Pared

Five more, Frank.

I dragged my body up and into my knees, my measly abs shrieking in protest. I would give him one more.

Nope, five, Ben ordered in response to my choice.

I curled my lip and groaned. You are so annoying! My irritation was beneficial, and I pushed out another three crunches off its fumes.

You can’t complain about weakness if you don’t put in the effort, Frankie, Cleo chided from my right. She was pumping out crunches like a factory, her diamond-hard stomach taking each in stride. She wasn’t even out of breath for Christ’s sake! I was supposed to be the well of health.

You would think Cleo Zaher was freshly twenty, twenty-five max, but we had just celebrated her thirty-third birthday. I had gifted her several books she’d requested by email weeks prior. Cleo was the most efficient siren in North America, certainly, if not the western hemisphere.

Ben’s hands gripped my toes, keeping me planted on the carpet and stopping me from running away. Two more! I heaved myself up, reaching my knees once in the time it took Cleo to do five. One left!

If Cleo was the most efficient siren, Ben Bowen was, by far, the most annoying, intrusive seer on the face of the Earth.

I know how to count! Against the agony of my middle, I rose to my knees. I then immediately flumped to my side, clutching my gut.

Ben patted my head. You get one minute. Then you have to hold me between those arms. You make me feel so safe, Princess. Such bulging biceps. I opened one sweat-soaked eye to see Ben’s freckled face not a foot from my own. He dropped a kiss on my temple and rolled his tongue over my salty taste. Nasty.

You can thank yourself for that.

Ben and Cleo had been leading me through various at-home workouts for the last two months. I felt it best to prepare for the worst (having to carry another dead body) and to hope for the best (not having to).

The summer ended on a note of fortification after Paimon nearly killed us all. Cleo’s magical hair was like a second carpet in this house, draped over most trims and around furniture legs. Ben blocked out an hour each morning to reinforce the unseen shield surrounding our home, but it only held while he was inside. I practiced my affinity every single day, Ben peppering in new challenges from time to time. Our physical workouts only took place three nights a week, and I hated every one of them.

Ben still lived here after a demonic fire destroyed his kitchen in July, though the repairs were nearly finished. I selfishly hoped that once he moved back home, we’d all lose interest in exercise.

Our egg-carton herb seedlings had graduated to pots, and several sprouts were scattered throughout the house like watchful gnomes. I laid my hands upon the little stems regularly, ensuring they were as healthy as can be.

I stared up at the flat expanse of white that was now our ceiling—the three of us removed the popcorn texture as soon as Ben arrived. We had not one couch, but two, both jewel-colored velvet. Thank god for fall, because those things made my ass sweat in the summer heat.

Cleo was obstinate when it came to interior design, and a much braver person than I wouldn’t stand in her way. The couches were very pretty. And it was expected that we tell her how pretty they were.

We’d pushed them against the walls, beneath a framed mixed-media piece Ben completed last month, so we could crunch and squat and burpee.

We’re done for the day. I need to be at Jim’s in an hour, I huffed.

Like showering is honestly going to take you that long, Ben countered. But fine. No more today. He put his hands in mine, his touch as familiar now as my own, and hoisted me up. I went limp and flopped like warm rubber. Jesus, Frank.

I need to rest for five minutes. Cool down. He set me back on the carpet and Cleo rolled her eyes into her brain. What are you guys gonna do while I’m gone? It was Saturday, and neither of them had anywhere to be.

I think I’ll go for a run, Cleo said as she readjusted her beautiful breasts beneath her sports bra. She ran the full circumference of Aspen Ridge daily. The spike in automobile accidents and marital spats were not her problem.

I need to pop home, check in on the garden. It’s about time to harvest. Plus, I should probably start moving my shit back there pretty soon … Ben side-eyed me.

Sure, yeah. Pretty soon. I didn’t want to give him any sort of opinion. I didn’t want to come off as pathetic. A queen bed was immense with only one person sleeping in it. Especially compared to what I used to sleep on.

