|-@SILVERBOWANDARROW-|

DROPPED OUT

|-DELILAH-|

There is a time when days transcend into the night and the night transcends into eternity–one brief, well-planned event that grasps hold of all sanity in a region to throw everyone out of their safe-guarded happiness. Throughout history, this period seems to come to a screeching halt and disrupt everything in its path. Chaos incarnate, as some would call it.

Delilah had always known to be wary of those times.

Step one is to realize something is about to go wrong–friendships are formed between unlikely friends, suddenly one isn't as cautious as they were, and the latch isn't locked at night. In this step, everything that was guarded has been left undone. There are longer nights outside, laughter shared, and a bond created.

It was easy enough to fall into the role of a guardian for Annabeth–while she claimed to be an adult, it was clear she was a child in most ways. She had no guidance when it came to anyone who disagreed with her, and Delilah had to step in when anyone argued with her. When one patient made her cry, Delilah sent her away so he could verbally remind the man not to be rude to someone who holds their string of fate. In a way, it was nice to get to be seen as a better person instead of just a heartless being.

Just as autumn hit, Delilah realized Annabeth likely wasn't returning home to her 'lover' anytime soon. It was their turn to cook dinner, so while Annabeth rested and watched the latest news, Delilah turned on the stove and began to simmer a chunk of meat they'd gotten earlier in the day. The droning voices on the television were a new addition–it wasn't until August that Annabeth had suggested they watch the television to stay updated on the world. Delilah had almost forgotten that there was a world outside their little speck of rust.

Breaking news: The ChorTek Tower was broken into over the weekend. A substantial amount of Choralium was stolen during the break-in, and fourteen officers were wounded during the subsequent chase. The investigation is ongoing, and the police are offering a ten million dollar reward to anyone who can come forward with information regarding the suspected thieves.
Delilah turned off the television when it was time to eat.

"Trying to save up some power tonight, if that's okay," he said.

It was okay.

Breaking news: Four men have been arrested in relation to the ChorTek case. The CEO has offered the following statement-

The days kept passing.

A press conference is set to occur on Friday, September 13th. The CEO of ChorTek states they will be unveiling their yearly corporation plans and that they've got "big news" incoming. For more alerts, please subscribe to Weather News Region 93. Weather News Region 93 is a simple tracking app that you can add to any phone or personal computer.

Leaves fell from the trees as the floodgates of the sky opened. More and more often, children were at the dump.

More and more often, Delilah's blood kept them from death.

An update to our previous conversation, Lori. It is monsoon season, and this year is shaping up to be worse than last year. Make sure you keep your children inside and utilize public transport rather than walking. A reminder from Jameston Train Station: a ride to New Horizons is only $9.99.

People were friendly. The town would never be caring, especially not towards Delilah, but they appreciated Annabeth, and they would often come back a few weeks after their care to give an extra tip or just to share details on their lives.

After one particularly hot day, Delilah pulled Annabeth aside before they went to the forge. They'd had a particularly good week's worth of clientele and only two bad cases—the best Delilah had seen in years. More days were spent repairing braces and ensuring that the masks would still hold up as the year dragged on.

"Let's get dinner in town," Delilah said.

She raised an eyebrow. "You? Eat in town?"

"I think it's about right that I treat you to a meal after you've been such a help," Delilah assured her. While she still seemed weary, she accepted his response, and the two of them headed away from the forge and towards a little diner that Delilah knew wasn't expensive. Getting food and water without rust was a luxury, but they had some cleaner water on that side of the outskirts.

The old diner stood as a relic of the past. Two large circles wound through each other, and while they had been destroyed over the years, there was still a sporadic flicker from the vibrant yellow neon inside. It cast an unsettling glow on the cracked asphalt. Delilah held open the door to let her inside. They'd gotten around to repainting the walls the bright mustard yellow and red it was in its vintage state. The worn fake-leather booths and chipped plastic tables reeked of grease and potatoes.

Inside, the air conditioner blazed.

Annabeth took off her mask and took a deep breath. "If only the rest of Idyll was this nice smelling," she said. "Why'd you keep this hidden from me?"

Delilah chuckled. "An "old man's" gotta have his secrets, right?"

She laughed and took a seat at the first clean table. Delilah grabbed two menus from the wait station and sat down across from her, handing her the cleaner one. The prices were high but not unbearably so.

"Dinner's on me, so don't worry about it," they said.

There was one thin man dressed in all black making a fresh brew of coffee and another in the back with a five o'clock shadow and chef's belly who flipped a set of burgers on the grill with a look of both boredom and determination to get the fuck out of there before they closed. Both had sweat rust gathered around their hands and wiped onto their stained aprons.

"You gotta bring your handsome self and your daughter more often, Johnnie," an old waitress said. She smiled as she walked up to them, holding an iPad that had to be on the verge of death and a writing stylus that could have been brand new. "What brings you in?"

"Just getting dinner, Miranda. I'll take a cup of coffee."

Annabeth watched the two of them for a moment until it seemed to hit her that there was silence waiting for her. Her face flushed, and she asked for water sheepishly.

"Fancy or tap?"

Annabeth didn't respond fast enough, and Miranda started laughing. She pushed back her slowly graying hair and rested a hand on Annabeth's shoulders. "I guess I should be asking rust or less rust?"

"Less," Delilah said. "My treat tonight."

"Thank you," Annabeth said. She seemed small for once–not the loud extroverted person he'd gotten to know over the months of her work.

"Everything okay?"

"It's fine."

And it was.

Step two is to realize that time is passing much faster. One week becomes two, becomes a month, becomes two months. The harsh summer continued as the months progressed towards winter. Years ago, there used to be fall, where the world stopped between cold and hot, where things were docile, and where life was rose-tinted. When they met, summer had just started. Now, that time was just sweltering as the days passed, and the first signs of winter stretched across the lands. The time of rain had come, and it swept through the desert like a hurricane.

After dinner, the sky was clouded. It started to rain.

"Better head back before it gets worse," Delilah said.

"She called you John. Does everyone here know you like that?"

"Only a handful," Delilah answered. "She was friends with my mom before."

The sprinkles quickly turned into heavy fists of rain that pounded against the ground as thunder rumbled overhead. Delilah hesitated, momentarily worried about the rain causing their metal to rust again. Monsoon season was normally one spent indoors.

Then, they took off their green cloak and handed it to Annabeth.

"Keep yourself from getting wet with it," they said. "You're more likely to catch a cold than I am."

It was logical—at least, it felt that way to Delilah. Nothing hid their shoulder pads or the glowing metal that was brighter than usual as the sky darkened further. Their black shirt was easily coated with water, and their trousers stuck like glue against their legs. It ached like it always did, but it was easier to get home without taking off a huge wet robe. At least that's what they told themselves.

Annabeth took off at first, running towards home and Delilah watched for a second before deciding to race her.

The two of them were there, running through the rain, and her laughter sounded like bells. She was faster than Delilah, a hard fact to admit, and she seemed eager to show off how fast she could get back.

Delilah pressed on, forcing their legs to keep moving, to press forward. They managed to catch up to her before they reached the hill and started ramping up the speed. It was fun–something Delilah didn't really know was honestly possible—two people, both tired from a day's work but laughing together in the storm.

Lightning struck down close to a tree nearby, lighting it on fire.

"Meet me at the door," Annabeth shouted. She started to pass Delilah.

Delilah kept running until they surpassed her again. Just up ahead, Delilah's little shelter waited. A light glowed next to it.

Perhaps it was fireflies, the last of the season, looking to find shelter from the storm.

