had ample trouble to offer Tristan in return for any bad luck his partner brought to the friendship.

     Considering Tristan’s ill-omened reputation and Zander’s chaotic nature, the pair had never had to worry overmuch about anyone coming between them; neither of them had managed a single long-term relationship throughout high school.  That had changed a few months ago, though.  Zander had met Myrina at one of South-East’s first home volleyball games when he had agreed to be a ball boy for some quick pocket cash.  Their courtship was characterized by the same ballistic heedlessness as anything Zander did, and now Myrina was practically a third roommate in their apartment, spending as much time with her boyfriend as possible.  Tristan couldn’t complain overmuch, though, considering the good influence she was giving to Zander; for instance, in all their time through high school, the only thing that Tristan had ever known his lanky friend to cook had been pizza rolls, and every time he attempted those was an unrecorded experiment in which button would make them palatable, disregarding the time displayed on the bag or the specialized microwave button intended for that purpose alone.  Now, though, Zander was well on his way to being domesticated, complete with darkly-smudged apron and the simmering perfume of Brazilian cuisine.

     “Oh, sorry, man,” Zander greeted Tristan, eyeing the bag of take-out his friend clutched. “The feijoada will be ready soon; if I had thought about it, I would’ve texted you to let you know we have food.” He slurped again at the wooden spoon he clutched, nodding in contented approval. “But, hey, there will be plenty leftover, and we won’t be here to eat it this weekend, so have at it.”

     Tristan nodded gratefully. “That’s right – you and Myrina are taking off tomorrow morning, right?  Back to Elm Ridge to visit your folks?”

     Zander nodded, turning his attention to plating the rice, heaping one of the bowls especially high. “Yeah, we’re skipping class tomorrow and Friday so we can have plenty of time.  Mom and Dad were so psyched to meet Myrina that they don’t mind us doing Christmas early this year.  That way, we will have the whole break to go visit Myrina’s family in Brazil – she says that her entire extended family is super excited to see me.” There was such an innocent, eager glow in Zander’s cheeks that Tristan didn’t have the heart to warn him of the proverbial waterfall ahead of him.

     ‘Culture’ was the word Zander had used after the first incident, when he had come to apologize to Tristan.  Myrina’s initial visit to their apartment had been… educational, especially since both Tristan and Zander were decidedly lacking in romantic experience.  Myrina, as a monster-girl Amazoness, had no real understanding of – or at least concern for –  certain taboos common to this part of the world.  She had no qualms about being nude around Tristan, which had been… shocking, to say the least.  Even more alarming was her willingness to have sex in front of anyone who was nearby, which, again, tended to be Tristan.  That had been the ‘culture’ that Zander had tried to explain, his cheeks superheated.  Tristan, in turn, had declared that their apartment’s ‘culture’ involved using sterilizing wipes or cleaning the upholstery if anyone decided to have a quickie on a public surface, and Zander had quickly assented – and gone out to buy plenty of cleaning supplies the very next day.  Myrina’s insatiable libido, vociferous enthusiasm, and flagrant exhibitionism were some of the main reasons that Tristan had become a regular at Flask’s – just behind his desire to see Lora Mallory. 

     Tristan coughed, deciding to try to subtly warn his friend and roommate of something he had recently learned while chatting with the werecat barista Calypso. “You know, I heard something about Amazoness the other day, specifically about their family gatherings-”

     “Oh?  What was that?” The husky voice coming from the living room made Tristan jump, and he looked over – and up – to see the smiling face of Myrina.  Zander was tall, but Myrina managed to loom over even him, and while Zander was slim and bony, the Amazoness was an edifice of tight, unpadded muscle worthy of an ancient Greek sculpture.  She wore athletic shorts and a sports bra, a compromise she occasionally accepted instead of traipsing through their apartment in the nude, but those scant garments failed to hide much at all of her nut-brown skin and athletic physique.  Only one mountainous region of her body could be considered soft, and even those daunting twin peaks managed to be firm enough to scoff at gravity.  Her other concession to femininity was her lengthy braid, her dark brown hair just a few shades warmer than black.  That long cord hung over her left shoulder, while her long, segmented, spade-tipped tail coiled around her right leg, and her single clawed wing gripped the opposite hip, not far from where it emerged from her lower back. “I’m quite curious what people say about us.”

     Seeing the dark mirth twinkling in her coffee-colored eyes, Tristan found his tongue had gone still.  He paused for just a second, looking up at the towering woman that lounged against the doorframe with a panther’s grace, and decided his last shot at warning Zander would have to be subtle. “That you enjoy… public spectacles in your family gatherings.”

     “Oh, that is very true,” she purred, and their shared awareness was evident in the way she smiled at Tristan. “Everytime we get together, we have to show off what we can do.  All kinds of feats of strength, skill… stamina.”

     “I can’t wait to see it!” Zander chirped in, ladling the stew into deep bowls.  Tristan glanced over at his naïve friend, but discretion won the battle in his heart; he didn’t have the courage to warn Zander that Myrina’s regular exhibitionist displays in their apartment were just a light warm-up for the village-wide, night-long celebrations that took place when a young Amazoness brought home their mate for the first time.  Tristan only wondered whether his friend would tell him all about the experience or not… and decided to hope that Zander wouldn’t.

     “I’m sure it will be quite the experience,” Tristan offered blandly, and Myrina offered him a smirking nod of gratitude as she walked with him towards the small table in their dining area.  Carefully taking his seat at the end the lovers tended not to make use of, Tristan began to unbag his dinner as Zander started ferrying over the meal he had prepared for himself and Myrina.

     “I’ve promised it will be a night- ah, trip, that he will never forget,” purred the statuesque athlete, taking up one of the bowls of stew and inhaling its fragrance with an appreciative sigh. “Better and better every time,” she complimented Zander as he set out a platter of greens by her bowl, and he beamed back at her.

     “She told me that her mother has so much to teach me,” Zander grinned guilelessly. “I bet I will get so many new recipes in those two weeks…”

     As Zander turned his back to the dining pair and returned to the kitchen, Tristan raised an eyebrow at the Amazoness.  She shrugged in reply, but her smile rivaled a Cheshire’s. “My father will get around to teaching him some recipes at some point.  Probably,” she murmured, taking a heaping spoonful to her lips. “But he’ll have plenty to learn, rest assured.” Shaking his head, Tristan turned his attention to his meal, fighting to subdue his rebellious curiosity as to what those lessons might be.

     Soon, the topic turned to safer grounds as Zander joined them and they dug into their meals.  Their polite chatter ranged from Zander discussing his plans to show Myrina around their home town, to Myrina discussing the volleyball team’s upcoming opponents, to Tristan sharing some old stories about Zander’s misadventures back at Elm Ridge High School.  Having survived the day mostly on a diet of coffee and an overpriced pastry, Tristan finished his take-out and accepted a small bowl from Zander, soon realizing that his friend was indeed rapidly improving his culinary skills.  He was finishing off the stew when he noticed Myrina shooting subtle glances in her boyfriend’s direction, and a sudden heat in Zander’s cheeks – and the fact that Myrina’s closer hand was beneath the level of the table – warned Tristan that it was nearly time to adjourn to his bedroom.  Zander, for his part, tried to camouflage the Amazoness’s amorous activities. “So, uh… how’s the project looking?” the lanky blonde asked, his voice breaking along the way while Myrina smirked.

     “It’s coming along,” Tristan replied non-comittally. “A couple more days, and it should be ready.  Just in time to start studying for finals.” He scooped up one of the last chunks of beef in his bowl.

     “Oh… will that be the new excuse to hang out at the coffee shop?” Zander asked, and Myrina paused in her surreptitious stroking, her attention turning towards Tristan. 

     Tristan blushed, focusing his gaze on the dregs of his stew. “Maybe, maybe not.  I, ah, made her disincorporate again today…” The harmonized sighs from the other end of the table rubbed salt into the wound.

     “I keep telling you, man, you just need to talk to her head on,” Zander insisted, giving his friend a confident grin. “It worked for me, after all.”

     Myrina offered her lover a bladed smile. “I seem to recall things differently… if I remember right, I was the one who confronted you, when I noticed that you kept staring at my-”

     “Anyways,” interrupted the flustered Zander, “that would have to be better than lurking around and watching her from afar.”

     “It’s kind of hard to strike up a conversation when she vanishes every time I get within ten feet of her,” Tristan groused, letting his spoon clatter into the bowl. “It’s just my luck, that’s all it is.”

     Tristan had good cause for his pessimism.  He had been ill-omened for most of his life, but his romantic life had always borne the worst of it.  Despite having his share of crushes over the course of middle and high school, even monster girls, who tended to be romantically eager and aggressive, had failed to reciprocate his feelings.  He had grown tired of being told that it wasn’t anything about him – they would usually admit that he was good-looking, nice, and a great listener – but those he had befriended on the way towards love had shared that it was just something about him that felt wrong.  Some had said it was his scent, which was altogether humiliating, but they would clarify that he didn’t smell like he had been claimed by another monster, but that he smelled ‘like’ another monster, which… concerned and confused him.

     “If it is that much of a problem, you could always come with us to my home over the break,” Myrina offered off-handedly. “I’m sure one of my cousins would be willing to accept you as a mate.”

     “Ah, thanks for the offer,” Tristan replied hurriedly, blushing, “but being a house-husband in Brazil hasn’t been on my list of possible careers so far.”

      “Well, maybe it’s about time it was,” teased Zander. “You’ve considered almost every other major so far, so give that idea a turn for a day or two, like the rest.” His easy grin took the edge off the barb, but Tristan still shot him a mock-baleful glower. “You’ll be on to something else next week anyways.”

     His friend’s teasing was something of an exaggeration, but still well-deserved.  Tristan had indeed made a habit of frequently reconsidering his college goals, and his faculty advisor had gotten more than a little exasperated with his indecision over the course of the past months.  His only main saving grace was that the majority of his current classes were general-education courses, so they would work for whatever major he finally settled into.  The web design course that had kept him working at his final project was the sole relic of his initial intentions, and his diligent efforts at perfecting that assignment were a kind of final hurrah for his time with that major.  It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the web design work – actually, he liked it more than he had expected he would, especially the graphic design elements.  It was just… he knew that he had to be meant for something more than just being another keyboard jockey, had to find what it was he was fated for.

     His parents still thought that him being alive was a miracle, and a miracle didn’t waste their future making pretty web pages.

     His brief introspection had given Myrina a chance to resume her clandestine caressing, and Zander stood hastily from the table, gathering up the emptied bowls and plates and hustling them towards the kitchen sink.  The Amazoness watched him go as she licked her lips, her other appetite whetted now that she had eaten her fill, but she paid Tristan just a moment’s more attention. “If you want to watch TV in here, we won’t mind-”

     “That’s fine, I need to wrap up just one more goal on the rubric before I hit the hay,” Tristan replied, only somewhat lying.  As much as the muscular monster-girl appreciated having an audience for her sensual feats, he preferred to not have to witness her making a meal of his best friend – and watching them put the furniture to the test always made him anxious about their security deposit.  Carrying his own dishes to the sink, he exchanged a nod with his crimson-cheeked friend, before bidding the both of them goodnight.