Ben’s eyes drifted to the wall behind me. I’d gotten used to the act, precognition hitting Ben’s frontal lobe dozens of times a day. You might get another call from Deputy Jacobs soon.

I folded my elbows over my face. The police had paid us a visit last month. My being the last client Gabriel Perez served before his untimely death was something they found intriguing and something I found to be unlucky to the point of gut-wrenchingly cosmic.

The Aspen Ridge Sheriff’s Department was mean in the way most small-time cops seemed to be. They founded their bias against all of us as out-of-towners—my residence was made not born—the second I opened the door. Anyone could deduce they thought us irreverent and crude, three young people of multiple sexes under one roof. Their attitude had brought out my own unpleasantness during their last visit, and I wasn’t keen to give them another reason to bother us.

Do they have anything else? I asked through my arms.

No, they’re desperate, Ben assured.

I nodded into my enclosure. I wished I had more to give them. I wished I could put the person responsible behind bars. But I didn’t wish for it enough to confess any semblance of truth and put myself behind said bars.

Pushing up from the floor, I weaved around the various house plants and grabbed a Gold Star from the fridge, as well as a slice of white bread. I picked the spongy slice apart and shoved the bits in my mouth, suddenly full of nervous energy. Ben stretched his arms up to the ceiling and arched his back. He donned only a pair of black Nike shorts and his chest glistened with sweat in the morning light. He was beautiful, despite the volleyball-sized scar dominating his torso.

Our touching had … increased, since the unfortunate events over the summer. And with it, his scarring did appear to soften, the skin transitioning to an almost normal texture. But each time I saw his stomach and noticed the absence of the tattoos that he’d created, that belonged there, I dropped my eyes in self-hatred.

I’d done the same with Cleo, finding odd chances to touch her. Unlike Ben, she shied away when I did—an aversion to me or to my affinity—and though her scarring had ebbed slightly, she seemed to prefer her new visage. I caught her prodding the scar on her lip from time to time with an air of curiosity rather than resentment.

Ben noticed my mood. He tucked his hand around my chin and lifted my face. Hey, he whispered as I shoved another ball of bread into my mouth. He gave his hallmark smile, half teasing and half genuine. Don’t go there, Frank. Cleo and I are just fine.

I shook my head in his fingers, squishing the last bite of bread between my lips. Ben was saying what was expected of him, being my best friend, and my partner or whatever he wanted to call himself (he once used the word lover, and I’d choke and die before saying that out loud). But my consumption of Jessamae’s wounds, my gluttonous and sickening behavior, had very nearly killed him over the summer. Ben’s death would have stained my hands just as much as they stained Paimon’s mutated, inhuman digits. May Pamela rest in peace.

I’d gotten a voicemail a week ago from Joseph Perez, proprietor of Perez Family Funeral Home, that Pamela’s headstone had been completed. The etched slate now marked her empty grave. I hadn’t gone to see it. I hoped I’d never find myself there again, despite knowing that nothing slept under the cemetery grass. It was hard to separate Pamela from Paimon, considering their shared corpse rotted in a shallow grave far away from that headstone.

I need to shower, I said again, placing a tentative hand on Ben’s slippery chest. Even after all this time, it felt strange to intentionally reach out and touch him. His skin buzzed beneath mine, warming instantly. My affinity was a greedy thing; even Ben’s sore muscles and fatigue were enough to trigger it. He and I had been practicing control along with everything else—I tended to achieve a contact high if he was feeling unwell, just as he got high on my painkiller magic.

I had been practicing restraint—the ability to turn my magic off, only healing when I willed it. It was beyond difficult, and I had made little progress. The most we had noticed is a slowness, a dragging leak of magic rather than a flush.

Ben lifted my fingers and kissed them. Yes, you do. He wiped my sweat, again, from his lips. I held my middle finger in the air all the way down the hall.