It wasn't until Delilah got closer that they saw the parked vehicle. The ChorTek logo was embellished on the driver's side door.

Step three, the quintessential step, is not to look behind you and assume they're still running.

"Get back," Delilah shouted. They turned, and there was nothing but a storm and rain. "Annabeth?"

She was nowhere to be found.

Two men ran out of the parked truck with guns, attempting to stop Delilah, but Delilah turned around and started running back to where they'd come. They had to get out of there before they both got caught. She couldn't have been far.

It was impossible to see footprints in the muddied ground. Another lightning flashed, and Delilah started running towards town. Maybe she'd seen the people, maybe she slipped and fell, or maybe she was lost.

Bullets flew through the air, barely missing Delilah.

It was time to run, to hide, to flee, to get out of the city before they were killed. It was always a matter of time before they came for Delilah, to get rid of their mistake that kept the mutant children's numbers from growing in their solitary confinements.

"Annabeth!"

***

ChorTek Tower was the third tallest building in the city. It towered over all the buildings around it. From the dark black concrete to the tinted windows and holograms covering half the building, it looked to passersby like any other large business. Annabeth's heart was racing as they drove up to it. She could hear the vehicle's breaks, the monitors' beeping, and restarting as they continued past the first checkpoint.

"It's amazing that you were able to gather so much data in a short amount of time," Micky Valentina stated. In the passenger seat next to her was West Jordan, Annabeth's boss. Jordan was supposed to be Annabeth's point of contact for the mission, but he did not do much to keep in contact.

"I'm not sure if this is a great idea," Annabeth said. "Delilah might not be the person we thought they were -"

"He is an abhorrent monster, destroying children. Here, we save children. We rehabilitate people, don't forget that," West reminded her. "Remember what he did when he thought I couldn't be saved? He threw the body into the dump and set it on fire. I wouldn't have gotten out of there if it weren't for my suit. The other bodies..."

"He'll be caught soon enough," Micky stated. She turned around and smiled at Annabeth with warm red lips and bright blue eyes. "Don't worry, we've got the best looking for him."

***

Idyll roared with life, a symphony of neon lights, towering skyscrapers, and relentless activity. The streets were cramped with a mixture of humans and androids, their forms adorned in sleek, clean-cut attire that shimmered under the neon glow. Giant holographic billboards loomed overhead, advertising everything from cutting-edge cybernetic enhancements to virtual reality experiences involving...magic mushrooms and alcohol—top-tier combinations, truly. The air sizzled with absent-minded chatter and loud screaming voices from the dawn boxes in nearly every corner.

The city's pulsing heart was the central plaza, a mesmerizing collage of glass and steel where people gathered to witness new copper spires cracking the ground as they arose. They were gleefully monitored from every angle while people took selfies and group photos, not caring even as the rust shined beneath their feet. The city was raw energy, defiance, and unyielding innovation, caught between the boundaries of humanity and technology and blurred into a mesmerizing tapestry of creation.

That, combined with the storm still raging overhead, it was

In short–it was too much, and Delilah couldn't focus.

"Magic mushrooms desynchronize your brain for up to three weeks," a friendly voice stated. He was a kid–maybe in his twenties, barely older than Annabeth—with an ugly haircut and clothes that looked like he was running the world out of denim and cotton. "I wouldn't recommend it, buddy."

Delilah looked him up and down and then continued gazing at the holograms above, hoping that something had a hint, a clue, a destination outside of "Idyll" itself.

"What, you lost or something?" The kid was persistent.

"I," Delilah paused. Would being lost help? For all his shortcomings in appearance, the kid seemed like he at least knew the city he belonged to. "I'm looking for someone."

"Someone or something?"

"Hard to state."

Delilah drew away from the crowd and joined the man in the alleyway, letting the streetlights drown them in a golden hue as the night continued. The ground shook some as the spire grew like hands reaching toward the heavens, fingers and rivets of stone and rust, leaving nothing more than red dust in its wake.

"What do you know about ChorTek?"

|-MARIGOLD ESTES-|

DROPPED OUT

|-JORDAN BAXTER-|

 Jordan has many virtues, but patience is not one of them. She has tried in vain to combat this failing for as far back as she can remember. After all, impatience is the sin that causes one to speak out of turn, to reveal information best kept secret, to accept marriage proposals when she knows in her heart of hearts that she will never make it to the wedding. In all her years, Jordan has found that impatience of the body can be treated. Impatience of the spirit, however, is much harder to cure.

After recounting all she remembers into her journal, Jordan is impatient for Little Arthur to return. She wants to speak to him, needs to explain herself whether or not he is ready to listen. If he still wants nothing to do with her, she will have nothing left to keep her here. She will do what she does best and disappear.

Jordan busies herself by exploring Arthur's apartment. In his room, tastefully decorated with explicit posters adorning the walls and a bed with no frame, Jordan finds a computer. It takes her the better part of half an hour to become acquainted with its unique interface system, but once she is accustomed to it, she finds a world of information at her fingertips. Her fingers fly across the smooth keys as she reads about dates, customs, locations. She learns she is currently in Idyll, Arizona, a city that seems to be owned by the corporate conglomerate, ChorTek, that was at the front of the Second Industrial Revolution, now known as The Great Learning. It seems The Great Learning primarily skyrocketed the growth of extremely advanced technology, while the wealth disparity between the upper and lower classes steadily grew. It resulted in the strangely amalgamated city in which she resides currently, with its dusty roads and chrome streets, broken down barns and steel skyscrapers. A city of neon and dirt. Fascinating. Jordan freehands a rough map of the city in her journal.

By the time she is satisfied with her crudely drawn map, the time on the computer reads 12:37. Little Arthur has been gone for at least four hours. The sky outside the window is still not exactly night, but it is the darkest she's ever seen it since arriving here. She assumes the light pollution from excessive neon is what's preventing the sky from darkening fully, and jots this hypothesis in her journal. Jordan is becoming restless. She chides herself that Arthur is a grown man now, and that she has no right to lecture him about staying out so late. Jordan resolves to soothe her restless soul by busying herself with menial tasks.

She makes Arthur's bed and returns her blankets and pillows to his linen closet. She puts away the dishes she had washed earlier and left to dry. She records the contents of her briefcase in her journal, all while the pit in her stomach grows deeper and deeper. It is 2:52 and Little Arthur is still not home. She will look for him, then.

Jordan feels no guilt as she steals a red button up shirt and pair of black trousers from his chest of drawers. If Arthur didn't want her poking around in his things, he shouldn't have left her in his home, unattended. The clothes are made from a strangely synthetic material that feels both slippery and scratchy at the same time. Jordan examines herself in the bathroom mirror. The pant legs have to be rolled four times each to stop them from dragging on the ground, and the shirt threatens to drown her slender frame. It will have to do. Before she leaves, Jordan takes an extra sleeping pill just in case she has another anxiety attack. She buttons up the neon trench coat, grabs her briefcase, and slips silently into the night.

It's not long before Jordan finds Little Arthur's watering hole of choice. When he first brought her to his apartment, she rode with him on his electric green motorbike. Jordan simply wanders, using her map as a guide, until she sees the same green motorbike outside a large nightclub teeming with drunk party goers and their reluctantly sober drivers. As Jordan pushes her way through the crowd, she spots him, slumped in his chair at the bar while the bartender shakes his head. The booming bass and cheers of the crowd should drown out his words, but it seems Arthur still hasn't learned how to use his inside voice.

