the strings of fate

welcome to parcae nervi. this blog is run by a couple of trash nerds who like writing way too much and don't have enough time on their hands to keep up a blog like this. parcae's a blog set in an alternate universe where magic is common in the modern world. we write snippets from different character point of views so you, dear reader, get to taste a bit of everything. have fun and don't expect too much.

[parcae-nervi]

All Gods Are Bastards

Sauren takes it one step at a time. She rubs her face with callused hands. She closes her eyes and drops her hands, only to bring them back up, this time fingers wrapped around a mason jar. Bright amber liquid sloshes around inside and she raises the rim to her lips. Ambrosia, her friend once called it, a drink fit only for gods. Two sips and her friend, quite the seasoned alcoholic at that, had gotten fucked off her ass to the point where Sauren had to stop her from drunkenly demolishing the entire town.

“Perhaps we are gods,” Sauren had said at the time.

But gods didn’t die.

Her people, Caiths, with sand in teeth and sunbaked skin, created Nivan, the amber drink borne of ageless tradition and well-kept secrets. Caiths were the only ones who could stomach it. Sauren is no exception; she grits her teeth through a dry-heave and leans back against the cracked concrete wall of a long-abandoned apartment building. She burps and clumsily puts the mason jar back on the ground. She holds her hands out in front of her and stares hard at her fingers, wills her vision to stop swimming.

Flames dance from her palms and crackle off of her fingertips. Energy turns over in her stomach, or more than likely vomit, but she grimaces through it and lets the flames skitter over her dark skin. She wishes she could feel the desert heat on her back just one more time, or even feel the cold detachment of this city (she’s not entirely sure where she is, just that she’s somewhere in Europe), wishing, wishing, that this magic didn’t run through her bloodstream. “Something. Want to feel something,” she mumbles and her body goes up in flames.

No one screams. One person, the only other person around, looks up and shrugs it off. Unless she is a god, she is nothing. And so the passerby slips away and leaves her to burn, only she doesn’t. The flames quell and her graphic tee, black hoodie, black jeans, boots, the bandana tied about her right wrist, they are as pristine as her skin. Her golden eyes regard herself uneasily and then she laughs.

Her friend told her it was called “emotional detachment.” A coping mechanism or something. Sauren didn’t give a shit. Not at the time. They were invincible—mischief and mayhem, chaos and destruction, two ravens circling and dancing and balancing each other—until fate decided they were not.

She stands and a cockroach skitters out from under her. Index finger points drunkenly and a sloppy jet of flame trails after the creature. Although drunk, her aim is true and the insect pops as the fire engulfs it. Sauren’s nose twitches at the smell of the burning and far away she hears bones snapping, popping, becoming nothing but ash in the wind. She leans over and picks up her mason jar to take another swig. The cracked concrete under her feet twirls and begins to resemble a spider web.  

“Perhaps I am a god,” she says with a thin smile, and it sounds more like a curse than a blessing.

[parcae-nervi]

A Costly Mistake

Emily has never done anything like this before. Her blood is pumping and her stomach is in knots and inside she’s secretly freaking out, thinking My dad’s going to be so mad. I should have just told Kat no, oh God oh God, but she doesn’t voice her tight-lipped concerns to her best friend. She does cast her a sideways glance, feels a pang in her gut at her friend’s cocky smile, her bright eyes, the dyed-red streaks in her hair. Kat catches her looking and blows her a kiss, and Emily tries not to blush.

“Come on, Ems. I know you’re worrying,” Kat says and bumps her shoulder against Emily’s. “Look, I’ve been training for this all my life. My parents don’t think I’m ready, but come on. You said so yourself I am!” Kat is all fire and heat and ambition and Emily worries, worries, worries, but she’d do anything for Kat—anything and everything, even if it means feeding her ego. I’ll protect her, Emily thinks and nods both to Kat and herself. “It must mean something that I managed to get this Intel all by myself, you know? I can really do this. We can really do this.” 

“Here it is,” Emily says weakly and wraps her fingers around the towering chain link fence that stands before them. Rather than feeling penned in, Emily feels safe, and she knows that feeling will disappear as soon as they clamber to the other side. 

“Let me give you a boost,” Kat says. Her fingers trail against the small of Emily’s back even though they don’t need to and Emily blushes something fierce. She stammers out an, “O-okay,” and Kat crouches with cupped hands. Emily is a wiry girl, but she’s strong. Kat had decided a long time ago that she would teach Emily everything she learns. She wanted to be a mentor and whether or not it was because they were best friends or something more (no, no, that can’t be it) or because Kat just wants so badly to prove herself, well, Emily’s stuck by her, hasn’t she?

She grunts as Kat hoists her up and the metal links of the fence bite into the meaty flesh of her fingers. She bites her lower lip to take her mind off of the pain and climbs higher and higher. The fence rattles eerily and shakes as Kat joins her. They drop onto the other side and Emily pants, throbbing fingers gracing freshly churned earth while Kat takes a look around. Now they are outside. Now Emily is afraid. She feels like they are being watched.

“Come on,” Kat says and takes her hand.

It’s a midsummer night and yet a cold breeze comes over Emily. She shudders and grips Kat’s hand tighter. “Something isn’t right, Kat. Something isn’t right,” she murmurs. 

Kat wheels around and grasps both of Emily’s wrists in her hands. Emily stares in surprise at the fierce determination in the other girl’s eyes and then her gasp gets caught in her throat as Kat leans in and kisses her sweetly. The two stand there and Emily’s thoughts zip around in her head and she shakes and looks at Kat and wants to say so much, but Kat turns away with a clenched jaw, saying, “I won’t let anything happen to you. When are you going to trust me?” 

“Kat, I-I trust you,” Emily says breathily and that’s when she hears it.

There are echoes bouncing in her ears and suddenly she isn’t in her body. She is watching through one of their eyes, seeing the ground rush beneath their feet and her body is the wind and there is a burning in her throat and there are two girls there, by the fence, holding each other, watching, a blonde one turns towards her, no, them, her, and then she is back in her body, screaming, “Kat, get down!” 

