Dame Fey warned her not to venture into the maze. Two thirds of the way through the bottle she'd swiped from the wine cellar, the woman's warning seemed like a dare. Who warned a teenager not to explore parts of their home? It was a tease like 'don't open that closet, it's where we hid the Christmas presents', a rule begging to be broken. Besides, it was Gwen's 19th birthday, she deserved to go a little crazy, even if it was by herself.

Today was a very bad day.

Gwen shuffled her way into the maze, kicking off her heels when they kept catching in the saturated earth. It was the first clear night after a week of torrential rain, leaving the ground sodden and squishing between her bare toes. Least it was warm, a small blessing between her bare feet and gauzy dress. All dressed up for a party of one. Gwen sighed, taking another deep gulp from the bottle. She couldn't blame Dame Fey, not when her adoptive mother looked so tired and worn of late. Not at all like her usual bubbly self, as if her age caught up with her all at once. Gwen worried her lip as she walked, the half empty wine bottle thumping against her thigh.

Dame Fey's health bothered her. The woman took a nearly full grown young lady into her home, adopting a seventeen year old Gwen after years of being slagged in an overcrowded orphaned. Though she had hoped the old lady would at least make it to her twenty first birthday.

Gwen dragged her fingers through the clustered petals of hydrangeas, bushes of them lining the path, their violet blue blooms hanging off them like paper mache puffs.

The buzz was already wearing thin. She doubted the whole bottle could make this day disappear.

How the others stared at her.

Just like the statures scattered throughout the hydrangeas and rose bushes, Grecian muses and muscled men of rock, staring at her with empty eyes and frozen expressions. Gwen wanted to lose herself in Dame Fey's maze and never come out, living off nectar and sunshine. She spun, giddy with the thought of it, the audacity of it, to live like a forest nymph in a torn gauzy dress and twig strewn hair. She spun till the world tilted on its axis and she flopped to the ground, spilling wine on the tips of her hair, the back of her dress soaking up moisture. The stars were just breaking through the haze of twilight, filling the sky like powdered glass. Gwen blew out a breath, her head lolling to the side as her equilibrium wobbled back into place.

She was looking at a house, a cottage to be more precise, a confection of wooden lattice work. It sat there, completely unobtrusive amid the overburdened fruit trees, statures, and flowering bushes, its bright colors cast in silver hues under the flush of the rising moon.

There was a light on inside.

Gwen managed to roll to her knees, her head still fuzzed by drink and spinning, half crawling across the cooling grass to the cottage door. She pulled herself to her feet using the latch, hesitating. Who would be out here? Some lonely caretaker Dame Fey never mentioned? Her butler, Lawrence, was more of a gin and poker man on his days off and the maids had their own homes they left for at the end of the day. She knocked, listening to the silence on the other side of the door.

Gwen gnawed on her lip. If it was some elderly gardener, he was probably settled in for the evening. Last thing he needed was an odd tipsy girl disturbing him. She made to go when the handle latch lifted beneath her grip. She stumbled back as the door swung inward, a jolt of sobriety keeping her on her feet. No one waited for her inside the butterscotch glow of the living room though a fire crackled in the hearth.

"Well, are you going to come in?"

Gwen squinted, catching sight of him leaning against the fireplace mantle, warming himself. He cut a Byron-esque figure, all brooding dark eyes and pouting lips, a perfectly tailored suit highlighting the width of his shoulders. He smiled at her.

"I have cake."

Gwen's lips twitched at the lie. She took a decisive swig of the wine, stepping over the threshold. A familiar electric buzz danced along her skin but she ignored it. It was a shit day and she was lonely. There were worse ways to spend her birthday than talking to a handsome mystery boy, even if he was dead.

***

Gwen was four years old when she found the Burning Man.

Her mother was a bit of a hoarder, stocking up on her favorite cosmetics whenever there was a sale. She kept a box of make up in her closet, dozens of tubes of vibrant lipstick, compacts of blush, and other assorted goodies. Sometimes Gwen would sneak in and nab a few, painting her face like a grown up. Mother didn't seem to notice them missing and Kathy always had her cleaned up by the time either of her parents returned home from work. Usually they didn't make it home before Gwen was in bed.