"You don't get it," he slurs, pushing the bartender's hand away, "this lady's the stuff of nightmares." Jordan sits herself on the stool next to him, and the bartender, wearing a pink zebra print waistcoat and matching bowtie, holds up a finger to indicate she will have to wait. Jordan nods and pretends to study the holographic menu while eavesdropping.

"She just shows up after like twenty years, hasn't aged a day. Looks like she dropped out of a history book. Then she starts bossing me around as if I'm not older than her." Arthur grabs the bartender's sleeve and uses it to pull himself up.

The bartender gives Jordan a pained expression and pulls his sleeve away. "Look, Artz, didn't you say this girl was just a figment of your imagination or something? You probably just saw someone who looked like her." He's Irish, Jordan notes with surprise.

"Nah, Ian, she was real," Arthur blubbers. "She started telling me all this shit about how she time travels and doesn't know her own age. Talks real old fashioned, too."

Ian sighs and sets about wiping a glass down with a stained rag. "But you told me your Ma was fucking crazy and imagined the whole thing."

"No!" Arthur slams his hands down on the bar and Ian jumps back. "That's what the doctors said, but I never believed it! I know what I saw, man, she's real." Arthur's head shoots up and he nearly jumps off the bar stool. "You know what? I bet if I can prove she's real, they'll let Mom go! They have to, the hospital can't keep her there if I can prove she's mentally stable!"

And just like that, Jordan's world drops from beneath her. Arthur is still rambling excitedly, but she can no longer hear him over the ringing in her ears. She'd assumed Teddy was dead. The way Arthur had referred to her, as if she was no longer in his life, confirmed this idea. She hadn't ever asked for clarification, whether to save herself or Little Arthur from the pain she didn't know. She was cursing herself for being so foolish, for making hasty assumptions when all that ever came from those was conflict. And as she clamps her fingers on top of the bar and bites her tongue to stop from screaming, a glimmer of hope flickers inside her long dead heart.

Teddy is alive, Teddy is in a hospital, most likely a mental one. She can see Teddy if she so chooses. One last time, before she disappears from their lives forever. The rational part of her is screaming that she's being selfish. She has already destroyed Little Arthur's life and Teddy's sanity. She should leave now, before Arthur notices.

Jordan stays seated and calms herself by breathing slowly and counting her breaths. Her surprise, excitement, fear, none of it shows on her placid face as she catches the bartender's attention and points to the plainest thing on the menu, a club soda. Arthur, too inebriated to notice this exchange, continues talking while Ian strides across the length of the bar.

"Yeah, all I gotta do is run back home and get her. The police will see she's got no ID, no birth certificate, no nothing, and they'll have to release my mom!" He freezes suddenly, and Jordan tenses. Has he finally noticed her?

"What?" Ian's back, and slides the club soda to Jordan. Arthur is too wrapped up in his own head to pay any attention.

"Fuck, dude," he buries his head in his hands, shoulders slumping. Ian taps his foot with impatience. "I told her to leave."

"You what?"

"I cussed her out and then I told her to leave and never come back."

"What the fuck did ya do that for?"

"I don't know!" Arthur wails. "I was pissed. All my life I wanted her to be pretend. Just some hallucination my crazy mother cooked up after Dad left. But now, I don't know what I want."

Ian eyes the impatient customers that have been steadily swarming the bar. "Are you fucking kidding me, mate?" He snaps. "If what you're saying ain't a crock of shit, this woman's the key to all your problems."

"Yeah?" Arthur lifts his head up and Ian flicks him on the forehead.

"Yeah, you fucking moron. You better find this lady, wherever she is, and you better get her down to the hospital. And while you're at it, stop fucking bothering me, I've got customers." He nods his head to the crowd of people around the bar. Jordan uses the distraction to slip into the crowd, still clutching her club soda.

She has to make it to the mental hospital, she has to see Teddy one last time. She has to say goodbye. A plan is already formulating. She can't get caught, no matter what. She remembers from her research that hospitals are government owned in Idyll, meaning she needs a wrist chip to even make it through the door.

No matter what era, it's never difficult to attract a mans' attention. All it takes is sidling up next to her mark at the opposite end of the bar, and fixing him with a certain look as she sips daintily from her drink. She looks into the crowd, trying not to smirk as the man sidles up next to her.

"Hey," he says, and nothing else. She can hear his stuttered breathing, see his shaking hands as he moves into her line of vision. Poor thing. She looks him up and down out of the corner of her eye.

"Hey," she says, putting more emotion into her voice than she usually does. "You come here often?" And that's all it takes.

Her slang is rusty, but the man seems so excited that she's even speaking to him that he doesn't notice or care. He tells her his name is Razor after his father's favorite scooter manufacturer, he's 25, and he just got a promotion at work. What he doesn't tell her is that this is his first time approaching a woman, he's incredibly nervous, and he's alone. She tells him her name is Dakota, she's 24, and it's her birthday. The lies slip easily from her tongue as he orders them another round. He's very sweet, and Jordan feels preemptively guilty over what she's about to do.

She eases him into a conversation about recreational drugs and, when the time is right, she holds up the white sleeping pill.

"What is it?" He asks.

"A little something to make the night even better," she answers.

She manages to get him to the back room before he goes fully unconscious. No one notices when she picks the lock on the door and locks them both inside. She manages to drag his limp body onto the couch just as his legs give out beneath him.

"Apologies," Jordan mutters, kneeling next to him and checking his eyes to make sure he's fully unconscious. "You're a very sweet man, Mr. Razor. I hope this experience does not darken your opinions on courting."

Jordan slides her pocket knife out of her pocket and cleans the blade with an alcohol wipe. It's a small blade, almost too small for the job, but her medieval dagger is much too large. She doesn't want to accidentally sever a nerve.

Jordan steels herself. She feels around Razor's hand and finds a small lump in the meat of his arm just below the wrist joint. She inserts the knife carefully, sinking only the tip into his outermost layer of skin. She carefully carves deeper into his arm, feeling for the lump with her left hand. After only a few seconds, she's able to gently force the lump through the cut in his arm, revealing a holographic green chip.

Setting his arm down, Jordan cleans the cut with her alcohol wipe. It's small and shallow, unlikely to hurt much or need stitches. Jordan stands, fishes the remainder of her money out of her coat pockets and tucks it into Razor's hand. She leaves, closing the door behind her and sighs with relief as the bolt automatically locks into place. He will be safe in the back office until he wakes, which shouldn't be more than a few hours from now.

Jordan slips her way out of the nightclub and takes a sigh of relief at the distinct lack of people outside before pulling the scarf back over her face. She can hear Arthur yelling at something from the parking lot. As Jordan rounds the corner, she sees him on his knees, begging his motorbike to start.

"You might need the keys for that," Jordan calls. Arthur whips around and his mouth drops open. As Jordan approaches, she says, "Close your mouth, darling. You forgot your mask at home." She offers a hand which he takes, face almost paler than the day he met her.

"How? I don't... How did you know where...?" His face screws up like it used to when he was young, when he knew he was in trouble.

"Don't you remember?" She asks sweetly. "I'm the stuff of nightmares."

*************

By the time she gets Arthur up the stairs and tucks him into bed, the computer clock reads 4:12. Jordan leaves a glass of water on the floor next to his bed and kisses his forehead. She's closing his bedroom door before she spares one more glance at him. In the light from the illuminated doorway, he looks just as he did when he was younger. Small, innocent, annoying. Her heart aches and tears well in her eyes as she closes the door on the man who might have been her son. It's too late for any of that, now.