Emily shoves the girl to the ground just as the vampire reaches them. The vampire misses them by mere inches and crashes into the chain link fence; it howls in pain as its flesh begins to burn. The fence is an old relic, treated with wards against the particular supernatural, but the vampire is hardly fazed. Kat is as white as a sheet beneath Emily and Emily screams, “Get up, get up, run!” She hauls Kat to her feet, but Kat’s eyes harden and she withdraws her crossbow from her back. “Kat, wait,” Emily says, but Kat fires.

The bolt sizzles through the air; the electric-charged tip buries into the vampire’s leg and the creature shrieks in agony. Emily throws her mind at the creatures and sifts and searches, finds the brush of many other consciences coming together at the creature’s call. “Kat, Kat, we have to get out of here. More of them are coming. We have to get back over the fence,” Emily whimpers. She jostles Kat’s arm just as the girl releases another bolt; this time it misses the vampire and the creature takes its moment to strike. 

Emily is hit like a wrecking ball. She screeches as the vampire bares its fangs on top of her and the next thing she knows, there’s a hot burst of pain on her neck. A sharp tugging sensation echoes throughout her body and makes her shudder and shiver and she swears she’s never felt anything more awful. Then something changes; the vampire’s body goes rigid and the tugging stops. Emily stares upward and cries as Kat dislodges the fangs of the dead vampire from Emily’s throat. “We’re getting out of here,” Kat says and pulls Emily up to her feet. Emily sways where she stands, wraps one arm around Kat’s for support.

“They’re coming,” she mumbles. “And I can’t climb the fence.”

[parcae-nervi]

psanec

They all pretend the work isn't demeaning, that's it's not just a way to pay rent and put food on the table. That it's not just a way to survive in this Godforsaken city of ashes and dust. "Promised land" my ass, Slavomír thinks and stifles a growl before it can slip between clenched teeth.

He's a nose for hire, employed by the Agency but treated like dogshit beneath their shoes. They want his talent born in pain and fire and they'll compensate him handsomely but they'll never treat him as if he's human.

Not that Slavomír cares much--he's too far in, reduced to selling his body for hot food and guilt. He's a tracker, a hunter of the people he should be claiming kinship with. The Agency calls them criminals but their crimes go unnamed and their cries go unheard.

Not that he cares. He only finds them; he leaves the catching and locking and tossing into jail cells to the SAs. He gets out of their way when he can because they like the crude jokes, the rude jokes, "hey wolfboy want to join your friend here? want a treat? want me to scratch your little widdle ear?"

Last week they wrapped up a dog biscuit in his monthly salary.

He wants to say try me but they have stun guns and all he has is flesh tooth and nail. Instead he ducks his head and laughs as declines their offer for a beer because he knows it's a formality. It says so in the guidebook. Treat them like human until their actions prove they aren't.

No one ever told him that "actions" meant being born.

Back in Europe his family spits and calls him psanec and strikes his name from their records.

Here in New York his friends curse and call him bastard and toast his death in the same pubs he visits later, alone.

Siding with the enemy, it's called, no matter which way he turns. Prostitution, it's called, as he uses his nature for profit. Betrayal, it's called, as he watches his brother cuffed for felonies against the government.

Kinslaying, its called, when the call comes in that Dušan died alone in his cell.

Mourning, its called, when the message comes in saying Where were you four months after the fact.

Right there, he didn't say. Watching.

They made me, he also didn't say. So I could learn.

[parcae-nervi]

The Hunt

She turns at the sound of vines snapping on the ground behind her and she tilts her head to the side. Her eyes are red and she is opening her mouth in a snarl, quelling the fear in her belly with the rumbling warning in her throat. She can sense him around her; the smell of fungus and rotting wood is thick and cloying in her nose. Running her tongue over her sharpened teeth, her head cocks to the side to catch a whizzing noise to her right. Grunting, her feet leave the ground and she twists in midair—the arrow flies by her cheek.

Her assailant is nothing more than a mirage within the fog. He holds his longbow with one hand; the other is raised, two fingers press against his chin and then he twists his hand toward her. She thinks that maybe he is smiling, but his form has already melted back into the surrounding fog.

She can feel the trees quivering all around her, all wintergreen and mint auras reaching out to stroke hers, to whisper this way, this way, follow our lead. A path lights up before her red eyes and tree roots are spinning through the dirt, winding around each other in intricate knots, reaching for her ankles as she takes off running.

The air is clammy and presses down against her form. Leaves rustle and shake to provide a cover from the moonlight, but she can feel the Other scraping at her dark skin. Twigs snap and break behind her and arrows continue to fly from all directions; the fog winds its spindly fingers into her nose and her ears and she whines, clawing at her face as she runs. Watch out, Nightwalker, watch out, the trees warn, but she can’t hear them, and she tumbles headfirst off of a ledge.

Her long brown hair catches on brambles and she tries to tuck into herself as she rolls down, but she’s battered from every side by roots and rocks. When her momentum comes to a grinding halt, she rolls onto her stomach and stands on shaky limbs. She crouches to the ground, long, spindly fingers digging into the earth, and inhales. “Look at you,” the fog says as it rolls into itself in front of her. The cloud becomes his solid form (more or less) once again and he is frowning at her, an arrow notched and aimed directly at her head.

“Look at you,” she seethes, but the words are gargled and broken. She spits blood at his feet. “Won’t fight me in person. Hide behind shadows and magic.” She laughs then, a cawing, awful laugh and her words sound like broken glass as she says, “Hunting down your own sister.”

The fog writhes angrily and the bowstring stretches taut. “You’re not my sister,” he says and lets the arrow fly.

[the-days-before]

They call me blood lust and beast and the baying of the hunt and they say I come only in the night. I creep in shadow and shade and forests deep andyou hear me calling, finger crooked, calling your name.

I haunt your mind, the darkest crevice, where humanity goes to hide from day. I steal the sun and stars and I wring the necks of your singing songbirds, all in your name.

You resist me. You fight. You scream and cry for me to leave to leave to leave how can I leave when I am part of you? You could cut off your arms to stop your torment. Could tear off your legs to stop the hunger, the aching twitches. Could rip out your heart and dig your fingers into your skull and pull. But you should not fix what is not broken.

We complete each other.

Good for you I only come in the night when the moon is swollen and my eyes can shine. I come with the waxing and waning of la lune and like the ocean I tug at you, at heartstrings and sorrows. Listen to my siren’s call.

