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The Hiding by Alethea Lyons

[Harper] grabbed her notebook from the desk next to her and rewrote the spell to suit her purpose, hoping the overall pattern would remain the same. Invoke spirits of light. Tell them what she was seeking. Try to sound like she was on the side of good. Between words, she worried the end of her pencil between her teeth.
Fear and hope raged in her stomach, pressed on her spine, tightened her lungs. The blood still seeping from her finger offered an opportunity. Guilt squirmed through her gut. She should try to find the murderer, but if this worked, she could do that spell as well. The temptation to reach into her past was too great.
Harper scratched out the spell and scribbled in new words, before she could change her mind. She pressed the bleeding digit against the crystal ball, a pinprick of pain. Balancing the sphere in the other hand, she held it up at eye level, peering into it intently.
The reflection of her violin, still lying on her bedside table, distorted and stretched over the crystal’s surface. Both distant and deep within, Harper could hear the strains of a long-forgotten tune, melancholic, mourning. It weighed on her heart, her eyes moist. Her words were heavy as though spoken through someone else’s lips. “Spirits of light, reveal unto me where lie those who share my blood and reveal unto me the name of the demon who didst separate us.”
In the centre of the crystal, bands of colour pulsed like a plasma ball. A stream of brilliant white arched to the edge where Harper’s blood congealed. On either side of the light, blue feline eyes hovered, staring. Then they blinked and vanished. The other lights died, leaving one strong thread pulsing. The white turned pink, then red, then black, as the blood was sucked through solid crystal.
Specks flew off like ash, clouding the ball. It was thicker than fog, blacker than midnight, grimmer than nightmares.
The air crackled with static. Harper’s hair floated around her as if submerged in the sea. With a crash, the lights went out, bulbs shattered. The crystal rose, reflected her purple-eyed stare, captured her in its depths. Within the darkness, figures twisted and writhed, features barely discernible as their ghostly hands stretched out, begging, pleading.
She watched with horror as the ash buried them, pouring into screaming mouths, smothering, rising over their heads, along arms stretched out in desperation, rising, rising. Each finger was consumed, vanished, gone forever. A lump rose in her throat and tears stung her eyes. Her voice came out a hoarse whisper. “They can’t be dead. They can’t—”
Music swelled, discordant, too flat then too sharp. It cut off her words and set her teeth on edge. Every string on her violin snapped with a loud twang, then silence smothered the lightless room.
The darkness within the crystal split, glowing white breaking through. Pointed, sharp, mouthless teeth contorted into a cannibalistic grin.
The crystal rolled from Harper’s numb fingers and shattered into bloody shards on the wooden floor. Darkness flowed out. Ash and static melded together and expanded to fill the room. A wide grin glinted like a demented Cheshire cat. Laughter ricocheted like a bullet. Harper had no thought but to escape, but her limbs were stiff with terror and her jellied legs couldn’t run.
She groped for a weapon, years of training instinctively taking over. The laugh echoed inside her, clattered through her skull. The eyes from her nightmares watched her, crowded in. And those whispers from before ... “Never scream ... Never scream ...” over and over and over, caught in a web of terrible laughter.
Harper clawed at her desk until she found something heavy, bound with metal. With a strangled cry, she smashed Grace’s Bible down on the mocking grin.