Jordan takes her briefcase and Little Arthur's keys before she leaves. The motorbike is parked on the street right where she left it. She must have been an excellent rider in her past life, because the knowledge flows back into her the instant she straddles the bike. It's the witching hour, and right now, she feels she's the only one alive. She rides on instinct alone, whipping through the deserted streets as she makes her way to the mental facility Teddy is being kept in.

She makes her way inside with the chip held tightly between her fingers. Apparently the Sacred Care Institute for Mental Stability didn't care to keep their doors locked at night. With information she pulled from Arthur during their inebriated ride home, Jordan sneaks up the stairs to the fourth floor. Room 738.

There she is. Jordan can't breathe. Teddy's right there, sleeping soundly. She's older, the stress of life has given her premature wrinkles. She's just as beautiful as the day Jordan met her. Jordan takes a step inside the room, intent on holding her hand one more time.
An alarm goes off, loud and blaring. Jordan jumps a foot in the air, hand flying for her dagger. Teddy's eyes don't open. There's footsteps coming up behind her. Jordan risks a glance. Security guards, three of them, heading straight for her. They have guns.

There's a window in Teddy's room. No matter what, she can never be caught. Visions flash before her eyes, of townspeople gathering wood for her pyre. Little children throwing rocks at her through the bars of her cell. Sitting in a dark interrogation room with no fingernails. She moves before she can think, before she can breathe. She runs, flings the window up with enough force to crack the glass, and jumps.

For one moment, before her feet leave the ground, she thinks she hears a, "Jordy?" from somewhere in the room. And then she's falling, trying desperately to angle herself in a way that won't kill her. She lands in the grass, right leg snapping with the force of her full body. Her head slams into the ground, nose crunching, ribs aching.

Jordan isn't dead. The guards upstairs don't know that. She closes her eyes and lies as still as she possibly can.

"Down there!" someone yells from above. "Move it people, before the rats get to her!" She counts ten seconds. Jordan opens her eyes and looks up. The window is empty. She stuffs her linen scarf into her mouth and stands on one leg. The pain is excruciating. Black spots dance in front of her vision and she feels something wet on her stomach. Blood. The guards will be here any minute.

Jordan has enough presence of mind to limp around to the front of the building. She has to get out of here. She can make it to the motorbike if she just tries hard enough. Unfortunately, as she drags her broken leg over the seat it jostles, and she lets out a bloodcurdling scream. Her ears are ringing again, someone is jostling her shoulder. She peeks her eyes open just wide enough to see a belt with a gun holster right before she goes dead to the world.

|-THE PRIEST-|

At the center of Idyll sits the silver spine of ChorTek Tower, its steel shell warped with helixed edges that twist lengthwise up its side like waves in a silver sea. Tonight there is a gala there, and as the horse approaches, it is forced into a line of dark cars that prowl silently up the shaded drive like predators spitting their scurrying bones at the building's feet.

At the entrance a valet approaches the priest and gives him a tag, grabbing for nonexistent reins. The horse entertains this for a moment before turning and trotting towards the parking garage. As the valet follows blankly after the retreating horse the priest joins the thin trickle of finely-ornamented people entering the building. In the elevators are women whose many-layered dresses whisper over each other like moths' wings and men whose suits glimmer like beetles in darkness, and the priest observes as one presses the button for the highest floor.

The luminaries of Idyll are as shining and artificial as the city itself. Their conversation is the same moving river. They huddle in groups and press their cheeks together when they speak, pink and smooth like the insides of oysters, so their confessions cannot be overheard. Their prayers answer each other and their grievances but stir in the current and their needs float, weightless as light, in this hidden ballroom that sits at the seam where the city meets its inevitable rust-bitten end, and outside the panoramic windows that circle the hall there is nothing but a boiling tempest of blood and shadow. Canapes of splattered guts pass on delicate constructions of precarious glassware. A figure with a multi-reeded coil larger than themself plays a composition that seems to emit from every corner of the room, as nostalgic and monumental as a rising wave. The priest looks around the hall and does not know what he is seeking until he sees him. He is wearing a suit reminiscent of plate armor. He sits alone, and when the priest approaches him and places his briefcase on the bartop in front of him the Bull-Demon King does not look up or acknowledge him except to gesture wordlessly to the bartender for another glass.

The priest is sick of wine. He is sick of offerings of food and alcohol and sick of civility. "Where is he?"

"Who?" If the Bull-Demon King is not the only cryptid in the room, he is the only one who does not pass as human. His pitch is subvocal and his lips, not made for human speech, warp around the word.

"白龙马. The White Dragon-Horse. Where is he?"

"Is he not with you?" The Bull-Demon King drinks from a pot of liquor. His snout comes away matted and his jaw rotates idly as he thinks. "What are you doing in the city, anyway?"

The priest could ask him the same thing, if he were so inclined. He had not known the Bull-Demon King would be in Idyll. "He died tonight, and I'm looking for him."

"And you came out here. How did you get here?"

"On a horse."

The Bull-Demon King's eyelids click as he blinks. "...A white one?"

The priest nods, and the Bull-Demon King slams his jar onto the marbled bartop and emits a lowing sound from within his gargantuan belly. His rumbling laugh builds with the polyphonic music, climbing to fill the room. People glare. "Then what's the trouble? Your horse is still with you, same as he's always been."

"The horse I am riding did not rise from a grave. He did not come from the ground at all." The priest watches as the Bull-Demon King in his armored suit drinks like an animal in the hall of gilded human refinement. The respectable and established of Idyll gaze upon him with suspicion but do not remove him. He has, in some way, joined their rank. Unlike the priest he has chosen a side. The priest is abruptly and thoroughly sick of his wretched company. "It has been in his pen for its entire life, and told me to find him here—though it was gray and dumb before his death."

"A fragment, then. An echo of his mind imparted on a common animal. Well, that'd explain why he hasn't come back." The Bull-Demon King waves a monstrous paw. "Kill it and bury it, little monk, and he'll probably pop from the ground like a monkey from a stone. What is this, anyway—number ten?"

This answer does not ring true. It cannot be what Guanyin intended him to find here. The priest does not leave. "For him, yes."

"Then congratulations are in order." The Bull-Demon King pinches the goblet offered by the bartender between two gnarled fingers and sloshes liquor into it. He bangs the pot against it so it rattles in place. "It'll all be over soon, won't it?"

"Yes."

"Well, they can't drive you much further." The Bull-Demon King sighs and leans back, turning his flat muzzle heavenward. "Then back among the angels for the fateful few—rather, the faithful two."

The priest knows, now, that this is not true. He has no place there; isn't sure if he wants to, after tonight. But if he does not belong there and he does not belong here he feels suddenly quite sure he does not belong anywhere. He opts for the easier truth: "I am not sure that I am going to go through with it."

"Now that is interesting." The Bull-Demon King's eyes are blank and black all the way through, dark as slate. They reflect everything, and everything surfaces from within its darkness as if from a tar pit. The priest observes his own face in its curved surface, stretching slow and soft like taffy. It is, like all monsters to the priest, a hungry gaze. "Why not?"

Because of the gods, the priest thinks, and because of humans and monsters. Because all anyone does is take and eat and I, a prophet in the desert, feel no hunger and am none of them but instead the thing to be taken and eaten. "Because of you," he says, staring at the untouched glass in front of him and the clear liquid that dribbles down its side like a drooling maw. "Because you want to eat me, and I no longer have the stomach for it."

"Well, that's just unfair." The Bull-Demon King snorts. "Never stopped you before, either. Don't see what it has to do with anything."