Evening after evening you become mine. Surrender is sweetest in the dark, and once a month I crescendo into my terrible power and at once I become more, become all, I become the Word of God and when I spake you did obey.

You put your head in between my jaws and ran your hands along my teeth, my gums, pressed a kiss to my tongue as I swallowed you whole.

You tasted sweet, like honey. But if you thought you were leaving you forgot of the daylight moon and how I linger, aftertaste, within myself.

I told you my story then as you lay in my belly. Spoke through vibrations and revelations.

They came for me when I howled at the moon for the first time in my twenty five years. They brandished their fear with wide, glowing mouths and held fire close to their hearts. I learned the name of the one true monster that day. It was always them.

Never forget that.

You may run but fate is fate and you are my magnum opus, my reason for being. I die with you and so you take my mantle and become the beast in my stead. Kiss them on the lips when you leave my carcass behind—feel them shudder as they learn something of the Other, of the shadows on the dark side of the moon.

Howl. Howl at the skies. Let them beat you bloody and throw poison in your wounds so that you fester. Hatred grows and consumes. It is the jealous vine and we feed it together.

So transform yourself. Don my skin under the moon as I don yours and run wild, run free. Chase with the wild hunt and understand that your prey is yourself, your kith and your kin.

Bite them so I too may know their names.

[parcae-nervi]

addiction

Jones has always been a good detective. He is now the best detective New York has at its disposal, and boy does New York run him ragged. His wife Lucy tells him she's worried about him, her sweet petulant lips form the sentences "It's a problem now, Mo," and "Mo, please, you need rehab." Everyone calls him Mo because on his first huge break on his first huge case, his boss said, "Jones, Jones, Jones, we ought to start calling you Osmosis Jones, 'cause you're almost as good as that damn cartoon character," but Osmosis took too long to say so most people just went with Mo.

Now the department is tightening up. Jones stares at the piece of paper haphazardly taped to his office door. "ALL MAGICAL ENHANCEMENTS, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO: ENCHANTMENTS, POTIONS, CHARMS, AND STONES ARE PROHIBITED FROM USE BY ALL NYPD OFFICIALS." Jones thinks that maybe he's in a dream or that maybe Lucy snuck into his office last night after Jones had fallen asleep and maybe she'd cried as she placed this sign on his door, but no, his boss is squeezing his shoulder and laughing, saying, "Not gonna be a problem around here, though."

"Why are they enforcing this?" Jones asks casually and takes down the paper because it is making him anxious. 

His boss says, "Had enough trouble. The people that use 'em, they get hooked. Sure, they're helpful, but we need to do our jobs sober, you know? I don't know, Mo." 

Jones nods like he understands, but he's not really hearing what his boss is saying because there is a din in his ears. His boss doesn't notice and moves on to go talk to someone else and Jones slips into his office, sits in his seat, and rifles through some folders in his drawers until he finds the piece of paper that he needs. 

There are just a few sentences on the page and Jones reads them to himself. He can do this. He used to be great. The stones made him great, make him great, but he can do it sober. No, no, he can't. He tried a few times recently. Failed. Failure. He's a failure. He needs the stones, the enchantments. More than that, he wants them. He wants to feel like he’s good at his job and they do that. They really, really do.

He wants to feel the magic slick over his skin. He wants his vision heightened, his hearing capabilites maxed. He wants his intuition increased and his ability to discern lies from truth to come easy. He pulls out his cell phone and texts one of his contacts. He reaches for another folder and opens up the case. He deliberates. His phone buzzes. He bites his lip and ignores it.

"One shot. One try. I can do the interrogation without it. I can do it."

Twenty minutes later Jones is in an interrogation room talking to a half-fae. "There was an incident the other night at a night club in Manhattan, the Witching Hour. We have record of you at the night of the incident. Were you on any forms of synthetic magic hallucinogenic, otherwise known as SMH?" She raises a knobby finger to her cheek and scratches her skin and Jones stares at her with hard eyes.  

"I-I was. There were a few people there, dealing. It's a hotspot," she says and her sharpened teeth flash. She shrinks back in her seat. "I don't know anymore, honest. I was too fucked up. I-I didn't see it."

"It?" Jones repeats. He has his hook. She's scared, leaning back. He is feeling this moment. He knows where this is going. His confidence leaps. "It's okay," he says. "The more you tell us, the more we can help you." 

Her face twists and her eyes glow red and Jones knows he's made a mistake. A stupid fucking mistake. If he had a fae stone, he wouldn't be here right now. "If you want to help me, get these fucking iron handcuffs off of me. This is inhumane. I don't know anything about what happened. I just know something did." 

Jones tries to get her back, but her fae side is angry and it's no use. He slams his hand against the only table in the room and leaves abruptly. He pulls out his cell phone. 

Thirty minutes later he is inside a building he knows all too well. He is talking to Moro, a strange young girl with red eyes and bright blue hair. She hands him the stones he requested over their text conversation and she looks at him with her strange red eyes and says, "You can stop, you know. I know you're a good detective, Jones." 

She doesn't call him Mo because she doesn't really know him that well.

He is back in the interrogation room with the half-fae and she glares at him with her angry eyes. Her teeth are still sharp, but Jones knows just what to say. "Look, dozens of other witnesses gave us your name. They said you know who the dealers are. We have reasoning to believe the same people are responsible for what happened." He reaches forward and with nimble fingers, removes her handcuffs. There are bright red marks on both of her wrists. "I'm not supposed to do this, but I know you want to talk. You're scared, but I promise I'm only here to help. If you don't talk, we might find someone else with a different story, someone that might have evidence against you." It's lies he's feeding her, but it's the right lies. His perception is insane right now and he can see the slight tightening of her pupil, the twinge in her fingers. She is scared and he has his bait. He dangles the hook: "There's iron in fae cells. We can keep you out of there. You're half fae. I can help you." 

She takes a deep breath and he already knows he has her. When she opens her mouth, her teeth are dull and square.

He comes back down while in his office. The stone is a lump in his pocket; all its magical properties were pulled from it. The magic leaves his skin in a rush and he is suddenly dizzy, tired. He stumbles to his office chair and just breathes. His head hurts. It pounds. His skin feels like electricity has been sizzling over him all day. 