Scion of a Swan by A.R. Stern

A knock sounds from behind, startling him enough to swallow a clot of blood.
Three slow knocks. Desmond doesn’t bother glancing back. He knows what is expected of him. He didn’t always start out in this room, but as of late, this had been his starting point each time he would wake, right before death could sweep him free.
That was another thing Desmond learned quickly. He couldn’t die. Unless he is already dead, in which case this torment will never cease. He tries not to think about that.
He’s lost count of how many near-death experiences he’s had since arriving wherever here is. Desmond has become intimate with death’s grasp, brushing tantalizingly close and breathing in a sigh of relief, only to be dragged back to wake in this fake bedroom, or in a prison cell, or a hospital bed. Once he had woken while completely submerged in a pool and sputtered awake, coughing and wheezing for air. It wasn’t until he had managed to drag himself from the pool he realized he had been choking on blood, not water. There was always so much blood.
Swiping a hand against the constant drip from his nose, he wipes the stain against the clean sheets of the bed. When he first woke, truly the very first time, his nose didn’t bleed permanently as it does now. His body also didn’t constantly ache. He didn’t feel nearly as exhausted, yet the fear was there from the start. Fear was a constant companion, but even now, the fear has a dull edge to it. When the pain increased or something began stalking him, that’s when the fear sharpened, but until then, it’s a dull ache he hardly noticed anymore.
When he first woke, it was in a hospital bed. He couldn’t remember much. He remembered Beltane and talking to Daire and seeing her unorthodox friends, and after that he could recall little else. It was as if his memory had been wiped clean. He had called out for a nurse, a doctor, his mom, anyone, but no one came. After pacing the room and checking the bathroom, he decided to check the hall.
That’s when the fear had sunk its teeth in. He was wearing nothing except a hospital gown, and the moment his hospital door shut behind him, the lights turned off. He padded down the hall on bare feet, calling for help, and when he finally heard a nurse respond back, relief washed through him so hard he thought he’d pass out. But when Desmond followed the voice into a different room with flickering fluorescent lights, he immediately noticed the glass shattered on the floor and the silence in the hospital. No other patients were found as he checked each room, and the hospital lacked the expected bustle.
It felt abandoned and wrong.
When Desmond arrived at the room the nurse resided in, glass crunching into the heels of his feet, fear lodged in his throat. The nurse wasn’t even human.
It was ivory white and so tall it had to hunch so as not to hit the ceiling. It was emaciated, and Desmond could count each of its ribs, see the jutting hip bones like knives through the milky flesh, its joints threatening to punch through the thin skin. Its knees were unnaturally long and skinny, little muscle visible beneath paper flesh. Four arms connected with knobby joints and spindly fingers protruded from its abdomen. Where the elbows creased, there appeared to be a fine webbing, similar to a spider’s web, that frayed and thickened with movement. Its face had no eye holes, not even sockets, but instead had the paper flesh covering it with two slits for a nose in the center of its face. A gaping maw was filled by a forked tongue the color of a plum and two rows of serrated teeth stained red.
But when it spoke, it sounded human.
It sounded like Aubrie, his mother. “My Dessy,” it purred with a slow tilt of its head. “You must rest. You must heal.” It had reached its clawed fingers toward him, to hold him still so he could not run. Desmond had stumbled away, tracking blood as he moved further. “I am your mother,” it growled with a flick of its sinuous tongue, “and you will obey.”
That was the first creature that chased him down the hall, with tiny bits of glass biting into the soft arch of his feet and slicking the floor as he ran. It never caught him, though several times he could smell the hot decay of its breath against his naked back that was covered only by the thin sheet of gown.
Desmond had slipped through an open door and slammed it closed, only to find himself in a different hell. He was standing outdoors in a field of sunflowers, a warm sun pelting his skin. He still wore the hospital gown and his feet throbbed from the embedded glass. Ahead stood Daire, watching him with those bewitching eyes of hers, onyx hair braided over one shoulder and her typical unamused expression on her lips.
Her eyes weren’t quite right, the amber appearing too gold and the blue appearing almost purple. Her tattoos weren’t correct, some missing entirely from her body while others she bore he didn’t recognize. The closer he looked, the more he realized her body didn’t look normal either, her arms slightly too long and her legs too bowed.
“Des,” she said, her voice sounding rough and gravelly. “I can save you. But first you must follow me.”
With no other option, he did follow her. She led him to a grove of trees. He stayed standing in the sun, and when she stepped into the shadows, her skin began to melt, her muscle sloughing from the bone. It happened within seconds, her flesh and blood pooling and bubbling at her feet until she was nothing but bone with a black glow emanating from within her core. Her organs held solid; her eyes unsettling without lids to cover their bulge, her heart thumping steadily beneath her breast bone, intestines curled and slimy above her hips. A walking nightmare.
“Desmond,” she said, reaching out her skeletal hand, “you can never leave.
You’re mine.

