Iris Bell

It was strange how human emotions seemed to hang in the air, infecting it and polluting it until soon it was the only thing Iris could smell. Everywhere she went it reeked of fear and confusion. It almost drowned out the smell of meat wafting through the alleyway. Almost, but not quite. Iris ignored the emotions and padded quietly to the open door at the end of the dark alley, illuminating her for a split second before she darted behind a dumpster. The butcher stuck his head out of the door and peered around, eyes narrowing suspiciously before he closed it softly. Idiot, she thought. What he doesn't know won't hurt him. As if on cue the door opened a crack, squeaking slightly. Iris padded over to it and squeezed through the gap reappearing in the worn out kitchen. She much preferred fresh livestock, but she was in a hurry so frozen would have to do. She followed the smell of meat, being careful not to make a sound. Suddenly, she appeared in a huge room full of meat of all kinds. Taking her time, she carefully selected a lovely chicken carcass and ran back outside, being careful not to make too much noise. She settled behind the dumpster, eating until she was full. It was almost light by that time, time to change back. She morphed, attempting to ignore the twinge of pain every time her bones snapped back into the right place. Years of transforming had made her almost entirely immune to the pain. Almost. She stood, gathering her clothes in one hand and began to change, pulling on her black leather jacket and worn out jeans. The Sun had begun to rise. It was time to leave.

Iris slipped quietly out of the alley and onto the almost deserted streets of Chicago, the sky a dismal gray. On a day like this she would normally have barricaded inside her room and stayed there under the pillows and blankets all day, listening to Alex Clare to drown out the noise of the busy streets. Speaking of which. She might as well on a day as bad as this. Iris popped in her earbuds and cranked up the volume. Lucky her. Too Close was her favorite song. She continued to walk down the streets that were steadily becoming busier and busier. Unlucky her. She hated big crowds. And the daytime. The night was much more quiet and relaxing.

As she walked she wondered why she agreed to take this case. Maybe it was the mystery of it all. No, it wasn't that. The whole thing made Iris uncomfortable. What in God's name could be powerful enough to kill a dragon, and a powerful one at that? Stop it, she chided herself. You'll scare yourself senseless. Best not to think about it. She was getting close to the scene of the crime, and she didn't want to be too jittery when she arrived. Iris suddenly got the feeling she was being watched. The hairs on the back of her neck began to prickle and she took out her earbuds. She whirled around, ready to attack she she saw the woman. She was an average height with dark hair and eyes. In fact, everything about this woman was dark. She smiled and licked her lips.

"Hey. Where are you heading off too so soon?" she asked, a malevolent gleam in her eyes. This lady obviously wasn't human, that was sure. Maybe she was a Bloodsucker. No, she wasn't pale enough. Or maybe a Demon. But no, she didn't stink of Hell. The smell of blood and pain wafted off her. Then Iris saw her piercings. They were slightly burning her skin. So, she was a Fae. Obviously an Unseelie. Iris tensed. She'd only ever met an Unseelie once before and the encounter hadn't gone very well. The street had slowly cleared until it was empty, obviously because of this Fae's aura. It sent off nothing but bad vibes.

"Hey!" the Fae said again. "I'm asking a question." Iris studied her carefully.

"I don't want anything from you," she said. "I don't need any favors." The Fae pouted.

"Everyone needs a favor. You look like you're looking for something. So, what's going on. What can I help you with." Her face split into an obnoxious grin. Iris waved her away.

"It's nothing. Just some old house." The lies flew as easily to her as she did to a fresh bag of Oreos. The Fae still grinned.

"How about this, I'll tell you where I'm headed if you'll tell me where you're headed. Sound like a fair deal?" Iris declined. She knew better than to make a deal with an Unseelie Fae. The Fae pouted again, but didn't push the subject. Iris continued to walk down the street, but the Fae followed her.

"Well, it just so happens that I'm going to investigate Dorian's death," she said. Iris whipped around. "That's right," the girl continued. "The tenth most powerful dragon in the world is dead and I get to find out whodunnit. Isn't that exciting? Now, a deals a deal so you tell me where you're going and maybe I can help you get there. These streets are pretty dangerous sometimes." Iris shook her head.

"I never agreed to any deal. And I don't need your help." Iris continued down the street. The Fae ran after her they were walking side by side.

"Alright, fine," she snarled. "I'll cut the crap. Look, I've only ever met a few Weres before and I'd really like to get to know one so just let me help you, okay?" The Fae was obviously lying, but Iris could see she wouldn't be going away.

"Fine," she snapped. "You're not the only one investigating Dorian's death. I'm going to his house right now. And how did you know I'm a Were?" The Fae scoffed.

"Oh please. You smell like dead chicken. So what do you turn into? Wolf? Bear? Lion?"

"Fox," Iris stated simply. The Fae looked disappointed for a moment, then collected herself. Her eyes gleamed with sudden excitement.

"Oh, I love fox fur. It's absolutely gorgeous! So beautiful and soft and-"

"And you're not getting any," Iris said bluntly.

"Oh come on! Just a little piece? I promise it won't hurt." Iris glared at her.

"You try anything, and you're losing a limb."

"Okay, okay," the Fae said. "Relax. Jesus, it's like you expect me to just skin you here and now. So, who do you think did it?"

"I have no idea, seeing as I haven't even been to his house yet." Iris' words dripped with sarcasm.

"Well then I guess I can go with you," the Fae said. "Maybe we can work together. I mean we're right there." She pointed upward and Iris looked. In front of her was a huge mansion with a wrought iron gate in front of it. Iris went to open it, but the Fae held her back.

"If we're going to work together we at least need to know each other's names. I'm Melia. And you are?" she asked.

"Not working with you," Iris retorted.

"Touchy, touchy," replied Melia. "Fine, we don't have to work together. But we can at least investigate the scene together, right?" Iris sighed in exasperation.

"Fine, we can investigate together just this once," she relented. Melia looked like she was about to squeal in delight.

"See, I told you we could work together." She grabbed Iris' hand and led her through the gates. Iris pulled it away.

"You ready?" she asked. Melia nodded. Iris swung open the door and held it open for Melia, closing it only after she made sure no one was watching.

"Alright," she said. "Let's find ourselves a murderer."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Avacado Marissa

H e r e ' s t h e t r u t h : L o o k i n g at d e a d b o d i e s n e v e r g e t s e a s i e r . I w i s h I c o u l d s a y it d o e s.

Her fingers ached to type. It was the type of worry that grew alongside the thoughts that didn't dare speak, stretching through a mind that barely existed, forcing itself to be the most prominent thing, the most outstanding thing, for the second she stops, the second they quit existing, the second they decide to stop thinking, stop trying to think, stop trying to exist, she may very well quit existing entirely. It wasn't that Ava was a fixed being, because nothing was farther from the truth. Existing and being able to think didn't make Ava alive. No amount of anything would ever make Ava alive.