He picks up his phone and thumbs through his contacts. He stares at a single name and finds the courage to dial. "Mo? Babe? Everything alright?" Her voice is breathless and he smiles to himself. 

"I'm okay. Look, I think I can do it," he says. "I can do it without the stones. I can try. I can try for you." 

Lucy sighs on the other end of the phone. 

His boss opens up the door to his office and slaps a thick folder down on Jones' desk. "Great job on that last case, Mo! We're working on finding more leads on those SMH dealers. In the meanwhile, thought you might want to tackle this one. Supposed serial killer. We've had a few disappearances from students in high school, found their fucking bones in central park. We think some type of water spirit might be involved."

Jones gives his boss a tight-lipped smile. "Crazy world we live in, isn't it?" 

His boss agrees whole-heartedly and closes the door. 

Jones opens the file. He feels a spark, a tug, a yearning, as he looks over the papers. It's all a roadmap that he can piece it together if he just has the right touch of something more. He picks up his phone. He swallows. His thumb presses the call button.

One. Two. Three rings. 

"I promise," Jones says to Lucy. Then he hangs up. 

[the-days-before]

My mother came from the sea and birthed me in a bed of kelp.

I was born with brine between my fingers and salt in my hair and a hunger for more.

I tasted freedom, I tasted life, but even the vastness of the seven seas could not keep me from shore

I shed my skin and youth and felt the sand rub at my tender skin stumbling—newborn and clumsy

A stranger’s hands greeted me as the sky caved open and washed the salt from my body He said my eyes were the colour of heaven and I did not correct him, could not speak to say “they are ocean storms, and they roll like the waves”

He was ignorant; a mostly human fault and he truly believed that I was scared of the sea. He always said Not a toe, not a finger, not a single strand of hair

but little did he know that in the wake of day I swam in the moonlight I changed my skin and became the eel, the shark, the slumbering kraken, became breathless wanderer

I brushed my hair on crustaceaned rocks and sang like my sister sirens, haunting, taunting melodies only for sailors’ ears

I drowned them in love, let the sea embrace them as it did me. I showed them beauty in their last moments and sang them a lullaby

They always came quietly, eyes wide and I knew they were hearing the ocean’s call, that they died from saltwater witchery, from visions so exquisite they gave their breath to me.

My love, the farmer, a man of the land, feared the sea, but  when he learned suspicion and despair for I  did not age I drew him down to the beach and bade him to put his feet in the deep

Coaxed ankles and knees and thighs and waist and  I swam alongside him. He said to me then: “your eyes swim like the sea” and only then did he realize that I was less human, more beast.

[the-days-before]

o the waves o the sea

they asked me to choose between mountain and sea I said the waves, o the waves, do you not understand the siren’s call they pulse through my veins? I’m a battered soul and this I have learned: I am in love with my pain. so let the storm wash me on the rocks, let the roiling toil bring me to your shore

the fisherman will open his door and stand in shadow as firelight spills out I will tell you teach me of the mundane, let me learn love let me learn age, your heart is failing and I, I, I am— —before I lay you to rest let me learn tears, saltwater on my lips, bringing me back; caught in the current of quiet longing

[parcae-nervi]

into the woods

He walks through the forest with feet that tremor like steel drums and hands that snap and break the brittle autumn skeletons. On His feet, synthetic skin that rubs abrasively against the moss (it shrinks back, the nearby ferns mourn its passing), and the stick He holds in one hand is leaden, deaden wood. A few fairies touch it gently with open palms but the man swats at them irritably and opens His mouth to say, "DAMN BUGS, ALWAYS BITING," but accidentally swallows an entire family whole.

Gulp.

Familial genocide. He doesn't seem bothered. Keeps walking, keeps swinging his stick, thump thump thump until he collapses a chipmunk's nest, two fae homes, and a pixie bridge that kept two small villages in trade and contact.

Gone are a thousand rays of shining light, of soul-threads kept tethered through laughter and jest and existing in the Other.

The dryads start weeping but He interprets this as oak tree creaking and hums a song to Himself that sends the remaining fairies diving for cover. Human music, they find, is Too Loud and Too Real. It resonates with their bones and makes them shake and shudder. This is where scientists would speak of sound waves and vibrations. Artists would say that they are being sung to death.

He comes across a grove and in the centre lies a tree, dead as a swallowed stone. He stops and says to himself, "WHY, THIS WOULD BE A GOOD PLACE TO REST."

None of them know why He is speaking to himself.

He sits down to eat and He doesn't notice the nymphs who dance at the edges of the glen, their leaf-thin dresses swirling in dappled sunlight. The song they sing sounds like whispering pines and He leans back to enjoy the breeze stirred by their feet.

What He does not hear is how their voices sharpen to pine-needle blades as His back presses against dead oak tree. He does not hear their mourning, as the ferns mourned the moss, and the ashy sorrow their hands leave behind as they brush against bush and tree. He does not see the flowers that crowd where tree trunk meet soft earth nor the crumbs ants offer with bowed heads nor the pollen buzzing bees rain down.

A bird calls and it signals the beginning of an ousting of an Otherness that Does Not Belong.

First are the birds, practicing to be heard but not to be seen, their twittering becoming a raucous cacophony. Stirring anger, the forest coming alive, but He presses small white buds into his ears and only lets out a content sigh. He is drowing out the forest.

Second are the butterflies who swarm the tree with reckless abandon. In their tiny voices they whisper sacrifice, sacrifice, but He does not become violent and smiles and lifts a device and they hear a sharp click click click that has them swarming again, only back to where they came from.

"AMAZING. IT'S ALMOST AS IF THIS PLACE IS MAGIC OR SOMETHING."

Then come the ants, swaggering on their many legs, pincers working through grain and meat as they cover His lunch in unyielding, uniform lines.

The forest rustles some more and the dryads cease their dancing and rest their hands against rough tree bark and sigh, my sister, my sister, yet all He hears is how the wind has begun to hiss through skeleton branches and all He sees are the shadows creeping forward, casting dark fingers over grove, over leg clad in lifeless cotton, over jacket of animal skin.

Fairies gather like gnats and flutter around His head, and where He heard buzzing He now hears words. And they are spiteful, hateful things that sting His ears, His eyes, His neck. Leave leave leave or die.