"Not you." The priest's empty eyes list towards the bartender at his post, to the glittering jewels of Idyll. Their eyes drift to his shoulder and when they do they are transformed into crucibles, burning hunger melting gold to greed. "Everyone. And you."

"Still unfair." The Bull-Demon King leans forward and dips a curved claw into the priest's golden wound. It comes away dripping. "Giving it to them was the entire point; you knew that going in. Of course they're gonna want it. You can't blame them for trying to take it, can you?"

"Giving it is not the same as having it taken." The priest speaks dreamily, as if from a great distance. "Ruthless. Entitled. They do not deserve it."

"If they deserved enlightenment, they would already have it. And you can't call it entitlement if they're entitled to it." The Bull-Demon King wipes his claw in a gold streak on the briefcase. "Fact is it's not yours to give, is it? You're just the messenger. You keep it from them and you become the entitled one—and really, I don't get why you're so defensive about it."

Neither does the priest. Guarding it brought him here. Keeping it achieves nothing. Abruptly and thoroughly he hates it. It flows through him with no exit. It sprawls from his shoulder like a city of light. "If I must be ripped open to give it up, then I don't see how it can be anything but mine."

"God, I hope not. Clearly enlightenment's made you miserable." The Bull-Demon King gulps greedily, each movement seismic in his undersized seat. "Hm. Maybe the true enlightenment's letting yourself be eaten anyway. Self-sacrifice. Martyrdom! Maybe eating each other is the natural way of things, and some of us are eaters and some of us are eaten, and that's enlightenment."

The priest considers this but does not find in it the peace promised with knowing what you are. "I am not in the mood for your jokes."

"Wasn't joking." The Bull-Demon King wipes his muzzle with the back of his hand and smiles cordially. "It's in your blood, isn't it? No clearer sign than that. Better than another hundred-year walk. It'd certainly be quicker."

"I am not in the mood for your manipulations, either," the priest says, and opens the latch on his briefcase. He removes his gun and lays it on the leather surface, an object both of hunger and to be hungered after. "For anyone's, anymore. I am not in the mood to give faith to men or service to gods or flesh to monsters or myself to anyone, not when you are all the same. Why should I want to give anything to humans, mine or otherwise, when they have only ever taken from me?"

"Humans, monsters, sure. But you hate the gods now, too? You want to become one. So do I. So do all of us. That's what all of this has been for."

"I am beginning to hate them just the same. I suspect I will hate them even if I do." The priest pushes his glass toward the Bull-Demon King when his jar turns up empty. "I suspect, in fact, that I have hated all of you—everyone—for a very long time now."

"And after I shared my wine with you!" The Bull-Demon King laughs again. "Your hatred is unfounded, little monk, and entirely one-sided. There are people who haven't done anything to you."

"Name them."

"Like me!"

"You tried to kill me," the priest says flatly.

"True," the Bull-Demon King says. "But that was a matter of course, you know. You tried to brainwash my son and steal from my wife, and considering how the entire thing turned out I'm being quite civil to you now, aren't I?" He leans forward, drooping nostrils quivering. "At the very least, you have to admit I have never tried to eat you."

"Your son did." The priest smiles faintly. "He intended to share."

"Why should I pay for the sins of my son? If you have an issue, take it up with him." The Bull-Demon King waves a hand. "I've certainly never so much as drooled in your direction. Most humans probably haven't, either—you don't usually let 'em see so much of you. What reason have us good ones given you to hate us?"

"Because the hunger is in your blood," the priest murmurs. His pitch is low and the words are carved from him like bone. "None of you have eaten but all of you are hungry, and have been since the beginning—"

"Have I not fought it at every opportunity?" The Bull-Demon King ignores the priest's glass, motioning for another jug. "Surely we deserve some credit for fighting against the urge to feast. Surely we deserve the benefit of the doubt. Or is what's born in our blood the only thing that matters to you?"

"—so why should I subject myself to the uncertainty of your continued mercy? You are always going to be hungry, and I am always going to be aware of it, and neither of us will ever be freed from it. There is indefinite stasis or death—or there is isolation. Why shouldn't I hate the jaw around my throat?" The priest does not know how to tell him: that the humans and monsters and gods who have never wronged him cannot bring him peace because they have an eternity to change their minds, and they only need to do it once. That their efforts to prove they are good do not make them good, and do not mean he owes them his good will. That the past means nothing in the face of hunger and opportunity. That all that matters is how it ends, and eight times now it has ended in death.

He owes no one his blood and no monster his good will when it costs him everything and them nothing, and when all he can ever be to them is food.

"Oh. You have to believe it, don't you?" The Bull-Demon King shakes the priest's fierce, rapid words away like so many buzzing flies. "Because without the divine birthright in your flesh you're nothing. Have you ever considered you would be happier if you humbled yourself, little monk? It is not so difficult to bleed—it's probably not even difficult to carve flesh. You've done it before." He gestures to the revolver of bone and its four bullets remaining lying on the leather. "Enlightenment in generosity, maybe—if you gave it freely there'd be no need to take it, and there'd be no more fear. Your life could be easy; if the rumors about this ninth life of yours are true, it wouldn't even have to change much."

"I have given you all far more than you deserve."

"No one deserves anything," the Bull-Demon King scoffs. "And the gods certainly don't deserve your loyalty, considering they don't want you and won't save you. Just like you don't deserve your divinity or the enlightenment you carry, and we don't deserve to have it kept from us like this. We don't deserve happiness, but we could all have it, if you were just a little less selfish about the legacy you carry by pure chance."

The priest had last been told to humble himself from a god in a ghost alley. The words fill him like wine in a glass and prise open the same wounds. "It doesn't matter how I came to carry it. What matters is simply that I carry it."

"How entitled! You're no god, little monk—not yet. You need things, same as us: a position in the heavens and freedom from the influence of our hunger, one way or another. By deed or by force. Purity. Valor. Enlightenment." The Bull-Demon King smiles at his own personal joke. "At the very least, you need someone to believe in you."

"To have faith," the priest snarls. "Well, I am human faith. And now I answer to no god but myself."

The Bull-Demon King observes his sudden anger with open glee. "Then you're no better. Even if we are all bad, you're no better. You're being unreasonable."

"Maybe so," the priest says. "If gods and man and monsters alike are all unreasonable then maybe I should be. If no one deserves anything I have no reason not to, and if we do still deserve things I more than anyone deserve to be unreasonable. Maybe, if every monster—cryptid—demon—if every one of you is only a human or descended from a human who has, at some point or another, come into contact with divinity that did not belong to you—then maybe no monster should be trusted to leash their hunger and no human should be trusted not to become one. Maybe what we try to be does not change what we are, and maybe there is peace in accepting that."

"So that's what you say to us, then: that we deserve nothing, not even the benefit of the doubt."

"You are wrong," says the priest. "I have nothing more to say."

They sit in silence for a while. The Bull-Demon King drinks.

"I didn't mean to suggest you let me eat you," the Bull Demon-King ventures. "Not like that, anyway, although I guess it leads there in the end. But I mean it. If the gods meant you to give enlightenment anyway...I guess I'm trying to tell you there are other ways out, if you really don't mean to go through with their plans. Other things to give that you might find less objectionable."

