(Part one!!! Very excited to share. I mean, I’m always excited to share, but listen. This is my first historical setting, and the 70s were mad fun to learn about. To refresh, this story is about Hana, who deals with the fallout of her father’s scandal and investigates missing girls the next town over. The second part will be up next Thursday. Enjoy!)
Part One: Roots
My mother looked across the table at me, through the fresh, pink-petal roses she had cut this morning.
“And what plans do you have for today?” she asked, steam rising from her untouched coffee. She held her fork in her hand, but made no move to eat. Not until Dad came to the table.
I pressed the tines of my fork into scrambled egg. “School, of course.”
The roses gave me a limited vision of Mom. A drop of dew fell from the edge of a petal, hitting the table. Distrust slipped into her voice. “Of course.”
Footsteps came down the hall. Heavy and firm, focused on their destination. Like a model down the runway. I allowed myself a smile. Dad was far from a model anything. I’d known it my whole life. The only difference was, now the whole town did too. And ever since, Dad had been on the warpath. Even to breakfast.
He emerged in his armor, suit pressed and tie straight. His eyes glanced at me, quick and calculated. “Hana,” he said.
“That’s me,” I replied, taking a bite of food.
He pulled a chair out. My mother tutted, either at my response or my choice to eat. I chewed, looking at the roses. They had replaced my mother’s head.
“The damn Gazette,” my father hissed. “They’ve done it again. Those damn spiders.”
“You shouldn’t read that trash,” Mom said, voice quiet. “You know they’re all lies.”
Mom’s hand reached for his. He allowed the touch. He talked only to her; like I was wallpaper; thinking I had no interest. I kept eating.
“You have to know the enemy to beat them,” Dad said. I saw the Gazette tucked into the lapel of his suit. He used to read it at the table, humming at a turn of phrase, or scoffing at an editorial.
“Why don’t you clear the air?” I asked.
Two pairs of eyes turned to me. I sat up straighter, staring back. “If they’re lies,” I continued, “set them straight. Write your own piece. Do an interview. The town won’t go back to normal until you do.”
“If?” My father’s ring hand turned into a fist. His face reddened and his eyes widened, the whites of them bloodshot. “Whose side are you on?” he spat, showing his teeth.
A battle lost. I stood from the table. “I’ll get going, then.”
“Come right home,” my father barked at my back. I turned, gauging his expression, wondering which it was he had a concern about: My disappearance, or my voice. For a moment, I wondered if he even knew what was happening right outside our county. His world had narrowed a lot, ever since the news broke.
I held my tongue, managing a nod. I already knew what he wanted from me. “Of course.”
He nodded back, a threat buried in the single motion.
My mother, her head full of roses, remained beside him at the table, not uttering a single word.
I heard the click of the camera shutter, but didn’t see the person behind it. Wasn’t there a law about taking someone’s picture without their permission? I opened my mouth to shout a protest, then wondered if I cared that much.
I continued down the driveway, gravel crunching in the gray-morning silence. I went past the line of thick forest, wary of the branches. I imagined girls swinging from them.
That was ridiculous, though. They hadn’t recovered any bodies yet.
I took the bus to school, listening between the chatter for mention of the disgraced Liftgates. I only heard talks of boyfriends and girlfriends; sports and Calculus; a brief mention of Cadillacs. Though we sat on the back of the town’s mind, Howard Liftgate had become last week’s news. I let out a breath.
A body took up space next to me, smelling faintly of jasmine.
I turned, knowing who would be there. I blinked. Then blinked again. The left half of Sophia Braxton’s face was smudged black.
“Tough few days, right?” she asked, tilting her half-gone head.
I fought to keep my breathing steady. I pressed my nails into my palm. Focus on the pain. Keep calm. Don’t be known as the corrupt politician’s daughter, who had a breakdown.
I flashed Sophia a smile. “You could say that.”
Sophia closed one blue eye, and leaned back. “The Gazette was particularly harsh today. Not even on your dad. They also took shots at a lowly high school club.”