He stumbles to his feet eyes afire and hands trembling like the wind trembles the trees and his eyes dark and wide and wild. Gentle pinprick pressure against His back push him forward, one step after another as He moves into the forest that is half shadow and half luminescent moonlight.

When He finally limps out of the woods and into sunlight He says to the startled locals, "T-T-THERE ARE THINGS THAT SPEAK IN THERE. I AM N-N-N-NEVER RETURNING."

As He walks away they laugh and whisper "we know" and walk into the darkness with feet bared and hands wreathed in offerings of milk and honey.

[parcae-nervi]

drug deals and dance numbers

L’s phone had not stopped buzzing since 5 o’clock rolled around.  she was currently lounging on her throne: a ratty piece of work that vaguely resembled a couch. her slim body stretched languidly across torn and stained cloth, one arm propped up on her armrest, the other relaxed against her side, fingers rubbing against the black satin of her too-short dress. “he’s late,” she complained, rolling onto her back and covering her face with her hands, although she was careful not to smudge her make-up.

the boy she was currently directing her complaints was perched delicately on the other armrest. he watched her with curious bright blue eyes and an amused half-smile. “i told you he wasn’t coming. he loves you more than he wants to fuck you.” the phone buzzed on the table again and the boy winced. “that’s giving me a headache. he’s not coming so can we get a move on and start business? arber’s expecting pay tonight.”

L groaned in protest, but half-complied with the boy’s wishes by sitting up and stretching. “i don’t want to sell this batch, Fool. it’s my best yet,” she said. Fool sighed and scooped up L’s phone for himself. he ran his fingers over the screen, eyes sparking with what resembled blue fire, and then he lit the iPhone screen up, tapped in the password that came to mind, and was rewarded with a click. “that’s an invasion of privacy,” L muttered.

“anything to get you off your ass,” he said without looking at her, too busy keying in replies to the numerous messages she had been ignoring. “what’s it called anyway?” he said and glanced at her for a brief moment, catching the pleased twinge of her candy-glossed lips.

“incandescence. you’ll see why.” her fox ears twitched on the top of her head as she ran her fingers through her hair as an impromptu comb. “so, Fool, where’s our first stop of the night?” she asked. she threw her arm around his waist and sidled closer to him, tail brushing him around his ankles. he looked sideways at her and handed her the phone back.

“you know i don’t disappoint,” he said with a toothy grin. he pecked a kiss on her lips and then swiped several bags of pills from the coffee table. “m’lady,” he said and gestured toward the door.

ten minutes later L and Fool were walking into the witching hour; they’d easily surpassed the line that stretched down a couple of blocks. that was part of L’s deal with arber: as long as she gave him some of her cut, he provided her with access to any club L wanted to slip her skinny little body into, along with a hefty supply of alcohol, and any materials needed for her to, literally, work her magic. so the egotistical junkie who firmly believed in the phrase “if you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself,” was one of the most well-known, revered dealers of SMH.

the witching hour was a peculiar hole in the wall. a strong bit of glamour helped keep the cops from sniffing around, even the most magically inclined. witchlight was used, wielded by workers in the rafters of the building who choreographed light sequences with pre-selected music playlists that blared throughout the building. magic energy crackled under the surface, welling like a bubble over a congestion of dancers that accumulated every night. L surveyed the crowd, picked out a few of her regulars that were already attempting to claw their way through the writhing band of dancing bodies.

“start selling. i want to fucking party tonight,” L yelled over the music. Fool leaned in for another kiss, snaked his arm around her waist with one of the pill bags in his fist, and then let her go, his eyes blazing with blue fire as he wheeled away from her. L watched him go as she licked her lips. she decided that after she sold her bit and took a couple of the pills herself, she’d jump his bones.

oh, fuck it. she could multitask. the fox girl tore open the top of the plastic bag and fished out one bright pink pill. she tipped her head back and swallowed it dry. “’Ow much ‘or one ‘a ‘ose,” said someone to her right. L opened her eyes and looked the potential customer up and down. his eyes were blurred, form still swaying to the music and to the lights that were reeling over the floor.

“eighty a piece. it’ll be the high of your life,” she promised.  

“Ho, sheeeeet,” he said, leering forward. L stepped back graciously in the odds that his stomach might decide to empty its contents. he recovered and then fished around in his pocket. “You ah, Bell—Bail—Lee—Bailey. Essen ehm ach,” he said as he held out five twenties.

“L. just L. and yes, it’s SMH.” she swiped the hundred from his hand and replaced it with a pill from her baggie.

her vision was swimming now. colors were bleeding over the inside of the club, colors unimaginable to a not-so-fucked up individual. she felt like a spinning top as the room became a whirlwind of color and suddenly the music seemed louder. she managed to dish out a few more pills before she found herself on the dance floor, and her limbs melted into the music, hips swaying, eyes wide open so she could take in everything at once.

the air was all crystal and hot and she was being buoyed over the crowd, lifted up, up, up, but her body was still on the ground, feeling the push and pull of every color, bright lights all around her, making her body twist and turn and tumble through the crowd. somehow she managed to dance and deal at the same time; fingers dug through her bag. “just one, just one,” she’d scream and snatch up the bills from their greedy fingers.

“havin’ a good time there, babe?” Fool asked. he was behind her with his arms over her shoulders, hips against hers, and they moved as one entity. “this shit’s insane,” he said or might have said because his words were pink stardust glitter rising up to dance alongside them. L twisted in his arms and flung out her limbs; the music bore down on her and she felt it all with crystal color clarity.

everything, everything, everything, all in a synthetic eternity.

[parcae-nervi]

death by lakeshore

She's here to impress a boy.

His name is John. His mother calls him "Jon-Jon" and his friends call him "Johnny-my-man." He is wonderful and perfect and oh-so dashing. She's written his name a thousand times over in her diary--John John JohnJohnJohnJOHN. With little hearts, like so: ♥ Sometimes, she puts their names in a circle with a little plus sign.

It was all wishful thinking until now.