     He had barely made it to the door leading into his bedroom when he heard frantically-discarded clothes slap against the walls, and the dining room table began creak in plaintive protest.

     Closing the door firmly behind him in the vain hope it would deafen some of the cacophony, and tossing his laptop onto his bed, he glanced around his bedroom as he began to strip down for his shower.  He kept his surroundings tidy, a balance to his roommate’s chaotic disarray, and his room was sparsely decorated to aid in that goal.  As spartan as he kept his chamber, he had a keen aesthetic sense, and so he was proud of the space – which helped him relax even more, and made him feel like he had left his bad luck at the threshold.  Here, he could forget his misfortunes, his missed opportunities, his loneliness. 

     …Except, of course, for the picture that never failed to remind him of how his bad luck had begun, placed there by his mother on her first visit to his apartment.

     The framed picture atop his dresser was taken from a newspaper article.  The photo showed him standing between his parents, who were beaming, while a much younger version of himself stared at the camera in bemused listlessness.  The headline read LOCAL BOY SURVIVES 80 FOOT FALL UNHARMED.  As the article went on to explain, Tristan Coleman, 11, of Elm Ridge, had been taking a walk by himself along an old nature path that had once been kept up by the forestry department, but had fallen into disrepair.  Recent rains had weakened the ground along the high, narrow path, and part of the hillside had given way as he had gone over it, sending him down the embankment and off the sheer cliff.  It had been hours before his parents had found him, laying still at the bottom of the cliffside.  The fall should have killed him – should have shattered most of his bones, and could have splattered his organs across the clearing at the cliff’s foot.  Instead, they found him as whole as he had been when he had left the house for the stroll, albeit dazed and mumbling.  The police had come, documenting the sliding hillside and muddy groove his body had carved on its way to the plummet; the doctors had examined him, checking fruitlessly for a concussion or broken bones or bruises; the newspaper reporters had arrived, taking statements and prying everything from him he could remember.  No one could explain it: he had obviously fallen all the way down, but his body was impossibly in perfect condition.  He even vaguely remembered falling, and then…

     Some had said it was incredible good fortune that had protected him – but at the same time, he had used up all his luck for that single moment.  His parents believed that it was a miracle; he was destined to do great things, save lives or create something amazing, write his name in history books.  Others said it was maybe a flying monster-woman that had saved him, or some kind of magic that no one had ever seen in this world, or a wandering hero like in the monster legends.

     But he knew the truth.  It had been the Witch of the Woods.

     A shiver ran down his spine, and he forced his mind away from those dark places.  She came to his thoughts unbidden, if he wasn’t careful – glowing red eyes and corpse-pale skin, grasping fingers and sharp, mocking voice.  His parents still clutched to the idea that he had been saved because he was meant for great things, and he let himself believe it too, because the alternative was too terrifying: that the Witch of the Woods had saved him, but would come back someday to claim what was hers. 

     Tristan shook his head violently, forcing his train of thought to shift tracks.  Thinking about the- about old stories was never a good idea, especially not so close to bed.  He had learned that a long time ago, and had plenty of restless nights behind him to offer as proof of the concept.  Instead, he just needed to work a little longer on his project, and-

    Full-throated moaning from the other room made him blush, and he stepped into his small bathroom to turn on the shower in the hopes it would drown out the rhythmic thumping and creaking starting to emerge from the dining area.  The hiss of the water proved tragically anemic in that effort, but it was better than nothing, he supposed, and stepping out of the last of his clothes and into the shower he let the warm water crash over him, savoring the flood of warmth over his skin.  Though they weren’t due for any serious cold spells for a few weeks, according to the weather, he still savored the heat seeping into his muscles, just as he did when the same sensation came internally, out of his coffee cups.  That notion turned his thoughts in a slightly more pleasant direction, and he let the image of Lora’s pale face return to his mind.  Even nervous and on the verge of disappearing, she had been so cute and devilishly appealing, sending a warmth through him that had nothing to do with the cascading droplets racing down his body.

     He still remembered the first time he had seen her in his math class.  She sat a few rows behind him with her werecat friend and coworker, and he hadn’t noticed her at first in the crowd of the auditorium, but he had felt her eyes on him one day, and had glanced back to meet her gaze.  He wasn’t used to that kind of attention from any girl, especially not from a beauty like Lora.  He remembered the flush in her normally-pale cheeks, and the quiet thrill that had raced through him as neither of them looked away.  Even despite the distance between them, he had marveled at the shimmering aurora in her eyes, never mind the way her dark purple sweater had hugged her shapely form, and how her raven-hued hair had draped over one shoulder.  For an instant, she had begun to fade out of existence, but a side comment from the werecat had distracted her, and the spell over both of them had been broken.  From that day on, though, the two of them had exchanged glances every day with increasing frequency, although conversation was pretty much impossible in the scrum of the packed auditorium.

     It had been a stroke of luck that someone had left at his seat a flyer for a discount at Flask’s – perhaps they had seen that he usually brought a cup of gas station coffee to class, and wanted to tempt him with a pricier, more palatable alternative.  After days of the flyer being submerged in the stack of papers on his desk, he had noticed it as he had sorted his things to clean one afternoon.  He had taken the bait that day since he needed somewhere quiet to work, as Myrina had come to visit after a few days of travelling on the road for volleyball games and she had intended to make up for lost time.  It had come as a surprise to both him and Lora when he had innocently strolled into her coffeeshop – especially since he had nearly bumped into her, and after a moment of mutual shock, she had, for the first time, disappeared from view right in front of him.

     He always wondered what that had to be like for her.  First all, when she came back, she had to be naked – each time, her clothes, underwear and all, drifted to the floor after she vanished from sight.  Calypso always swooped in to rescue her garments, and disappeared into the coffee shop’s back room.  He assumed that meant that Lora could travel when she vanished, but… was she still physically there, able to touch or be touched?  Could she see things in the world around her while she was invisible?  Did she control when she came back to normal, or did it just happen?  His mind hovered around that idea: each time he accidentally made her ‘poof’ out of existence, she was shortly later naked in the storeroom just feet from where he was sitting at his laptop.  He forced himself away from that mental image with a blush.  It all had to be a huge hassle for her, and that was why he had kept his distance; they hadn’t even spoken a full sentence to each other in the weeks he had been going there.  It was just his luck to get a massive crush on a girl that he couldn’t manage to get within ten feet of, but he wasn’t ready to give up on her.

     The faucet screeched as Tristan turned off the shower, and the last drizzle was still falling when he noticed the rhythmic thumping from the other room.  Sighing, he stepped over and grabbed a towel from the rack, shivering despite the fluffy friction as he dried himself.  If it were warmer, he could use his standing fan to drown out some of the activity from the other room, but for now a little loud music would have to do the trick.  Changing into his house clothes, he left the bathroom and headed for his small desk, stopping only to grab his laptop from where he had chucked it onto his bed.

     It was harder to focus on his work with the ruckus from the living room, but he still managed to stay up into the night, until his eyes blurred and his mind stumbled.  He was still not quite finished when he closed the computer and shambled over to the bed, but he was proud of the progress he’d made.  Another day, maybe two, and then he would be finished with it – in his hubris, he imagined to himself that his over-ambitious submission could probably be one of the best his professor had ever gotten for that assignment, considering the amount of effort he’d poured into it.  As he pulled the covers up to his shoulders, he decided that it would be a worthy farewell for his stillborn ambition, a life that had seemed promising, but just wasn’t enough for who he was meant to be.  That way, just maybe, the decision to leave this behind wouldn’t haunt him, like so much else had…

     It was perhaps an unlucky thought to have, just before sleep claimed him.

 

******

 

     He couldn’t move.  He hurt, badly, but that wasn’t the worst of it.  He knew she was coming, she was almost there, and he couldn’t move. 

    He looked up into the dim sky and wanted to scream.  He tried to squirm, but it hurt – everything hurt.  He was broken, and – there she was, her shiny teeth, her tall black hat, her… claws.

     She leaned over him, and her burning red eyes made him want to cry.  Her smile was sharpened bone, and her black clothes drank the light from the sky.  She stared down at him while her clawed fingers scraped the flesh from his arm.  She was beautiful and horrifying, courteous and cruel, and her words stabbed deep into his chest as she inhaled his suffering.

     “Such a delicious little feast,” she cackled, and pain rang through him like a bell. “Such a pretty little broken bird, fallen out of the nest.  Shall I pluck you?  Cook you in an oven?”

     He stared up at her and couldn’t speak, couldn’t move.  Her face lowered closer to his, and the dark shadows around her eyes made her look like a skull, like a monster from the old movies.  She stared down at him, and he knew she was watching him, waiting for him to die.  He was falling again, slipping into a deep dark hole, and she smiled as she hunched over him, like a big crow, ready to carry him away.

      He was cold, and it was dark, but the hurting stopped – and then, all he could see was a twisting green fire, and he screamed in agony up into her gloating grin, marked as hers forever.    

 

The Haunt

     Tristan rubbed at his bleary eyes, drumming the fingers of his other hand on his keyboard as he scanned over his project’s script, trying to discover why a specific menu aimed at lamiae was still pulling data from a table full of options for centaur.  He had double-checked every place he knew to look, but the lingering misnamed reference he expected to be at fault had so far evaded him.  It was exasperating – the closer he drew to his project’s completion, the more roadblocks he stumbled into, until he felt like he might never get to the end of it.

     The stacked coffee cups at his table spoke to the hours he had spent at Flask’s that day.  Coming home from his morning classes, he had stayed at his apartment until Zander and Myrina had departed for Elm Ridge, and after a light lunch had spent the rest of the day at the coffee shop.  Honestly, with his friend gone, there wasn’t as much of a reason to linger at Flask’s; the apartment would be accommodating enough, and they had their own coffee pot, a fancy model that had been a gift from his parents.  He excused his presence, and the amount he had shelled out for beverages, by admitting to himself that he probably would have given up and taken a nap long before now if he were in his room.  Plus, the presence of other people kept him from screaming in incoherent frustration, or had done so thus far. And, luckily, it seemed that Lora had a light schedule on Tuesdays and Thursdays as well, since her shift had started before he had arrived.

     Tristan risked another glance over his shoulder.  This time, he blushed to discover that, in the lull between customers, Lora was looking in his direction, speaking quietly to the werecat barista.  He resisted the urge to whip back around out of bashfulness – ‘Play it cool, geez,’ – and instead let his eyes pan up to the menus on the wall… as if he ever got anything different from his usual hazelnut espresso.  After a sufficiently-camouflaging inspection, he let his gaze pan back down.  Lora had looked away, her cheeks warm for some reason, but Calypso was staring straight in his direction, her sharp teeth bared in a grin and her multi-colored tail flicking in a jerky dance behind her.  Swallowing, Tristan turned his gaze back to his computer, but a shadow at his other side startled him. 

      “Well, look who it is,” chuckled a warm, bold voice from above him, and Tristan looked up to see the familiar broad shoulders and charming smile of a classmate and acquaintance well on his way to becoming a friend.  Weston McConnell was another freshman at South-East Kentucky State, and this semester had shared the same composition class as Tristan.  On the first day they had chosen chairs next to each other, and after a few casual chats they had agreed to do each other’s peer reviews for the various papers they wrote.  Tristan felt there was little else he shared in common with the tall, handsome quarterback, but Weston seemed immune to the typical bad vibes most people got around him, and thus they had hit it off pretty well. “I had thought it was a little empty in here compared to the Flask’s on campus, but it looks like you’re keeping them in business just fine.” Weston’s charismatic grin was infectious, and Tristan chuckled as he added his latest drained cup onto the stack of its predecessors.

