Phantom and Rook – Release Day

November 2, 2022November 1, 2022 / Aelina / Leave a comment

MM Modern Fantasy, Found Family, Immortal x Man, Grumpy x Sunshine, Guy Witches, a Magical Coffee Shop and Second Chances

“Then I will love you with everything I have, right here, right now, and I will be here when you return.” Arlo promises, like it’s a given. I close my eyes, and he shakes me again until I open them. “I will not forget you again. I promise.”

“You can’t promise that,” I cry, staring deep into twin pools of simmering gold. “You’ve forgotten me once. Everyone does. It’s … a side effect. It’s something I’ve been fine with until I met you.”

He smiles, wet and breaking and brilliant. “I’m pretty great, aren’t I?”

—

Arlo Rook has decided it’s time to move out of Garren Castle, home for orphans of all races, magical or not, at 100 years old.

It’s not the first time he’s left home, but after a setback that landed the Hedge Witch in the hospital a year ago, he ended up right back at square one. But now he’s ready to strike out on his own, despite his friend’s worries that he’s not ready for the ‘real world.’

Then, he crashes into a mess of copper curls and bright eyes, sending apothecary goods and his life into a chaotic mess. Thatch is a mysterious and incredibly wealthy benefactor of Levena, only spoken of but never seen. He requests a night of Arlo’s company and a tour of the city, which Arlo immediately declines.

But that’s not the last time they see each other, and it certainly wasn’t the first. Arlo doesn’t remember him, no one remembers Thatch after he visits, but Thatch never forgot the Witch with a familiar soulmark on his face.

Thatch Phantom is an immortal, the last of his kind and perpetually bored. When he’s not closing inter-dimensional rifts and corralling demons, he’s visiting his favorite city of all, Levena. Centuries ago, when life was particularly dull, he set up a scavenger hunt for a starving village, providing them with a year’s worth of supplies.

He anonymously returned year after year, upping the ante and providing less practical things, as the village had become a city and was wealthy beyond belief. Festivals were thrown in his honor, and have continued every year since. Hundreds of years later, The Game is still put on by the fabled ‘Scarlet Illusionist’, but no one has figured out who blesses them with the puzzles.

Once again, Thatch is listless and has decided to throw a wild card into this year’s Game. Whoever discovers him will win one wish of their choice, no restrictions. Aside from the obvious, such as no falling in love, murder or resurrection.

What he didn’t anticipate was crashing into the one person whose soul mark flares like a beacon when Thatch is around, teasing the immortal with the one thing he wants most.

Someone to call home.

What follows is a wild chain of events filled with magical coffee shops, villains with vendettas against cheese makers, moving tattoos, grand puzzles, and second chances at love, and life.

—

Phantom and Rook is out in the world today! Thank you to everyone involved in getting this off the ground, I’m beyond happy with how it came out and glad to have a rest for a little while. The audio book by Kirt Graves is in the works and will be out later in the month. Any and all shares are greatly appreciated, and if you’ve read the book don’t forget to leave a review!

EMERGENCY BROADCAST

October 31, 2022 / Aelina / Leave a comment

LEVENA EMERGENCY BROADCAST

2:22 AM

OCTOBER 31st

People of Levena,

It has been brought to my attention that the Games in previous years have been subpar, at best. I feel that I owe it to you, the why, for as you all know I pride myself on bringing you puzzles and entertainment of the highest caliber.

I have to admit, I did not put these past decades of Games on myself, atleast, not in an up close and personal sense. Think of it as freezer meals that you pop in the microwave. They’ll do the trick, but they’re unsatisfying. It is not by choice that things have been this way, and I cannot tell you why.

I cannot tell you who I am.

What I am.

Why I’m really here.

But what I can tell you is that I love playing this Game with you, and this year, I’ve concocted one that benefits the both of us.

If we play our cards right, all those questions will be answered, and the most precious treasure will be awarded to the first person who solves the Game.

One wish.

Now, of course, there’s the obvious.

No resurrection.

No striking anyone down.