Rift by C.B. Woods

“You forgot devilishly handsome,” a rich voice returned from over her shoulder, cutting into the conversation.
A voice she recognized.
A voice she’d held on the other end of her blade just a few hours ago.
The air tightened into a suffocatingly warm wall between Astra and the commander in question as he edged into the circle. She gasped for a breath, unable to keep her face from faltering as she searched for Ameera’s eyes.
“How nice of you to finally join us!” Mirquios called, clapping his hand over the commander’s shoulder as he pulled him into an embrace. He was wrapped in a clean set of leathers—no evidence of a Lunar princess pinning him against trees or brush.
His hair fell in dark waves, wrapped around his neck.
A neck she knew bore a shallow red line where she’d failed to protect her court.
We have a big fucking problem, Ameera, Astra shot out across the circle, watching as Ameera’s eyes took in the two men laughing at something together.
Mirquios was oblivious to Astra’s distress. “Lux, meet your future queen. Astra Leona.”
Astra could not breathe. No, worse, she was breathing all too quickly, inhaling the smoke rolling off his shoulders.
Ameera shifted toward her slowly, so as not to draw attention to them, weaving behind the Mercurian advisors as she stopped to touch Astra’s hand gently.
What? The commander?
His massive frame smothered Astra in flames as he turned toward her, meeting her eyes with the same fiery gaze she’d seen in her dream.
So much more intense in reality.
A flash within them dared her to say anything here, in front of his court. In front of his king. In front of her king.
His chest was still a blank space, completely inaccessible to her intuition.
The commander, and the Solarian, Astra beamed, squeezing Ameera’s hand as she released her grip and stepped toward Luxuros, conscious that dozens of eyes were on them.
Oh, gods, Ameera slowly backed away, searching the crowd around them for Archera.
“The Fire Queen herself,” Luxuros mused, bowing before her, unbothered in a way Astra envied. “I’ve heard so much about you, Princess.”
Everyone is watching, As, pull it together. I’ll find Archera.
Do not leave me, she begged. Ameera slid around the circle, staying in Astra’s field of vision. Her hand rested near her hip, ready to pull the blade tucked into her skirt should she need it.
“Good of you to join us, Commander,” Astra forced, her voice betraying her fear.
Luxuros turned to Mirquios. “Apologies for my late arrival.”
“Did you have somewhere better to be?” Astra sneered before she could stop herself. Ameera’s head snapped from looking for Archera to Astra’s face, set in a glare.
The commander’s eyes locked on Astra’s, reigniting the crushing fever in her veins. “I was in the infirmary,” he explained.
“Are you well, brother?” Mirquios asked.
“Fine, fine,” he laughed lightly. “I found myself on the business end of a torch in the hall. Left a nasty burn.” His head tilted back toward Astra as he spoke. She’d burned him—badly. If she folded his collar down right now, there would be a shallow mark under his ear proving it was all real.
She’d actually traveled the astral plane. She’d gone within, despite the cautionary tales on which she’d been raised.
“Spatial awareness seems like an important skill for a commander, no?”
Astra stepped toward him, sweating under his warmth, but emboldened by the way his eyes widened at her question.
One side of his full lips flicked upward in a smirk. “I was off duty.”
Astra sipped her drink, folding her arms over her chest. “Hmm,” she mused, shaking her head. “Seems the king’s go-to man should always be ready for anything. My Head Maiden, for example, stands behind you with her hand on her weapon, ready to act should anyone step out of line.”
The commander did not flinch as Mirquios stepped between them. “I believe I mentioned she’s a fiery one.”
“Indeed,” Luxuros replied, a spark of something within his eyes Astra didn’t recognize. They dropped to her fingertips, an implication that enraged her.
Not here, Ameera beamed as a flicker of light against her palms died.
Just get through this evening, Astra. I’m right here. Every sentry in the palace is here. He can’t very well attack anyone within these walls. He’d be a fool.
Where is Lunelle? Astra asked as she sank back into her hip, tilting her chin. We can’t let him out of our sight.
I’ll keep my eyes on her, you keep your eyes on him. The second this is over we’ll get a plan together.
Astra pressed her shoulders back. “Do you dance, Commander?”
“Not of my own volition, no.”
“Make an exception for your future queen?” Astra held her glass out to Mirquios who eyed her skeptically, a shimmer of vivid green hope within his chest. He wanted them to get along. She could see the desperation for the commander’s approval embedded deep within the king’s ribs.
Luxuros sighed, his eyes sliding toward Mirquios who nodded enthusiastically, a feeling the commander would not mirror.
His hand reached into the space between them, hovering, despite his reluctance. Astra stared at his bronze fingers, scarred with years—perhaps even decades—of battle and gods knew what else.
She’d touched him in her dream and did not burn for it. It was uncomfortable, but not lethal. Surely, the rumors of the Solarians’ deadly touch had been greatly exaggerated, but the fear imprinted on her bones screamed at her as she stepped forward. Her eyes traced the leather lines from his wrist to his shoulders, over his stubbled jaw and molten gaze that threatened her with thousands of thoughts.
She placed her hand in his, the space between their palms catching fire—it was nearly intolerable. The commander pulled her away from the Mercurian courtiers and onto the dance floor, peppered with a dozen other couples as a new melody struck up.
When he did not fall into a rhythm Astra sighed. “Well?”
“Well, what?” Luxuros asked. “Aren’t you supposed to lead here? Or do you not know your own customs, Princess?”
Astra rolled her eyes, yanking him forward and placing her other hand on his shoulder. The commander winced and dipped, forcing her hand away from the flesh she’d singed. She fought the urge to apologize as she caught the downbeat, rotating them toward the center of the floor.
“I know my customs,” Astra muttered. “But yours are quite the mystery.”
“You should have somewhat of an idea given you’re marrying Mercury’s king—”
“Not Mercury,” Astra hissed, pulling the commander into her and then pushing him away. Their heads turned in opposite directions. His posture stiffened beneath her palms, slick with sweat. She’d clearly poked at a bruise.
“I am Mercurian, Princess. I do not claim any other lineage and I resent the implication—”
“Tell that to my bones, Commander! I can feel it—I can feel the traitorous blood that runs through your veins—”
His hand tightened at her back, crashing her into the sweltering mass of him as he growled beneath orchestral notes, “You do not know what you speak of and I’d appreciate it if you waited to accuse me in private, and not in a room littered with gods know how many courtiers who would hold their questions until after my head hit the floor.”
Astra twisted from his grasp as he clenched his jaw against the pain in his burned flesh. She spun herself out and then into him, her back pressed against his chest. Her shoulder checked him in the sternum as she turned her head, his breath brushing her cheek.
“Tell me one thing. Are you here to harm my sister?”
Luxuros held her gaze, frozen in the center of the floor. She missed the next step, unable to move until she knew Lunelle was safe. He lowered his gaze, bitter poison laced in his reply.
“Who attacked whom in the Midwood, Princess?”
Astra caught her breath, the heat from him hard to think through. “I do not know what to make of you.”
“Make nothing of me. It’s better for both of us,” he spat, dropping her hand.
He marched off the floor, leaving her alone in the midst of the other dancers, a scarlet rage rushing to fill the void he left as he took his flames with him.