     “I just think of it as charity; it helps me to forget how expensive it is,” Tristan joked, motioning for his friend to have a seat.  Weston complied, and Tristan noted his hands were empty – he was waiting for his order, then. 

     “The prices are rough, yeah, but, ah…” Weston’s smile grew, and he subtly jerked his head in the direction of the sales counter. “You can’t beat the view, hmm?”  The twinkle in his eyes made it clear he had noticed Tristan looking at Lora.

     Tristan’s cheeks warmed, and he refused to glance in Lora’s direction. “I’m that obvious?”

     “That’s not always a bad thing,” Weston demurred. “And it’s not like you are the only one guilty of it…” He softly clapped Tristan’s shoulder, leaning closer. “Pretty sure she’s getting psyched up to come talk to you, from what I overheard.  You could beat her to the punch, approach her first…”

    Weston’s eyes widened as Tristan sighed. “That’s the problem.  We’ve both tried that.  It never ends well.” He shrugged, and Weston glanced back at the counter.

    “Still, it doesn’t look like she’s ready to give up,” Weston pointed out diplomatically. “Are you?”

    The question drew a frown from Tristan.  The answer was obvious, but at the same time, he was frustrated that he didn’t know what he could do about it.  He glanced at Weston, who was waiting for a response with a quirked eyebrow.  Sighing, Tristan decided to confide in the other man all that had happened, including the second incident here at Flask’s, which was decidedly similar to yesterday’s clothes-shedding disincorporation, except Tristan had been the one to go up to her.  Weston listened, nodding along thoughtfully, until Tristan finished his account with yesterday’s events.

     “Does she do that around anyone else?” Weston asked, glancing back in the direction of the counter.

     “Well, no, not that I’ve seen…”

     “That’s good news, right?” Weston’s beaming smile returned, and he met Tristan’s gaze. “Sounds like she gets nervous around you.” A quirked eyebrow suggested, but didn’t openly declare, that Weston knew the opposite was just as true. “So, if nervousness is to blame for making her go ‘poof,’ you just need to put her at ease.”

     “-Which is hard to do when she disappears as soon as I say anything,” Tristan rebutted wryly.

     “You just have to find the right way to do it,” Weston suggested, spreading his hands with a salesman’s confident grace. “Don’t let fear keep you doing the same thing over and over, think of a different strategy – it sounds like she is willing to keep making the effort, even when she has, ah, more to lose when it goes wrong.”

     “You make it sound so easy,” Tristan sighed, feeling himself being dragged along by the other’s optimism.  Still, despite himself, he felt a new determination kindling within himself, and he offered Weston a mock-glower. “You’re a pretty good hype man, you know that?”

     Weston’s rich chuckle rang through the store, and more than a few of the feminine patrons cast intrigued glances in their direction, eyes wandering over both of them. “I’m learning, I guess,” he admitted, with a shake of his head. “Maybe it’s just nice to actually get to try to help someone – I just came from a meeting downtown, and it was…” The quarterback’s smile dimmed. “Frustrating.  Like usual.”

     “You said, back in class, that you’ve been put on the board of your family’s mining company?  That your dad retired?” Tristan asked, and the glow faded further from Weston’s face, like the sun behind darkening clouds.  To Tristan, that seemed like an awful lot of responsibility for someone the same age as himself – and the same age as the drunken idiots he saw carousing across campus on certain nights – and it was clear that it was weighing heavily on the other teen.

     “Something like that,” Weston deflected. “My uncle and I are technically in charge now, but some of the old guard on the board are… stubborn.” He smiled still, but the set of his teeth made it almost a grimace. “We’re trying to take the company in a more positive direction, help out the people in our area while still growing the company, but not everyone has the same priorities.  They think ‘business as usual’ is set in stone.  My father just cared about the bloodline, and they only care about the bottom line.” Weston’s gaze fell to the side as his thoughts gripped at him, and Tristan’s eyes narrowed, recognizing a chance to return the favor for his friend’s encouragement.

     “Then I guess you’ll just have to convince them.  Ah… just line them out,” Tristan quipped, and Weston looked at him with amused incredulity.  Before the football player could call him out for downplaying the difficulty of such an act when he had just bemoaned only having to face his crush, Tristan’s grin stole Weston’s protest. “They think you have to act just like they want, but you get to choose, you know?  The decision isn’t made for you unless you let it be that way.” Tristan’s confidence, however, quavered slightly as a quiet part of him questioned his surety – after all, he was one to talk, since he had long directed the same sort of expectations at his own future. His indecision about his major was largely due to a similar presumption. “I mean, I shouldn’t speak for you-”

     “No.  You’re right,” Weston stated bluntly, nodding with such conviction that Tristan felt reassured by the simple fact his words had landed with such obvious effect. “I’ve made big decisions in the past and stood by them – and they cost me, but they were the right calls to make.  Even when things didn’t end up perfect, I regret making my own decisions a whole lot less than I do letting someone else do it for me – and I know this won’t be different.” Weston turned his smile back on to Tristan, his confidence repaired and gleaming. “Thanks, man.  I needed that.”

     “I should thank you,” Tristan replied. “You gave me just as much of a kick in the seat as I gave-”

     “Weston!  Mr. Weston!” yowled a saccharine voice from behind the pair.  They both glanced over at the counter to see the werecat barista holding a tray of drinks before her.  Despite her burden, there was something conspicuously awkward about the way she stood, with her weight on one leg so her hip canted high, and her breasts pressed forward against the uniform’s blue apron. “Your order’s ready…” The purr was drizzled with come-hither sweetness, and she directed a brilliant smile at Weston as he stood from his chair.

     Tristan, however, was distracted by the tray the barista held before her.  Weston’s order consisted of three drinks: two cups like his own, and a third, taller plastic cup that held a swirl of foamy colors, topped with dark sprinkles and curls of shaved chocolate.  Tristan glanced up at Weston, who blushed slightly. “I’m headed home, so I decided to get something for the girls, too,” he explained, before heading towards the werecat’s preening grin. “It’s been good seeing you, man!  I’ll catch up with you more next week in class.”  Offering his own farewell, Tristan then watched Weston walk away, mouthing the question, ‘Girls?’ before shrugging and turning back to his hunt for his misbehaving code.

     At the counter, Weston greeted the simpering werecat with a smile, and she brightly read his order back to him. “One plain black coffee grande, with a splash of cream and sugar.  One flat white ristretto, grande.  And the Bicorn’s Dark Kiss special, extra chocolate, extra shot of expresso, whole milk, extra caramel-” Her citrine eyes scanned over the paragraph-long list of alterations, widening slightly.

     “That’s it, thanks,” Weston coughed, still smiling even as his cheeks heated.  He pulled the flat white from the holder and took a sip, as if to proclaim that the sugar-dense drink that loomed over the others wasn’t meant for him.  He inclined his head towards the smirking werecat, starting to turn towards the door, before her low raspy words pulled him up short.

     “Ah, before you go, Mr. Weston, if you wouldn’t mind…” He paused, meeting Calypso’s gleaming eyes as her grin bared her fangs. “There’s a little thing you could help us with.” Weston didn’t miss the way her eyes flicked towards the table he had just left, and his own smile grew to match hers.

     It was quite some time after Weston left that Tristan stretched, his joints popping as he rolled his sore shoulders.  He had long found the lingering problem that had plagued him before, and was now polishing off a landing page for new visitors, eager to put the finishing touch on at least one part of the project.  Tearing his eyes from the screen, blinking tiredness away from his eyes, he burrowed a hand into his pocket, fishing for a jump drive he kept there.  He had used it to store visual elements he wanted for his site, rounded up during quiet downtime in another class, and now just needed to pull the files from the drive and store them in the right places in the project’s main folder.

     That was a task of only a few moments, and with a sigh, Tristan disengaged the jump drive and pulled it from his laptop, replacing its cap before dropping it next to his coffee cups.  His body still griped to him about stiffness, and his absent focus let his bladder remind him of another cost of downing so much caffeine, so he decided it was time to stretch his muscles for a short trip to the bathroom.  It was almost late enough to gather his things and head back to his empty apartment, anyways – the break would help him turn off the part of his brain that thought in code and instead let him slip back fully into the real world.  He stood from his chair, the seat squeaking against the tile, and rotated his waist slightly to and fro to shake off his aches before turning around to head for the corner of the Flask’s that held the short passage to its restrooms.

     And ran straight into a very soft obstruction, nearly bowling her over.

     Without thinking, Tristan reached out to take hold of her to make sure she didn’t fall backwards.  She was so close that his hand closed on her hip, the other catching her upper arm, and he looked down in shock into-

     Those eyes.  Shimmering, blue-green, cold but brilliant, a haze that burned and chilled at once.  They were open wide, staring at him as he held her, their bodies close.  He should have felt the chill in the air, but the warmth of her body somehow reached him through her clothes and thick apron, or maybe it was just his own embarrassment.  He couldn’t stop the idiot’s grin lifting one side of his mouth, or the glow in his cheeks, to see her right there in front of him, so close…

     And in that moment, color rushed into her face, and her mouth opened. “I wa-wa-…” she stammered, all but glowing red now, and he knew what was about to happen, holding even more tightly- but it was an effort bereft of hope, because, with a squeak like a tea kettle, she poofed from existence, the faintest mist the color of her eyes fading with ephemeral beauty as her clothing began to topple to the ground at his feet.  Her top and apron were still in his grasp, but slipped through after a second, pooling with the others.

     Tristan’s head sank, and he lowered his gaze, hoping not to see the various expressions of the loitering regulars around him.  He did catch, from the corner of his eyes, one pair of women exchanging money – a bet, if he had to guess, likely as to whether or not this would happen again this particular day.  His frustration simmered at the edges, but distraction stole that heat as he noticed something mingling with the heap of discarded apparel, a piece of stationary with Flask’s logo and coloration.  His brow furrowed, he stooped to displace some of the clothes entrapping the large card, but his hand paused as he felt a strap catch on the edge of the item.  This article of Lora’s attire had dropped at the same time as the card, unlike the outer layers he had been holding, and so he blushed as he realized he had accidentally pulled part of her bra from the tangle of clothes, white and lacy and expansive. ’Coffee doesn’t come in cups this big-’       

     “A-hem!” Guiltily, his cheeks crimson, he looked up in mortification at the supremely arched eyebrow of the calico barista, her paws crossed over her own blue apron as she eyed the hand that had tugged Lora’s bra free of the tangle.  Snatching the offending limb back as if scalded, Tristan stood from his kneel as Calypso lowered in his stead, claiming the card and, with a sweep of her furry foot, shoving Lora’s shed outfit behind her.  Once she, too, had stood, the citrine eyes of the werecat speared into Tristan’s own, and her professional smile returned to her lips – though there remained something predatory about that grin. “My apologies for the disruption, dear customer, but my colleague had been intending to speak to you about our membership discount program before she… “ Calypso paused, and Tristan nodded dumbly.  The werecat’s eyes drifted in the direction of the employees-only backrooms, and her smile sharpened further. “But since she cannot manage to do so, I will take this chance to ask if you would like to join our-”

     “I would love to,” Tristan hastily agreed, accepting the card from the werecat.  He imagined that Lora had also been carrying a pen for him to write with, but he had learned his lesson not to go pilfering through her unmentionables, and so he stared at the card while Calypso quickly pulled a marker from her own pocket.