She took up a job so she could look at dead bodies all day, but it didn't make her feel that much better. Nothing made her honestly feel better. Feeling still hardly made sense. It was like a metaphor, too hard for her to grasp but not far enough away that she couldn't understand anything about it. She somethings understood what she felt. Something about looking at their lifeless corpses...seeing someone more dead than she--more, because while Ava could walk around and know that they existed, that corpse was shit still and had no function of anything--it helped. Not much. Something about hating one's body never made it easier to see other bodies so comfortable in their existence. It definitely didn't help that Ava still couldn't figure out why her body was so weird. Why she woke up in a woman's body but her mind, her faux mind that only existed because the boundaries of magic stretched to create her something that was almost alive, that mind said Ava was a them, not a him, not a her, but it also said Ava was a she, that she loved being a she. If she hadn't died so long ago, if it hadn't been twenty years since the time Ava arose as a slave before being shipped off after her master died and forced to sell herself until she was able to obtain enough of something to make anyone who could perform that damned spell on her, maybe they would've been able to figure something out. Maybe they wouldn't feel so much contempt for a body that they should've been grateful moved.

But maybes didn't exist in contemporary. They were a concept, just like Ava's mind. A concept. A stretch. A fable of magic. A wisp of secrets. Not something true, not something tangible. Just a thought.

Thoughts, unbalanced the same as life often was, didn't riddle Ava's head like most of the living got to suffer through. Instead, she forced each little part out, just as she did her works. In theory, they shouldn't have had any issues making themselves talk. The magic was supposed to make whatever was supposed to happen happen.

But life didn't work in theories either.

Walking through a dead man's house had a certain feel to it. Romantic, for Ava. Others might've felt a chill, something shivering down their backs, but Ava had no need for that. No, they never felt much of a need to be scared of the gentle darkness of death. It was something soothing to imagine. At times, they would close their eyes, pretending that they could still feel the ground, that they were raising up, up, up up upupupupupup and suddenly words had meaning and things made sense and someone was staring at her, their eyes open like Ava's were, and two could see into one another and Ava could know that they were alive, not alive, not alive but not not alive, and that was all that there could ever be.

This dead man had a better grave than she. He had yet to even be buried and even still, Ava knew his would be grand. They needed something grand. They needed something. Something. Something. God, it hurt to keep spinning, but there were stairs, grand stairs, and every step she took spun her further as they completed the numerous spiral upward.

By the time she reached the room, people were paused. Outside the room. Between the door, waiting, talking. Then some still, inside the room. Seeing the blood and the corpse. Seeing the faded life. Looking so damn cold. None of them knew how to smile at death because the living often had constraints where they needed to make the dead seem so damn unforgiving, so awful, that the mere thought of its existence was enough to drive them to the brink of tears. Enough to drive people to do 'meaningful' things. Ava didn't care about meaningful. She didn't care about good. She didn't care about bad. All she wanted was to do.

So Ava stared down at the dead body not getting close yet, not walking through that door, just staring, stretching her head this way and that, waiting for something to come to them. Waiting for something to pop out. A w o r m , m a y b e . That brought a smile to her face. Just barely. Imagine: A dragon and instead of intestines, worms that wiggled about. Little dragons of their own, burning through his skin. Life after death. It was a pretty thought, but smiling at a corpse made people think she knew something, that Ava had spotted something they hadn't, so she wiped it away as quickly as possible and continued to stare.

Dragons were pretty things. They had skin that was like morphine--not in color, but in the texture that Ava saw, something soft, something fluid, something moldable. They didn't shift or change but they existed in that raw form, secreting life like they owned it. This one was old, but just as young, age bearing no sign as they had no want for looks that didn't serve their means of pleasure. Long black hair fell straight. She longed to touch it, but that was rude. After all, gaining consent to touch a dead body was the most important thing. Others roughly jostled the body, examining it, but Ava wouldn't dare.

" D i s e m b o w e l," she begun, scarcely able to get the word out before someone cut her off.

"Oh come on, slow-poke," giggled the vampire next to her. "They said that earlier. Weren't you paying attention, or were you too turned on by the thought of stealing this hunk's dead body?"

" Oh." Ava felt awkward, like her body should react, like she should feel something to match that weird sensation of bubbles inside her mind at the thought that she hadn't been paying attention. Bubbles, soft, but popping fast and returning even faster. Embarrassment. Impossible to see without a real body. She knew that. She felt that. Still, it existed, formed inside at the invisible strands that created her dead-humanity. " A c e."

"Yeah, guac?" Ace shoved off her knees, popping upwards far faster than Ava could. Why she decided to squat down in the middle of an investigation, right outside the murder scene, would never make sense. Things didn't need to make sense. Something about her personality, something about the circles that came from her words and the way that her cold skin didn't feel dead but felt living, somehow living, somehow...perfect. It was a pretty sort of confusion. "Well?" She grasped Ava's arm and gave her a little shake.

Ava paused with her lips parted, unable to remember, to think, to to to to tototototototototototo

O h g o d' s c o m e on j u st w or k.

Whatever words she could have formed were useless. There was just anger now. Anger that rotted her brain more than it could ever in actuality. Anger because she couldn't do. Do, that mystical thing that the living found so fucking simple. Do, that thing that Ava's mind promised was simple. Do, that thing the damned dragon she saw every fucking week told her she shouldn't have an issue with. Do, that thing that twitter tells her she doesn't have to. Twitter. That's why her hands are shaking. She wants to type. Typing came easier than writing somehow.

" G o in?" There it was. It came so easily then. Ace nodded, and the two of them began walking into that cursed room.

She couldn't explain why her hands knew what to do or why her fingers found it so easy to spread themselves like a stripper across the phone, gently dancing, a form of beauty that existed only perhaps in her mind--for she knew she wasn't quite as fast in reality, her limbs never worked that well in reality, and something about cold fingers meant it was really fucking hard to make them work on her screen. Especially since it was cracked right around the 'i o p j k l' and for some damn reason, she needed all of those letters every single time she went to type a tweet.

Anger, for the salt that rose in her veins was better than blood.

Anger, for the investigators around her that moved so gracefully, so easy. R o t t h e m, th e da mned bunch. I j u st wan t t o d o. C o m e o n, it can ' t be tha t h a r d. W h o k i l l e d th e d r a g o n?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Leo 'Bear' Wilder

"Bear," a hushed whisper floated in the air, prancing about his head as though it were drawing him from his reverie. Leo turned his attention to the disheveled mess he'd come to understand was his father.

"Hm?" his reply seemed more of a grunt coming from deep within his chest, plucking on his vocal chords to awaken them from their rest.

"I really didn't want to disturb you, but there's some news I'd think you'd like to hear," his father was cryptic in his response, as though he needed to be pressed to elaborate on any rumor. This man was always talking, always sharing his mind and whatever contents his delusions had caused it to hold, but when it came to a truthful event he wanted to make the seeker work for it. Leo did not have the energy for his father's madness; at least, not when he'd been kept from sleep with bouts of insomnia for the past week and a half.

"Would you care to tell me what this news is, then?" the look he gave his father was screaming out his disinterest for this anticipation game his father liked to play.

"You know Dorian H'Langraash, right?" he only continued the game with another question, to which Leo had to give him a nod.

How could Leo NOT know Dorian? A being of immense power in a world littered with those that would scrape magic off of a dirty street if it meant just a fraction more for themselves. Dorian was someone who held a lot of weight not just amongst his own species but the rest of them, too.

"He was found murdered in his Chicago home just over an hour ago," a fire burned in his father's eyes as he said this; marking true insanity with mischief. As for Leo, the conversation now had his full interest.

"How? Dorian was one of the most powerful Dragons," Leo spoke more to himself on this one, trying to prevent his train of thought from being derailed as he considered the damning consequences this death would entail.