I searched my memory. “You run the... What is it... The Lotus Division, right?”
16 teeth stretched into a wide grin. “Yes! Who knew we could piss off a bunch of old farts by writing about women’s struggles? And trying to organize a rally?” Sophia reached into her bag, pulling out a flyer. She pressed it into my hands, voice eager. “Let your dad know that if he wants to be on the right side of things, he might as well start here. His reputation couldn’t get any worse. No one wants another Nixon now.”
I glanced down at the paper. A call for funding for women’s scholarships, statistics about equal pay, and intellectual opportunity. In the back of my mind, I recalled how my father had voted on this particular legislation last year. He’d favored reconstruction on a park frequented by drug users, in a one-two combo for environmentalism and safety.
Fat lot of good that had done him.
“I’ll let him know,” I promised, tucking the flyer into my own bag. Sophia had already gone to the next empty seat, chattering away. I watched her talk to a mousy freshman, candid and charming. The left side of her face remained a black hole, no matter where my vision went.
My fingers uncurled. I might be going crazy, but I wasn’t going blind. I could work with that.
From there, it was business as usual. I went through the day at school, ripping down hastily-drawn posters calling for my father’s resignation. I ignored the graffiti in the girl’s bathroom calling him a hypocrite. I pretended not to see the hard glimmer in my teacher’s eyes. I had been groomed in how to maintain an image and, tarnished or not, I was bound to keep it.
The whispers finally bubbled over in math, lapping at my hearing and sucking me in.
They said he hired twelve prostitutes.
Escorts. Not hookers. And there were only two.
He makes thousands, dodges jail time, and my dad gets laid off from the mines?
The mine were, and always had been, structurally unsound. Did he want another collapse?
I heard he pumped the drugs in right after he cut hospital funding.
That, I couldn't defend.
I kept my eyes forward, letting the waves wash over. I kept my head above water until the final bell, and opted to walk home. A classmate shoved me on her way out, slamming me against a locker.
My English teacher kept going, even as a dark bruise formed along my arm. I bit my tongue, raising myself up. I walked as tall as the reeds, through a sea of accusing eyes. I knew better than anyone what my father had done, yet they thought they could pass judgement?
I kicked the school entrance open, the door cracking against the brick.
A reporter was waiting for me at the gate. No matter how they tried to blend in as someone’s parent, I could spot them from a mile away. I wondered if I should give him something to chew on.
“Miss Liftgate,” the reporter greeted me on approach. “As observant as always.”
“I don’t think you’re allowed to loiter around underage children,” I said.
The man renewed his smile. “Are you ready to make a statement?”
I narrowed my eyes at his wording. “I didn’t realize you were the police.”
“You’re not legally obligated to say anything, of course,” the reporter backtracked. He pulled out a blinking recorder from his pocket. “And, in a show of faith, I’ll confess that I’m recording you. With your permission, I’d like to give you the opportunity to tell your side. The town has concerns that you support your father’s actions. Also, that you want to help him cover up his...indiscretions. Why else have you remained silent?”
“Is that what you’ll tell them to think?” I asked.
The reporter shook his head. “I’ll simply tell them the truth.”
My hand tightened around the strap of my bag. “The truth is a little more complicated than what you’ve been writing.”
He shook his recorder meaningfully, its single eye shining. “Care to clear the air, then?”
I took the recorder from his hand, bringing the plastic close to my face, the red light spilling over my mouth. “Why aren't you writing about missing girls, Gazette man? If you're too busy focusing on me, I'll take your job from you.” I shoved the recorder back in his hands. “Just what you were afraid of.”
The man's eyes darkened, his smile fixed in place. “I see that Miss Braxton has swayed you. Pity.”
“If you're going to take my picture, aim for the left side. And get this in there too.” I flipped him the bird before turning, adding: “Stay away from my house, or I call the cops.”
“I'm sure your father has them in his pocket too,” I heard him mumble. I stopped, keeping my back to him. The wind picked up, leaves rustling in the trees overhead.
“Do you really want to find that out?” I asked.