     “This will work,” she suggested, and he accepted it, turning to step back to his table.  He leaned over the surface, quickly filling out the various entries.  He noticed, distantly, that Calypso lingered at his side, leaning forward to read over his shoulder as he raced through the pre-printed boxes – full name, address, email and phone, preferred type of drink- “Oh, and please, make sure to fill out the survey information on the back, also,” Calypso purred at his side.  He flipped the card, noticing that it did, indeed, have extra questions… which looked to have been added with the same marker he was currently writing with.

     Tristan’s eyes narrowed as he read over the perfunctory survey, frowning at the questions. ’Boxers or briefs?  Preference: breasts or butt?  Favorite type of lingerie?  Rough size of personal endowment?  What did that last one even mean?’ He glanced over at the werecat, noticing the bright smile and the way that her tail, furred in coffee and caramel, danced behind her. “Favorite position?” he asked aloud, incredulous.

     “It’s for market research,” she assured him, almost convincingly. “Feel free to write in ‘Other’ with a detailed explanation, or drawings, if you need.”

     “Right…” Tristan replied.  A few more answered questions, and he extended the card back towards Calypso. “That should be enough, I think.” His cheeks warmed as she accepted the card and shamelessly began to read over it, her eyes and smile widening. “Ah, if there’s nothing else,” he murmured, suddenly uncomfortable with the way the pink tip of her tongue emerged to dampen her lips.

     “What?  Oh, no, thank you – we’ll print you a membership card for the next time you come in,” she assured him, offering him a pearly, pointy smile. “Thank you for your time and patronage.” She inclined her head to him and turned, and then, somewhat needlessly to his reckoning, took her time in bending straight over to pick up Lora’s hastily-doffed clothing, scooping the pile into her arms as her tail waved tantalizingly around the scenery.  With her burden claimed, she walked back towards the counter, her hips swaying, and Tristan could only sigh and shake his head.

     A moment later, and he remembered why he had stood in the first place, making his way towards the restroom once more.  As he went, he glanced towards the backrooms of the store, wondering if Lora had reappeared, and if she would re-emerge before he left.  Guilt lanced him as he sympathized with how embarrassed she had to be about the whole thing, and his culpability in her misery made him decide it was time to head back to his empty apartment.  At least then she would be able to finish her shift in peace, and forget about her public humiliation at his hands.  His stomach twisted as he pushed open the bathroom door, his mood darkening.

     It was just his luck to be such an inconvenience to a girl he liked, he decided.  And it didn’t look like that luck was about to change any time soon.

 

******

 

     The apartment was dark and quiet as he unlocked the door, with the only sound being the faint susurrus of rain splattering in the stone-enclosed courtyard behind him.  The sky, early to slumber in the midst of December, had retired even earlier this night, exhausted by the bloated rainclouds that had weighted it down.  The unseasonable warm spell of the past week had been only bruised by a feeble cold front, and the rain was supposed to clear the very next day, but for now a miserable drizzle dampened the ground, the cars in the parking lot, and even Tristan’s shoulders through his thin jacket.                                                   

     He was glad for the succor of the apartment as the door closed behind him, though as he switched on the lights the kitchen felt hollow and still.  With Zander and Myrina gone, nothing had changed since he had left that morning.  Even the quiet rustle of his messenger bag landing on the counter felt like a shout in a tomb, and he was tempted to turn on the television just for background noise to cut the thickness in the air.  Shrugging, he chalked the feeling up to his own befouled mood, and shed his damp jacket, hanging it up on the hooks outside a pantry door.  The clothes beneath were chill and wet also, and so he decided to indulge in the luxury of a shower to warm his bones, hoping the heat would help him peel off his ill humor as well.

     In that regard, the shower failed, and when he flopped onto the couch in a tee-shirt and ball shorts, he could only tolerate the cacophony of the television for a few moments before switching it off irritably.  Instead, he leaned back against the pillows at the end – fighting to forget how many times he had caught Zander and Myrina making enthusiastic use of this very couch – and let his eyelids hang low.  His project was almost done, but that meant that it was almost time to move on from that pleasant dream, and despite Weston’s emboldening speech he had only managed to make things worse for Lora once more.  By now, she had to dread seeing him step into her store each time.  He suspected that the only balm for his wounded mood would be sleep, to take a reset and face things with a new start later – if that would even matter.  After all… sleep didn’t change his luck.  Nothing would, nothing ever had.

     Maybe dying as a kid had used it all up.  Maybe this was just his fate, for getting to live when he shouldn’t have, when he should have died at the bottom of that hill.

    The caffeine he had overindulged in took its toll, collecting its interest in exhaustion as he fought to think about anything else, to leave his mind in a better place, but… he fell into sleep like he had fallen so long ago, and there was nothing to catch him but the bottom.

 

******

 

     The fall, back then, had passed in an instant.  Now, it lasted for an eternity.

     Trees and rocks and mud flashed past him, too far to grab, too far to even reach for.  He was so small, and the mountain racing by so big, and every instant that passed meant that… that it was going to hurt.  The bottom was coming, though he couldn’t see it, couldn’t turn to look, but it was there, and when he reached it-

     The pain had been awful, but this would be worse.  But worse even than that was the shadow beside him, the red eyes flying at his side, the form cloaked in darkness that flapped in the racing wind.

     “You know what’s down there,” her voice cajoled, warm like rot, sharp like teeth. “Isn’t it a better fate to be mine?  To join my pretty little flock…”

     The sky was dark with ravens’ feathers, and they came for him, eager to feast, to pick at his body like he had seen them do to the dead things on the road.  He would look like that, red and flat and reeking.  He would be dead, and it would hurt.

     Her red eyes hooked his, like talons, as she soared at his side. “We’re almost there… maybe it’s too late…” Her teeth were white, and she leaned close as he braced for the pain. “Such a terrible shame, for such a sweet morsel to end up like this…” And she laughed, laughed, and he wanted to cry-

     He had known it would hurt, but it was worse than he could have imagined.

 

******

 

      Tristan awoke with a gasp, his chest heaving for breath.  He stared around the living room, confused and lost, uncertain how he had gotten there and why the apartment was quiet.  That, at least, was only partially true, as the sound that had ripped him from his slumber came once more – a tentative, soft knocking at the front door.  His racing heart stuttered at the rapping, and he looked around the room as if something was about to pounce upon him, unable to quell the fear that had him in its jaws.  He sat stone-still for a long moment, afraid of the silence, afraid that the tapping would come once more, afraid of the laughter he could still hear.

     The knocking didn’t come again, and as his logic fought to reclaim the reins once more Tristan rose from the couch, stumbling his way towards the front door.  A glance at a clock on the wall showed that it was after nine in the evening; not nearly as late as he had thought, but still deep in the evening for any kind of visitor.  He reached the door and paused, gripping the handle, but too cautious to turn it, too aware of his trembling nerves.  He swallowed, and pressed his eye to the peephole, searching into the dimly-lit courtyard beyond-

     It was a shadow, deep and cold, lurking just beyond the door, waiting for him.

     His heart slammed into the cage of his ribs as if fighting to escape, and he leaned against the wall by the door, eyes wide as he tried to make sense of what was happening.  His dream still clutched to him, a residue of sleep that clouded his wits, but he knew what he had seen out there, and the real world and the one he had just escaped were blending in a way that made him swallow through a throat too tight by far. ‘Is it her?  Has she come for me?’ 

     The knock came again, right there, separated from him only by the width of the door, and he stared at the blank face of the portal with absolute dread.

     He didn’t know where the courage came from.  Perhaps it was fatalism, or a lingering boldness from his friend, but he forced himself to thumb the bolt and turn the lock, before reaching down to grasp the handle.  Even then he paused, taking a final breath, before opening the door to face the darkness beyond.

     Blue-green eyes stared up at him, surprised into stillness like a deer in headlights, and Tristan looked down at Lora Mallory with his own shock clear on his expression.  Lora was under the open sky in the midst of leaving, her resolve having departed with that final knock, but the suddenness of the door opening seized her motion, leaving her a snapshot of surrender.  She had changed out of her apron, but still had on the clothes she had worn under it, having obviously just come from her shift, though rain now dampened the garments.  Seeing her at his doorstep befuddled Tristan – how had she known where he lived? – until he remembered the card he had filled out earlier in the day for Calypso.  Had that been a scheme for just this moment?

     “I- I-” Lora stammered, tearing her eyes from his face, fighting to avoid a repeat of the day’s earlier failure.  Her valiant efforts, however, ran into a wall – specifically, the flat plane of Tristan’s chest, quite visible through the thin tee he wore.  Her shimmering eyes fought for refuge, but every destination – his sleep-mussed hair, his growing smile, his bared arms – only made her growing blush deepen. “I-!” she proclaimed resolutely, a final plea, and he reached for her, fighting to take hold of her as if that would keep her from vanishing – too late.

     Tristan sighed as Lora’s clothing slumped into the puddles in the courtyard, rain quickly seeping through the garments.

     ‘Just my luck-’ Tristan began to think, but his jaw set.  He stared at the dampening clothes, his spine stiffening and his muscles tensing.  For just a moment, he thought back to Weston, to the other man’s confidence, and the question his friend had asked rang through Tristan’s mind.

     “Still, it doesn’t look like she’s ready to give up.  Are you?”

     Tristan gathered his willpower, and nodded to himself. “Look,” he said to the empty air. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I can’t let you stay out here.  Your clothes are soaked, and you have to be freezing – and when you reappear, I don’t want you to be outside.  I’m going to open the doors to my bathroom, and start a warm shower.  I’ll go into the living room and leave you alone after I get you something to change into and set you out a towel, okay?  Oh, and after I throw your clothes into the dryer.” There was no answer, of course, but Tristan had to take it on faith she had heard him, or at least could see what he did next.

     He paused only to scoop up her clothing from the puddles seeping into them.  His foot struck something that skittered away, and he glanced at it to realize it was a small jump drive – a familiar one at that.  Realization struck him a moment later – he had left this at Flask’s, the jump drive that contained the graphic elements he had gathered, and Lora had come here to bring it to him.  She could have just given it to him the next time he came in, of course, which made it feel somewhat like an excuse, but… the kindness of the gesture hardened his resolve.  He pocketed the drive and resumed gathering her clothes, taking special care to bundle her undergarments in the midst of the rest to spare her further embarrassment.

     With new determination, Tristan stepped back into his apartment, but he left the door open for the ghost lingering in the darkness outside, welcoming her into the light.