This time though, he was waiting for her.

She didn't notice him, not at first, not until the cough full of ash and phlegm that rasped from the dark corner beside her. She froze, a tube of Plum #57 falling from her fingers as she stared at him, his charcoal skin like flaking pasty. Once, when she begged Kathy to curl her hair, her nanny left the iron on her a little too long. The same smell teased her nose.

He stared at her, hunger is his watery bloodshot eyes as they roved her face. She didn't understand it, that desperate look, not until much later, too much later. She was too scared by his expression to scream, afraid something bad would happen if she drew attention to him. She inched away, slamming the closet door shut behind her. Kathy didn't believe her. Her parents didn't believe her. Overactive imagination, they said. Too much television, they said.

That night the Burning Man was waiting for her in her bedroom, whispering to her in a voice of cinders and smoke. He whispered to her every night after, his wet choking voice hovering at her ear.

Kathy was worried about the dark circles under her charge's eyes. She worried about Gwen's change in behavior, the shouting and shrieking. Her parents worried when she stopped eating, stopped smiling. Neither of them worried enough to believe her. No one did, not even after the house burnt down while her parents slept in their beds.

***

"What's a pretty girl like you doing wandering the grounds late at night?" He smirked at her, dark eyes wandering over her bare legs, propped up on the coffee table. Gwen sank further into the plush cushions of the couch, mindless of her soaked dress, watching him over the rim of the wine bottle.

"What's a pretty boy like you doing lurking in a gingerbread house like this?" Her playful banter brought out the wicked glint in his eye. Her mystery boy liked her backtalk.

"I live here, well, not here," he jerked his head over his shoulder. "In the big house." He winked at her.

Gwen pursed her lips, sensing she would not enjoy this next bit of information.

"What's your name, pretty boy?"

"Daniel Fey," he nodded at her, his eyes wandering to the low neckline of her dress. "What about you?"

"Gwen," she murmured, the truth of her miraculous adoption clicking into place. That old bitch. It made a sick sort of sense now, the garden party at the edge of the 'forbidden maze'. A steaming pile of temptation laid at her feet after enduring the cutting embarrassment of all those empty seats. Another sour swig of wine eased the sting of her anger. She should have known.

There was a reason no one adopted her.

***

The first to try were the Steins. Gwen thought she found a new home in Mrs. Stein's flour scented arms. The woman held her close, stroking her hair as they sat in the orphanage office, finalizing paperwork. There was a room waiting for her, painted in light oranges and pinks, filled with new toys that still carried the plastic scent of the store. The Steins had a beautiful home, with a yard and great big oak tree complete with plank seat swing.

She met Olive her third day there, the little girl's feet dragging in the trench of packed dirt beneath the swing.

"There used to a big stone here," said Olive. She was sweet to Gwen, far better than the Burning Man with his choking voice. They would tell stories and giggle to one another long in the night. She liked the Steins and her new friend, right up to the day she told Mrs. Stein about Olive.

The woman's face drained of color as she spoke, paler and paler as she grilled Gwen on what Olive looked like, what stories and secrets they shared. The worst was when she asked where they met.

Gwen couldn't remember what she said to the woman, but she remembered the scream after. Mrs. Stein screamed and screamed.

The doctor called it a nervous breakdown, but with Mrs. Stein unable to care for her, the orphanage had no choice but to take her back. A story like that followed you around. No one wanted Gwen in their home for long. Olive wasn't the last person she saw that she should not.

***

She debated through the dregs of the bottle if she should tell him or not. Sometimes it was better when they didn't know. The hunger in Daniel's eyes was for the physical parts of her, the idea of it thrilled her. She wondered if his lips tasted like morning mist, likely as substantial.

"Why skulk around out here, in the middle of a maze like the Minotaur in the Labyrinth?" She licked a drop of spilled wine from the neck of the bottle, his eyes watching the movement. His irises were a haunting dark green, like evergreens under moonlight.