We replaced the bathroom door within a week of Gabriel’s destruction. Ben brought it home in one of his company trucks, surprising Cleo and me. It seemed mostly for my benefit, as I valued privacy more than the others. They were so blasé about their bodies. Ben had returned to his commando customs shortly after his move.

As I entered the bathroom, I remembered the night I discovered that fact. I remembered the ridges of his hips and the dip of his pelvis beneath the waistband of his gym shorts, not unlike the pair he wore today. I’d explored further and found the warmth of the soft, soft skin.

I looked up into the bathroom mirror. Even a memory made me blush.

I dumped my keys into the small wooden dish that Cleo assigned me. My shift had been dull and uneventful, something I’d grown to appreciate after the summer’s end.

Ben sauntered out of our room in a purple sweatshirt which read, Mama Needs Some Wine. His body ran colder than mine, and he was already bundling up for fall.

Welcome home, he said as he bent to kiss my cheek. How’s Jim?

Boring. Very few people inside him today. But I think I’m up for a fifteen-cent pay raise come January. So, you know, I opened the fridge and ducked inside. Worth it.

Ben knocked his hip into me, pushing me away from the fridge. Don’t kid yourself, Frank.

I snorted but moved to lean against the counter. What’s on the menu tonight?

He pulled out an armful of leafy vegetables, a Tupperware storing a raw chicken breast clutched in his hand. Soup.

I grabbed a knife from the silverware drawer. I’ll cut carrots then. Ben looked at me from beneath scornful brows. I will cut carrots then, I said louder. He sighed and rolled them onto the counter.

My cuts were messy, but Ben was the only one who cared. I stepped away from the cutting board and he gave my work a pained expression. Toss them in. Quickly.

Cleo strolled down the hallway in her silk robe. She waved a silent greeting in my direction. How was your run? I asked.

She smiled. Mr. McCormac stopped me. Two bags of apricots, a box of jarred peaches, two jars of tomato juice, and a case of sweet peas. He gave me a ride and unloaded everything for me.

That explains all the color in the fridge. I hope you’re happy.

Her grin reached her ears. Very. I love sweet peas.

And I doubt you’d let that fact escape Mr. McCormac’s attention.

She shrugged and moved to sit at the table.

His goods go for a very pretty penny at the farmers’ market. Nice work, Ben said as he stirred the fragrant soup. I inhaled deeply. Ben had many gifts, but his cooking was my favorite.

He ladled the dish into three matching bowls—Cleo preferred dining sets—making disappointed sounds at the sight of the floating ameba carrots.

Ben snuck glances at me as we ate. He quietly paid attention to my habits—eating, sleeping, drinking—and had yet to break his mothering proclivities. God help him if he ever tried to correct my behavior.

I stacked our empty bowls and took them to the sink before opening one of the dated brown cupboards and pulling out a box of chamomile tea.

You know it’s better fresh, Ben said from the table.

Sure it is, but I don’t feel much like pruning, drying, and bagging tonight. I set three matching mugs on the counter and tossed a bag in each. I filled Cleo’s kettle with water and put it on the stove to boil. I’d been brewing chamomile tea nearly every night for over a month. Trouble sleeping. Ben offered a variety of spells to knock me out, but I didn’t need him hurting himself every night just so I could get some shuteye.

I squeezed a dollop of honey in each and gave a steaming mug to both Cleo and Ben. Amir strutted from Cleo’s room and leapt into her lap. As the weather cooled, he spent most of his mangey days wandering the mountains, and his nights at the foot of Cleo’s bed. She stroked his gnarled fur.

What shall we practice tonight, Frankie? The moon will be waxing for a few more days, so we can stay inside, she said, dunking her tea bag repeatedly. We could make some charms. Your crafting is deplorable. Or we could work with fire. You struggle with that element. Amir appeared gleeful at her criticisms.

Thank you for the report, I grunted, but I’m tired. Can’t we skip tonight?