 

Possession

     The bathroom quickly filled with steam as Tristan rummaged through the cabinet that held the towels, searching for the plush nicer ones his mother had given him that he never bothered to use.  Finally pulling it free, he folded it and set it atop the sink’s counter, right next to the hoodie and sweats that he had pulled out of his bedroom.  The items would be huge on Lora, he knew, but he lacked for better options.  He had considered checking Zander’s room for some of the clothes Myrina left at their place, but the thought of Lora in the abbreviated attire of the Amazoness was enough to make him think he might disappear from overstimulation.  He also had no real solution for her soaked undergarments, which still waited in the laundry room to be thrown into the dryer, so he left a pair of his boxers as a potentially insufficient momentary replacement.  

     Somewhat assured he had left her all that she would need, Tristan turned to leave the bathroom, but paused as he saw movement in the mist.  For a second, he could make out a curvy form in the displaced air, but tore his eyes away, looking towards the door to spare her the embarrassment of him gawking at her incorporeal form. “I think that should be everything,” he said. “I’ll be in the living room after I throw your things in the dryer, so just come out when you’re finished, okay?” There was no response, but Tristan supposed she would understand enough, and so he turned and left, closing the bathroom door behind him.  He knew that he was also leaving her open access to his bedroom, but had nothing to hide from her there, and left it behind as well.

     He slipped into the laundry room, opening the dryer and reaching for her pile of dripping clothing.  Despite his earlier lesson in circumspection, he still had to rifle through her belongings enough to empty her pockets, not wanting anything valuable to go through the dryer.  He pulled from her pockets her pocketbook, keys, loose cash he assumed was tips from her job – and, folded neatly, the card he had filled out earlier, confirming his suspicions.  Glancing at it, he wondered briefly how much this encounter had been planned… though almost certainly not by Lora herself.  No, the more likely culprit was Calypso, or maybe even Weston.  Chuckling, Tristan deposited her belongings into a basket nearby, before tossing her clothes into the dryer and starting the cycle.

     He retreated to the living room as promised.  Still, even in those familiar confines, he couldn’t relax.  He was deeply aware of the fact that the girl he had been so drawn towards was now naked in his shower, and that they were alone for at least as long as it would take for her clothes to dry.  His heart pounding for an entirely different reason than before, he paced back and forth, trying to force himself to calm down.  It was as he was straightening a picture on the wall, him and Zander at Lazer Tag five years ago, for the third time that the soft, now-familiar knock rang through the room, and his ceaseless motion died instantly as he froze in place, heart leaping into his throat.  

     Slowly, as if afraid of spooking her yet again, Tristan opened the door leading into his own bedroom.  There Lora stood, his hoodie hanging loosely enough on her that much of a pale shoulder was exposed.  She didn’t meet his gaze, staring glumly at the floor, a look of self-reproach obvious on her tight lips.  Tristan didn’t speak, afraid of breaking the spell, certain he would make her vanish once more, and thus they stood in sullen silence for a long moment.

     He had to try.  He had to do something – she had tried, after all, and it was his turn.  Absurdly, an idea came to his mind, and he chuckled, drawing her hesitant gaze up towards his face. “It’s alright if you’re sick of it,” he commented, “but in case you’re still cold… could I offer you a cup of coffee?”

     She gawped up at him, blinking, surprised by the reversal of roles, and the first hint of a smile ghosted across her soft lips. “Sure,” she said, softly, a warmth spread through Tristan’s chest that had nothing to do with embarrassment.

     Minutes later, Lora sat on the couch in the living room as he stood in the kitchen, his mind racing.  He didn’t know what to say to her, where to begin, but as the coffee pot gurgled and drained rich, steaming liquid into the deep mug he had chosen from the cupboard, he resolved that he had to seize this opportunity.  Gathering the creamer and sugar, he soon entered the living room, finding Lora looking around with quiet curiosity, sitting at one end of the couch.  Tristan’s eyes fell on the chair nearby, but his courage pressed him onward, and after he placed the mug he took a seat on the other end of the couch, not quite looking at her as she leaned forward to take up the creamer.  She, too, focused on modifying the brew until she was content, and lifted it towards her lips, her breath gusting specters of steam as she cooled the seething coffee.  Perhaps it was the chill around her that brought its temperature down, but in just a moment she brought the mug the rest of the way, taking a long draught before sighing in contentment.

     The quiet that settled between them was much less fraught, and Tristan relaxed as she took several more long sips.  He didn’t rush her, content to wait as long as it took for her to feel comfortable enough to talk.  She didn’t look in his direction, but he could see that tension was gradually bleeding from her, thawed by the heat of the beverage.  When she placed the empty cup back down, he began to stand, reaching forward to claim the cup to make more, but she raised her hand slightly, forestalling his effort.  He waited, not moving, as she took another deep breath, and a thrill raced up his spine as she turned to look directly at him.

     “I’m sorry,” she began, and shook her head as he began to protest. “I… I know it has to be a hassle, that this happens every time-”

     “It isn’t – not for me,” Tristan insisted.  Her downfallen eyes rose to look at him once more. “I’m the one who should be apologizing.  I come into the place where you work, and make you disappear just because-”

     “It isn’t your fault,” Lora cut him off, frowning in self-reproach. “I… I thought I was past this.” Tristan didn’t reply, waiting to listen as her thoughts turned inward.  She took a moment before she looked back in his direction, a slight frown pursing her lips. “This all started when I was a kid.  I’m technically a ghost, but as a monster, it’s not like what people in your world imagined – or, at least, not for me, because I’m descended from a long line of ghosts.  I never died or anything; my mom was like me, and hers, back to the old world – my ancestor was a spirit of a deceased girl, but she was blessed by our goddess of death, and was able to have children with her lover.  I guess I’m just like any other girl, except… well, you know.” Tristan nodded silently, giving her space to continue. “Plus, apparently I can come across as kind of spooky,  especially if you see me out of the corner of your eye, or in a mirror, or something.” Or a peephole, Tristan realized with a start, understanding the shadow on the other side of his door.  “But… when I was a kid, before I had ever really shown any kind of powers, my friends teased me about a boy.  They said that I had a crush on him.”

     “Did you?” Tristan asked.  Lora glanced at him, eyebrow raising at his cheeky smile.

     “Maybe just a little.  But not after what came next.” She sighed, pausing. “They kept pestering me about it, and then he overheard, and… I got really embarrassed.  That was the first time I disincorporated.” Her face fell into a sullen stare as she lost herself in the memories. “It didn’t help that they decided to run away with my clothes and hide them.” She glanced over at Tristan, and giggled slightly at his horror-struck expression. “I got over that crush real quick when he ran around showing everyone my polka-dot panties.”

     “Cute.” His grin disarmed her mock scowl, and she shook her head in exasperation.

     “The problem was that, after that happened, everyone knew that I went ‘poof’ if I got embarrassed or startled, so…” She shrugged, her smile a bit brittle. “It turned into a game for a lot of them.  So they scared me every chance they got.  You could call it bullying, I guess, but… well, eventually it stopped working, and they moved on.  I hadn’t vanished in years when I came up here…” She trailed off, her cheeks warming at the subtle implication in her words.

     “Should I apologize for causing it to start happening again?” Lora looked at Tristan, surprised to find confirmation in his expression that the question was genuine.  He met her gaze solidly, and after a moment she shook her head.

     “No… this is different,” she said, closer to a whisper. “You don’t mean to do this, it’s just something wrong with me.”

     “I don’t think that.” Again, her dropped gaze was pulled back to him, and his smile was gentle. “It’s just how you are.  And that’s okay.  Look, we’re talking now, right?” She nodded, and something in his expression made her turn more in his direction. “And… that’s what I wanted.  That’s why I’ve been going to Flask’s so often.” She blinked at that, surprised by his candor, and he pressed onward. “If it’s being embarrassed that makes you vanish, then we just need to get used to talking, so you don’t get nervous when we do.” A dangerous level of heat crept into her cheeks, but she managed to hold on, only barely wavering into translucence. His voice lowered, gentle and warm, and that helped her hold on. “And if you disappear again… I’ll just wait until you come back.  Until we can get this sorted out.” She came desperately close to vanishing again, but with a deep breath and a surge of will she kept her corporality, though it was a moment before she could meet his gaze once more.

     “Th-thank you,” she murmured, staring down at the empty coffee cup. “I… wanted to talk to you before.  In class.  But I never could muster the courage.  Callie helped me – she thought it would be easier in a different setting, so she left that flyer for you at your seat in the hopes you would come by the store.” Tristan nodded, prior suspicions confirmed. “But then, when you showed up… I was so happy, but I still…” She slumped, and he nodded slowly.

     Tristan paused, not certain where to go from here.  He didn’t want to push her too hard, but this conversation told him clearly enough that they both wanted the same thing.  It would be easy enough to keep things casual, to not risk her vanishing once more, but at the same time, this was his chance to change the status quo.  Fighting to muster his courage, he stood, stooping to take up her empty cup, but she rose from the couch as well. “No, please, you’ve helped so much already, let me wash this-”

     “I…” Tristan started, and the tension in his voice made her pause, looking at him closely. “I wanted to talk to you, because… I wanted to ask you out.” The blunt confession brought a surge of heat to her cheeks, but she didn’t fade from view – shock kept the embarrassment at bay.  Instead, she stared at him, as if to read the honesty of his words, but his lopsided grin gradually confirmed the truth.  Her mouth gaped in surprise, and for a moment he felt a twisting pain in his gut, a sharp fear of rejection, but-

    “Yes!” she exploded, and he blinked as she launched at him, grabbing him in an impetuous hug, one that he had no option but to return just as enthusiastically.  He grinned as he felt her pressing her face against his chest, hiding her beaming smile against his skin. “I had hoped – I mean, I wanted, well, you know, but-” She looked up at him, and her tumbling words stilled, her smile fading as their eyes locked, the joy of the moment becoming something much more potent.  Months of longing had been pent up by impossibility, but in this moment, the gates had been thrown open, and unbridled hope opened up before them, threatening to swallow them both. 

     Tristan knew, deep down, the meaning of what he did next.  He knew how monsters worked – what mana was, and imprinting, and all the usual things that meant.  He knew that the responsible thing to do was take things slow, make sure everything was right for them both.  He knew the possible consequences of moving too fast.  He knew… but his feelings were too much, too hot and too eager to be able to stop, and so he leaned down and forward, tilting his head as he came.  She watched him, her eyes widening, but she didn’t stop him – she met him partway.

     It was a first kiss for them both, but that didn’t dampen the passion or pleasure of the moment.  Tristan clutched her even more tightly to him, and from the soft sounds she made into his lips Lora was every bit as hungry for this as he.  Her arms raised to encircle his neck, while his own kept their bodies pressed together, and for long minutes the world around them ceased to exist as the only thing that mattered was the touch of lips and bodies.  

     When they broke apart with mutual gasps, Tristan smiled drunkenly down at her, noticing the heat in her cheeks. “Well, you’ve not vanished yet, so I think we’re making progress.” 

     She raised a dark eyebrow at his cheeky confidence. “I like the sound of progress.” There was a challenge in her shimmering eyes, a gleaming hunger, that sent a chill howling down his spine, and he began to realize just how deep he had gotten himself into.  That should have scared him, or at least made him nervous, but instead it made him want more… to see how far they would go. 