He could sense it now like it were electricity buzzing against his skin, pricking his nerves with violent tremors of unease. His stomach twisted into a gordian knot; likely never to settle from the earthquakes reducing him to rubble. He shook off the feeling of dread, coaxing himself out of his derailed stupor and back to reality in a matter of milliseconds. From the outside, no one would know that he had spiraled for what had seemed like an eternity.

"He suffered a gruesome death by disembowelment," a laugh erupted from his father's throat and although it was out of place in the context of the conversation, it was at home in the derangement of James Wilder. His father was one of those people that only half-committed to things. He'd start a project, like the progress, but get too bored to see the final result. Which is why he wasn't entirely crazy all the time; because he'd wanted power, but had gotten bored of having it after just a taste.

Or maybe it was because the real James was somewhere within that tiny brain of his trying to find a way out, trying to reclaim its throne and atone for his sins. Maybe murdering his family out of his own insanity had driven him to cling to the last remnant of his real self.

Do I investigate and readily accept myself as an enemy to who ever had done this? This was the question playing on a loop in his mind: an unskippable track on the playlist of his thoughts. If he stayed, he'd be eaten alive by his curiosity and perpetually anchored down to the Earth with his desire to understand the catalyst that had driven someone to murder.

"You should go," his father had one last moment of lucidity before his eyes glazed over and he relapsed back into an insatiable drive for power. This was a common occurrence for him; he would have a moment of clarity where he would look at Leo and actually see him before he would resort to looking right past him. Imagine growing up and not knowing if your father was talking to you or past you; into the void and to the creatures that exist beyond.

Leo knew that this would be his only chance, and as much as he hated to admit it: he would never be able to continue his life knowing that he could've done something to shed light on the evils of the world.

Fuck. I am either about to make a grave mistake or discover my defining moment. His thoughts raced over a million light years a minute; zooming around his brain and giving him a headache. He had to rub his temples so as to alleviate the pain arching like a comet across his mind.

There was nothing in this world that could stop him from solving Dorian's murder, and he'd be damned if he let the murderer getting away with such a particularly heinous act.

Well, I guess I better go. He pulled a deep breath into his lungs; filling them with air as though they were a cavern in dire need of water. As he stood up, he stretched his limbs to their furthest reach; excruciatingly aware that he took up more space in this world than he had ever wished to.

He stretched his hands up into the sky, calling out to the energy that drenched the air and acting as a beacon for the power that surged around him. He manipulated this force so it encompassed him like a massive comforter; thumbing over the index of locations that had been mapped onto his brain.

Chicago. The Dorian Estate.

He let a small sigh escape his lips as he was teleported to a place on the opposite side of the country from where he resided. The energy swirled around him as he dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands to stay grounded. He didn't stop until he had opened old wounds and felt the power subside. He knew that he needed to remain calm and level-headed for this and while he would have preferred to travel by any other means he knew this place would already be swarming with reporters and others like him. He had no time to waste, and much to his dismay the haste he'd shown in getting here was almost laughable to the crowd already gathered on the front lawn.

I don't even have to go to sleep and I'm in the middle of a neverending nightmare.

As he stared up at the architectural marvel that was the Dorian Estate, he felt his nerves exploding like fireworks against his skin. Something bad would come of this, and Leo was about to make himself the center of it all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Garnon Silverlight

There are three of us: the Judgement. And we decide the fate of the world.

This room is dark—darker than the human eye can see.

The ground is cold marble, as are the walls, cracked, infested with insects and dust. A vine of ivy is growing out one of the cracks, ever, ever so slowly, but I can see it moving. A spider scuttles along one of its leaves, and I can see its eyes, each individual hair on its legs, the footprints it leaves behind on the spongy leaf. I can see into its primitive mind: it is startled by the sudden heat in the room, not coming from my cold body, no, but from the man kneeling down in front of me.

Blood runs down the side of his face, curves around his cheekbone, drips off at the chin. Wide blue eyes hide behind them vulnerability, and then something else beyond that. Something darker.

I should kill him. For no other reason than the fact that I can. But I am not the only force at play here.

"Speak," The echo from Televar's mind resonates around the hall. The spider scuttles to safety, but the man has nowhere to run. I can feel the blood pumping in his veins; see the droplets of sweat push their way out of his pores.

Karris stays quiet, as do I. Televar is the one who begins the judgement, we are the ones who conclude it.

The man takes a deep breath.

"Dorian H'Langraash." Then there is silence.

"The Dragon Prince." Televar glides closer to the man, while we keep our distance. "What of him?"

"He's been murdered. In his own bedchambers." The twitches in his face—movement of his eyes—prove that he is telling the truth. Or so he believes.

I sense a mental pulse from Karris. She can't help her curiosity.

Her mind opens up and its voice echoes, sharper and clearer than Televar's rumble. "Why?"

"Your honour, we... we weren't—"

"Why tell us this? Why now?"

Televar retreats backwards, letting Karris take the lead. Inexperienced though she may be, compared to him and me, but the carvings in her skull show her devotion to power matches ours.

"Your... Your Honour—"

And now it is my turn:

"He's lying."

"Yes." Karris mentally smiles, and perhaps that was a twitch in the corner of her lips.

Televar's mind opens again, calm and deep, "You dare bring falsehoods into this chamber?"

This time, his voice roils the man's stomach. His chest clenches, sweat pours faster from his head than the still-wet blood, he fights to stop his eyes from rolling back in their sockets.

This is not his choice. This is another's doing.

"Please, your Honour, I'm begging you..."

But he begs no further, for a thread of my power has wrapped around his throat. Karris hovers away to join Televar. Extracting the truth is my specialty.

The man will not need to utter a word. And I will not need to lift a finger.

I feel Televar's magic swirling past to join mine, stilling every muscle in the man's body. Then I press into his mind. He has his own kind of magic, that of an ordinary warlock and it forms a protective barrier around his thoughts. Televar didn't strip away the man's powers, but it's no matter—the man knows who we are, he knows he's already lost.

It takes but a moment to bore through his defences and latch onto his mind. The man gasps and his eyes roll back into his head. This won't take long. And there it is: the stone pillar of his mind, the glass spiral of his long term memories, and the cobwebs of thought woven throughout it all.

"Why did you request our audience?"

My voice rattles in his mind, chipping away at the glass memories. The remnants of his subconscious, a pathetic watery creature, gather around one piece of memory at the bottom of the spiral, behind a blanket of cobwebs. There. There's the answer.

A single thread of my magic rips away the cobwebs. His subconscious rushes up to protect the memory but the same thread strangles it into submission.

"Answer me."

Light shines from the glass, all-encompassing, and then fades away. Left behind is a glimpse of scorch-marks on pristine white walls, and blood. Oh, enough blood for this to be a scene of death. And I can smell it too, the death, clinging to the air: ancient and rotten.

Then a presence. And a voice. But it's all muffled and vague—the memory's been corrupted, as if someone had known the Judgement would interrogate him. Why send us this man to inform us of the Dragon Prince's death, only to corrupt his memories? Wouldn't that defeat the entire purpose of...

A foreign magic rushes up from the ground and the vision turns black. What—no, it hasn't. My mind adjusts to the marble floors and walls, and the cracks with ivy sprouting through. And the spider. Televar stands beside me. He hadn't felt the magic I just did, powerful enough to expel me from the man's mind.