I’ll help you, Ben intervened. You need your practice. He lifted an eyebrow, his eyes full of wicked promise. And so do I. Let us adjourn to the bedroom—

Have you heard from Jessamae? Cleo asked without warning.

I stopped breathing, my tea bag suspended like a hanged man above the rim of my cup. I couldn’t look directly at the siren, her almond eyes intent. No one had brought up Jessamae since she left. She hadn’t called, emailed, texted, or message-in-a-bottled any of us since August. Cleo knew that. No.

Ben stiffened beside me. Though he no longer hated the vampire, she caused him great unhappiness. He certainly remembered the two of us together, particularly the moments for which he wasn’t around, watching through my eyes.

Cleo shot up from the table, Amir a squashed patch of fur on her chest. I heard her door shut from the kitchen, still reeling from the unprecedented onslaught of memories.

Wandering fingers tangled into the hair at my temple. You know what I do? Ben asked. I think of all the things my senses are experiencing now, in the present—the smells, the sounds. Sometimes it’s the only way out of the future. He pulled me up from the table. Or the past. He swept the hair from my forehead before guiding me down the hall. His hand was both smooth and textured, the tattoos decorating his fingers from base to tip.

It was the weekend, so the paint aroma was faint—he smelled only of herbs and soil tonight.

He led me into the room that had become ours. He moved toward me with measured, silent steps. Control, Princess.

I nodded, swallowing hard.

His hands moved to my neck, their brush so gentle they tickled. His thumbs rubbed beneath the base of my ear, clicking against my mother’s old earring. Ben leaned forward an inch at a time, a centimeter at a time. When his mouth was close enough to graze mine, he bit down on his own lip. Control, he repeated. He had ripped the skin of his bottom lip, and there was a teeny line of blood there.

He dropped his hands to the edge of his sweatshirt, tugging it up and over his head. His bare chest dominated my vision, so much skin, scarred and inked and freckled. When my eyes fell to his sternum, to the tip of the crater, he stepped into me.

Ben lifted my hands to his shoulders. The moment my skin touched his warm freckles, I felt it. The blood, the wound of his mouth.

Resisting hurt … it was like passing on a fresh box of jelly donuts, or a steaming bowl of Ben’s savory soup, and walking away hungry. It was not ignoring temptation, it was ignoring instinct—the instinct to sustain.

My tongue searched for that blood behind my lips. Ben’s deft fingers played with the bottom of my polo, exploring the skin of my belly, around the curve of my hips. I pressed myself in closer, unconsciously stretching up on my toes. I was uncertain which impulse pushed me now, pushed me into him, into this. I wanted that lip between my teeth. I knew that much.

Tsk, tsk, Ben clucked in disapproval, seeing my intentions as soon as I’d decided to act on them. The blood was so close. I wanted to cry at having it so close. He took my wrists in one of his hands and led me to our bed. His gray comforter and his smell enveloped me as he guided me to my back.

Control, he whispered, but he was talking to himself now, too. His hands quivered as they made their way beneath my shirt.

I rubbed the base of his skull and dug into the shorn hair. His fingers trailed around the dip of my belly button as I kissed the edge of his jaw. I pulled him down, closer to me, more, and bit the lobe of his ear—

Then his mouth melted into mine, his tongue wet and warm. My shirt was up and over my head, my bare chest both shivering and all too hot. I’d decided to go commando too, just in case. He stared at my middle before he leaned in and dragged his bloody lip against my nipple.

My sharp intake of breath scared him off and Ben lifted himself onto his elbows.

Don’t, I whispered, my hands curling around his ribs.

He raked a thumb across his mouth. Flakes of crusty blood came away. I’d healed him. Goddammit. We were doing so well.

Speak for yourself. I wrenched him to me with all my strength. He resisted, stubbornly hovering above my frame. So I pulled myself up to him, finding his mouth quickly and sucking his lip between my teeth. He gave me the same intensity for only a moment before he jerked away.

We can’t get ahead of ourselves, Frank. Not until we’re sure why we’re doing it.