The Realm by C.M. Miller

Breathless. One foot in front of the other. The key thumping back and forth against her chest from beneath her tunic-style shirt. As adrenaline rushed through her body, she ignored the slight burning of her legs as she ducked through the forest. A thorn bush grazed her cloak, cutting through the thin material and causing her to grit her teeth as it dug into her arm. She could not afford to slow down, not yet; but a wrong move could send her sprawling. And getting caught meant removing her mask.
Athena ran what she thought might be a little slower. But her heart still hammered with the key.
She heard the sound of wings pounding through the trees above her. The fairies wouldn’t cause damage to the forest just to catch her—but how they would treat her if she was caught was an entirely different matter.
Treason, her mind screamed at her accusingly. She saw in her mind her comrades who had been caught, set before the city in a stage play of death yesterday morning. Eternians, Sangrians, humans, fairies, young and old—the king of Dyvvea made no distinction between those who rebelled against him. Treason.
She gasped as the toe of her boot was caught, sending her into a pile of leaves and dirt.
She huffed as she brushed her dark curls from her face, spitting the dirt from her mouth.
She silently cursed the rock she’d tripped on. They were right above her, and then one, two, three, and the soldiers had hurried past her. She exhaled, hardly believing she had escaped them. They had been so close. Too close.
Slowly, she rose to her feet, relieved when she felt the key fall against her chest. Then they came, landing with a loud thump on all sides. Fairy soldiers, eight of them, all clad in black uniforms with the silver symbol of the kraken.
She had fallen right into their hands. Surrounded at all sides, she felt her heart racing with terror.
Swords pointed at her. “Unmask yourself, rebel. In the name of the king.”
Other wings snapped against the sky, and several Eternians landed around Athena.
The level of dragon each of them had over their human forms varied, and some had more scales over their skin than others. Most of them could breathe fire, and all of them had wings protruding from their backs, just like she did.
How they had arrived so quickly to her aid, she wasn’t sure. But she was relieved that she would not be battling the fairy soldiers alone.
Athena didn’t dare to speak for fear her voice would give her away. She stepped forward, sword drawn, letting her wings aid her in spins and flips through the air as she took on one of her opponents. Swords clashed around her, and flashes of fire sent smoke against the air. She felt the gentle, reassuring pressure of the key against her chest. A reminder that soon the tables would turn.
“Go!” one of the Eternians said. The strands of her braided dark hair shimmered with sunlight filtering through the trees. None of them wore masks—most of their kind, except those in service to the king, had already been openly labeled as rebels long ago. “We can’t afford to lose you.”
Flashes of magic erupted in the background as Athena ran, and she winced. If the soldiers were using magic, they were probably not trying to take captives.
She was the one they wanted alive this time. Every now and then, rebels were taken alive for public execution. But most were not. Athena fought the drive to return to the Eternians’ aid as screams of fire sent wafts of smoke chasing after her.
She nearly collided with a fey soldier that suddenly appeared in her path. He held his sword at the ready, and she instinctively threw up hers, prepared to fight. Then, as her panic eased, she recognized the dark-skinned man standing on the other side of the blade she held rigidly in front of her. There was a rush of heavy footfalls behind her, and her heart sank as she heard shouts of pursuit.
“Hide.” The dark skinned-fey hurried in the direction she had come.
Athena fled into the forest, finding a spot where she could hide. It was impossible to run across these dead leaves and not give herself away. With her back to a tree, she heard his voice echoing, “This way! Don’t let her escape.”
She stayed frozen, blended into the forestry as James, prince of Dyvvea and the king’s younger brother, led the fairy soldiers in the opposite direction. She breathed a sigh of relief, then trekked with caution through the forest. She had already taken a risk by personally overseeing the Sangrians sent on a mission to the Beyond, the other world that lay in portals beyond theirs. But now it was time to return home.
Especially before her godmother knew she was missing.
A flying figure loomed overhead. Athena stopped and took cover near the trees again, keeping to bushes and leaves packed together. The flyer landed gently against the dead leaves. The wings were golden like a Eternian’s, that much Athena could see. Even though most of the fairies in the Realm had black wings, she wouldn’t risk that the sunlight might be playing tricks on her eyes. It would be a deadly mistake to make—and not just for herself.