"Garnon..."

"Kill him."

Karris glides forward without hesitation and a flick of her wrist opens up a massive gash in the man's chest. His screams fall on our deaf ears and his blood joins that already dried on our robes. Then she raises her hand, bringing the man's body up with it. A slow clench of her fist and his flesh turns inside out, his bones grind to dust, his eyes fill with blood.

But Televar doesn't have time to watch Karris play with her food.

"What did you learn?" The lightless black fire that replaced his brows and hair long ago flickers with uncertainty.

"Not enough. I saw the site of the death. But not the Prince's body or his murderer. In fact..."

"Yes?"

"His memory had been altered. And there was a well of magic hidden inside it—not his own, but someone far more powerful?"

A smirk almost crosses his stitched lips. "A Trojan Horse? Against us?"

I remain quiet. He is suggesting that the man was a puppet, his memory used as bait to lure me into a telepathic trap. Any outsider trying to access that specific memory would be torn apart. But I would have sensed a spell that powerful, even hidden in a memory. No this spell was just strong enough to expel my telepathic presence from the man's mind but not enough to be detected beforehand, nor enough to cause any harm.

This wasn't a Trojan Horse spell. It was something else.

"Nevertheless, whoever wove the spell has my attention." I turn to Televar. Karris joins us, having had her fun.

"Yes." Televar sweeps away the man's remain with a tendril of magic. "It would be beneficial to investigate this further."

"I'll go." Karris states, without explanation.

I see that that is almost enough for Televar, and he is about to make up his mind,

"No." I say, "You aren't experienced enough. I'll investigate the murder; it may help me find who had the gall to plant the Trojan. After all, why would we have any further interest in the business of the dragons?"

The silence that follows is their mutual agreement. Televar raises both hands and the space in front of him tears open, naked to the human eye, but magic sees it as a void into the ether.

I watch Karris. She disagrees, but she knows that Televar would take my side on this. I am right.

The spider carefully steps around an ivy stem and stares at me with eight bulbous eyes, wondering not what I am or where I am going. Thinking only if I am his predator or prey. That is the natural order of things.

Whoever laid the Trojan believes the Judgment to be their prey. Thinking they can manipulate us into investigating this murder. That will happen, but under my terms, with my motives.

And if they believe they will come out of this alive and well, they are sorely mistaken. I, power, do not take kindly to disrespect.

No more words are needed.

I step through the void. My second step takes me through the ether. And my third leads to the home of Dorian H'Langraash, the Dead Prince of Dragons.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Liam Hughes

"Come on Liam, dance with me!"

The memories cascaded through his head as he walked down the lonely streets of Chicago.

"Come on! It's just one dance," she said as pulled him onto the dance floor. Bodies pressed against him as he tried to break free of her grasp. "Please," she said, lips curling down into a put and eyes becoming big and saucer like, resembling the expression of a pouty puppy. "It's just one dance.

"Alright," he said, taking her hand in his and pulling her into a tight embrace. After all, it was just one dance, right?

Wrong, he thought as he stared at the starry sky. It was never enough for her. Liam shuddered slightly at the memory of Allison. She was a liar and a cheater, and he was glad he was finally rid of her. However, it was unfortunate that the price for that was his life. Anger bubbled inside him, threatening to rise to the surface. No, calm down. There's no need to get angry here. Wait until you're home. His old apartment was the perfect place for him to release all his pent up emotions. No one ever tried to move in, he made sure of that. Then again, he didn't know when he would be back there. He had a job to do.

While he was lost in thought, someone passed through him. He shivered with cold as he continued on down the street. Liam decided to follow him, all traces of anger gone as he caught sight of the man's face. It was one of the most beautiful faces he had ever seen. The green eyes alone were deep enough to drown in, and a certain degree of heat and warmth seemed to radiate off him. Liam smoothed his hair down and stepped beside him.

"Hi," he said. "My name's Liam, what's yours?" The man ignored him. Liam tried again. "You must have hit your head on the way down because you look like an angel." Damn. He really needed to work on his pickup lines. If he was ever going to get a new girlfriend or boyfriend, he definitely needed to think up some more. Besides a line like that needed to be saved for a Fallen. They probably got so tired of those kinds of pickup lines. He didn't know who this man was, but he obviously wasn't one of them. He was handsome, sure, but didn't possess the unearthly beauty that the Fallen did. But that face! Liam probably could have cut himself on those cheeks. He turned to face the man. "Look, I know that line was bad, but if you get to know me, I promise I'm good in bed." The man continued to walk forward, completely ignoring him. Liam's face turned red as the anger inside him started to boil. "At least look at me!" he shouted in the man's ear. The man brushed his shoulder off as if Liam wasn't even there. Liam's anger reached its boiling point. "Fine," he snapped. "Be that way! Let's see how you like it when I drop shit on your head!" He teleported to the nearest house and found a baby grand piano just sitting there next to the window, waiting to be pushed out. Liam grabbed the edges and flipped it, tossing it out the window and onto the sidewalk next to the man. Shit, he thought. I missed. The man looked up at the window calmly, as if windows hurled themselves out windows at him on a daily basis. Liam suddenly felt guilty. It wasn't the man's fault he couldn't see him. It was times like this when Liam seemed to forget he was dead.

The man continued down the street, probably off to his girlfriend's house or something. It was a shame. A guy like that probably would have been great in bed. Liam stared wistfully out the window until the owner of the piano came back and completely freaked out. It was probably time to leave. Liam teleported back to the street and continued walking. He wished he was powerful enough to teleport to his destination, but he had to settle for walking instead. He thought about the case that had been presented to him earlier that morning. A dragon prince had been killed and Liam, along with several other Others, was called to investigate it. Seeing as he was one of the most powerful dragons in the world, it was imperative that the killer was caught immediately. Not that Liam needed telling. He had heard the psychic scream when the prince was murdered. It had reminded him all too much of his own.

"I can't believe you dumped me for Becky. I mean, are you kidding me? Just take a look at her thighs! And she puts on way too much makeup. She looks like a clown. Are you seriously joking? You would actually dump me for her? She looks like one of those monkeys that has the red ass. I just can't believe it!" Her face was red as she grabbed a knife from the kitchen and brandished it at him. "You must be so desperate for a girlfriend. But why? Why wasn't I good enough? Do you think I'm ugly, is that it? Do you think I'm fat. Because if you do I swear to god!" she brandished the knife again. "I swear to god I'll kill you here and now. So what is it? What's wrong with me?" Liam took a step back, raising his hands in a defensive position.

"I'm sorry, you're just too needy." he admitted. She brandished the knife again, eyes glowing with rage.

"Needy, needy! I'm needy? If anything you're the one who's needy you son of a bitch!" Before he could react, she plunged the knife into his chest and he screamed. She wouldn't stop, she just kept stabbing, and the pain never dimmed. He didn't feel a pull toward the light or whatever the hell was supposed to happen. He fell, clutching his chest as his heart was punctured and he drew his final breath. But nothing happened. Allison stood over him, a triumphant gleam in her eyes as she stared at her work with satisfaction. He stared back at her, a confused look on his face. What the hell was going on? He stood up, and realized his body remained on the ground. His eyes widened in realization as he looked at the glassy ones staring back at him. He was dead. He was a ghost.