     His throat was tight, but he still sounded reasonably bold, at least to himself. “Me too.” Their gazes were locked with irresistible gravity, bodies tensed at the brink of action, held at bay by that silent question: how hot could they let their flames burn without scaring the other?  The hunger of his smile, the way her fingers rose to tangle in his hair, the subtle ways their bodies pressed ever closer; all were the unspoken answer, the permission they needed to indulge their unleashed need.  And, when they closed that gap once more, clashing lips and tongues in a greedy fervor to claim and possess everything that they had wanted for months, that heat built with shockingly-scant restraint.  Her fingers tightened at the nape of his neck, trapping his lips with hers, while his hands wandered her back, tracing the lines of her body like a conquering explorer, mapping out boundaries he had every intention of crossing soon and sooner.  She encouraged that territorialness, moaning into his mouth and pressing harder against him, guiding him to transgress as his fingertips wandered over the boundary of the top of her khaki pants or meandered around the curve of her torso, drawing closer to her front.                               

     When they broke apart with mutual gasps, chests heaving as they sucked in air, their eyes locked instead of their lips.  Hers flared with spectral incandescence, gleaming like an aurora in the frigid heavens, and she smiled broadly at the naked desire on his face. “That was better than I imagined,” she admitted softly, her tongue tracing her lips as if to spur him to dive in once more.

     His smirk only added fuel to her fire. “So.  How much have you been imagining, hmm?” Her eyes widened at the audacious taunt in his gaze, and her grin turned devious.

     “Would you like for me to show you?” she whispered, head tilting to the side as she swayed gently against him. “I’ve got a really good imagination…”

     He swallowed, trembling with crumbling restraint. “Oh, God, yes.” And there, between them, was the last feeble gate before consummation, a final hesitation before they gave in utterly.  They had spent so long wanting this, and even knowing that the other probably did too, but to now be given permission to indulge was too much to fend off, and they searched each other for this final confirmation that they could, truly, have everything they wanted.  Tristan cleared his throat, feeling heat in his skin spread from his cheeks down his neck, and inclined his head towards the nearby hall. “But, if you would prefer, my room might be a little more comfortable-”

     That, it seemed, was permission enough.  Lora lunged into another kiss, and now her hands wandered, too, squeezing the hard planes of his back, his arms, the curve of his head – everything she could touch.  And he touched plenty, too, and when his hand intruded between them, feeling the slight swell of her ribs, she turned just enough to give him better access.  She mewled into his mouth as he pressed the yielding flesh of her breast, but the thick fabric of the hoodie frustrated her, and her hand gripped his wrist to encourage it to dive back down, and under the bottom of the baggy garment, letting it rise freely within to slide over her warm skin and retrace its journey heavenward.  This time, his fingers sank deep into impossible softness, and she panted with need as she broke from the kiss, watching the naked wonder on his face as he cupped and squeezed her, his thumb teasing her nipple as she drank in his reactions like she had been dying of thirst.  The lust in his eyes wasn’t enough to quench that, not yet, and she tugged him in the direction of his bedroom, eager to accept his invitation.

     That journey was not a direct one, as they kept pausing to clash in increasingly hungry embraces.  She turned to lead him, but he came from behind, pulling her back against his chest as his lips and teeth lowered to taste the skin of her pale neck, and she quivered, desperate for everything and desperate for just this right now, at the same time, while he breathed deep of the scent of her shampoo, roses and jasmine.  Finally they burst into his room, and he closed the door out of habit, giving her a chance to step closer to the bed, her heart drumming at her chest as she imagined what would come next.

    He had ideas of his own. “Just for efficiency’s sake,” he suggested, a teasing lilt in his voice as he drew nearer, “if I embarrassed you just a little-”

    She turned back, smirking defiantly in his direction. “Then you wouldn’t have the pleasure of taking it off yourself.” That dare sharpened his grin, and he rose to that challenge, reaching for the bottom of her borrowed hoodie.  She let him, watching his face intently, even as his eyes wandered – watched the growing expanse of bared skin, and as the garment passed over her head she ripped it off, throwing it callously to the side, not wanting to miss a moment of his reaction.  Her eagerness was well-repaid, as he stared at her bare chest with wonder, like a man seeing the greatest work of art he will ever witness.  He was dumbfounded, and her smile spread at his obvious desire, gratified and hungry for more.  Her hands wandered her own form, leashing his eyes and bringing them along for the journey, before releasing them of their own recognizance as she stepped closer, reaching out to grasp his shirt in turn.  This garment, too, cartwheeled across the room, and her cheeks glowed with heat as she read the muscles of his chest, his neck, and lower, trembling with want.

     They collided in another kiss, but, even as their tongues tangled, his hands were at work.  The waist of the sweats were only loosely bound, and she let them slide down her hips, stepping out of them and kicking them to the side without breaking the embrace.  His hands found that she hadn’t bothered with the boxers, and she gasped into his mouth as his brash hand cupped one of her lower cheeks, pulling her tight against him.  That press advertised what was growing between them, a hardness that made her reach instantly for his waistband, and she tugged downward, ripping the obstruction free, though it hung for a moment on the object of her intense desire.

     And so they were bare, and panting – and very, very ready.  They broke apart to inspect, to gulp up the sight of pale flesh in the bedroom’s low light, and to read each other’s gaze.  This had gone faster than their most fevered fantasies, but what did that matter in the face of such wonder?  It was enough to see the mutual lust in the eyes of the one they had craved.  It was enough that, when they stepped to close the distance, they stepped together.  When they pressed, and touched, and breathed in the smell of need, that it was decidedly mutual, and that gave them all the permission they needed to be drawn in by the bed’s gravity.  

     They touched down in a sprawl, but pulled each other closer, scooting their bodies till all touched that they could manage at this moment.  Given absolute freedom, their hands danced over each other’s bodies, cupping and squeezing, rubbing and gripping, and the room filled with soft sighs and needy groans.  He rolled her onto her back with gentle pressure, and his lips descended onto her breast, kissing with maddening randomness, before ascending to taste the peak with heated tongue swirling around that hardened nipple.  His tight sucking made her moan, and she reached down to feel his hardness, her fingers circling the shaft and clutching, marveling at the weight in her palm.  

     There was a warning in his eyes when he looked at her next, a declaration that he was dangerously out of restraint.  She paused only to savor that caring, if unnecessary, gesture – to appreciate that he was trying to protect her from the very thing she wanted most.  And, with that done, it was her turn to push him onto his back, and she eclipsed the overhead light as she climbed astride him, straddling his hips just below the object of her intent.  He stared up at her in shock and wonder, his eyes caressing the curves of her body just as ardently as his hands had, and she looked at him with a coy question, her thumbs ghosting along his upper thighs, so close to the aching heart of his heat and need. “Do you need me to, to get you ready, to-?” he started, but she shook her head.  Somehow, she knew she was ready enough, at least to muddle her way through it, but she wasn’t patient enough for anything else.  She wanted this, more than anything she could think of, and his hasty nod and the way he gripped her told her that he was just as needy, just as ready.

     “Slow, now,” he cautioned her, as she guided him to her entrance.  He did everything he could to support her, to bolster the weight of her torso as she experimentally slipped him inside, pressing down with a sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of her lungs.  She took him deeper and deeper, and he felt like he was melting into her body – as chill as her skin felt, her core was impossibly hot, and wet, and gripping, and every bit further only made heaven sweeter than before.  She was louder than he could have dreamt, and he was glad that Myrina and Zander were gone – though it would have served them right.  Finally, she sank to the bottom, panting with effort and sensation, and sat there a long moment as they both luxuriated in the intense pleasure and – a perfect instant, a taste of purpose fulfilled – the feeling of being entirely complete with each other.  Their eyes opened and met, a touch as intense as any kiss, and they didn’t look away as she began to move, as he began to grind upward to accentuate her burgeoning pace.

     It wasn’t perfect – far from it.  She slipped, or hit the angle wrong, or had to pause to collect herself.  They sampled paces, and angles, and ways to move with and against each other.  It was raw experimentation, but it was sweet and heady, and their cooperation made it as sensual as anything else.  When she found a good rhythm, he pleasured her further by teasing her breasts, twisting and tugging and squeezing; when she leaned forward to rest, his lips captured hers as his fingers slipped down between them.  His hips thrust upward into her, and she helped guide his plunges, gulping up his groans at the way she wrung at him.  But, through it all, they were together, mingled in body and spirit, and their pathetic neediness and desperate hunger was bared open without fear, because they had nothing left to hide.

     Finally, exhausted from the newness of it, Lora sank down onto his chest, panting but quivering with building need.  Knowing it was his turn, he helped her dismount, and then took his place atop her as she spread her legs open wide for him, eager to embrace him once more, to be done with this sudden disappointing hollowness.  When he sank back inside of her, slipping down to the hilt, they both sang out gutterally, and their pleasure-drunk gazes spoke of their joy as his hips began their greedy work.  Freed from her previous pleasant efforts, Lora let herself sink back into the bed, driven deeper by his thrusts, and spoke into the dim light how wonderful this felt – encouraging, pleading, confessing.

     Tristan growled deep in his throat as he worked, feeling pressure building within him.  They had been at it for a while, and as he learned his own motions, the pleasure was growing exponentially.  She could see it, but the ragged, trembling sound of her voice let him know he wasn’t alone in this out-of-control spiral towards release.  He met her gaze, meaning to ask – but the way her legs folding around his hips answered preemptively for him, and her eyes revealed her desperate need.  Swallowing, he nodded, and let himself plummet, the swelling heat surging towards the point of no return.

     The joy built too fast, too hard, for her to control.  Her cheeks reddened at the sheer, overwhelming power of the sensation – and she began to shimmer, gleaming with azure-green mist, at the brink of disincorporating from the potency of the pleasure.  She tilted her head back, torn between panicked despair and frantic need, but he didn’t stop.  Instead, he gripped her upper arms, staring into her eyes. “You’re not going anywhere,” he demanded raspily, and the iron of his gaze bound her to the bed, to the feeling of his body arching into hers, and the fading stopped, leaving her trapped without escape from the irrepressible rapture of his body crashing into hers. 

     He was the first to go, but only by a moment.  Perhaps it was even his choked cry that sent her over the edge, the way his eyes screwed shut and he gasped in wordless climax, but it was enough to shove her over her own brink.  Her full-throated voice filled the room – he would wonder later if she might be part banshee – and her whole body clutched him relentlessly, eager to press him forever deeper, to possess him utterly as he throbbed in her depths. “So… hot…” she finally managed, her chest heaving against his, but her insides still wrung at him, as if desperate to drink every bit of warmth from him, every bit of precious life.  He stared at her in wonder, brushing a bit of sweat-damp raven hair away from those captivating eyes.  She smiled in response, unspeakably happy, not ready to release him yet, or ever, and he let himself sink down atop her, letting her bear part of his weight as he gasped for breath.

That moment of satisfaction didn’t last forever, but it was enough for now.

     It was a while later that they settled in bed together, their still-naked bodies pressed tightly.  The logistics of the matter had been quick to decide – it was dark and late, so it would be easier for her to just stay the night with him, especially with his roommate gone (that detail had brought a blush to both their cheeks, for the ample possibilities for further rounds at what they had just finished).  He had plenty of feijoada in the fridge if she got hungry, and she hadn’t had it before, so she accepted the offer of eating dinner with him – later.  For now, all that mattered was cuddling, the feeling of closeness after finally having answered the need they had been struggling with for so long.  She rested her head contentedly on his shoulder, and he idly stroked her hair, relaxing at a bone-deep level he had never experienced.  This completeness was enough to buoy them in the dim silence, leaving them adrift in heaven, sated beyond thought.