"I like to come out here to think. It's peaceful, nobody bothers you. The world is so loud sometimes," he chuckled. "Sometimes you just need to shut out the noise, ya know?"

Is that what you did, pretty boy? Shut out the noise forever? Gwen bit back her sigh. The depressed ones were the worst. The conversation went along just fine until they waxed philosophical on you, questioning their existence.

She'd rather listen to the psycho babble of the Burning Man.

"Plus Mother's a bitch," he teased.

Gwen snorted into her fist, her eyes dancing as she looked up at him. "Oh, do tell?"

Daniel rolled his eyes. "She killed me."

***

"Are you certain Mrs. Fey wishes to proceed with the adoption of Gwen Deaver? She does realize the young lady will require extensive medical care through her adult life? Till now she has lived as a ward of the state to cover the cost of her therapy and medication. From my understanding, albeit well meaning, Mrs. Fey is rather elderly and Gwen requires at least one on site aide." Ms. Curran didn't know she listened at the office door.

She wondered how many couples she'd talked out of adopting Gwen over the years. Then again, most couples didn't want the baggage she carried with her, the black outs and odd behavioral patterns. They diagnosed her a schizophrenic on her fifteenth birthday.

Lawrence's smooth baritone ceased her worries. "Dame Fey is fully aware of Ms. Deaver's health concerns. I, myself, am a live in staff on the property, trained in basic emergency medical care and certified RN lives within a short drive of the property. She will be in well trained hands, Ms. Curran."

What the head of the orphanage said next was almost too faint to hear. Gwen pressed her ear to the wall, her jaw clenched as the woman's words trickled in her ear.

"Surely, your employer has heard the other rumors concerning Gwen. My staff are compassionate but they are not discreet."

"We know of them," said Lawrence. This seemed enough for Ms. Curran. The adoption was finalized. She had a home. Gwen didn't believe it was possible until she rode in Dame Fey's vintage Jaguar, heading for the elder woman's hilltop estate.

Olive laced their fingers together in the back seat, leaning her head on Gwen's shoulder.

"I told you it would be alright."

***

Gwen set the empty bottle down with a wobbly thump. "How?"

He shrugged his shoulders, as if bored with the topic, though his expression was off. There was anger there, buried but present. "Poison. She didn't mean to, it didn't suit her, but the damage was done."

"I'm sorry," said Gwen, her thoughts muffled by the wine. A tear slid down her cheek. It was a selfish tear, not split for Daniel Fey. He winced at her expression.

"For some reason, I feel I should apologize to you," he said.

Gwen swiped it away, managing a strained smile. "No, it is not your fault. Not at all."

She wanted to believe she had a crack at normal, or as normal as she could manage. Dame Fey was so nice to her, never mentioning her past, sending her to treatments without question or admonishment. Her medication was discreetly filled each month, but the regime was never enforced. She got the chance to go to school, the oldest senior in her class, but it was a hair's breath from normal. Gwen simply had to be careful. Most dead people didn't look like the Burning Man.

Usually they looked like Daniel.

***

A boy like Daniel ruined her birthday.

He'd stopped in the hall, surrounded by people. "Do you know where the principal's office is?"

"Yeah, go left at that corner and it's the second room on the right. Are you new here?"

"Transferred in. Dad drove me in this morning. Tried to get here earlier but there was traffic on the road, a bad accident. What's your name?"

She smiled at him. Here he was, bothering with introductions when he was running late on his first day. It was sweet. It was nice to get attention from someone on her birthday. "Gwen. What's yours?"

"Trent. So you a senior?"

It went on, innocent questions pulling her into the conversation. She noticed the silence first. It tripped into her sentence, tugging at her attention. She could see the hall was still full of people in the peripherals of her vision but they were all silent. The other students were watching her, the mouths slack. Some watched with open amusement or shock.

Gwen looked up into Trent's eyes and finally noticed the hunger lurking there. She missed the tingle of electricity between them, swamped by the living energy of so many people, hiding what he was.

"You were in the accident."

"I'm sorry," he said.