Medicate Me by Emily Hodson

I inhale the fresh air deeply before exhaling more stress out of my body. I make it into the parking lot, which has one beat-up gray car and an unloading truck. I rattle the rain from my eyes before going through the automatic entrance doors to the lobby, which struggle to open. It's old and outdated, just like the building.
Unfortunately, I don't make it through the second set of automatic entrance doors that would take me into the store's inviting atmosphere. I'm too focused on the woman who's shivering and smoking a cigarette several feet away from the entrance, near the glacier water vending machine outside.
She looks worn out and starved. I notice her face is hidden behind an oversized black hood that doesn't look warm at all. I already know where this person comes from, and I don't like judging someone based on their clothes, but even her scent reaches me from a distance.
I decide to approach her but still keep a ten-foot distance away. "You doing okay, ma'am?"
She doesn't turn to face me. She just finishes her cigarette and throws it far, not even bothering to put it out.
The woman tucks her hands inside her pockets, staring at her feet as her lips tremble. I barely hear murmurs seeping through her jittering mouth.
I gulp, taking another step toward her.
I can't just leave someone in this mental condition. Maybe I should call 9-1-1 to get her to a shelter or something. I used to volunteer at the soup kitchen downtown a few years ago, when city life used to be somewhat safe.
Keyword: somewhat.
As I get closer, I notice she's even skinnier than I thought from a distance. Her face has cheekbones shaped like triangles and a neck as skinny as a deer's. When is the last time she ate? Maybe I should offer to grab her something from the store. I don't want her to come inside with me for safety reasons, but I could at least get my groceries and drop something off for her.
I just need to stay alert around her. You never know with people.
"Ma'am?" I speak a little louder, gulping a big lump down my throat. I haven't drunk much water today.
"They're coming, they're coming." She's talking to herself, still not tearing her bloodshot eyes away from the gravel in front of her feet.
The tops of her shoes are completely torn off, showing her toes peeking out of ripped socks.
"They're coming, they're coming, they're coming." Her trembling, soft voice tells me that she is probably no older than thirty.
Her stringy blonde hair looks like it used to be beautiful and styled. I see a pretty woman underneath the mess of her appearance.
"Who's coming?" I ask. I don't get any closer. This will be my stopping point. "Are you hungry? I could go get you something from the store." I point behind me, gesturing that I'm about to go inside. "No, no, no. They're coming for me. My body is theirs now." "Who? Do you need me to call for help?" I cross my arms, starting to feel uneasy.
Maybe this is a bad idea to get involved. I just feel so heartbroken for her because she looks noticeably unwell.
Her head tilts up, and I see her hoodie slide halfway off her skull.
She cranes her neck in my direction, looking me up and down. Her face is paler than pale. In fact, she looks ghost white. From the distance I'm standing, I start to see bumpy black lines scatter around her face, especially around her cheeks and nose.
I try to squint without staring and notice the black lines begin to melt into her skin, forming blotches. It's like the black ink blots patients see when doctors hold up those cards and ask what they see.
"No help. It's too late for me. Too late, tooooo late to fix my fate," she replies in a sing-song voice.
She removes her hoodie, and I notice a balding spot on her stringy hair right away, along with another black ink spot spreading over it.
"Okay." I take a step back as calmly as I can. I don't want to set her off, especially since her eyes are starting to widen.
"Your complexion is radiating, though." She finally takes her first step toward me. I take another step back, fully aware that I am only a few feet away from going through the entrance doors to the lobby that I never should have left. "Yeah?" I say, pretend smiling. "How so?" I'm almost inside, ready to sprint through the main entrance doors. The lobby will not be safe enough to feel comfortable. "You look untouched from the virus," she says, eyeing me up and down. "Oh?" I put my purple fuzzy mask over my face, realizing it's probably a good idea to do this now, rather than inside the lobby where the dirty carts are. "Yes, you look..."
She takes several more steps closer to me at an alarming speed. I turn around and sprint into the lobby, coming to an abrupt dead end. The store is "closed until noon," the sign on the main entrance door says, and it was 11:30 when I walked a few blocks over here.
"Healthy..." she trails off, leaping closer to me.
The woman is now only a few feet away from making it into the entrance of the lobby. I'm still a safe distance away from her, but now I'm confused.
She could be on drugs, but her observations of my appearance are alarming.
It's personal, not just someone from the streets muttering jibber jabber. What does she mean?
I pound on the doors instinctively, hoping a worker will let me in.
I don't have time to wait around to find out. What I should have done is sprint out the other door of the lobby to my right. It makes sense that the entrance with the carts is open so customers can prepare to go inside, but it's also teasing since the store is not technically open. If I am to guess, it's about 11:55 a.m.
"I'm warning you," I bravely shout, pivoting toward her with my mace.
"Spray me. Nothing hurts me anymore." The scary, skinny woman, who looks worse than a druggie, holds out her palm toward me despite the distance between us.
"What's wrong with you?" I take a step back, my mace still firmly gripped in my hand, prepared to use it at any time.
"Nothing," her raspy voice replies. "I just need some medicine to get better so they don't take me away."
"Who?" "Them." Her voice cracks with a genuine plea. "Who's them?" I'm so close to exiting the right sliding doors, ready to sprint all the way home, while also trying to get answers. I'm actually really concerned about what she's talking about. "The ones above us." She cackles with her palm still held out to me.
"The ones with power over us peasants. The ones who never let us meet them. The ones who watch our every move and enjoy population control."
There is no way I'm getting close to this woman. "I have to go. I'm sorry I can't help you." As open-minded as I am about political conspiracies with all of the ones in power watching us, I don't feel comfortable anymore.
"Your time will come too, you pretty little thing." She eyes me up and down.
"They'll eventually come for you once you become me too. You'll just be another maggot they'll squash for their own gain."
This lady is clearly on fucking drugs. It's not a personal attack, and it sucks that it's taken this much dialogue between us to realize that. For a second, I thought she knew something about my life. No, she's just out of it.
"I'll never become someone like you, you filthy lowlife." This time, I snarl, sprinting away from her without looking back.
There's no way she will be able to keep up with me. I used to jog and run several times a week every morning at 5 a.m. before the pandemic.
This is the last time I'm going to be nice to a homeless person. I'm not going to risk my life to potentially get stabbed or infected.
Maybe this is what someone looks like with the virus. The news said you get multiple red rashes all over your body and look like you're burning up, though.
She looked like she may have spilled ink on herself and gotten deep infected wounds that are just black instead of red.
She's done this to herself, living on the streets... right? I glance over my shoulder after making it out of the parking lot. The woman is already catching up to me, power walking, but I'm still far enough away to zig-zag into a neighborhood and lose her. I have about twenty seconds of running time before it'll be too late. The woman lets out a startling screech. "Help me, help me, help me, I beg you. HELP ME! Medicate me, medicate me, MEDICATE ME, bitch!"