He didn’t reply. I kept going.
I hung a right at the drugstore, heading into town. I worked against the throng of students going home, hand reaching out for the brass handle of Antigone. A bell chimed as the door swung open, the scent of smoke and coffee breezing past the threshold. I stood there for a moment, taking in the book-filled cases, tiled floor, and half-empty cafe. Music spilled from a radio in the back, parsed by the sounds of the kitchen. I spotted a familiar silhouette by the gigantic window fern, legs crossed and brow furrowed.
“Hey, Lil,” I greeted, sitting across from her. She looked up and stubbed her cigarette, closing her book.
“The disgraced one herself,” Lilian declared, throwing her arms out. From behind her ear, she handed me a cigarette, freshly rolled. She looked me over as I lit up, biting her lip. “Damn, if I wasn’t your friend before, I wouldn’t want to be now.”
“Thanks, Lil,” I said, muffled.
“People have given me shit for it already. The store had its fair share of robberies, thanks to your dad’s...policies. Or lack thereof.” She took a sip from her mug. “But I don’t need to remind you of that.”
I sucked in a sweet lungful of tobacco, exhaling slowly. “No,” I said, “you don’t.” I brought out a copy of this morning’s Gazette, Sophia’s flyer leafed between the pages. It fell to the floor as I smoothed out the newspaper. Lilian picked it up with an interested hum.
“Sounds pretty radical,” she said.
“In a good or bad way?” I asked, distracted.
“That depends.”
“On?”
“What kind of a politician’s daughter you want to be.”
I frowned at Lilian. “I don’t want to be anyone’s daughter. I want to be Hana Liftgate, writer and editor.” I stuck out my hand. “Now give me a goddamn pen.”
Lilian obliged. “Are you sure you don’t want to get into politics? You’re brash enough for it. You secretly want to be the next Bella Abzug, don’t you? You can tell me.”
“Lil, even if I wanted to, there’s no way now,” I said. “No one will trust a Liftgate.”
“Not with that attitude,” Lilian said. She turned to the counter and raised her arm. “Ruth, my girl needs a double.”
The owner of the bookstore, a short, tattooed, woman, laughed. “I’d say she needs somethin’ more stronger than that.”
“Underage, Ruth,” Lilian reminded her, halfheartedly. I glanced at the cigarette in the ashtray, noting the faint, musty smell that still lingered.
“You’ve already dipped into the illegal honey pot once today,” I said, shrugging.
“Nobody likes puns,” Lilian said sharply.
Ruth walked over with a fresh mug, jewelry singing with each step. She placed the saucer delicately on the table, a cookie tucked alongside the cup. She patted my arm, touch heavy. “Hi, hon.”
“A bold move,” I said. “Don’t you know I’m a leper?”
“Hush,” Ruth said. “This will blow over.”
“I’m sure there was some blow involved,” Lilian muttered.
“Lil, you goddamn hypocrite!” I shouted, throwing the pen at her. She laughed it off, overpowering the music. I fought the smile that threatened to break, losing. “Come on, seriously. I’ve got an hour, at most.”
“Shorter and shorter,” Lilian complained, drawing out this morning’s edition from the next county over.
Ruth left us to our task, knowing better than to ask. Dead girls would spoil the brew. Lilian handed me back my pen as I looked between the Gazette and the Stark Tribune. Three missing faces stared back from the latter print, all presumed dead. From our town, my father glowered back, disgraced and close to trial. I thought of him waiting in his red leather chair, impatient, dark presence filling the room. I drew my hands into fists.
“I told someone on the beat today that he should talk about these girls,” I said.
Lilian looked up, surprised. “They’re still following you?”
“Dad disconnected the phone, so they can’t call about interviews anymore,” I said. “They took my picture this morning.”
“Someone ought to have documented that outfit today,” Lilian said, looking back at the Tribune. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so clean cut.”
“An old lesson,” I said, copying down the last known locations of the missing trio. “When you feel your worst, look your best.”
“You should write a book,” Lilian teased.