No forcing people to fall in love.

Ask for anything else, and it’s yours. As long as you solve the puzzle.

Await further instructions, and as always,

Let’s play, my friends.

-The Scarlet Illusionist

🎃🦉🌌

✨ Two More Days ✨

Check out the mask that Bear Pettigrew made for the Illusionist, isn’t it gorgeous 🥰😍

Witchtober – Desert

October 25, 2022 / Aelina / Leave a comment

Today’s witch is brought to you by the prompt desert.

“Code Green, all available practitioners to Bay Three. Doctors Lasange, Berkinson, and Myonski report to Bay Three. I repeat, Code Green, Bay Three.”

I’m the second to last on the scene but am immediately ushered to the head of the bed. My sneakers slide through the viscous deep purple blood pooling onto the vinyl tiled floor. I listen to the rushed report and pull on gloves, my eyes flicking between the patient’s pallid and somehow conscious face, to the shard of glass sticking out of his leg.

Shard is an understatement, I would bet he smashed into a fucking window. But the sand, it’s everywhere. In the wound, on the bed, on the floor. Maybe he crashed into a sand dune too, either before or after the window.

“What do you think, can you do it? Or should we proceed with amputation?”

The patient’s face darts away from the nurse he was happily chatting away with to the Normal doctor beside me, his eyes wide. “Amputate? Oh come on now, it’s not that bad!” He cries, distressed for the first time.

“We’re not there yet,” I lie, unable to restrain my chuckle as I get a closer look at the patient’s thigh. “If you call this not bad, then I’d like to see what you call sort of bad.”

I inspect the hastily but well placed tourniquet that the EMS team enacted on scene. My hand hovers over the area, the glass and sand trembles at a frequency the patient can’t feel, but I do. Thankfully the quartz silica, the fundamentals of sand, responds to my energy.

That’s when I notice the other particles stuck inside the gash across his thigh, splinters of wood with splashes of blue and white paint. That’s really the least of our worries, the main piece of glass is what’s keeping him from bleeding out entirely. For now.

I glance down at the puddle of blood on the floor, then up to Berkinson and Myonski standing on the opposite side of the bed, both of them gloved up and flanked by a team of Normals. I address the Sanguinist, Berkinson, first. “I take it he’s bleeding too fast for you to regenerate.”

The young vampire, a witch with the most ironic specialty I know, nods. A green led on the side of his electronic watch blinks steadily, a visual alternative to the overhead PA system. “Not until the wound is stable.” He signs slowly, then adds, “He doesn’t have good chances, Nino.”

I wince after he finishes the last word which technically means bookworm, but it’s his name for me. It’s not very often I hear my first name, whether it be spoken or signed.

“I can’t work any healing magick either, he’s fading fast. Whatever you’re gonna do, do it quick, I got another adrenaline junkie in Bay Two.” Myonski adds, subtly glowering at the patient. Necromancers are usually intimidating, but given Myonski is three feet tall and the cutest pixie I’ve ever seen, no one tends to take her seriously.

Which is a huge mistake, one I made shortly after starting my residency. Needless to say I learned my lesson, and to keep glitter out of the hands of nefarious pixies who use it in ways that are most horrifying. Thankfully I was able to save Berkinson from the same fate, as he was a couple years behind Myonski and I’s class.

I lift my shoulder and twist my head so I can push up my glasses without my hands. I study the patient, noting how his jaw flickers with tension and the cords in his neck stick out, eyes glazed. He is feeling pain then, not in total shock. It’s a wonder how he’s conscious at all, and I wonder if he refused pain medications because why is he awake for this?

Well, he can help solve the ethical dilemma for us.

“There’s something I can try, but it involves magick, and it might not work. Even if it does, you have a substantial injury that may not heal properly, even with magick, considering how long the tissues have been damaged. You could be left with permanent chronic pain. The safest route is amputation.”

“Let’s save that as a last resort. I’m fond of this leg, had it all my life, you see.” He shakes his head, words slurring. Shaggy black hair full of sand falls over his dilating pupils. I reach forward but he crashes in the span of a second.