Mister Nakagami by Jade Black

Ai’s already sat at the bar when I arrive, a glass of wine in front of the empty barstool next to his. I clamber on to it, and we touches glasses. He’s drinking. And smiling. It’s been months since he did either of those; Koni must be all right.
“He’s missing two fingers and has plenty of bandages, but he’s completely with it.” What a relief. Long term comas can do all sorts of damage to a man’s mind; he’s a tough one.
“He has an imaginary girlfriend now. They became lovers about when we thought they did.”
Satisfaction widens his smile.
“Do you still think they settled the trade that way?” They could have agreed to be lovers instead. “Absolutely. Koni wanted to take advantage of his time away and King Amir’s good looking.” He shrugs. “Mister Useless agreed to give him a few more days off.”
“Don’t mince your words.” I chuckle at his smirk and sip my wine.
“The utterly fucking incompetent smug bastard found some humanity after I yelled at him.”
He waits for me to stop snickering and swallow my mouthful. “Can we get rid of him now?”
“What a colourful conversation to walk into! May I?” Isamu sits next to me. The barman puts an espresso martini in front of him, waving the money away. I drop my chin comically.
“It’s my anniversary of becoming the band leader, shut up.” I laugh. “Good to see you can open your mouth nice and wide.”
“You sure you should be drinking Isamu?” Ai teases, earning a crass gesture in response.
He’s probably right to think Isamu’s tipsy; he didn’t climb on to his stool gracefully.
“I thought you’d be happier at little Haru’s display there.” My ears burn. “Unless Aiba was having a great day when it came to–”
“That’s enough!” Ai snaps. The cheeky guitarist dissolves into a giggling fit.
Wait...
“Are you named after the Goddess of Love?” I turn to Ai.
“Oh for fuck’s sake.” He gives me the most unimpressed look anyone on the continent could ever have seen, and Isamu nearly falls off his chair. “Have you only just realised?” Even the barman is laughing at me.
“I was raised–”
“You’ve known me for over ten years, Haru.”
“Clearly he hasn’t known you well enough.” Isamu finally manages to have a second taste of his cocktail.
“You wouldn’t say that if you were sat here.” Ai puts an elbow on the bar.
“That goes without saying. I know your lap’s reserved for Haru.” I bite my tongue.
“How much do you care for your genitals?” Ai’s tone and expression hardens, laced with impatience. Isamu grabs his drink.
“Not as much as you care for his!” He scurries away. Our corner of the bar falls silent. His lap is comfy. I’d be happy to sit on it right now. The barman tells us there’s a quiet space out back.
Neither of us respond. I have to break this silence, I can’t bear it.
“Let’s get rid of Mister Useless.” Ai grins.