I shook my head, taking in the traits of the women. 16-20. All over 5’3. Brown hair. Different eye colors and races. Different occupations. I bit the end of my pen.
“There has to be a connection they aren’t mentioning,” I said.
“We’ll just keep working with what we’ve got,” Lilian said softly. “Give it to me.”
I added the new details, Lilian spinning them into concise sentences. We warned against walking alone at night. We noted the partial license plate that had been caught. We listed the same numbers to call that we had written last week. With a sinking feeling, I read aloud the next date scheduled for a search party.
“Does that not work?” Lilian asked, catching my hesitation.
“I... It’ll be tough.” I cleared my throat. “I overhead my mother the other day. She had Mrs. Woole over for lunch.”
“And?”
“She wants me to meet her son.”
Lilian raised an eyebrow. “You two have lived in this town your whole lives. You danced in the same line at the festival last year. Are you going to tutor him on his step?”
“No, she wants me to meet him, meet him.”
Lilian dropped her pen. “What?” Her voice went low, anger seeping in like the tide. “You aren’t even 18. You haven’t--You don’t want this, do you?”
“To go from being someone’s daughter to being someone’s wife?” I snapped. “Of course not. This isn’t the era of political alliances. They can’t just marry me off.” I scribbled in the margin of the Tribune. “But hell if they aren’t going to try.”
“And you’re skipping this meeting, right?” Lilian confirmed.
“It’s another luncheon,” I said. “Mom wanted to spend the morning...getting me ready.”
Lilian gagged. “Oh God.”
“Yeah,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “That’s the sentiment.”
“So what are you going to do?”
I blew out a breath. No matter what I did, I’d be making a bad choice. Joining the search party would get me closer to the danger. We might even...find something. Someone. But staying at home would draw me closer into the hornet’s nest, further under my father’s thumb. The place where all his dirty secrets lie.
I pressed my lips together. “Both.”
Lilian whistled. “I guess we’ll need a big breakfast, then.”
I smiled. Leave it to Lilian to be practical in a crisis.
My foot caught on a root. I twisted to avoid falling, looking down at the ground. There was a moment of disconnect. Roots weren’t supposed to be creeping from the floorboards. The floorboards shouldn’t have been earth. Unless I wasn’t where I thought I was?
My eyes flew open, a gasp putting me back in my body. Ina. I was Ina again. I pressed a hand to my chest, the air much too clear for the house. Bug song filled the night. I looked around. The woods. I was in the woods. Barefoot, walking down a trail. Down, towards...
The visage of the well stood out in the middle of the field. I was a mere 50 feet away.
My skin felt clammy in the warm summer air. My toes curled into the dirt, and I turned to run, kicking up soil. The forest rebelled. Shadows breathed down my neck and branches pulled at my clothes. There wasn’t any way to tell what was nature and what was strange. A humming trembled through the forest, traveling up my legs, and I stumbled. The message rang clear through my bones, even as I stood. Come. Come back. Crawl back into the well, cradle a corpse, and wait for the gas lamp eyes to return.
In a breath, I was there. Moss and leaves cushioned my feet. Beneath them, dozens of grinning skeletons creaked. I gazed up at an empty void, unable to tell where the well met the sky. My fingers scraped at smooth, unforgiving, stones. A shriek echoed up and around me, but whose voice was that? Where was the water; where was the earth?
Where was my knife?
Where was Mary?
I rammed against the well wall, putting all my force into my shoulder. I punched and kicked, bleeding and screaming until the illusion cracked. Though two broken stones, I could see trees. And, beyond them, Allison’s shack. I grabbed at the rocks, pulling them out one by one. Shrill voices beat at my ears and unseen claws raked down my back, but I kept at it. I made a hole big enough to crawl through, got to my feet, and ran.
I tripped over the lip of a shallow grave.
In the darkness, it was tough to see, but I could smell it. The rich, thick, scent of fresh earth surrounded me. Clumps of it fell from my hair as I sat up. My hands stung from their injuries, shaking as they supported my weight. Teetering on my feet, enough moonlight slanted through the trees that I got good look at the ground. The hole was big enough for a human. The perfect size for myself. Like it was made for me.