Liam had discovered the existence of other Others a few days later. It had eventually dawned on him that he was dead. There was no coming back to life or turning back time. He was just dead, and that was all there was to it. He pushed those thoughts out of his head as he continued walking. He supposed the only reason he took this job was because of Allison. She was never caught, although if Liam were strong enough at the time, he probably would have killed her himself. But he wasn't, and there wasn't enough evidence to convict her, so she got away with it. That was the thing thing that made Liam the angriest. He was right here, but almost no one could see him. He'd tried to tell the police what happened, but they brushed off his words as if it were the wind and nothing more. Liam supposed that was why he agreed to help find the killer. Allison got away with it, and nearly tore him apart. He might as well help put this dragon's soul to rest.

Liam was close enough to the dragon's house to teleport, so he did, appearing at the front door. The house was old but beautiful, with polished and carved wood that looked like it was created a hundred years ago. Come to think of it, it probably was. A man was standing next to him, studying the big iron gates in front of the house. Liam steeped in front of him to get a closer look. He was the same man Liam had thrown a piano at earlier. Strange. What was this man doing here? As the man moved, Liam saw something shimmer behind him in the light of a street lamp glowing a soft orange. What was that? Then it hit Liam. They were his wings. Soft, light, almost transparent orange wings. And they were the most beautiful things Liam had ever seen. This man was a Fae that much was sure. But a Seelie or Unseelie? Probably a Seelie, this man was too gentle looking to be anything but. He was probably investigating the house just like Liam. I might as well make myself seen. Liam took a deep breath and concentrated, pushing all his fears and worries out of his head as he appeared to the man. The man didn't jump, but her turned toward Liam, eying him warily.

"Hi," Liam said. God, I am such an idiot.

"Hi," the man said. "What are you doing here?"

"Investigating. You?"

"Same. What's your name?"

"Liam. What's yours?"

"Foster Phoenix." It was a nice name. It seemed to fit him. "What do you think happened to him? I mean, he was the 10th most powerful dragon in the world. What could kill someone like that?" Liam shook his head.

"I have no idea."

Foster nodded in agreement. "So, what do you think's going to happen now?" Liam frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Well you're a Wraith, right? That how you just appeared here. So, you heard the scream." Liam nodded. "I don't know what happened or how it happened, but something changed. And nothing will ever be the same again." Liam nodded in agreement, shivering slightly. Foster was right. Nothing was ever going to be the same again. But now wasn't the time to think about something like that.

Liam walked through the gate and opened it from the inside. He held it open for Foster to go through and made a sweeping gesture with his other hand.

"Come on in," he said, gesturing towards the door. "It's open." Foster walked toward the door but hesitated in opening it.

"Just one question," he said, looking back at Liam. "Were you the guy that threw a piano at me earlier?" Liam smiled as he passed through the door and into the house, waiting patiently for Foster to join him in his investigation. He could tell this was going to be the start of something big.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Imogen Swan

Dear Miss Swan,

Where has your empathy gone?

Sincerely, The Mirror

She sits in front of a window, spindly with iron and painted wood, semicircular from the ground up, and blue with fog and a dying sky. Her body is a slender silhouette against it, an hourglass figure in shadow. It's a shape shrunken by the size of the desk it sits behind. Shoulders sharp. Bun tight. Cheeks clicking, clicking, clicking. Pen clicking, clicking, clicking. Her nails are long and red and they stretch, cracking at the joints, and she gets to work scrawling words on a form, another form, another form. The pen speeds from contracts to check balances and when she releases it, letting it skid across the paperwork, her fingers flick towards a calculator and start clicking at that, too.

All the while, there's a grandfather clock in the corner, and another clock in the other. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

She hears it, faintly, and bites her lip. Better to shuffle everything finished, push it to the side. Swipe the dust off the mahogany. Readjust the cup of pencils. Still, tick and tock.

"Back to work," she mutters under her breath. Inhales, exhales. A steady exchange of energy through the air. It causes only a slight change, makes the air around her face only slightly hotter, but still it tires her. Still, tick, tock.

Her hand snatches the pen back up, and she bends over another form, face so close her pointed nose is almost scraping against the drying ink. Names, addresses, dates. Still, tick, tock.

Tick, tock. Her face reddens and she feels the flush of heat in them. Tick, tock. Fingers clench tightly around the utensil, knuckles white. Tick, tock. An incessant noise! Tick, tock. Stop, stop. Tick tock tick tock tick tock tick-

The tip of the pen sticks into the wood of the desk, and her palm throbs with the pain of the end of it ramming against her muscle. No quicker does she do this than the presence of another fills the room, and when eyes drift up, Gene Swan looks at Imogen Swan. Not in the eye, for this individual has none; well, she does, but they are blackened to blend in with the rest of her, all the same tone of ebony: skin, hair, lips, attire. She is a walking shadow standing straight and tall at the front of Miss Swan's desk, and she cocks her slender neck, and she says, garbled in the throat,, "Greetings, my origin."

And suddenly the ticking and tocking in the background begins to soothe the woman in the Big Man's chair. "Hello," she replies, gently wriggling the pen out of the wood and placing it calmly at the edge of the paperwork. Her eyes scan her shadow. "What've I done to bring you here?"

"You got frustrated, my origin. I felt it in me and so I came. Why don't you take a break, madame?"

Gene inhales again and leans back against her chair. Pale fingertips smooth over the wrinkles in her dress, ending at the knees where she feels the marble of herself. Nails dig into the skin. "I have work to do."

The shadow smiles, shakes her head. "So get your em-ploy-ees to do it. You, my origin, need a breath of fresh air. We must keep our emotions in check if we want to last to the next ritual." And, with a swift flick of the arm, her charred fingertips tap a little bell on the desk, and footsteps begin to patter their way.

Gene glances at the bell, then back at the shadow of herself. She tastes copper, remembers to quit dragging her teeth across and into her tongue, and stands on strong legs. "I suppose you make a fine enough point." I want to stay here. I want to make sure I'm doing things the right way. "Let's walk, then. You must have something more to say than this."

The shadow waits for Gene to swing her hips around the corners of the desk and catch up to her, and then they begin to walk at the same pace, steps synchronized. "You know yourself very well, my origin. But please, calm yourself first."

And so they do. They exit the office just as a silent wraith slips in, there to finish the work that Gene is too riled to do. It's not even that much anger, really, and she wants to return, but she does admit there's an ache in her knees and a pain in her back from sitting so long, so she accepts this without much fight, and continues on, blue fabric swishing against her legs. The shadow steps with pep; she marches.

The warehouse itself it as dark as the office, lit only by a few lanterns that the wraiths have managed to reach and the remaining light through the windows. To any unassuming eye, Gene and Imogen on the second landing might look like any two conversationalists, making small talk while surveying all work down below. And while they do survey, they do not talk.

Those wraiths on the first floor drag themselves around from table to table, filing papers and nudging the slumped ones to wakefulness and typing away on their little typewriters, jamming violently into the keys or clicking one letter every ten seconds, too tired or sad to go any faster. Gene does not pester them, for she knows the misery of losing oneself plenty well. For the other, newer ones, however, there's some bitterness left to spare. One wraith screeches, throws the whole typewriter through a window, shatters a hole right through it and watches as glass falls to the concrete and prickles at his feet. Another wraith simply walks around the mess, sobbing vehemently. The sound rises up, haunting and hollow. A sound of misery.