What color was left in his complexion drains immediately.

His limbs go slack. His head flops back on the bed.

His eyes roll back in his head. The monitors screech in protest to his failing heart.

Berkinson’s energy snaps through the air with an audible crack, followed by the aftertaste of metal on my (and I’m sure everyone else’s) tongue. The vampire grunts in efforts to pump what little remains of the patient’s blood through his exhausted heart.

Myonski isn’t far behind, anchoring the man’s soul to his body with pure black, earthy threads of life that spiderweb throughout his body. His magick lights up the patient’s flaccid veins and arteries an eerie black that comforts me regardless of how creepy it looks. Not all life saving magick is bright white and plainly beautiful.

Sometimes, beauty is found in the darkness.

The Normal doctor attempts to shove me out of the way, shouting for an operating room. I snap at them to wait. I bring my hands to rest just above the shard’s bloody surface and call upon my magick with renewed intensity.

“You heard him, we’re saving this leg.” I bark, locking eyes with each of my teammates. “On three, I’m going to remove the shard and any glass particles inside the wound. It will need to be immediately flushed and packed, then Berkinson and Myonski will do what they can to get him stable. Then we’ll take him to the operating room. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” The team chants as one.

The overhead lights flicker. The scent of witches working in unison, the unmistakable ozone and something other, overwhelms the air already thick with antiseptic, sweat and blood.

The dual red and black glow of power of my kindred witches flaring to life threatens to steal my attention, but I double down my efforts. I focus on my own energy, a sunset orange that drifts in wispy waves, slipping underneath the massive pane of glass and all the smaller pieces embedded in the flesh of the man who I won’t let down. He’s in bad shape, but I can do it.

I can save him.

“I can save him!” Water fills my lungs, replacing the cry that haunts my nights to this day, decades later. I’m not sure who I was trying to convince, (the Gods maybe?) for it was just the boy and I swept away by that flash flood.

I shake off the ghost of memory, not able to lose even a second of time to trauma. Not right now. I’ll pay for it later, no doubt.

I count down, voice strong as a shiver crawls down my spine.

On three, chaos erupts.

During the next second, incorporeal hands made of magick remove the shard with an obscene suction-like sound. Flecks, splinters and quarter sized pieces of glass follow the main piece which rise above the patient’s body, tearing chunks of muscle, skin and blood out with them.

Normals move in, swiftly flushing the wound with large syringes filled with sterile water. Thin, oddly coloured blood saturated with wooden specks spill over his leg and onto the floor, splashing onto my shoes. He appears human but the blood suggests otherwise. What type of being bleeds dark purple?

Berkinson grunts as the Normals pack the crater in the man’s leg with thick gauze, but I can’t tear my focus from the glass. I transfer the now tightly compacted orb filled with human and glass pieces into a hazard container held open by a nurse.

Myonski coughs, which isn’t a good sign. “He’s fading, I’m losing him.”

“Don’t let go Myonski!” I shout, rushing over to her. The edges of my vision pulsate darkly but I don’t care. I won’t lose him.

“Nino, don’t!” Someone calls out, and I belatedly recognize the electronic tone of Berkinson’s watch. I don’t listen. I rest my hand on Myonski’s small shoulder and am subsequently brought to my knees the moment I open my energy to hers. Her magick sucks away at mine like a vacuum, an endless pit needing to be filled as she works against the will of the universe.

“Don’t let him fucking die,” I manage before collapsing.

—

A raging migraine, burnt coffee, and antiseptic greets me upon waking. I jolt upwards and immediately regret it, reduced to hunching over my legs with temporary blacked out vision.

“Fuck.” I groan, slowly registering my surroundings as the on-call room.

Berkinson clears his throat, getting my attention. I raise my head, slower this time, to find him sitting at my bedside. “Oh look, the martyr is awake.” He signs fiercely, glasses slid down his thin nose, legs propped up on a chair with a book nestled in his blanket covered lap. His lengthy electric blue hair is tied back in a knot at the back of his neck, tamed since the last time I saw him. For a moment, sentimentality crashes through my heart. He always watches over me.