At the heart of the matter it is precisely for this reason the priest cannot forgive the Bull-Demon King: why he does not have enough faith in anyone for forgiveness anymore, human or demon or god alike. Even if the Bull-Demon King does not want to eat him and even if he was meant to be eaten and even if he was meant to give this blood inside him to humanity—regardless of what he is, this is what he has become. It is not meant to be eaten like this because it is his. It is important to him because it is inside him. If they say he is not supposed to have it this way he rejects it. If everyone insists that he shouldn't have it at all—monsters who say he should give it freely and gods who say it means nothing and humans who have no conception of it beyond consumption—

"So that is what you say to me." The priest turns his eyes to the Bull-Demon King. Around them the music crests, ripe and swollen and trembling at the precipice of great revelation. "You say to me that there is no way out but to give, is that right? That if I just cut this part of myself out and let you eat it you wouldn't need to rip it from my screaming hands, and then I would be empty and raw and you would be full on my guts and more god than I could ever be but it would make me happy. That if I stopped caring about this part of me that I have carried through eight lives, that is married to my marrow, that has informed where I came from and the paths I have walked, that I myself have been ripped from and that I have given everything to return to, that if I would just forget it and accept what I 'am'—eaten or human or another starving devil or an empty vessel for your message or anything but this part of me that matters so little but takes so much—then it would make me happy. You say to me that if I were stupid or blind or could swallow your desecration of my temple I would be massacred and braindead and a willing sacrifice at the altar of your greed, but we would all be happier for it."

He opens his briefcase again and draws from it the stranger's knife, which man aimed at him and he used to open himself, and he reads the golden truth on it though there is no deciphering the words.

"I have no interest in being happy and I have no interest in being a god. I have no interest in any of this or any of you anymore. Whatever this thing is inside me, whatever pedantic name you want to call it if you can't decide how much I should or should not be permitted to own—whatever it was to start with and whatever it is, you've all made it miserable. You have made it my curse. It has cursed me to want things I will never be permitted to have and it has cursed me to hate and fear everyone in my path. My friends have abandoned me. I have been faith and then lost faith completely and been forced, still, to persist." The priest puts the blade to his palm and light floods from him in a golden tide. "I have given everything for this—to this. My last companion fled this very night. I have sacrificed everything at the altar of this thing inside me and had faith that it meant something—and then I sacrificed that faith, too.This curse is all I have left. And now you're telling me to give the last of what I have."

The Bull-Demon King watches him warily.

"The reason I hold onto it so tightly," the priest says, and he leans his oyster-pink cheek towards that animal face. "It is the only thing I have ever had. In every life I have a new face and form. In every life my very body is eaten. In every life I lose people, one after another. This is the one thing from which there is no escape. The only thing I carry through this endless night of death and rebirth. A human might call it a soul."

Like the ringleader of the monster hunters from before the priest pries open the Bull-Demon King's heavy lips, rubs his thumb along the molars. Gold coats ivory. The priest's white flesh parts under blunt teeth. The Bull-Demon King is frozen, animal instinct.

"If you want it so badly, then eat it." The priest's voice is soft and tender as a raw wound. The Bull-Demon King is panting through his nose, filling the air between them with the heat-smell of his lungs. "It'll be the last thing I give any of you. Eat it and have your precious immortality and put me out of my misery. Maybe it'll kill you. Maybe they'll smite you where you stand. Maybe it will turn you into a god, and they'll say eating me is natural, and appreciate it more in you than they ever did in me." The priest is panting too. The music fills his lungs like water, swelling inside him like an ocean. The golden tide inside him expands to fill emptiness. The sourness of a monster's breath is on his tongue and inside his stomach. "Maybe they'll hate you like they hate me. Maybe they'll hate you for wanting, and they'll hate you for eating though they ate just as much. Maybe it'll make you 'happy'. Whatever you want. This is the only thing I have left and I've had enough of it. It's nothing to me because you've made it nothing. If I have never been anything to anyone except a means to an end, at least this time the end will be my own, and I will have spited just one of you. I don't want it. I don't want it but I will never give it up, so take it. Take it. Put me out of my misery and make us both happy. Do it. Eat me. EAT ME!"

The Bull-Demon King smashes his great horned head through the bartop and crams the length of the priest's forearm down his slimy throat with a mutilated roar. With his free hand the priest puts the revolver to the Bull-Demon King's head and fires. A fist-sized hole erupts from his skull in a spew of gore and meat, and the Bull-Demon King slumps off his stool and into the thick mess on the floor where he lies dead, gold fading on his tongue. He dies in a red fog of hunger and that is the priest's gift to him: that he dies knowing exactly what he is. A monster.

For a moment the shot rings through the hall. Like the song it seems to come from every corner. The figure playing music is the only being free from that hallowed and frozen silence, their melody a screaming frenzy.

The guests watch the priest stand over the dead Bull-Demon King. They begin whispering to each other again. Someone laughs. A man comes to clap the priest on the shoulder.

"Thank God you put him down when you did. We had to invite him, you know—major player—but honestly, it's for the best you exposed him for what he is." The man leans forward to flag down the bartender. His eyes are fists of gold. "He's a monster, of course, but we really thought he was one of us. Civilized, you know—"

When the priest kills the Bull-Demon King he does it for the Bull-Demon King's sake. When he puts a bullet through the head of the man in front of him, splattering his brains over the marble countertop, he does it for no one but himself.

|-WISH BONE LEAN-|

Somewhere, a tendril of smoke began to rise again. It had been burning low for days. There had been dancing and sweating and bleeding and shifting. That ceased. There was no more activity around it. The sound of salt hitting the soil echoed and there was no smoke in the sky. The lizards fled, scattered and scorched. The desert was now filled with nothing but a hungry wish.

***

Not far enough, Earl stared at a skull mounted on the wall. He thought it looked like a deer, but it was too large and had a second, human jaw recessed behind the first. There was certainly another question brewing inside him.

At the kitchen table, Wish Bone moved his hands through a pile of dust atop Martha's letters. His eyes were closed and he hummed, slowly shifting his palms within the mound. Then he opened his eyes and looked at the man beside him. Even from the side, Earl's eyes betrayed his calm composure. While he was less scared than when he first arrived, he also wore a sense of premature anticipation, as if a prize had already been won. Yet there was no guarantee that his wife would be back with him by sunrise, so it had to be a different prize.

There was also a sense of something simpler, something static with a mistakable spectrality. Earl's eyes shifted to the left, perhaps sensing Wish Bone's gaze. He did not move but seemed to activate again. His hand raised and grazed the outer structure of the skull.

"I wouldn't touch that, the spirit can still have a presence even in a skeleton," Wish Bone said.

"I know," Earl replied, still looking at the bones. Wish Bone raised his eyebrow. "Martha mentioned something like that, from her readings." At last, Earl turned to face Wish Bone and the preparation of goods for the hunt. He peered over the table, his arms now folded as if he were a manager overseeing Wish Bone. Wish Bone closed his eyes again and continued the final stages of the ritual.

A lizard darted across the floor and a gust shifted the leaves of a neighbor's palm tree. A few pieces of sand seemed to hit the glass door leading to the backyard and make a faint scratching sound. And then it was calm, calm as a mutual hunt could be.

Wish Bone sighed and began to spread the mixture of several ground-up supplies from the basement across the table. As the layer thinned, he reached down and placed his right-hand palm down the center of the table. He looked at Earl and cocked his head to do the same. He followed, placing his left hand down beside Wish Bone. There was an uncharacteristic silence to the older man. Then, after a moment, the table began to vibrate.

"Keep your hand steady, it's almost done." Wish Bone said to Earl, who nodded and furrowed his brow while fixated on his outstretched hand. Some of Martha's artifacts trembled. The motion slowed, and Wish Bone took notice of the objects that died last: her writings, books, and jewelry.