Other wraiths, easily mistempered, snap to attention, converging on the anger of the loud one and lighting a fire under its ass, grabbing, yanking, scratching, biting. Gene doesn't mind that they do this, either, and from where she stands, she simply calls out, "That window better get fixed," and continues on her way.

She shouldn't mind, either. At this rate they'll fade out of existence soon enough. There will always be more suffering souls to take their place, and where there is more suffering there is desperation, and where there is desperation, there is Miss Swan. She gives the dead a home and a means of occupying time until the inevitable occurs, and for that, they are grateful. As they should be. It's not easy running an orphanage for the damned and a business at the same time.

As the pair make it to the stairs, Miss Swan turns to the shadow, coughs delicately into her fist, and then unfurls the fist into a gesture. "So?"

"Are you calm yet, my origin?"

"Yeah, I'm calm. What is it you wanted to talk about?"

"You are not calm, my origin. You are antsy."

"Well," Miss Swan says, grinding her teeth together, "you're stalling a point. Get on with it and maybe we'll get somewhere, yeah?"

"As you wish, my origin." The shadow continues down the stairs, leading the way, always leading the way, never looking back. Her black locks twist and flow, light and uninhibited by gravity behind her. Like mist. Miss Swan bats it out of her face. When they reach solid ground, the shadow finally pauses, and the one of flesh and bone is the one who has to walk around and face her head on in order to get any sort of a response. "I suggest that you branch out to more fulfilling ventures. So long as you are in this line of work you'll grow bored, and your anger will die out, and so will you. My origin, I do believe we require something to spark our energy."

"I'll have you know that I perfectly enjoy this career," Miss Swan defends, lips twisting into an impenetrable frown. "I have wraiths at my every beck and call and they absolutely adore me for giving them a safe space in which to live. I have Brandy to do the ritual and keep my magic going. And I have no one coming for me because everyone who might hold a grudge is eliminated on sight. What's not to love about the life I live now?"

A sly grin slips on the shadow's singed lips. They're dry and chapped and split open when they stretch and Miss Swan doesn't like this look on herself. "What's not to love about our life is that it's merely our swift entrance into death. A final death. You've avoided it for years now but soon your time will run out and it's running out at an accelerated pace so long as you lock yourself up in that office. It may be comfortable and it may be safe but that's not what we need to stay alive. Do you understand?"

Accusation makes Miss Swan's chest light up with heat, and she parts her lips to let an argument rip, but before she can, a chill passes through the air and pushes wind at her cheeks and blows flyaways out of her bun and makes the front of the dress press close to her legs and then the heat's gone because now she's so, so cold. "The hell was that?" she asks.

"An omen," the shadow replies, and the other wraiths feel it too.

To the side, Miss Swan can see them all begin to tremble violently, fingers wrapping around their arms, hugging themselves back to warmth. Some whimper and dart their little eyes around, terrified for what might exist in the air enveloping them. Gene simply freezes, brows knit together and eyes narrowed at the high ceilings above them all. Will they cave? No, no, she's felt this chill before. She's lived plenty long to know what it means.

No sooner does the chill fade do all the phones in the building begin to ring. It's a cacophony at every desk, every station, dozens and dozens of telephones and their plastic receivers jangling where they sit. Wraiths scream and wail, dropping to the concrete, ducking under desks, folding themselves into the fetal position and cowering. After the initial shock, and when Miss Swan stops blinking so profusely, she starts for the nearest phone, the shadow trailing behind her. "Oh, quit your whining," she mutters. Her manicured hands wrap around tan plastic, and she lifts the thing to her ear, curly cord keeping her rooted in place. "Yes, hello?"

"Miss Swan, is it?"

She sighs an exasperated sigh. "Yes."

"Perfect. We have a business opportunity for you. A very important person in the vampire faction has recently died, and we've got a crime scene fresh and ready for any helping hand. You said to call you if we had any business opportunities, so here it is."

"Alright..." The shadow hears everything, nudges her forward, says to accept with the glint in her eye. But Miss Swan will not be so easily swayed, not even by the desires of herself, and so she lifts her chin, nudges the knee of a wraith at her feet with her heel to quiet them. "What's in it for me?"

"We can cross that bridge when we come to it, but you'll be paid to your liking, I assure you."

She's not sure whether it's the argument of her shadow from earlier, or if it's the strain and lack of oxygen flowing into her lungs, but she takes in a large, gulping breath as though she's thirsty for it, and she says, "Fine. Give me the address and I'll be there when you need me."

"Now works." Then the person on the other end gives the details, and Miss Swan bids them adieu, and she places the phone back on the receiver without saying goodbye and without removing her hand even after she's hung up. She presses down on it instead, breathing deeply to get as much energy and relief as she can. The plastic begins to crack.

"You are agitated, my origin."

"I am not agitated."

"You are tired, then, my origin."

"I am not anything." Miss Swan lowers her head, rubs the back of her neck with her free hand. Teeth tug at the inside of her cheek. "Fetch a wraith. Tell them they're driving." She glances up at the shadow. "Better they expend the energy and not I."

The shadow gives a strained smile, curtsies. "As you wish, my origin."

In the span of a few minutes she's in a dark vehicle, seated comfortably in the passenger seat, sinking into the material. A nervous wraith holds tightly to the wheel and while Gene would've rather had someone more confident in themselves drive, she can't be picky on short notice, and she's just glad that the shadow has opted not to join in. As soon as the wraith was sent her way, she'd been nowhere to be found. The shadow was like that sometimes. Came when it was convenient, left when it wasn't. Miss Swan likes it better that way.

The scene of Chicago passes by in a bright-dark blur, and she doesn't bother looking through the window because the tinting is so thick it makes it difficult for even her to see through it. They're invisible to mortals. Imagine the heart attack they'd have if they saw a car driving itself? (Then again, that's not so outlandish anymore. Gene has to remember that the world is changing, industrializing even further. It's never stopped. Plus, it'd give her more wraiths. But protocol is protocol, and she must obey.)

They arrive at the scene of the crime in twice the amount of time they should, given the driver's inclination towards fear, and before the brakes are even put on Miss Swan is out of the car, door slammed shut, walking towards the man they call Dorian and his mansion. Well, it used to be his mansion, at least. Somewhere inside, he's already beginning to rot, stinking and shrivelling to catch up with all the years he's cheated death. Gene almost feels for this man she's never met, but only because she's cheated death in much the same way.

There are several others arriving at the scene at the same time she has, and she catches sight of her little ritualistic darling, Miss Alva, and plans to catch up with her later. For now, though, she cocks her head at the house and purses her lips, watching as three Others run around the outskirts of the yard, unravelling yellow tape as they go. It's a dark night and a man has been murdered, and perhaps this is what the shadow meant when she said she needed a break in routine.

Perhaps this is what the shadow means when she appears beside Gene's ear with her garbled little whispers. "Let this make you angry. And you never know. Maybe The Mirror did this, too." 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ozias Alva

A day: the single rotation of the earth on its axis while it orbits the sun. The most basic measurement of time. We see the day used as an important measurement across multiple religions. It's a spiritual rebirth, an opening in the veil between what is and what is yet to be. But what happens when the day ends? What is born from the darkness that dwells between stars?