He's on a "date" with her, and she puts quotation marks around it in her mind because she knows it's a dare. She heard his friends laughingbehind the school that afternoon, ten feet away and still leaning in, alistening hex scratched on the palm she cups around her ear. "If you go on a date with that weird girl--Anna, right? Oh, Abigail? What-ever! But ok, ok, if you go out with her tonight--and you gotta let her choose the place--I'll give you five bucks." John had refused at first. That had hurt. But then his friends added in more money until John was laughing and his hands were in the air. "Alright, alrighhhht, I'll do it. I'll ask her now. Jeeze, guys." His friends slap him on the back. "Right on, Johnny-my-man," they say, and she clutches her hands to her chest and feels the blood rush to her cheeks.

Thirty seconds later she steps out in front of him just as he passes by. They collide and next he's apologizing and suddenly he's smiling and tucking his hair behind his ear saying "You wanna...I dunno, go somewhere and hang? Or something?"

She wants to be haughty and seem uncertain but there's nothing indecisive about the enthusiastic yes she gives him and my god is she blushing. She feels like she's about to catch fire and she has to fan herself when she starts to smell smoke. Oopsie-daisy.

She's here to impress a boy.

They're at Central Park and it's eight pm and in the cool autumn air the moon is already out. It's full and she catches John holding his thumb up to it and squinting, measuring against the brightness.

I can show you something cool, she says. He glances at her and she can tell he's already bored. His mouth is flat and tight and he checks his watch again. They've been here for fifteen minutes. "Yeah sure, I guess."

She knows he can't escape because he made a bet for an hour-long date so she reaches up and taps his arm, shoulder, head, lips, with a thin branch. Willow, freshly snapped. The smell of springtime suddenly becomes unbearable. She leads him away from under the willow and towards the Harlem Meer. He follows, trailing, muttering "Weirdass," under his breath. She just swishes her willow branch through the air and leaves the scent of peonies in her wake.

Let's sit here, she says. Wait, no, we have to kneel. Close to the water, come on.

They settle. She can fit three hands in the space between them.

Ok, lean in close. Look, John (she blushes), look really close. Like me, so your nose is almost touching the water. Ok? No--I'm not going to push you in! I wouldn't want to do that...

Once he's in position she starts to tap the water with her willow branch. The ripples spread evenly, perfectly unnatural, until with a sudden hushed rush the water stops moving. And then, it begins to bubble.

John starts and lets out a shout. He tries to lean back but suddenly she's behind him, one arm draped heavily over his shoulders and he imagines she's trying to comfort him but it feels like a millstone around his neck. The water is still roiling and something dark begins to rise up through the ghost-green depths.

A face breaks through the water and wide, wide eyes blink open to stare straight into John's. He's panicking now but all he can do is shake and shudder and his skin is all gooseflesh. She runs a hand down his arm.

This is my friend, she says. She presses down. Say hello!

i am i am a nixie, the creature from the lake says, and blows out air through a mouth that morphs from fish to maiden as it bobs in and out of the water. i eat men like you for b-b-breakfast but i wont right now because abigails my-my friend.

Her arms rise up and slim-fingered hands that are fish-flesh pale grasp his cheeks. With only the lightest of touches her nails (perfectly manicured--for a split second he wonders, how?) drag furrows through his flesh. He screams. She lets go. Abigail lets go.

For a moment they are all silent.

Then John rears upwards and drags himself back, taking Abigail with him. He shoves her off of him with ungentle hands and suddenly grasps her by her arms, her hair, shaking her shaking her shaking her until she's crying and he's crying too. "What is that? WHAT IS THAT THING?" he shouts. "Why did you take me here."

I wanted you to know--she hiccups--that I'm interesting too. That I can be fun! And that I do have friends. I hear everything, you know. Everything you've ever said.

He looks to his left and sees glowing moonlight eyes in the water.

"Oh my god. Oh my god I have to call the police. The CIA. I don't know! Pest control? Jesus Christ that....that thing isn't a friend. It isn't--is it even real? Y-y-you drugged me. Or something! That's got to be it. I'm tripping the fuck out o-o-oh my...oh my god." He reaches into his pocket, desperate, pulling out his phone and dialling numbers blindly. She lets out a small noise of distress and whips at his phone with her willow branch. It crumbles into dust.

He's gibbering now and grabbing at her clothing, the wand, then pushing her back and stumbling towards the park gates. "No, no, nono no No NO," he garbles between panting breaths.

Now it's her turn and she's grasping at him, pulling him back with all the force of her skinny body and eldritch magic. You can't leave now! Not if you're going to tell--that is forbidden.

Their movements are a wild caper--a mad dance of frantic tugging and see-sawing. Back and forth back and forth, the air alive with the sound of her heaving breaths and his no no no. He slips, falls, crawls to his feet and gets turned around. Suddenly she's pushing him forward and he starts to run, stumbling once before he realise that he's slipped in mud and his knees are damp and the lake is--

--the lake is around his ankles and around his knees and climbing higher as pushes him with a sparking willow branch. He trips one last time, landing heavily on all fours on the lakebed. A tap on his back and he's pushed down flat, floating face-down. The waves begin to soak his back.

Before he can move the water shudders and with a quiet pop his body is dragged below.

A face appears and metamorphosing lips jerk upwards in a smile. this is the th-th-third one this year. im growing fat because of you...you.

They never do the right thing, she wails, throwing herself down on the bank. They are always so afraid. And he was my favourite.

you said that last time. your mind is going fun-fun-funny every time you use magic abigail.

I don't want you to be hungry, she says. Sniffling she pulls out a diary and opens it to one of the very last pages. The paper is covered with small, tight handwriting and as she leans in close she mouths the words johnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohn. Willow branch becomes a pen and she begins to cross out the names methodically. One line for each word. ch-ch-ch her pen goes.

John got four pages, she says sullenly. What a waste.

She had been here to impress a boy...

[parcae-nervi]

The Dire Wolf Tattoo

Tanner twisted and untwisted his fingers, doing his best to ignore the nervousness that was making knots in his stomach. The low buzz of a Tracer came to life and made the young boy flinch. He tried rubbing his sweaty palms onto his basketball shorts, but it only made them feel clammier. So he sat there in the chair he’d been directed to, kept his head back in the headrest even though the chair was designed quite awkwardly and he felt he looked odd whenever he glanced down or sideways.