Of Stars and Tides by Locklyn Blake

Hero Stamos was no stranger to death.
His heart thudded in his ears, echoing the pounding of his heavy boots across the wet pavement. Shadows danced viciously in every corner of the dark alleyway, growing as impatient as he was for the slaughter to begin.
Grazing his hand over the hilt of his sword, he rolled his shoulders in anticipation. A smirk curved his lips, his confidence amplifying with each stride. It had always been a game to him: kill as many demons as he could and complete the mission as fast as possible. This time, though, the orders were different.
The girl.
He slowed as he neared the end of the alleyway, his footsteps softening.
Wind caressed his face as the smell of fresh rain and spilled liquor wafted through the air-the signature scent of New Orleans, his home. He peered through the darkness, scanning for the slightest hint of movement. The demon lurked somewhere in its depths, hiding as it awaited its fate at Hero's hands.
Come out, come out, wherever you are...
His nose twitched. The stench of the demon's latest victim emanated from its skin, and hatred surged through Hero's veins. He willed himself to take his time with this one, to make it suffer, just as it had done to so many innocent mortals. It was nothing more than a filthy beast, a bloodthirsty monster.
Death.
His sword gleamed as he emerged from the camouflage of night, offering himself as bait.
Gotcha.
The demon's eyes shone like the fires of the Underworld, searing with red-hot anguish. They alone illuminated Hero's battlefield for the night: the concrete boulevard. His raven-black jacket clung to his tense muscles, all the power of a Leo surging through him.
Strength. Force. Vitality.
The rush of exhilaration he'd grown to love erupted as the crimson beams flashed at him, a silent acknowledgment that the fight had commenced.
Lifting his chin, Hero took a deep breath, jaw clenching and fists tightening around the metal in his hands. He readied his sword with ease.
The demon emerged from the darkness at last, its bones cracking and reforming with each dastardly step. Hero ignored the chill snaking up his spine at the sound of its claws scratching across the concrete, like a knife dragging across a ceramic plate. Its humanoid body rippled to- ward him, and in the gleam of the stars above, Hero could see the scales and burns and scars that covered the beast. The demon grew, towering over him, its shadows following suit.
Razor-sharp talons lifted into the air and swiped at Hero in a fury. He dodged, swinging himself around to the demon's other side. Nar- rowing his eyes at the beast through his soaked curls, Hero grinned.
A game. That's all it is.
He'd trained for this moment since birth, every muscle and vein in his body screaming at him to fight. Nothing else in the world made sense to him but words of action. His mother's voice echoed in his ears: "You're a loyal soldier, Hero. Kill the demons and protect the mortals. Fight harder. Fight stronger."

The North Tower by Michelle N. Hagood

She used to love this mansion, the way the sun streamed through the skylights, the afternoon glow in the sitting room, the smells of the orchard out back that carried through the open windows. It was a place of life and color.
The halls were meant for running bare feet, the ballrooms for dancing, and the kitchen for homecooked meals. It would never be used for any of those things.
Maybe that’s why it felt more like a coffin than anything else. Elizabeth didn’t know how something so beautiful and filled with promise could become nothing but a hollow reminder of everything she wanted and would never grasp.
Gliding down the sweeping staircase, Elizabeth entered what used to be the ballroom. A few of her husband’s followers acknowledged her with a slight nod; most ignored her completely. Steel was among them, blending into the ranks.
She didn’t give them her attention. She was, after all, their queen.
She wasn’t required to give them anything. Instead, her eyes locked on the far end of the room where a large wooden table stretched between two thrones atop a raised stage.
Her stomach rolled at the sight of the woman in green at his side.
Elizabeth didn’t bother to remember her name.
A dry smile tugged at Elizabeth’s lips when the woman’s envious gaze locked on her crown. It was oddly satisfying knowing she was his queen and wife, while that woman would only ever be his mistress.
Ignoring the sneering blonde, she focused her attention on the man at the head of the table. A wave of fear surged through her veins as she took the place opposite him.
Between them, maps and documents littered the long table.
Sections of the maps were scorched, probably from moments of anger, while others were circled. He was still looking for it. Always looking.
“What about here?” The king waved his hand over a mountainous region.
“The search was inconclusive, my lord.” The soldier nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Inconclusive.” The king rolled the word over his tongue. “I gave you a hundred men with some of the best magic. Inconclusive wasn’t part of your objective.”
“It was Kale, my lord. He was waiting for us.”
At the mention of the name, Elizabeth looked closer at the messenger, noticing for the first time the state of his uniform. His armor was splattered with blood and crusted with dirt. Dark purple bruises colored his swollen face.
“Very well,” the king hissed through clenched teeth. He made eye contact with Steel across the room and gave a silent command. The crimson-armored man responded by stepping forward and grabbing the wounded soldier. Steel dragged the screaming man from the room.
“Elizabeth, my love.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She jerked her eyes from the doomed messenger to the king, but he wasn’t even looking at her.
“How nice of you to join us,” he said dryly. He braced his hands against the table as his eyes combed over the layout in front of him. She was used to this cold tone. She looked at his handsome face for any sign of the man she fell in love with so many years ago. When he did look up, his eyes, which their daughter now had, gave her the chilled look of a stranger.
“I’m here now,” she said as she joined him on the platform.
His attention returned to the tabletop. “And what did I do to deserve this rare pleasure?”
His mistress snickered.
“I wanted to speak with you.”
“Later, my love.”
“I’d like to speak with you now. Alone.” She clenched her shaking hands, praying he didn’t see them.
The room fell silent. Even the air stilled.