Every culture that ever was has some form of evil lurking inside of it. It doesn't matter what you call them, they're always there. The Tanakh calls them se'irim and the shedim. In Ancient Persia, they were the lilin. They have hundreds of names all throughout history. Belial, Lilith, shedu, Shayatin. Night-spirits. Tormented souls. Plagues of insanity and chaos that shake even the bravest to their knees. Demons.

If you think about it from a scientific standpoint, demons are the top of the biological food chain. The most advanced predators ever known, surpassing every other species without question. Who else can leave their victims without a scratch on their physical bodies? Soulless, maybe, but otherwise free to drift around in an empty haze and lure others into the same fate? And beyond their affinity for incantation, each demon possesses their own unique set of skills. Manipulative, powerful talents that bend the wills of lesser beings until they're nothing but extensions of those that control them.

So where was I in all of this? What exercise of arcane arts did I use to crawl my way into a powerful, untouchable position? Well, unless trying to psychically get the attention of the pretty waitress behind the counter at a hole-in-the-wall diner around the block from my apartment sounded like world domination: I was nowhere.

Mom's hand on my shoulder was still warm from the sunshine of the outdoors as she passed through my area of concentration to settle into the chair in front of me. I've always liked my mom. We have the same nose, same taste in movies and food, even though you could tell right away that there was something different between us. She was the kind of person people loved to look at. The kind that could make a grown man forget the gold ring on his finger and give in just once to the temptation that led people to the back of her club. That was her whole gimmick and I'd never seen it fail. Me? I didn't have that same look around me. I was gangly and easily flustered, trying too hard to copy the look that she had had but always falling short.

Cloth rustled as she stuck her phone back into her purse, pushing back empty gum wrappers and lipsticks that had come loose from whatever organizational method she had failed to keep up with this time. "How's it going, casanova?" she teased, chair scraping across the tile as she scooted closer to the table. I could see her lips twitch with the smallest hint of an optimistic smile. "You get her number yet?"

I could feel a knot of nervousness tying my vocal chords into elaborate bows that even those department store Christmas wrappers would be proud of. Slowly, I shook my head, blood rushing to the surface of my cheeks as I tried to direct my gaze anywhere but at her. Her fingertips drummed on the table, a low sigh escaping her lips. I preoccupied myself by rearranging the order of the silverware on the little paper napkin in front of me. There was a smudge on the prongs of the fork. Probably from a bit of leftover greasy hashbrown that hadn't come completely off when it was washed.

"She isn't your type anyway," Mom consoled.

Unsurprisingly, that didn't make me feel any better. The metal was cold when I moved my knife an estimated two centimeters to the left to get it to run parallel to my fork, but somehow that only caused them to point in two completely different directions. "How do you know?" It was supposed to sound like some form of challenge, but instead, I just sounded like a pouting toddler who was frustrated that the sky wasn't yellow like the sun.

Her lips twitched, elbows coming to rest on the plastic tablecloth before she tangled her long fingernails in my hair and ruffled it up. "It's my job to know things, honey." Regardless of the fact that she was right, I huffed and pulled away before she could do any more damage. Pushing the grey hair out of my face and back into its proper position, I felt my phone vibrate in the leg of my pants for the fifteenth time that morning. It left a heavy, empty feeling in the pit of my stomach, driving away all of the warmth in my body.

Body leaning forward once more, ribs almost pressed against the edge of the table, my voice dropped considerably softer. "You heard, right?" There was a pressed sort of panic in my voice at the thought of what the day had brought. How could someone kill a dragon? Obviously, it could be done, but the real question was why? Mom didn't answer right away, lips growing thin and pursed, but I could tell from the absence of color in her cheeks that she already knew where I was going. "Prince Dor—"

My words were cut short by a pale pink dress and the pretty girl who wore it setting down a mug in front of my mom. "Black coffee," she announced, pausing only long enough to let wisps of steam float upwards from the dark liquid. With her other hand, she leaned over the table to put a plate in front of me. For the briefest moment, her eyes met mine and her nose crinkled up the three freckles hiding beside it as her smile grew a little wider. "French toast." All other thoughts seem to flutter away, at least for that moment. Even the syrup-drowned, cinnamon paradise that waited for me on the table couldn't tempt me to look away from her. Oh god, Oz, I told myself, think of something good to say before she leaves. Does she have to wear that dress or does she just like it?

My mouth opened and closed like a fish on land, meaningless half-formed syllables leaving my lips as I stuttered out something that might have resembled a, "Thank you." She smiled at me for a moment longer and I noticed for not the first time that her name tag said Rebecca. But before I could say untie my tongue from the knot it had formed in my mouth she was gone again, ready to work and get home just like the rest of us were.

Mom was still quiet, taking small sips of her coffee as I picked up my fork to cut into my breakfast. Butter and syrup oozed out of the bread when I stabbed the first piece, stomach rumbling in anticipation. This was a special treat for the two of us. Usually, we ate at home, and mom's french toast was usually a little too charred around the edges. This was like heaven passing between my lips, all powdered sugar and cardiac arrest waiting to happen.

"I heard, Oz," Mom spoke at last. Her voice was soft, but not the panicked sort of whisper that mine had been. It was something firmer, something grimmer. "Everyone's heard." The sticky syrup in my throat felt heavy and thick, sliding down my esophagus at a snail's pace as she spoke. I can't remember a time in my life that I've ever seen my mom scared. But as she stared down into her mug, swirling around the black coffee that steamed inside of it, I could almost picture it. There was worry creasing her eyes, deep and heavy thoughts consuming them as she tried to find a way to explain what had happened. Prince Dorian was dead. Someone like us, maybe not a demon but like us all the same, had killed him. Destroyed his soul so there was nothing left behind. Now we were left to pick up the pieces and deal with the stirring agitation in our stomachs as we tried to make sense of what should happen next.

The words spilled out before I had the chance to stop them. "Are you going?" I asked and her whole body stiffened. Long red fingernails tapped against the ceramic mug in her grip and for a long moment, she didn't answer.

Sitting back in her chair, a little sigh escaping between her teeth, Mom looked at me fully. "As a matter of fact," she began, letting the cup rest on the table once again, "I might have been called to take a look."

My ears perked, chin jutting up fast enough to probably give me whiplash. "With Adam?" I asked hopefully, doing nothing to disguise the enthusiasm in my voice. It was always a good time when Adam was around. He was a little too reckless, a little too immature, but I knew that I would always have fun when he came around.

There was that look again. A little too stern, more parental than maybe I was used to. "No." Her answer was sharp and brief, giving me little time to argue or even get a word in to support my case. "He's not a good role model for you." If I had been a little bit angstier, I would have rolled my eyes. "Now promise me you'll stay away from him and the crime scene."

The fork hit the ground before I had even realized it had slipped through my fingers. Steel met tile and tile met steel and steel met tile over and over again as it bounced in the almost empty diner before finally coming to a stop. My chair scraped against the floor as I tried to grab it without causing an even bigger scene. As my fingers wrapped around it, another set of fingers wrapped around mine. Soft fingers with cat faces painted on each nail except for the pinkie which just read 'meow!'. Heat pooled in my cheeks as I straightened up, releasing the fork into her hand. It may just have been the morning sun pouring in through the windows, but the room seemed warmer when she smiled at me and handed me a new fork wrapped in a napkin without a word. This time, I couldn't even stumble through a 'thanks'.