It’ll be different after this, he kept repeating in his head. Maybe the kids in the schoolyard would stop picking on him after this. Maybe his dad would keep his distance. Maybe Kelsey would finally notice him. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

A frail looking man hunched into view, a kit held under one of his bony arms. Tanner lifted his head up in the slightest and every muscle bunched because he didn’t know whether he was supposed to lean back or sit upright out of courtesy (in the end, he just hovered indecisively for a few moments and then plopped back down with a grunt). The man perched on the edge of a slim black swivel chair next to Tanner’s cracked fake pleather chair with the awkward angles.

His hair was dyed white and half of it was a buzz cut; a latticework of purple swirls writhed visibly on his scalp—the other half was longer, shaggier, and was styled to sweep over his forehead. He brushed his fingers through it as it fell in his eyes and then he smiled; his smiled stretched wide, looked it took up most of his face. Tanner found himself smiling back. Then he glanced at what the man was pulling from the kit and felt his face pale.

A long silver tube rested in the man’s palm. The needle that extended from it ended in a black tip and with a movement from the man’s thumb, it buzzed to life and gave off a greenish glow. “Your brother’s told me lotta ‘bout you,” he said and with his other hand, placed a jar of liquid on the side table next to Tanner. “Know whatcha want, doyer?” he asked.

The coiling snake around his left eye had Tanner staring. The man shifted to the right, grinned even wider (if that was even possible) and the snake uncoiled itself, opened its maw in what resembled a yawn, and slithered under his hairline, disappearing under the side with the longer locks. Tanner suddenly recalled the man’s name. “Silver, yes. Um, a protection mark and also a Mark of Cain.”

Silver straightened and raised both of his very dark, very black eyebrows (which, oddly enough, worked with his white hair). “We don’t do ‘n Cain here, Tan. That’s askin’ a trouble from ‘em up ‘ere,” he said and used the tip of the Tracer to point upwards.

Tanner frowned and then shook it off, looked up at the rustic colored ceiling and wondered if there really were any higher beings hiding in the nooks and crannies of the building. “Your own Mark, then. One for protection, one for warning.” There was an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. Silver lifted the Tracer to his face and his gray eyes crossed as he stared at the glowing tip. His lips were curling in another grin and something on his face was off—maybe it was the electric blue tarantula that was pulling itself over the bridge of his nose.

Tanner let out a hiss as the Tracer touched his skin. Then the warmth spread through every cell, stretched and curved through every nerve on his body. The ink magic poured into his skin, curled like a cloud under the surface and was then suctioned back up by the magic pull of the Tracer and its wielder.

There was a mirror a few feet in front of Tanner. And even though he was at a horrendous angle and would much rather not have stared and given himself a headache, he was stuck watching the colors bleed onto his temple. The jaws came first, teeth protruding and linking together with bright blue gums—fur became jagged spikes, looped around a blinking eye. The rest of the shape wrestled its way free from the Tracer and shook out its fur. “A dire wolf, for both strength ‘n protection,” Silver said.

The dire wolf’s lips curled and it seemed to stare at Tanner in the mirror. It padded cautiously to the boy’s jawline and sat, tilted its head, and then froze. Tanner reached for his billfold, paid Silver, got out of the chair, and walked closer to the mirror.

He grinned widely, flashing an array of brilliant white teeth.

[parcae-nervi]

honest mischief

Sharp-toothed sharp-edged, Sha smiled and her tiny little canine teeth seemed to glitter in the sunlight, fading into nacreous enamel streaked with--red? blood? afterthought?

She crouched in the alley and readied her body for the Twist, for the fluttering juttering lightning-streak movement that all fae possessed. It wasn't running, or walking. Nothing so mundane, so easy. It was flying, into the Beyond, footsteps echoing in other dimensions as she tapped a pattern on the ground, past cobblestone and brick. Ancient Irish dance, so stiff and up-down--failed imitation. But the Noplace Folk had tried. It was the thought that counted, even if Sha had still devoured the dancers that wandered into her fairy rings.

The thoughts made them sweeter--that was the point.

Then--a shift. The universe moved, slightly, and Sha felt its twitch down to the very marrow of her bones (manifested, made to look human). But still, despite the ache her NoSelf felt being stuffed into a third dimension body, now was her moment.

She spun, hips twisting in an unsung cadence, out of the alley, into the stream of Noplace Folk that buzzed around her. Sha felt her teeth draw blood as she smiled, bit down on her lip, felt the swell of the crowd and the sweady tumult that was humanity. Being mischief, she wasn't here for any good (though Good was relative and didn't mean much to the faefolk, much less Sha) but to rather makes things Difficult and by that she truly meant Fun For Faefolk.

F.F.F. A good motto to live by.

A hand twitched out, broke the barrier between buzzsaw vibrations and the turtle-march of humans, snatching a woman's purse from her shoulder. A transfer, light-quick, pressed it into the hand of ragged barely-out-of-adolescence-boy, following by the jolt of magic that was Ill-Intent (sad'sa) and Cruel Trickery (isi sha'd). The boy jumped, startled, but his subconscious recognized (and embraced; Sha had chosen well) the magic, and he jumped like a spider, scuttling sideways amid the woman's screams.

Sha laughed. Felt a little bit stronger. Bit her lip some more, to taste the Noplace blood that flowed through her veins for the time being. It was a bitter, but palatable.

There was more mischief to be had, though. An awning fell, a child's ice cream plummeted to the ground, several stools in an outside bar found themselves missing screws and nails, a man's beer turned to...piss, every cigarette in the vicinity suddenly Unlightable.

The last one was one of Sha's particular favourites. She liked Frustration, the blood-steel feel of it, metal on metal, the way the Noplace Folk seemed to react so differently to it. Some cried, some yelled, some turned violent and swore and taught Sha new words (it was best when the tourists did this). The rising tide of irritation, sour against Sha's skin, made her giggle and clap her hands like children did.

In this new world of Iron and Burning, fae fed on what they could. Trickery, malice, misery. Making the Noplace Folk happy made fae weak. Because they were antithetical (big word, Sha had learned it in the baffling Noplace creations called Books), humans and fae, that was, because they had been made to counter one another but how could the fae win when the very ground was paved with iron bars and coins and how Sha's glamour was melting around her as she spoke because iron vibrated, sought out Fae-Flesh and tore into it she was screaming on the inside her NoSelf was a vortex of pain and Sha wanted to howl wanted to tear herself to pieces tear the humans to pieces let blood flow--

Mischief was best done in innocence and innocence was easy when you didn't particularly care about who you were pranking.