I’m sure.

He licked the blood from his mouth. My lip proves otherwise.

Don’t I get a say in any of this?

Of course, you do. He rested his chin between my tits and looked up at me from under his brows. Shoot.

I smashed a hand over my eyes to think. I had been resisting fine until he kissed me fully. Then I lost my mind in the sensations. That didn’t bother me too much. I wanted him. That was unquestionable and constant, whether he was injured or not. But if I lost control, the endorphins—serotonin, dopamine, or whatever it was—that I gave to Ben, might be magical and not physical. I did not like that. And he would continue to hold back until I could kiss him without the restoration taking over.

Fine! Control, fine! I rolled over to my side, knocking him off haphazardly.

Come on, Frank. He folded himself behind me, tracing a lazy finger up and down my sternum. I want the two of us to be together. But you need to trust my responses. And I want you to want me, without the pain and suffering.

I do.

I know. And I can’t tell you how much I want you, he ran his mouth up my neck, without your cures and your witchcraft. I felt him smile against me. Just a little while longer. You’ve improved so much.

I snorted in response, facing the wall. His hand crept under my chin and turned my cheek toward him. He kissed me softly, lingering in the corners of my mouth. Patience.

I rolled my eyes and kissed him, the naked skin of my back heating from the inside out.

There are lots of ways to practice control, Princess. I felt him roll his shorts down behind me. He kicked off his moccasins and scooched the shorts from his ankles. Then his fingers hooked under the hem of my jeans, his skin like silk, and tugged. He slid the denim over my hips and around my bare feet. Then I felt him, all of him, and my breath caught in my chest. His body had me undone, loose as spaghetti. I swallowed my spit and tucked myself tighter into his chest.

Ben draped an inked arm over my ribs, his long finger drawing circles around my belly. Goodnight, Frank.

Night, I mumbled and coughed. I hadn’t been breathing. And with his fingers so low, so close, I didn’t think I’d ever sleep again.

My eyes popped open in the night. I saw nothing but black at first, but my heart sped like a jackrabbit caged in my ribs. I searched for danger and my temple bumped against Ben’s face. He snored peacefully.

I sat up on my hips, Ben’s arm falling to my lap. He snored on, despite my shaking, my overwhelming, inexplicable fear. I looked to my snake—my familiar, my Betty—across the room. We’d turned the giant cabinet I used to abhor so much into a maze-like terrarium for her, the doors replaced with squares of glass. She was woven between two old drawer slots, her focus intent on the adjacent wall. I followed her stare with dry, painful eyes.

In the corner of the room, the darkness was taking form, shifting into something other. The shadow twitched and clicked as it developed its limbs.

Hello, piggy. Miss me? It asked, solidifying further. Ooooh, naked under there, piggy? Never thought you for a little slut! Yellow smeared across the oily black like the moon’s reflection in a dark pond. A smile.

The wind was knocked out of me. I struggled to push a single spoon of air past my tonsils. A suffocated squeak squeezed from my lungs.

Blinding sliver lights shone above the yellow slash. Do you think she’d be sad? The white-haired witch? Remember her?

I looked down at my lap. The arm around me wasn’t Ben’s. It was shorter and sinewy, not a single tattoo to mar the skin. White hair splayed over the pillow as if floating in water. Jessamae lay next to me, her sea-glass eyes open in horror, her cheek pale and cold as milk.

I leapt from the bed, my ankles catching in the sheets. She was dead, Jessamae was dead. I backed into the corner, away from the monster and the corpse. I wasn’t breathing. I was suffocating. I flattened myself to the wall.

My visitor was gone. Silence. Complete silence.

I waited for an attack. For fire. For flies.

The silence inflated and called me an idiot. There was nothing there. There never was.

I held my breath as I inched away from my huddled position.

Then a ball rolled its way across the floor. It toppled into sight, slow and lopsided. It finished one final spin and stopped.