Picking up the items, he lifted his hand and placed them in a bag. Meanwhile, Earl's hand remained attached to the surface.

"You can stop now," Wish Bone said.

"Oh."

Wish Bone nodded to escape the awkwardness of the moment. Further guided by that motivation, he looked down and tied the bag around his belt. Then he wiped his hands.

"Aren't you gonna clean that up?" Earl asked, gesturing to the now dusty table.

"It can wait."

And so it waited.

The men packed up the supplies into Earl's vehicle, loading up the trunk with salted crossbows and auxiliary boxes of demonic lures, just in case. Wish Bone directed and Earl followed, carrying small boxes out of the living room and into the car.

Things slowed and Wish Bone ran through the list in his head.

"This everything?" Earl asked.

"Think so," Wish Bone said. And after a second more the two hopped into Earl's car and readied themselves to drive towards the Burnside checkpoint, through the city, and out into the empty wilds.

From across the street, a rabbit watched and shifted into an active stance. The still engine of the automobile breathed and began to hum. The creature jumped out from the grasses of the empty lot and out into the middle of the road, beneath the view of the people inside. It bowed its head and flexed its hind legs as the car lunged forward, seemingly preparing to latch onto the machine.

It was imperfect. The car jerked to the right and its tire rolled cleanly over the rabbit and sped down the quiet residential Idyll street. It was smooth, not even a bump to the driver and passenger, and so they did not know to turn around or look at the rear-view mirror at the new roadkill. Except it wasn't.

A liquid bloomed out from a flattened mound of fur. It was not blood. Instead, the image on the road was one of grease and bolts and bent metal pieces. There was glass from a shattered camera lens and a slowly weakening spark from the exposed wires of something that was never alive in the first place.

***

In the middle of the city, the sun bore down on them with a heat. Its light was cast red through the ichor haze and held fullness like a beating heart. Wish Bone leaned his head against the cold window with the map of the area unfolded on his lap. Earl stayed focused on the road as they slowly made their way through the traffic of the downtown region. Their final destination lay on the other side of Idyll, miles beyond where the last suburban house had been built, out where metropolitan lights have faded away to the matte glow of the mesa sands. A lizard curled itself into a ball in the trough of the backseat.

Outside was a much different world than Burnside. Neon lights and LEDs decorated the facades of concrete monolights like a technological lace. Below the signs, people shifted about while waiting for crosswalk signals. Their clothing was dark and reflected the colors around them in a sheen. And as beautiful as the sight may be, there was also a sense of detachment from the land around them. The inner core of Idyll was not a place where you could touch the fresh earth because there was no fresh earth. And so there was a reason why the Leans stayed out in Burnside.

The time in the city center seemed brief but lasted long. As Earl navigated the push and pull of street motion and Wish Bone directed lane changes the bursting sun had gone from being elevated in the sky to casting low rays through the gaps of skyscrapers to then digging into the ground as the moon was thin and sharp as the blade of a knife. It cast pale reflections into the car, rendering the dashboard a sullen white. The car interior was monochrome. And the two talked scarcely about anything else in this long night.

As the building heights began their descent they reentered the community rings surrounding the city. The technicolor advertisement lights were replaced with a low frequency of yellow street lamps that were replaced by the occasional house or trailer windows that revealed the location of Idyll's resident night owls. And then there was nothing but the road and the unbroken lines bordering them and the signs that reflected the headlights. Still, they continued driving. Idyll lagged behind them still present in the frame of rearview mirrors and twinkling like a cracked gemstone bursting from the soil.

In this new quiet, Wish Bone replaced his directions with mere gestures left or right. They moved off the highway onto the county roads. These were fractured and seemed to bleed into the desert sands. And then soon they broke off from the pavement onto roads marked with only faintly darker lines on the map and the reality of being unpaved road—a dead path slicing through the dunes and saguaros leading to nowhere. Nowhere was their destination. Nowhere was where the boundary of humanity and beyond could best meet.

Wish Bone finally broke the silence. "Here is good," he said. Earl leaned forward to scan the horizon. There was nothing unique about this setting, no special marker for a fork. His car was entering into barren land, potentially untouched for centuries. It wasn't.

As the older man killed the engine and the car became still, the younger opened the door and made his way to the tail end of the car. The night was silent. The night was not without presence, though. He tried the handle to the trunk. There was no budge. Wish Bone shifted the angle of his face up and took a breath of the deep desert air. Then he looked around as his eyes slowly adjusted to the landscape around them. He then shot his focus back to the car.

"Open the trunk, Earl." He said. Earl peaked out towards Wish Bone and then flipped the lever in his seat. It opened and Wish Bone took a second account of everything packed in there. Stacked atop the bags and crates in the car were a crossbow and its salt bomb ammunition. There was also the pistol and rifle that Earl had initially brought with him. Wish Bone then began propping open the boxes. There was a mix of ash chalk, candles, and preserved meats. In a smaller container, Wish Bone found a small number of fireworks he and Porterhouse had forgotten to give to the neighborhood community center, and he silently cursed Earl's stupidity for grabbing these instead of another useful package. Despite this, everything he needed was there. And so they began.

Wish Bone grabbed one of the condensed ash styluses and made his way to a suitable clearing in the Arizonan brush. Earl followed a ways behind him, carrying a lantern and one of the stowed bags. Once in the center, Wish Bone crouched down. He looked to the side and Earl stood back with a radiating sense of awkwardness. Above them, the moon was thin and sharp like the blade of a knife. Wish Bone turned back and exhaled, his breath faintly visible from the sudden drop in temperature. Then he began to move the point through the sand, casting a stark line through the soil. Somewhere far in the distance, there was a sound like that of a horse moving.

In the light of the night, the pigment seemed to shift between a white and gray color, as if it was alive or becoming alive. Or perhaps it was the opposite of that like the life from it was fading. In a single fluid motion, Wish Bone began to shuffle outward from the central point. He anchored himself into the soil by firmly pressing his left hand into the ground. The more his right hand etched into the ground, the more it began to shake with an inhuman energy. He continued.

Far from above, a vulture looked down as it soared overhead. Wish Bone was nothing but a small, black mote beneath the glow of constellations from which a fine tendril of lines was sourced. Earl, even more, insignificant and faded into the dirt. The image seemed to reach outward and grab itself into the sand it lay atop. It was like a flower, or like some kind of sacred angling. The vulture continued its flight, unimportant to the task of the men below it.

As Wish Bone continued his movement across the rocky ground, curving past lines cast in a perfect parallel nature, he eventually made his way back to the center and completed the loop. Closer, there was a sound like that of a hoofed beast running. He stood up and braced the soft rush of wind coming down from the plateaus on the horizon.

He stepped out of the center and towards Earl, tossing the nearly exhausted piece of ash chalk to the wayside. Earl's eyes widened slightly. While the night was rather cool, the seeds of sweat stains began to soak the collar and sides of Earl's shirt.

"Hand me the candles," Wish Bone said. Earl nodded and placed the lantern on the ground. With one of his hands now free, he unzipped the bag and rummaged around until he found a bundle of them which he handed over to Wish Bone. Wish Bone quickly dipped his chin in thanks and the corners of his mouth pricked up slightly in an unnoticeable grin. He turned around and began to populate the ground vigil with the candles, digging small holes where he twisted in the waxy bases.

Earl watched from outside the circle. The lantern, which he held again, swung slightly in his grasp. It cast the dimmest picture a lighthouse could. On his other side, the weight of the bag dug into his shoulder, but he did not want to move. He did not want to ask questions either, the time for that was quickly behind them. And nearby there was a sound of a hoard of hoofed beasts. It was incredibly hard to ignore.