Before she left, before she accidentally stepped on a coin and burned a hole through her foot, Sha loosened the bolts in the pier, broke the pulleys on the sailboats, expended each drop of power she'd gained from the distress colouring the air in disconnecting certain important parts in cars and trolleys and children's strollers.

The pads of her feet blistered as she ran across the boardwalk, felt the planks rot with fungus and damp with each furious, smouldering step.

[parcae-nervi]

the sano

The Sano rocked in the choppy saltwater waves off of Narragansett beach. It was a gray day; light patters of rain dappled the cresting waves. A man named Finn surveyed the open expanse of water, closed his eyes as a teensy raindrop plopped on his nose, and he inhaled, taking in the smell of salt, of marine life flitting underneath the surface, of the pollution that twisted through the water. The man grasped the steel railing on the starboard side and peered into the green depths.

When the ocean refused to surface any of its secrets, he turned, only to pause at the sound of a bubble breaking on the surface—a small gasp for air. Finn whirled back around and slipped the rain-slick deck, banged his head a good one on the railing, and collapsed in a heap.

When he came to, he was staring up at a gray sky with his head in someone’s lap. The glare of the sunlight hidden behind the clouds made him wince and when he went to pick himself up, he groaned. Tender hands cupped his cheeks and then a woman’s face blocked out the sky; her shimmery green eyes looked both concerned and agitated, but something about the way the colors swirled around her pupil made his questioning words die in his throat. She cocked her head to the side, animalistic, and opened her mouth to speak. Sharp dagger teeth made him cry out and he scrambled away from her.

“Why are you here?” she said. The words were distorted, all garbled and high-pitched. He was amazed he could make out what she was saying at all. He looked at her, really looked at her this time, and found himself bracing the railing to hold his now-weak legs; her skin was a light shade of blue, hair the color of pepper dulse—webbed fingers and toes, fins arched out from her forearms.

“Y-y-you’re a-a mermaid,” he stammered.

Her lips curled back and she repeated herself. “Why are you here?”

“Please don’t hurt me,” he whimpered. “I’m here to clean up the water.”

She blinked those bright green eyes of hers. Her lips turned down and the smattering of green scales that made up her brows drew down. “Clean?” She made a strange twisting movement with her arm that he didn’t understand so he just looked dumbly at her. Her lips moved like she was trying to form words and then she drew back. “What is clean?”

“Oh, okay. You don’t understand. Um, let me…” he trailed off and went to the hull. A small waterproof box lay under a compartment that he lifted up. She hissed behind him when it slammed closed and made him jump, nearly spilling all of its contents as he moved to open it. He took out a few pieces of laminated paper and held them out for her. Gingerly, she took them in her rubbery fingers and examined them.

“See, the picture on the left is a contaminated lake before our crew got to it. The picture on the right is what is looked like after we cleaned it.”

“You will clean here like this?” she said excitedly and jabbed one webbed finger into the paper. He nodded and took them from her grasp (before she damaged them). She looked up at him and blew air from her mouth. “Your people come on these ships and make the ocean burn,” she said sadly. “Many of us hurt.” She twisted around for him and he raised a hand to his mouth. An ugly purple and red rash had blossomed at the base of her spine; rivulets of red stretched like latticework around the agitated skin. “Sick,” she said. “You clean sick?”

He nodded vigorously and retrieved his cell phone from his pocket.

Later Finn leaned that the mermaid had been planning to kill him. Supposedly, the merpeople had begun to attack any boats that happened by the Narragansett beach. It was the only solution they could find to end the destruction of their homes. It turns out the only reason she’d hesitated was because of the Sano itself, driving her to haul herself over the edge of the boat and wait to question Finn upon his awakening.

It wasn’t until three days later that he saw her again, sitting on a medical skiff as impromptu doctors tended to her and others’ wounds. He sat down next to her and smiled, still felt his skin crawl when she smiled back with those pointed teeth. “We will clean here,” she said and bobbed her head.

“Yeah,” Finn replied. “Yeah, we will.”

[parcae-nervi]

cooking magic

Maiana Resh rapped the wooden spoon against the cast iron pot that stood, bubbling, on her stove. Carrots, celery, parsley, corkscrewed pasta, and diced tomatoes swam around in her homemade vegetable stock, swirling lines of steam rising, brushing against her face, filling her kitchen with the scent of fresh soup. She sighed and tapped the spoon again, watching as a tendril of faded light wiggled its way out of the sanded utensil and dropped into the pot. A second, then a third tap, the colours sifting, pearlescent hues, but each streak noticeably different.

Some warmth, good cheer, and the tiniest dash of luck. The last was pure white and blazed a little when Maiana added it. Not too much--her food had the reputation of being magical, but the danger came from people believing it.

She mixed the colours in slowly, free hand bouncing on the counter as she tapped out a rhythm. Magic for the mute, made in patterns and noises, short staccatos (nails against wood) mixed with longer thumps (palm against counter). Created without words, because words were a crutch (she'd learned this early, born into a world filled with syllables that weren't hers) and the true power was in intent. Intent, meaning, faith.

The people who ate her soup believed a little, because they needed the hope, so the magic worked for them. It did less for the scornful, but the only ones who mocked her didn't need her help anyways, so Maiana ignored their pettiness.

The swirls were shining even more now, brilliant against the faded brown-green-orange of the soup. White-light luck, steady-burning orange warmth, sunshine-yellow joy. They dodged each other for a bit, resisting the blending magic that Maiana was pressing against them. They weren't exactly antitheses to each other, but magic tended to stand proudly, freely, showing stubborn independence that Maiana usually only saw in cats and adolescents.

She sighed, slapped the counter loudly, and the swirls jumped before diving back into each other, their colours bleeding together until they disappeared into the soup.

There, that was better.

The soup, now two shades brighter, sloshed in the pot as Maiana began pouring it into wide Tupperware containers. All handlessly, of course, directing the pot with minute movements of her fingers. The steam eddied in the humid kitchen air, subtly coloured (a defiant, visibly divided, mixture of white, orange and yellow) and curling into patterns that may have been words, or runes, or simply pictures. Shapes--moving, running. Maiana thought she could hear children laughing.

She sighed, brushing a hand through the steam and dispelling it.