Silver eyes blared open like glowing coins. The eyes were stuck in Pamela’s rotting, decapitated head. Brown sludge poured from her nose and puddled on the floor. The lipless mouth stretched around a slimy, purple tongue. Spit and blood webbed her teeth together over her infected, stinking gums.

Where’s your girlfriend, Peachy? she croaked.

I raced for the light switch as it laughed at me. The thing chortled in my ear, braying, screeching. I flipped the switch, and as light flooded the room, Ben shot up from the bed.

Frankie! He searched frantically before his eyes homed in on my naked form. Another nightmare?

I tripped to the nightstand, opened the drawer, and pulled out my cell.

I would call her. Finally, I would call her.

1 New Message lit up the screen. I unlocked the phone and opened my texts, intuition forcing my innards into new and uncomfortable shapes.

The message was from an unknown number. The area code wasn’t of Utah origin. The text contained a single word.

Pioche.

Pioche, Nevada. Six square miles. Population, fourteen hundred. Known for mining in the nineteenth century, Cleo read the webpage over a mug of black coffee.

Could it mean anything else? I asked. Betty White was draped around my shoulders. She had grown so much since she arrived on our doorstep that her weight bowed my neck. She was longer than was normal for her species, around four feet, and I thought my constant touch may have had a hand in her size. I held my mug to her snout and her tongue flicked out for a sniff. She wasn’t a fan of the taste. She liked the smell, though.

Pioche is French for ‘pickaxe.’ But that only brings us back to Pioche, Nevada again. As I said—mining town.

I teetered on the edge of her massive walnut bed, my coffee held far from my body out of fear of spillage. I was wearing the purple sweatshirt Ben had worn last night and some boxer shorts. Ben was in the shower. He woke up late because I kept him up all night. Tossing and turning. Scanning the darkness for headless ghosts. The neck of Pamela’s phantom head had been cut messily, as if from inside a shallow grave, with a pocketknife, one nick at a time …

So what’s in Nevada? Anything mystical or supernatural that could potentially ruin our lives? I asked as I gulped my coffee.

Nevada? Ben said, leaning against the doorjamb with a towel around his waist. What’s in Nevada?

Pioche, I grumbled.

Cleo spun her chair around and crossed one long leg over the other. What’s the plan? She took another sip from her mug and licked her magazine lips. I focused on the scar there to keep myself from ogling. Every time I thought myself immune to her appearance, I’d be struck dumb and put in my place at the smallest gesture. I couldn’t find the number that texted Frankie anywhere. It was sent from a burner.

Ben rubbed his head in agitation. It had been a while since I’d seen him do it. Give me the day. I’ll be on the lookout for possibilities. He gave the door frame a slap and left the room.

I stared at the dregs of my coffee, willing it to fill without my having to stand and take all those steps to the kitchen.

Want to go on a run with me? Cleo asked.

No.

Will you? Ben needs to focus if we’re going to have any idea what to do with that text. And you are, she looked like there were a dozen things she wanted to call me, a distraction. She raised a brow, asking me to contradict her, and I couldn’t. As astounding as it was, Ben was frequently focused on me, especially if I was burping or scratching or falling down drunk.

Fine. I tipped my mug high over my mouth, catching drips on my tongue like snowflakes. But we aren’t gallivanting all over town. Two miles, tops. And with a ten-minute break halfway through.

Cleo perked right up. Want to borrow a running outfit of mine?

I threw her a glare from the hallway. You’re hilarious.

My chest ached with heartburn and what I thought might be actual fire. I clutched the stitch in my side, sucking air through my nose and blowing it out through my mouth. Though I could run farther and faster than I used to, my restoration wasn’t the only cause. The other factor was good, old-fashioned, miserable practice. We had jogged together, the three of us—me always bringing up the rear—at least once a week since Ben moved in with us.

Stop! Stop, we have to stop. I bent over my knees, a budding puke tickling my throat. Cleo’s legs were stronger than mine, and she had shown no mercy.