Wish Bone paid little attention to them, for better or for worse. He fished his hand in his pocket and retrieved a stick of herbs and a lighter. Lighting the bundle, he made his way to the wicks of the candles throughout the grotto he had built this altar within. They glowed low, small lights fighting against the stare of the night sky. The moon was thin and sharp like the blade of a knife. The stars were small, a halo of distant falling angels. Despite their weakness, they did not extinguish during the waves of winds that came their way. Wish Bone passed the smoking bale to the other hand, and walked outside the circle. He continued walking farther. Earl followed but did not dare to touch Wish Bone's shadow.

At the car, Wish Bone opened one of the crates and removed the bag of meat. It shifted slightly in the bag it was kept in, expelling some more liquid. Earl placed the satchel back in the trunk of his car. He grabbed one of the guns that would have no use to what the meat was supposed to attract. He did not know this.

The two walked over to the clearing. At the border, they stopped and only one man continued moving forward. He opened the bag and put his hand inside, then he squeezed the flesh as he withdrew it. It expelled a foul odor. When it reached him, Earl turned around and covered his mouth and nose with his shirt. Wish Bone then placed the meat in the center. The two had not said a word to each other in a long time. Their motions had been slow and thoughtful. But even if they were to say something, it could only be in whispers and the whispers would be intelligible from the loud sound of beasts riding hoofed beasts that now encircled them. But the horizon was low and without an outline of approach.

Wish Bone raised his hands in front of him. His right hand was coated in the sacrificial liquid. His left hand held the bundle of stalks and flowers that were on fire. Slowly, he began to move around the offering he had just placed in the desert wild. The ground below him seemed to shake, even Earl felt that. Far away in a government lab, the seismic monitor would detect the smallest of perturbations but it would raise no alarm. This was no longer an issue in the realm of man and the contracts he made with other men. There was no protecting each other.

The smoke from the plants was rich and thick. It floated up slowly, and at times even sunk to the ground level. As it passed over the flames of the candles it would refract their light in ways that seemed to create faces that you know are not real faces. Wish Bone chanted under his breath, and slowly began moving himself outward from the circle. The smoke still seemed to whirl around, kept within the boundary made by the ash.

When he finally broke from the outermost line he once again walked to Earl's car. He extinguished the plant bundle against the metallic side of the vehicle and then brushed away the resulting char. There would be later uses for that. Earl wiped his hands on a towel and then reached out for the crossbow, the sash of salt, and Martha's letters.

He then turned around to gaze at Earl, who still stood outside of the summoning circle but with his back to it.

"Get in the car. Now." He shouted at him. Earl jogged over, he would not need to be told twice. With the gun still in his hand, he hopped into the back seat and then locked the door. Outside the vehicle, Wish Bone slammed the trunk shut, wandered several yards out from the circle, and sat down in the sand. Now was the time to wait, but he didn't think it would take long.

Above the barren grove, the moon was thin and sharp like the blade of a knife. Clouds shifted low over the horizon. There was a feeling of small raindrops against the skin but there was no water. It wasn't real. You saw nothing, if you felt that sight was the vision you could trust. And impossible to avoid was the sound—the sound like that of people riding hoofed beasts. It was rumbling and smooth and deep. The sound of each leg hitting the ground shook and reverberated through this forgotten corner of the desert. It fought the steady beating of a heart.

Slowly, Wish Bone loaded the crossbow with the first ball of salt. It shed a few crystals into his palm as he placed it into the weapon's register. He flattened his body and adjusted his gaze through the sight. It was aimed directly at the lure. The echoing got louder and louder, and the eye of the spiritual cacophony centered at the center of the circle. Earl squeezed his eyes shut and hugged the rifle close to his chest. The car slowly leaned towards the center of the circle as the force of the presence seemed to draw all things into the middle.

Far off in the distance, a light began to grow. Then another, like eyes opening for the first time in ages. Its motion cut through the tense air from far away as it barreled closer and closer to the smoke that now quickly rose into the upper layers of the sky. Wish Bone anchored himself deeper into the ground as he prepared to take the first deadly shot.

The sound was no longer just motion but seemed to roar and seemed to rev. Its eyes grew brighter and larger. At the very low part of the horizon, soil kicked up and cast its near indistinguishable silhouette against the background of darkness.

Finally, it came into view. Earl opened his eyes slightly for just a glimpse. Then they split wide to confirm the truth about the stampede racing in front of him. Directly down their main path, Wish Bone closed one eye and began to apply pressure to his curved finger.

There was a jump, catching air in front of the moonlight, and then the impact square in the center of the markings. As hooves stomped into the ground, the candles closest to it cut their light and even seemed to squeal.

Wish Bone closed his eyes and fired the crossbow, sending the salt into the air and directly toward the lower portion of the figure. There was no sound. Then he opened them.

"Get the fuck off our compound." It was a woman's voice.

In front of Wish Bone was a brown horse. At the corners of its mouth was the tearing of flesh where the reigns had been pulled tightly. Its neck bowed down and began not to lick the salt ball, but to take an entire bite out of it. And sat on the saddle was a woman wearing a white and red poncho and a low hat, even in the night. Her eyes were not visible beneath its rim. To her side was a collection of more people, all dressed in similar kinds of vestments. And further behind them was a large car. Its headlights now illuminated the space all of them found themselves in.

Earl unlocked the car door and took his first step into the newly angled night. He knew who stood in front of him.

Wish Bone shifted his head from outside the crossbow.

"What."

The woman ushered her horse closer. "I said get the fuck off of our land. You're not welcome here." Men and women hopped out of the car and slowly walked closer to their group on horseback. None of them showed their eyes.

"Who the hell are you?" Only one side of the woman's face smiled.

"People. Just like you, and you like me." She let out a low laugh. "There are no summoned spirits, not now."

Over by the car, Earl, who had been slowly stumbling to the clearing, began to let out a low and mournful yell. His steps were low and heavy, taking a great deal of force.

"You took her!" His voice carried an overwhelming tone to it. "You're who I saw that night, in the house!"

The woman pulled on one of the straps and the horse adjusted its stance over to Earl. As it turned, Wish Bone saw that her horse's eyes had been removed. When she saw Earl, her half smile returned.

"Oh, that's true." There was a sharp humor to her tone. From the back of the caravan, a pair brought forth a woman. Her head had been shaved and a cloth had been wrapped around her eyes. She showed no resistance to her guidance of this group. Earl seemed confused at the presence of Martha. He brought his hand to his forehead, his expression a mixture of complete confusion and voice now sounding out poorly verbalized confusion. The dressed woman returned to face Wish Bone as some of her scouts made their way over to Earl.

"Wish, we're just a simple group of people who don't like our plans disturbed. And you two have been close to disturbing them." She said this in an almost melodic tone, one that carried a sense of music beyond human performance. The inclusion of his name, which had not been spoken, sent a rush of cold adrenaline through his veins.

The two of them remained still, Wish Bone looking up at the leader and the woman looking down at the hunter. Wish Bone swallowed the dry air. His throat burned.

Her horse stepped closer. "People like you have been a thorn in our side to live how we want to live, in our special kind of harmony." She had leaned down as she said this and at last, her eyes caught the angle of the moonlight. Across her face was a branding like that in the sketches in the book. They were marks of a betrayed humanity, like those who make deals with the beyond. "So we've been watching you."

She unmounted herself from the horse.

"And hunting."