***

"I have to go back, Daniel," she said, smoothing her soiled dress down over her knees. "Do you want me to tell your mother anything?"

His expression was cold, remote. "No."

Gwen nodded, nibbling on the corner of her lip. "She's not doing so well right now. You might not get another chance."She wasn't lying. It wasn't until Dame Fey took ill the impromptu garden party was prepared.

His evergreen eyes met hers, shadowed in the firelight, full of deep dark secrets. She should have paid more attention to that hint of anger. Daniel was seething. "Perhaps I will go back with you."

Her skin prickled at his words. She spoke with care. "I think you should stay here."

He nodded, resigned. "If you're going, how about a farewell kiss?"

Before the idea of kissing him was a tantalizing prospect, but there was an edge to his words that frightened her. She shouldn't have come. Gwen rose, her mouth set in a thin line as she turned for the door.

"It was nice meeting you, Daniel--"

He stood in front of her, his fingers caressing her face, evincing a mild buzz like static shock. "Relax, Gwen, it's just a kiss."

Olive stood at the cottage door, her expression lost. Her mouth moved but Gwen couldn't hear the words as the world went dark.

***

Gwen made it back to the house at dawn.

A trail of muddied footprints traced her path across the immaculate marble floors to Dame Fey's room. The sun hadn't quite risen yet, but the television was on inside the old woman's room.

A 'Come in' answered her soft knock.

"Gwen, you look frightful. What happened girl?" The old woman reached for her, taking the girl's chilled hand as Gwen dropped to her knees beside the bed. "And you reek like a distillery."

"I got lost in the maze," said Gwen.

The old woman went silent, her grip briefly tightening on the girl's fingers. "Did you...did you find anything there?"

"Not going to admonish me for entering?"

The old woman huffed. "I know you aren't that naive girl, for all your pretense. Did you see him?"

"Yes," she whispered, not looking at the woman who adopted her. Perhaps Dame Fey was wrong and the girl didn't know why she took her in. It didn't matter now. She could feel the numbness creeping through her nerves, reminding her she wasn't long for this world. The old woman struggled to swallow, shifting on her pillows for a better position. "Did you talk to him? Did he say anything to you?"

Her eyes snapped up, staring at Dame Fey. Her irises were a deep dark green. The old woman's lips trembled. Gwen's eyes were blue.

"She's not a medium, you know, or a psychic," said Gwen, delicately plying the old woman's hand off her. She held Dame Fey's frail fingers, tracing the prominent veins along the woman's aged wrist, feeling the tremble beneath her touch.

"Who--who are you?" The old woman rasped, her heart stuttering in her chest.

Gwen rubbed her thumb across her mother's bony knuckles. "What kind of mother drugs and sleeps with her twenty five year old son?"

Dame Fey tried to yank her hand away, quaking in her wrinkled skin. "I don't know what you're talking about," she stammered, struggling for breath.

"I know what you did," Gwen hissed into her face, those familiar green eyes ablaze.

"D-daniel?" Dame Fey gasped.

"You killed your own son, you sick bitch," Gwen's voice wavered, echoing over another.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," said Dame Fey, tears dripping down her face. Gwen stilled, regaining her composure. Her hand reached up, sliding across the old woman's nose and mouth, clamping down until her nails dug into the wrinkled folds of powder soft skin. The old woman's tears continued as she slapped weakly at the hand cutting off her air. It wasn't long before her struggles ceased, limbs limp. Gwen kept her hand in place until she felt the last tug of the woman's twisted soul against her palm.

"Apology accepted."

***

Daniel stood, brushing the old woman's tears on Gwen's muddy dress. The others darted in the corner of her vision, drawn moths to her flame. There were dozens in this house, dogging her steps, waiting for a moment of weakness.

One particularly grisly specter watched the entire scene of mother and son from the shadows beside the vanity. He was a ghastly sight, of cracked burnt flesh and bloodied eyes. When Daniel looked at him he smiled, smoke snaking through his blackened teeth.

His voice was ash and rot, rasping each word. "If you're done with her, could I take her for a spin?"