We haven’t even completed a mile. She stood tall, her hands on her hips. She looked so stunning in her electric yellow bra and leggings that I was at an immediate disadvantage. Her dark umber skin contrasted magnificently, and the only two cars we passed had swerved into the ditches lining the road, spewing rocks and dirt before returning to the pavement. But we can break, I suppose. Follow me, she instructed, and without waiting for a response, hiked into the surrounding aspens to the east.

Why? What are we going to do now? I followed, pitifully swampy in an oversized t-shirt and a pair of biker shorts.

You need to practice. Something about this thing—that text, that town—it’s abnormal. And I doubt it’s good. We need to prepare. Especially you, Frankie.

"Especially you, Frankie," I mocked as we trekked up the hill along the roadside. Cleo moved quickly, her pristine white shoes traversing the terrain as if it were a dancefloor. After I stumbled the third time, I began kicking everything in my path, puffing dirt around us and shredding the brown fallen leaves. I wore the same sneakers from Payless that I bought that day in the mountains, the day we faced Paimon. They were ugly.

Once we were high above the lonely road, Cleo turned to face me, and her beauty was blinding. Jesus, turn it down, Cleo! I covered my eyes. She was using her magic and I was weak in the knees.

You need practice. I’m giving it to you. I heard her moving over the dry sheet of leaves that stretched across the ground, and I backed away in a sweat. The few times Cleo unleashed her affinity on me, I lost myself entirely. My identity, my intentions, my hopes and fears, were all pushed aside in order to see and be near her. You can strengthen your defenses just as you do your offenses. Try recognizing the magic for what it is. I’ll just do some low-level enchanting. Look at me.

No. I shook my head with my hands over my eyes.

Frankie. My name kissed my neck and my hands fell away.

Cleo wasn’t a foot from me. Her gooey, honey eyes reflected the sun, and they were the sweetest things I’d ever seen. I wanted to drown there, between her lashes. I would have been thankful, joyful, to die there.

Resist, said her full mauve lips. They seemed to harden, as if sculpted from rose quartz. They might cut me if I kissed them. I would grate myself bloody to hold her. I’d shred my body to confetti on her curves. I leaned in to take her mouth in mine, and my gaze latched onto her scar …

Concentrating on that minuscule imperfection, I suddenly remembered I didn’t want to die.

She moved, swayed, and I couldn’t see her mouth anymore. My stare flicked to her nose, her strong nose with the dandelion scar above one nostril. Paimon gave her those, and we fought him side by side. Because she was a person. The markings were human. I took a step back, focusing on the crunch beneath my sneaker, the feel of my moist shirt clinging to my back. These things were real, and I didn’t want to die.

She said, Good. Now, brace yourself, and I immediately covered my ears. No, you need to hear this. Ben has been practicing for years. If Ben can improve, so can you. Cleo gripped my wrists like shackles and yanked them from my head.

She opened her mouth and began to sing. She didn’t speak in any language; she didn’t need the words, her voice merely dipped and climbed like a feather in an autumn breeze. Without thinking, without care, I lurched on wobbly knees toward the magnificent music. I reached for her, but my vision blurred, and I was angry I couldn’t see her clearly. I was crying. Cleo restrained my wriggling fingers, and the act made me want to hurt her. I swung my hands around wildly to get at her. And I would, one way or another.

A second Cleo appeared over the shoulder of the first. She was nude, her skin shining in the light like a galaxy, like she was made of desert stars. Resist, Frankie, she whispered. But my name was a song. I fell to my hands. Tiny planets pushed into my palms. It was almost pain. I looked down, momentarily returned to my body and mind.

I focused on the sting in my hands.

Look at me, she sang, and my head cracked like a whip. There were two glowing Cleos behind the first now, and the three began dancing in unison. Their hips rocked from side to side in a hypnotic cascade. I crawled to them, honored to be on my knees here. Resist, Frankie.

I would do something terrible. I couldn’t resist her music. I needed a way out,