My attention turned to something massive shifting at the end of the path. Somewhere, covered in the night, was a shadow a touch darker than black. I kept still, waiting for it to move again, or for my brain to dismiss it. Only my breathing filled the void; even the air had stilled.
As I was about to give up, white eyes revealed themselves, not ten feet in front of me. I gasped and jumped away, the scent of blood replacing the earth. A weight struck my back, bitter cold and pitching me forward. Freezing hands steadied me, with fingers that lengthened into sharp talons. I shivered as the cool air of an open crypt hit my ear, and Eric’s voice echoed in my head.
“She won’t be able to save you.”
I didn’t need to hear that.
“She doesn’t care about you. She left you here, of all places.”
I didn’t need to hear it. I already knew it.
But Mary was still worth it. And Eric couldn’t stop me. Not him, nor his ghost.
I shook him off and turned, stomping away. With every footfall, I imagined I was crushing the shadows. The brush parted, taking me where I needed to go. The moon hung heavy and bright, guiding my way. The path was clear. I wasn’t the victim of monsters. I wasn’t trapped. The woman wanted me to find something important, and I needed to help her.
Mary had brought me to Hinden for a selfish reason. But now, Hinden was my choice. I was strong enough to see it through.
For the first time since the night of the ritual, I stepped foot on the library stairs. I walked forward, closing my eyes at the ruined threshold. In the records room, Katherine’s hands--my hands--tucked a bundle behind a trick panel in the cabinets. Even after everything that had happened, this town still had more secrets to give.
I opened my eyes. It was time to tear the skeletons from the closet and give them a proper burial.
“You know, I’m always accepting marriage applications for Janus,” High Ruler Axis said, casual. “I’ve yet to receive yours. What’s the delay?”
If it wasn’t the High Ruler himself in front of Liam, he would have rushed forward and covered his mouth with his hands. Liam simply turned his hands to fists, looking around for Janus. Not seeing him, Liam turned back to High Ruler Axis.
“Sir?” he asked, keeping his cool.
High Ruler Axis glanced up from his book. “Am I misinformed of your feelings?”
“Misin...?” Liam trailed off. Recognition lit his eyes. “North and Nami.”
“You’d think they’d be better at keeping secrets,” High Ruler Axis hummed. “But they weren’t the only ones wondering when you’d break your silence.”
“Sire,” Liam said, leaning forward. “I have no qualifications.”
“Love requires none. That’s the beauty of it. Do you think I had any?” High Ruler Axis smiled, gesturing at the building. “I love my country, and my people. I rule with love in my heart for them, and with the support of others.”
“Janus doesn’t even...think of me in that way,” Liam said, feeble.
“Did you discuss it?” High Ruler Axis asked. He tapped a finger against the page. “He’s never expressed interest in raising this country up with another. It’s always been you.” Liam’s head flew up, alarmed. “Is it not something you want?”
Liam’s mouth went dry. It wasn’t a matter of want. He didn’t deserve it. Hearing Janus’ fanciful thoughts was one thing, but to hear High Ruler Axis echo them...
“Is this why you told him about me?” Liam asked, soft. “How much did you say?”
“It's up to you to reveal the whole truth,” High Ruler Axis said, his eyes piercing through Liam. “Trust is a matter between both parties. Janus will accept you, no matter who you are--or once were. Same as I have, my son knows your true heart. Trust in him the way he trusts you. No harm will befall you in this place. I promised you long ago.”
Liam bowed his head. “Sire.”
The High Ruler sighed. “I wish you would come to think of me more kindly than that.”
High Ruler Axis is such a good dad ;__; And he probably has my favorite exchange in the book. “Love has no qualifications.”
It took seven months, but I brought my baby into the world!! Now begins work on its sequel, Blackout. Wish me luck as I edit and continue writing. Here’s to hoping it doesn’t take another seven months to finish this up. Fingers crossed!