     She was the one to break the stillness, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want,” she muttered softly, her eyes staring at his sternum from inches away, “but… where did you get that mark?”

     Cold poured down his spine, and he looked at her in alarmed confusion. “What mark?”

     She met his gaze, and frowned.  Her fingers touched the center of his chest, and she concentrated.  To his shock, a green light began to appear, a thorned sigil weaving across his skin- not the natural hues of her eyes, but something darker, even more familiar.  He had seen that light in his dreams for years, and the sight of it here nearly stopped his heart.

     “It’s… the Witch of the Woods,” he mumbled, and she met his eyes with alarm, hearing the fear in his voice.  She paused to let him find his words, and he finally pressed on. “There was this accident, when I was a kid…”

     After a moment, she nodded, filling the gap for him. “I read something about it.  You fell off a cliff, right?” He glanced at her, surprised, and she blushed, realizing her mistake. “I might have… looked you up on social media.  And stuff.” She glanced over at the picture on his dresser that he had left her alone with earlier.  He chuckled at that, and she thumped his chest, embarrassed. “I heard that they said you should have died-”

    “I did.” The blunt declaration brought her gaze back to his clouded face. “I did die.” He sighed, looking away. “My parents never believed me – they thought it was a miracle.  And I let myself believe that too, that I was meant for something more.  I’ve always tried to live up to that.  Because I had to be alive for some reason, some… bigger fate.”

     Lora was quiet for a moment.  When she spoke, it was into the skin of his chest, not far from the fading mark. “We monsters – at least those of us connected to death, like ghosts and zombies and stuff – we believe that death is freedom from fate, not a sign of it.” He looked at her, shocked, and she shrugged. “My ancestor always said that fate is for the living – that our ties to death free us from destiny, and let us be whoever we want to be.  We’re exceptions at the edge of the cycle, and so we get to decide for ourselves.”

     The words resonated within Tristan, and he remembered what he had told Weston earlier that very day.  It was a completely foreign idea, but… an intoxicating one.  Memories of the frustration and joy he had felt working on his project, when he had first chosen his major for himself, hovered at the edge of his mind, almost ready for him to face them.  If he didn’t have to be some great person, if he wasn’t meant for some incredible fate, then what was he?

     Maybe just… himself.  Maybe that was even better.

     A smile spread across his face, but it fell as he noticed the last shimmers of the green light on his chest.  Taking a breath, he continued. “When I woke up after the fall, I saw this… woman.  My parents said I was making it all up, but…” He looked down, and from the seriousness of Lora’s gaze he could tell she believed him. “She was there, beside me.  I only vaguely remember the things she said, but… she scared me.” His throat clenched, stealing his words for a moment, but he rallied his will. “I remember things going dark when she touched me, and then… everything hurt so much.”

     Lora listened, as still as the dead, as he told her everything he could remember – the taunting sound of her voice, the way her face looked like a skull to him, her red eyes and tall black hat, the cold chill he remembered feeling.  When he finished, they sat in silence for a long moment, and a flicked glance showed Tristan that she was lost in thought, her eyes unfocused as she considered his words closely.

     “I… I’m not sure,” she said, quietly, “but I think I know the person you are talking about.” He looked at her with wide eyes, and she met his gaze with cautious contemplation. “I’ve never met her before, but she’s… pretty famous, actually.” He nodded, and she eventually continued. “But… the thing is… she’s not a bad person.”

     At this, his brow furrowed, but Lora pressed on. “Oh, she’s sinister and creepy, from what I hear.  That’s not really a surprise, considering.  But, in actuality – she’s a protector of us monsters, specifically the ones who are dead, or connected to death, like me.” She glanced to the side with a bit of heat in her cheeks. “We’re… cousins, a few times removed, something like that – I think.” It felt like she was trying to keep the claim from being a boast, despite his faint alarm as he looked down at her.  When her gaze returned to his face, her smile was reassuring. “I can’t really tell you what happened that day, but… I can tell you about that mark.”

     Tristan stared at her for a long moment.  He felt like he stood at the edge of that cliff, vertigo making his head swim – revelation was at the bottom, but maybe pain, or maybe something that would change who he was, what he was supposed to be.  It was terrifying.  Still… “Tell me,” he croaked, his hand squeezing her shoulder as if in a silent plea for comfort, and she pressed closer to him, holding him just as tightly.

     “It’s a necromantic mark.” The weight of the words landed on his chest, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe once more. “It can be used to bring women who have died back to life as monsters, if their bodies are still reasonably whole, but… it can’t draw in a man’s soul the same way.  Your mana is really different, and so it takes magic that we don’t have access to here.  Once your soul leaves, there is nothing that can be done, as far as we know now…”

     Chill certainty gripped Tristan. “But, if I was just at the brink of dying…”

     Lora nodded against his chest. “It could maybe keep you from it, yes.  As long as your soul didn’t slip away first.”

     Tristan felt all but buried under the weight of that revelation.  Had… had the woman he had spent years terrified of, the boogeyman lurking at the edge of every copse and patch of forest, the black heart of his nightmares, actually been… saving him?  Was she the reason why he was alive, was the ‘miracle’ his parents believed in, was still in one piece all these years later?  Had it all just been a mistake of his confused, pained interpretation; the work of a dying child’s dark imagination?

     “If monsters have ever said anything about you smelling weird, this mark would do that,” Lora continued. “I noticed it when I first met you, but… to us ghosts and other sorts, it’s not such a bad thing.  It smells… kind of nice, actually.” He blushed at that, or perhaps the way she nuzzled his chest. “Like you’re someone I can trust.”

     He looked down at her dark hair, and let his fingers comb through it, as his brain labored to digest what he had just been told.  This shattered everything he had believed, everything his parents had drummed into him ever since that day he had fallen.  It meant that he was no ‘miracle,’ carried no great destiny – meant he was just a dumb kid who had been saved by chance.  All of his bad luck had just been in his own head, the whole time.  He wasn’t meant to save the world or cure cancer or anything like that.

     But…

     Was that such a bad thing?

     A new sensation began to build within him, wild and electric.  He didn’t know if it was hope, or freedom, or just a very strange sort of manic giddiness, but he was carried up by it nonetheless.  He was free.  Free to do what he wanted – and to face what came from that, good and bad.  He could be what he wanted to be.  He could fail, and try again.  He was no different from anyone else, and that was… great.  Because that meant he could be himself, first and foremost, and the sheer liberty of that idea burst from him in a strange laugh that made Lora look up at him with a questioning gaze.

     And he smiled down at her, because he chose to.  Because, in this moment, he chose to be… here, to be her boyfriend and lover, and he chose to be happy, because he was the luckiest man in the world.  He didn’t say anything.  He just leaned down to kiss her, and the joy in his heart sang to her through that kiss, warming them both with a core-deep heat, like fresh coffee warming them from the inside out.

     It was a long time before they fell asleep, and they spent much of that time very busy and joyous, but when they did sleep, Tristan didn’t dream at all.  He didn’t need to.

 

******

 

     The woman in the black dress picked her way through the forest.  She hummed tunelessly to herself, lifting her skirts above the tangled roots and fallen logs.  This part of the woods had no trails more defined than the scrapings of animals traveling their preferred routes, but the plants did not clutch at this woman’s voluminous dress, nor did the twigs tangle themselves in her long hair or brush her tall, pointed hat.  Instead, it was as if the foliage knew instinctively to avoid her, to shy away from the chill she left in her wake, and thus she wandered through the woods untouched, as if part of another world entirely.

     “Oh, how gorgeous,” she cried, voice melancholy and melodious, as she stooped to look at one crumbling trunk.  The length of it was dappled with mushrooms, some broad-capped and others narrow spires, and her long fingers reached out to pluck them free, shoving them into a pouch at her side. “You are good for spells, and you are good for potions – and you are good for stew.” One of those she brushed the decay from, before popping it whole into her mouth, smiling wickedly at the indulgence of the nutty flavor. “I’ll need to find more of you, yes…” she hissed, standing from her spot and scanning for another.

     Mushrooms weren’t what had brought her here today.  Not much had the power to control her comings and goings – not family, not politics, not even hunger.  She was here today for magic – cold and quiet, curdling in the hearts of the hills, beating just at the edge of hearing.  It was still, almost dead, but it was there.  And, if it were dead, then that was perfect, as none here knew the magic of death better than her – who better to handle dead magic?

     But the air was sharp, tensed, like a predator about to spring, and she smelled fresh death in the air.  There was no friendly psychopomp in this world she had met, no familiar veiled face to welcome the dead across the line, but even so she felt the thinness of the barrier.  Death hadn’t arrived, but it was within sight, somewhere nearby… She sniffed, gracelessly, and caught a whiff of it on the air, ethereal and cold, and let her feet wander where they would.

     She found him in a clearing at the base of a steep cliff.  He was still, and silent, but she could see the pain on his face, the overwhelming agony that steals away thought and breath.  She tiptoed closer, not wanting to disturb him, not wanting to interrupt the grim proceedings underway.  He was just a little boy, dark-haired and sharp-cheeked, but his body was twisted, and one arm set at a very wrong angle.  And there were worse problems within, she knew, smelling the claws upon him, ready to sink in and gorge.  It would be just any minute now.

     But then his eyes opened, and they were so very, very blue.  They didn’t see her; they didn’t see anything but the sky they reflected, or maybe even beyond that.  They, too, trembled with pain, as his breath came short and quick in panting little gasps.

    She sat beside him – no one controlled her, not even herself.  Her sharp red lips pursed as she lowered her face towards his. “Poor, pretty little bird, fallen from the nest,” she whispered, in a grim singsong.  She smiled down at him, hoping it would be a warm expression, but she wasn’t used to smiling, or talking – to the living. “You can’t know how to fly – you have no wings.” Her eyes drifted to that crooked arm, and glimpsed the pale bone.  She winced before she thought better. “Better that you had stayed safe and warm, than to take to the heavens.”

     He didn’t reply, didn’t look at her.  His eyes were wide, but she could see the focus slipping from him, as he desperately held on above a steeper fall yet.  She smiled again, but it was a brittle thing, like a bird’s bones. “It’s such a shame, too,” she murmured, one long-nailed finger brushing his dark brown hair away from his eyes. “I can tell: you would have grown up succulent and sweet.  Some monster would have made a lifelong meal of you, an absolute feast.” Her nails stroked over his face, and the trembling there must have been his. “Maybe even one of my own flock – you have the serious sort of face we tend to like.  And such pretty eyes.” That face was pale now, pale as her own. “Such a terrible shame, for such a sweet morsel to end up like this…” 

     She couldn’t save him.  She knew that with certainty, just as she knew she wouldn’t be able to find help.  It was much, much too late for that.  She had no power to heal the living, to mend a body this shattered.  She thought that it was only her presence that kept the beast lurking at the edge of the trees, eager to carry him away.  He was so broken, and delicate, and there was nothing she could do.  