That's me, the son of a demon who always goes home with whoever she smiles at. Unable to say thank you to a waitress with cats on her fingers.

I slid back into my chair, still lost somewhere between complete romantic failure and an anxiety attack. Mom was hiding her smile behind her hand, trying not to let her laughter show even though her shoulders shook. My new fork and napkin sat comfortably beside my cooling stack of french toast as I tried to resume my argument from before. "But mom, the Counsel—"

"Has plenty of older members who can represent." There was amusement in her voice, which under normal circumstances would have gotten me away with everything but murder. This time, however, she stood firm in her words and as much as I hated to admit it they made sense.

"But—"

She took another drink of her coffee, shaking her head as she left a lipstick-stain around is rim. "Ozias Nathaniel Alva." I tried my best not to shudder at the name. "Promise me right now that you won't go anywhere near that place."

There was something about lying to her that twisted my guts into uncomfortable knots and made my skin crawl like there were ants living beneath it. So, I relented. "Fine." But half-truths aren't necessarily lies, now are they? "I'll stay out of your way." Even that felt slow and heavy on my tongue like I was trying to move through thick molasses or early morning traffic. It was enough to satisfy her, though. The rest of breakfast was easy and I promised her I could head back to the apartment on my own with no problems.

Fifteen minutes and one Uber ride later, I had broken into the backyard of Prince Dorian and had begun the unusually difficult task of climbing up into one of his second-story windows, praying as hard as I could that my mom was somewhere else and thoroughly distracted by the corpse of a dead dragon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Amari Jahiem

Once upon a time, there was a princess, and she was in love with a prince.

She had never said as much. Neither had he. But the time they spent together was easy and passionate. They didn't need to say it, the princess insisted to herself. Sure, they had been together for nearly a year. Sure, room had been made in her closet, and her bathroom cabinet, and her bed for him. Sure, he had insisted on helping with bill payments and even tried to buy her a car. Those things among countless others were all clear indicators of their dedication to each other. They didn't need to say it.

The princess didn't need the words, didn't need a ring. But heavens above she wanted them.

She tried many times to coax them out of him. They'd sit cuddled under a worn blanket on her apartment couch, watching Disney movies on Netflix. (Her choice, of course. Always her choice.) He would trace patterns into the dark skin of her bare shoulder and hum along to the songs, and she would find herself unable to think of anything but her stabbing, screaming, swell of love for him.

Am I important to you, the princess would ask. Casually. As casually as she could manage.

Every time she asked, her prince responded in a similar manner: Of course. I would dare say you're the most significant being in my non-official life.

He was always doing that. Separating his life into two compartments. Into islands with a vast sea between, and he was a sailor with a life on each. The two lives never crossed, and her prince rarely spoke to her about what happened on that other island, in that other life. His "official" life.

Being the most significant being in a life that her prince clearly deemed to be the less important one was a difficult position for the princess to be in. She was afraid to push him, afraid to ask for more. He was something beyond her world, that much was clear from the moment she met him, even before felt secure enough to show her his power.

The princess was in love with him, wholly, deeply. But she wanted him to say it first, if only because a part of her was afraid her confession would scare him away. Any second, her perfect fairytale could dissolve into smoke before her eyes. She wanted him to say it, to ask her to share his life forever. Both lives, both worlds.

Something told her that was impossible, so the princess swallowed the stabbing and screaming, swallowed the words that begged to burst forth.

She didn't need the words. She didn't. She didn't. She didn't.

The princess had two lives too, though her ocean wasn't nearly as vast. If anything, her lives were separated by merely a stream. She could jump across with ease, and had often invited her prince to join her on the other side. He never took her up on the offer.

Sometimes the animation studio she worked with would host parties, or one of her cousins would have a wedding, and she would beg him to be her date.

Too public, too many eyes, the prince would say as he twined his fingers with her's, ran his free hand along her jaw. You wouldn't like me, I would be distant.

I understand, forget I asked, she'd answer with a gentle smile. But she didn't understand, not really. He was afraid of people seeing her. No, not people, the princess had gathered that much. Others. He was afraid of others seeing her. Others, from his official life.

That was why they never planned his visits. That was why she had never once seen where he lived, and why he kept "lovers" in his official life, and went on casual dates with people who weren't her.

Which, fine, the princess didn't mind. She was cool with it. Human rules didn't apply to him, and he claimed she was important. Significant. Special. She believed him. Because the alternative was to obsess, and the princess knew obsessing over his official life, that distant, distant island, would do nothing but drown her.

The princess and her prince were happy. They were. He showered her with gifts, and when they were completely alone, affection. They never fought, never even disagreed. So fearful was the princess of losing her love that she sacrificed her spine. This was the price the princess had agreed to pay in exchange for her fairytale. It was fine, she was fine.

She. Was. Fine.

Fine.

Fine.

But. No.

...She wasn't. She wasn't, okay? She was so close to drowning. She was clinging to rocks, her head inches from going under. She was dying to tell him she loved him. Dying to know if he felt the same. Dying to be included in his world. Dying yell at him, to get angry at him for acting like she was something that could be stashed away in a drawer and brought out when the mood struck him.

But then her prince would kiss her. Or show up at her door with a giant bouquet of her favorite flowers. Or she would wake up to him in her kitchen wearing her glittery pink apron, burning pancakes. Deepest apologies, he would say with an adorable blush coloring his cheeks, I normally have, ah, people for this...

The princess would latch onto those moments like a life raft. She would return the kiss and deepen it, put the flowers in vases all over her apartment so she couldn't enter a room without a colorful reminder that her prince had thought of her. She would giggle and join him by the stove, wrapping her arms around his waist, and offer to grab bagels from their favorite coffee shop instead.

It was a precarious relationship. But it was precious, and the princess vowed silently every night that she would continue to pay the price, whatever it was, to keep her fairytale alive.

But she was foolish, so foolish, to assume that everything was in her control. There were outside forces she didn't fully understand and didn't account for.

Amari, darling, let me stay another night, her prince pleaded one spring evening, trailing kisses along her collarbone.

I have a meeting in the office first thing tomorrow, the princess answered. It pained her to untangle his arms from around her waist.

I don't mind, I'll stay in bed and wait for you to return, he insisted.

Babe, if you're still in my bed in the morning you know I won't be able to leave. And this meeting is important. They might finally give me my own show!

The prince sighed, giving her one final kiss on the lips before he relented. If that is your wish, I'll leave. Good luck dear, I'll see you again soon.

I love you, her heart screamed as she closed the apartment door behind him.

She slept contentedly in a bed that smelled of him. And shortly after she returned from work the next day (the meeting had been a bust), she was thrilled to hear a knock at her door. Her prince never returned so quickly.

Babe! She beamed, and opened the door, but the two surly men who waited on the other side were strangers to her. The princess's smile fell. Um... I'm sorry... who are you?

Amari Jaheim?

Yes?

Dorian H'Langraash is dead. We need you to come with us, now.

The princess was numb as they led her to a car, to the boat that would take her across the vast sea to her prince's other island. She was in the boat but oh God, oh God she was drowning.

She always dreamed of seeing her prince's castle. This was not the scenario she envisioned.

She was alone. She was drowning. She was not fine. Her perfect fairytale had turned to ash before her eyes, and she had been powerless to stop it.

She hadn't told him she loved him.

She hadn't told him.

Oh God, I never told him.