“Ghosts are a real, known thing. Your house is haunted, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The flowers on the table were fresh.
I reached out to touch the soft white folds, mindful of the thorns beneath. I closed my eyes, breathing in the gentle fragrance. Strong hands grasped my shoulders, working out the kinks. Gnarled fingers kneaded the muscles as a deep, honey whiskey voice asked if I needed to sit.
I shook my head and turned. The space behind me was empty, the air buzzing with something unseen. A tea cup sat on the counter, pulled from bare cabinets.
I stepped forward, my heels on the tile an alarm. The house awoke; the floor above bursting with activity. Bodies tumbled and wrestled, childlike voices cheering the action on. Laughter and screams rang out; taunts and challenges. It brought a smile to my face.
Walking past the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of a woman applying lipstick. In a blink, she retreated into the glass, leaving a glimmer of dust in her wake.
I continued down the hall, past bedrooms with aging, broken furniture. A man's voice hummed beside a swinging, cracked bassinet. I picked up his song for a few bars, nostalgia making my skull buzz. The boards beneath the carpet creaked, adding to the music.
The fire in the parlor at the back of the house had long gone out, yet someone sat to tend to it. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders, down the length of her spine. She lounged on the gray slate, this part of the house silent. Between my breaths, it was merely the chirping of birds and chorus of bugs in the tall grass. Midday fought its way through musty curtains, struggling to dapple the girl's skin with light.
I touched her shoulder, the silk of her blouse cool on my palm. She turned to me, lips chapped and cheeks freckled, eyes wide and curious.
A direct sunbeam from a break in the curtains sent her away. She slipped from beneath my hand, into the ashes.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, rising to my feet. I stared at the pictures on the mantle, fingers curling over the softened brick. I breathed in the scent of decay all around me, the flowers no longer there to mask it. Faces peered back at me, bound to film, trapped in another time. Two of me stared out into the parlor, but only I looked back.
Musk and perfume wafted from the attic. The silverware in the kitchen rattled. The floors creaked again, and in the glass reflection of the photo frames, I saw the dozens of faces anew. I smiled, closing my eyes and dipping my head against the stone. Bodies large and small shifted behind me, filling the space and reaching out. Warmth radiated from my back, a passing cloud allowing me a moment alone with my beloved spirits.
A different song broke the connection. I took my phone from my pocket, pressing it to my ear. The ghost shied as I turned, melting back into the chairs; the paintings; the pillows; the lightbulbs. They watched from shadows and corners, as I traced my way back through the house.
"How goes the visit?"
The town had kept the place in good condition, after it was cleaned. As fair as they could without owning it, for no one ever being able to live in it again.
"They picked roses for the plot this year? How thoughtful; your mother's favorite."
The living knew well to honor the dead. Ghosts only favored those kind to them. Heaven help you to have an angry hoard of spirits upon your house. It was what had kept me safe these last two decades, on my own.
"I'm sure they're all happy to see you doing so well."
I paused at the front door. Standing in the threshold, I glanced back at myself, twenty years younger. I didn't see her as she had been in her last moments; the final victim of the worst massacre. I didn't recall her in the way that the coroner and the newspapers did. Her memory was untainted as she stood strong, her eyes clear and her smile kind.
She waved. The motion eased the time and distance that weighed between us, just a bit. Enough for me to wave back, through blurred vision.
I blinked, and she was gone. The house groaned, settling into its bones, my visit concluded.
The wind picked up as I wondered, not for the first time, who might be standing in my place if I hadn't gone away that night.
The Devil’s Tramping Ground/MiM in general is on the backburner for now. Simmering, but not forgotten. In the meantime, I’ve been working on short pieces, and I really like what I’m churning out.
For instance, the piece that I’m giving you today. As part of a contest on r/writingprompts, I wrote the first chapter to a book that doesn’t exist yet! (And honestly, probably won’t exist for a little while.)