     “Death comes to us all, little one,” she cooed in her raspy voice. “And it comes for you now.  Shh, shh… do not fear…” But the words were meaningless.  They always were and would always be.  For all it meant to her, to a child like this, death was the end, and she had no time to show him the mysteries that would almost make this moment acceptable.  Almost.  He was dying, slipping away now, and there was nothing she could do about that.

     But her family had shattered such fated laws before.  One of her hands sought her necklace, from which dangled four charms, one for each of her divine forebears.  She clutched the one of her patron goddess, clinging to it as if for support.  

    “Tell me, child,” she whispered, like a sepulchral secret, “tell me now… would you live, if you could?”

     His blue eyes found hers, and in them, she found all the answer she needed.

     “Very well,” she accepted, taking hold of him. “Then I will wait here, and watch for you to pass.”  His face showed no sign of betrayal, no crumpling hope.  The light was fading now, that invisible light that separated the living from the things, and she could only watch.  It took just a moment, and then she could see the shimmering presence drifting upward and away, as if being drawn by reversed gravity into the heavens above, or just fading into the empty space beyond.

     Her hand speared outward, grabbing at nothing, and that mist froze in place around her thin fingers, captured and helpless.

     It was difficult, but familiar, work, especially one-handed.  Death worked its way through each cell of the former child’s body, slaying each bit in turn, but in that wake, she wove her magic.  She knew well how to mold dead flesh, to repair splintered bone.  Such was a necromancer’s trade, and few were better than her – none, in this world.  It took her weight along with her magic to shove the arm back in the right direction, but her powers flowed into that splintered wound like roots, binding it back together.  Torn flesh, silent nerves, bruised muscles – she wove her way through the boy, tugging and tweaking like a mad seamstress.  She didn’t hum while she worked, as this was too delicate, drawing even a bead of sweat down her brow, which smudged the black make-up around her eyes, and the paleness she had added to her cheeks.  

     There was ample paleness now, beyond the work of cosmetics, and she was panting when she finished, falling nearly onto her side.  She defied gravity, too, for telling her where to go, and remained upright through force of will, just to watch the boy’s face as she pressed her still hand to his chest.  If she had been too slow in working, or had failed in some minor way, then all of this would be meaningless, but… 

     Nothing happened, and all went still.

     And then, as she laughed high and sharp, his face twisted into a rictus of agony.

    He writhed slightly, twisting his body as pain delayed by shock crashed into his nerves.  It was torture, she knew, but still she laughed, watching him with wonder. “Savor it, boy,” she told him, as he winced, as tears beaded at the corners of his eyes. “Savor the pain – because it means you are alive.”

    She stood from his side as she saw his eyes roll back into his head, finally overwhelmed by the agony.  That was a mercy, too, she knew.  When he woke, it would be as if nothing had happened, with no marks aside from the scars inside his mind, the memories of pain that would keep him far from any cliffsides for the foreseeable future.  He bore her mark now, where she had forced his spirit back into his flesh, but that would fade with time, perhaps just in time for monsters to come sniffing at him.  She wished them a good feast, and grinned jaggedly down at the boy. “I can’t say whether this will be better or worse for you, boy,” she proclaimed over his senseless form, “but from now on, your fate is your own.  Enjoy it as you will.”

     And, with a stretch that popped her back, the woman in the black dress and the pointed hat turned her mind back to the path she would wander.  As she stretched luxuriously, she lifted her hat and combed the other hand back through her hair, freeing her long silver tresses to sparkle in the cloud-dappled sunlight.  At her lower back, white wings flexed, and her spade-tipped tail of the same paleness curled restlessly around her knees.  Her crimson eyes turned towards a mountain in the distance, one that reeked of old magic and sin.

     And so Maeve the Helsworn, one of seven second-generation lilim on Earth, set out on the path of her own choosing.

 

******

 

     “So, like, is lacrosse dangerous?” purred the barista.  She leaned dangerously far forward over the counter, her eyes wide and almost convincingly guileless, as her apron only served to frame the exposed flesh of her cleavage.  She squirmed in place, the motion funneling eyes downward like a sieve, but her face was a mask of perfect innocence, complete with pouty lips and flicking ears.

     “Yeah, totally,” nodded the lacrosse player sagely. “People get hurt all the time.” It perhaps wasn’t the most profound declaration, but it seemed to serve as such for this particular athlete, and he sipped confidently at his coffee as he postured in front of the giggling barista. “So, uh, do you just make coffees for people, or do you, like, pick the beans or something?  Like, I saw this documentary once-” A flare of quiet dismay burned in Calypso’s eyes as she realized just how many hits to the helmet this particular junior must have taken, but a glance over his broad torso and bulging biceps tipped the scale back into an acceptable range.

    “No, silly,” she purred sweetly, her tail dancing behind her out-thrust rear as she turned to pull a napkin from a nearby holder to offer him.  She paused to give him a moment to look before turning back in his direction. “I just call out the names-” She froze in place, her saccharine seductiveness falling in an instant, as she saw another had captured her intended paramour’s attention.

     The heels rang off the tile as the woman approached, her chest thrust forward like a declaration of war, and the shock and awe on the athlete’s face showed that he was quick to be toppled.  Her wine-red lips pursed, the intruder in question snapped a business card from her natural forward pocket, holding the edge of it like a knife before his face. “Excuse me,” she breathed, the phrase like a single entendre that sent blood rushing to his cheeks, ears, and south of the belt border, “I noticed you from across the room and I just thought to myself, that is a man who looks like he is in need.”

     The poor player caught on the battlefield could only nod in dazed confirmation, his eyes trapped on the expansive minefield before him. “Oh, uh, yeah, totally,” he managed artfully.

     Tira let her tail slip from behind her, hovering over his broad shoulders like a sweet threat. “Why don’t we have a seat at my table over there, and we can discuss what you really need in your bedroom,” the manticore promised throatily.

     “She’s trying to sell you a television!” protested the barista, her hackles raised in impotent fury.  The lacrosse player didn’t glance at her, eyes still trapped in the soft valley. “And she has a boyfriend!”

     “Just this way,” Tira motioned, glancing at his cup, “Kyle.”  And she gently brushed his shoulder with her paw, pushing him towards her table. “Let me just take care of your tip for you here, hmm?” And he nodded, obediently making for the table the manticore had indicated. “Of course he’s a Kyle,” Tira opined, smirking down at the furious werecat.

     Calypso hissed up at the towering manticore, crossing her arms before her chest.  Unfortunately, in this fight, she was decidedly outgunned, and Tira merely let her own bosom thrust forward in quiet superiority. “And you know what?  You’re right,” Tira purred. “I do have a boyfriend.” She shrugged indifferently. “So I’ll sweet-talk Kyle there into dropping by and buying a huge flatscreen, and send him on his way.  But you?  You don’t have a boyfriend today, and that doesn’t look like it’s going to change, does it?  That’s what really matters.” Her bladed grin dripping with calculated victory, Tira leaned closer to the werecat once more, eyes darting down to her name badge. “It’s been nice talking to you, Cow-Lips.” And with that she was gone, leaving the werecat to splutter in incandescent, impotent fury as Tira’s departing heels drummed out a victory march.

     From across the store, Tristan smirked into his coffee cup.  He had a better perspective now that he had taken the seat on the other side of his usual table, and so had a ringside view to the daily battles between the misspelled manticore and the overbold barista.  That wasn’t, however, the main scenery that he appreciated.

     From two tables down, Lora saw him look her way, and she offered him a broad smile, rolling her eyes at her friend’s squabbles.  He grinned back, a silent exchange that said all it needed to, and he let her get back to work, turning his attention back to the screen before him.  It was an email from his advisor, who seemed pretty happy that he had decided to stick with his current major, or at least relieved he wouldn’t have to shuffle around his class schedule for next semester.  Tristan had made that decision the day after he and Lora had started going out, and his parents had been surprisingly supportive of it.  That may, however, have had something to do with the fact that they were much more interested in meeting his new girlfriend, and thus he had something else to look forward to after finals, as she had agreed to come home to Elm Ridge with him.  It was a bit sudden, but she seemed just as excited as them, and so that was good enough for Tristan.

     His focus remained on the screen, as he checked to see if his professor had uploaded his grades for his project.  And there it was – top marks.  A grin spread across his face as he read over the comments, including an insistent invitation to take another of the professor’s higher-level courses.  That feeling spread as much warmth into his chest as the draught he took from his cup, a new flavor that Lora had suggested- he liked it, and a lot more than his usual, actually.  Lowering the cup, but not his smile, he idly flipped over to the flashcard app he had been using to study – when a sudden chill prickled his skin, and he looked up to see the blue apron and shimmering eyes of his lover.

     “In need of a refill?” Lora asked sweetly, and they both glanced to make sure no other patrons were watching before she gave him just that, a swift but passionate kiss.  The other caffeine hounds nearby smirked into their cups, content to play along with the new couple’s clandestine embraces, enjoying the dash of sweetness with their own beverages.  Lora straightened, and Tristan took her hand quickly, keeping her for just a moment more.

    “Myrina and Zander are back at my place,” he apologized quietly. “We can still hang out there, but…”

    “That’s fine,” Lora offered him the ghost of a grin. “I’d love to meet them.  And, if they are as… noisy, as you claim, then…” The glow in her eyes sent a chill down his spine, and goosebumps sprouted across his skin. “We’ll just have to find a way to drown them out.” 

     Tristan nodded at that, not trusting his restraint enough to offer reply, and with a wink and a sway Lora slipped furtively back to her work.  He watched her go, feeling a relaxed contentment he had never known before, a feeling both sweet and rich, dark and energizing.  Everything had changed in just a few days, and he supposed that should have left him anxious, but… he wasn’t.  He didn’t have to be a miracle, or embrace some great fate, or be anything at all, except what he wanted to be.

     And what he wanted to be, was with her.  That he was, that she loved him, was more luck than he ever could have asked for – was all the miracle he needed.

---

Author’s Note:   Another contest entry for my Appalachian series!  It’s becoming my go-to for those battles, mostly because I appreciate the freedom it offers me when it comes to meeting the prompts.  To any new readers, I welcome you, and hope you have enjoyed this one-shot.  It was a contest entry for TouchFluffyTail.org, and I encourage everyone to come see the other entries for the contest once the results are published in a short while.  I’m up against some of our best – wish me luck!

     For my long-time readers, this story has odd connections all over the place to both my fantasy stories as well as to the other Appalachian ones, but the biggest is Weston’s presence (as well as a cameo that shoehorns one of my Christmas stories into this series).  As mentioned before, this would be set a couple of weeks before “The Sweet-Dreamers’ Sleepover,” and also answers some questions that people had about “…Rival,” as well.  It raises new questions, of course… but that’s what we authors are supposed to do.

Before I forget, I should offer thanks – first, as is my habit, to you, for reading my tale.  Also to my regular readers, who hopefully have been patient as I have struggled with grades and the usual Convention Curse – I will be getting back to work on Heroes in the next days.  Also, especially, to those of TFT who gave me some coffee-related advice: Pkace04, Monte, Unit_ZERO, and Sukiru, as well as Hanii Aburame, who suggested the prompt.  I am grateful for your help in doing what I do, and hope that my offerings are worthy in turn.

But, forgive me – I spent all weekend hard at work on this one, and thus it is time for me, like the dead… to sleep…

~Wynn Pendragon

 

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