By Blood, Shadow, and Fire by Orin Steele

Islyn’s hands trembled as she looked down at them, slick with blood—hers, someone else’s, she couldn’t be sure anymore. Everything was red even when the world around her was black. Blood crusted in the cracks of her knuckles and ran from fresh cuts she couldn’t see. She should have been used to it, but she wasn’t.
She felt it then—the slither of his words, the iciness of his awareness against the crook of her neck. Bumps raised where breath met skin.
My love, the voice said. Not aloud. It rang inside her skull, as though her bones had become instruments for his song.
She had wanted this—needed this. But it felt like sipping poison from a crystal goblet. Sweet and deadly.
Solvora, light my path, she thought to herself. But no gods would dare to meddle in the affairs of the World Eater.
He continued the gentle assault on her mind, the venom of his words seeping deeper and deeper. You have come to me, of your own volition. I did not expect you to come to your knees so soon.
It wasn’t a question, but she answered it anyway. "Yes," she said, curling her fingers into fists. Her knuckles cracked. "I submit to your will, Belthorak. I accept your offer."
Tsk. My love, you know my name—my true name. It is the only way to summon me, to wield me. And that is what you wish to do, is it not? Use me?
She felt fingers brush her spine, but no hand reached.
I am no pawn, Islyn, I am the King of Gods. The First Spark and End of All Things.
His voice was the most dangerous attraction. Its depth pulled you in and lulled you into a slumber before drowning you and devouring your soul.
He stepped forward and the air bowed around him. Power bled from his skin like heat from the sun. His white hair—usually woven into elaborate braids—hung loose and wild down his back, like threads of moonlight caught in ancient winds. He looked older than she remembered—frayed at the edges.
Yet nothing about him diminished. Even worn, he was beautiful in a way that hurt to look at. Terrible and eternal. Belthorak was beautiful in the same way that blood splatter was beautiful after dripping from the tip of a dagger plunged through the heart.
He was tall, built with sculpted elegance, every movement precise as a master blade. He wore layered black robes embroidered with ancient sigils, stitched so fine they shimmered when he moved. No markings adorned his skin. No symbols of allegiance. Belthorak belonged to nothing. No one. His broad shoulders squared as she looked up and the storm in her eyes met the vast fury of his own. They needed each other.
The realm around them was a vast, unbroken expanse of shadow and obsidian glass. Jagged rocks jutted like broken teeth from the earth, and the sky—if it could be called that—was an endless swirl of violet and black, fractured by veins of gold that pulsed like distant lightning. The air hummed with static. It reeked of ancient rot and forgotten dreams. Dreams Islyn was desperately clinging to.
His vibrant green eyes held no tenderness, only hunger. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips and it sent a chill down Islyn’s spine. To ask this of Belthorak, she would need to give him the only thing in this universe he coveted. The only thing that he had not been able to freely take.
Her.
Belthorak craved her, not for love, but for possession.
"Say it," he whispered, his voice now a living thing. His pale hand reached and gently wiped the tear rolling down her cheek. She blinked at the gentleness before he captured it on his fingertip. He pulled a small vial from his robes, letting the salty liquid drop into the glass, then corked it. "Say my name," he murmured, "so that I may claim you. So that we will be one."
She would find a way to break this. Eventually. But this was war. And she was losing.
She looked down at the drying blood flaking from her skin. Her markings shifted beneath the surface. She wondered if the markings she had grown to accept—to love even—would change. If she would change. Islyn would be the monster the children of Alarien would fear. Wife of the World Eater. Death herself. She would welcome it—the fear—if it meant saving those who were left. The few who still walked on this side of the veil.
Islyn’s breath shook from her lungs, "I give myself to you," she said.
She hesitated only for a moment before meeting death’s gaze and speaking the word that would allow the binding.
"Valeryth."