In 2,692 words, here is a story about 70-year-old Ms. Hamada, who lives in the country of Aurem. She passed up the chance to become a magician as a child, and 60 years later, her country’s most powerful castor has come to ask again. Aurem is under attack, members of the emperor’s circle are being murdered, and only a grandmotherly botanist has the ability to find out why.
Patent leather shoes ran down the block; past the laundry shop, the tailor, and the hair salon; in search of a mechanic. A little girl, no more than ten, scanned the familiar store fronts with an analytic gaze. Who could best complete her task?
She halted, a street from the marketplace, as her eyes found a new a sign.
A curiosities shop.
She weighed her options, then opened the door. She hadn’t been looking forward to dealing with Tarmand, in his overpriced antiques shop. He had overcharged her on broken heirlooms before, and this was not the time for him to gloat to all of Aurem.
Chimes rang out as the girl entered, examining her surroundings. Curiosities, indeed. A large stuffed bear stood in the corner, guarding shelves of dusty artifacts. Mirrors, teapots, shields, and statutes sat for trade. The girl went right past them.
A man in white robes sat at the counter, counting the dust motes in the air. He turned at the sound of the door, revealing a young face. He had a fair complexion, a thin nose, and high cheekbones. He watched, bemused, as the girl marched up to his counter.
“How did you find this place?” he asked, the soft words pouring from his mouth like water.
The girl reached behind her, pulling something from her bag. “Can you fix this?” she asked, ignoring his question. She pushed a broken pocket watch toward the man. “I’ve got 50 Ant, and I’d need it done by the end of the day. Deal?”
In a slow movement, the man took the watch to examine it. He turned it this way and that, then set it down and tapped his nail against the shattered face. “What happened to this poor thing?”
The girl grew red. “That doesn’t matter. 50 Ant. Final offer.”
The stranger hummed. “You haggle well for a child. But you have quite the deadline. And this is supposed to be a pawnshop, not a repair station.”
A scowl marked the girl’s face. She stuck her hand out. “Give it back. I’ll ask your competitor.”
A smile curved the man’s lips. He picked the watch back up. “Have you ever heard of a Midas, my little friend?” Yellow wisps leaked from the fingers on his free hand, drifting to the watch. The tendrils plucked away the spare glass and broken bits, revealing the inner cogs. With a flick of his wrist, the dust motes coalesced into new springs and gears. The girl watched, transfixed, as pure sunlight poured into the watch.
“A Midas does the work of the emperor. A Midas keeps the country functioning. Think of Aurem as this little pocket watch. Midas’ are the pieces that keep it ticking.” He pushed the watch into the air, where it remained, as shimmering mirages of parts replaced the old ones. “Aurem is rather selective about who gets to be a Midas. They would be given a powerful magic. To create, to destroy...” He glanced at the watch, and adjusted the placement of a particular gear. “To wield the mightiest dragonfire and knowledge. To never age, steeped in the magic of the ancients, called upon to keep this glorious country safe.” He made a tsking noise. “And fix the stray pocket watch, in a shop no one should have been able to find.”
A new face grew over the heart of the timepiece. A bronze cover materialized on fresh hinges, and the man snapped the newly-working pocket watch closed. He handed it down to the girl, and, up close, she could see the glitter shifting beneath his skin as he smiled.
“Keep your 50 Ant. Would you like something more valuable?”
Read the rest of “The Midas of Aurem” here, and wish me luck in the contest!
A fantasy/mystery with LGBT characters, monsters, magic, and conspiracy? Ladies kicking ass, a futuristic city, and winged beasts wrecking everyone’s shit? What more could you ask for!
Check out “Blessings” on Inkitt, and holla back at yo girl. Noveling is serious business.
When your best friend/not-girlfriend sends you a suspicious text coupled with an unsettling voice mail, you do what you gotta do.
And sometimes that includes hopping a bus to a backwoods town full of demons, ghosts, supernatural phenomenon, and something about a well? And don’t forget the marigolds. Really, you don’t want to.
“My name’s Ina, and my friend Mary is missing. I don’t know what kind of town she lost herself in, but I need to find her.”