Then he speaks again.

“You’re an idiot, you know that? There’s a reason why the hospital has a no energy exchange rule.” Each word cuts through the air, his crimson eyes flash wildly as his long fingers twitch. They’re deep and rich, he’s recently fed.

I roll my eyes, and it hurts, but the scoff he lets out makes it worth it. A slap on the wrist is nothing. “Did he make it?”

Berkinson closes his book and puts his sneakers on the floor, eyeing me warily. “Yeah, he made it.”

A huge sigh of relief collapses my lungs and I fall back on my mattress, keeping Berkinson in view. “Good. His leg?”

“Nino–”

“His leg, Berkinson.” I snap, immediately inviting guilt into my heart.

I didn’t appreciate him calling me by my first name during the trauma, but shit happens. When we’re in close quarters all the personnel go by first names, but I don’t call anyone by them. Berkinson has always been an exception in private, because I admittedly like the way he says my name. The way his slender fingers meet and spread apart as if he laid open a book, how he brings the ‘book’ up to his face, how his palms sweep across his cheeks, dragging his given name for me across his skin.

Berkinson shifts and I roll my head towards him fully. He’s watching me with an odd expression, lips pressed thin. Eventually, he relents. “He lost a lot of muscle, but Myonski was able to successfully graft Threads, and last I checked he hasn’t rejected them yet. It took awhile, but I was able to get his blood volume stable, too. He’s going to be fine.”

“Good.” I say, turning my gaze to the ceiling.

Berkinson allows three heartbeats of silence, then speaks with trepidation. “I haven’t seen you that passionate about a case in awhile.”

“Something wrong with trying to save someone’s life?”

“At the expense of your own, yes. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but that wasn’t just trying to save someone’s life. Either that guy means something to you, or–”

“Fuck off, Berkinson. I made a call, and it was the right one. I’m fine, see? Nothing personal, just doing my job.” I turn over with a huff and face the wall of my cubby.

Over two dozen cots are nestled into the walls, creating a nook for all medical professionals to call home, complete with a thick mattress and comfy blankets. No one claims them per say, but I prefer this one in the hidden corner of the room.

Berkinson huffs, shoving out of his chair with enough force to startle me. The electronic monotone of his watch cracks through the empty space. “You fuck off, Lesange.”

“Fine, I will.” I throw back with as much attitude as he’s giving me.

“Fine.” He responds via his watch.

The door slams, and I’m left alone.

“Just doing my job,” I mutter to myself, pulling the blankets over my head.

—

It’s nothing personal. I’m following up on a patient. There’s nothing odd about that.

Most emergency doctors don’t have the time or energy to visit the patients they admit, instead they move onto the next big thing, but it happens.

Samuel Jenks. The name suits him. The door is open and laughter tumbles out of the room. Through the window, I watch the man chat with a nurse who blushes furiously in response to whatever joke Samuel had made. I second guess myself, but the moment I think of leaving, his head jerks up and his attention paralyzes me.

He smiles.

He waves to me like a madman and smiles.

He calls, “Hey, Doc! Come here!”

And how could I not?

I straighten my wrinkled scrubs, then walk into the sunshine filled room with my hands clasped behind my back. “Hello, I’m not sure if you remember me, but I–”

“You saved my leg, and my life, if I’m not mistaken.” Samuel says, grinning from ear to ear. He pats the bed beside his thigh, drawing my attention to his exposed leg that is more plant than flesh. Threads of black plant life weave through the man’s muscle, like a tapestry of magick and nature that replaces the flesh, nerves and everything human that used to be there.

I swallow thickly, unable to comprehend how he can be so damn cheery. Most humans don’t take to having a part of them appear fae-like so well, but the man truly seems pleased with his lot in life. I tighten my grip behind my back.

“I was only doing my job, but I’m glad to see that you’re doing well. I’ve heard everything is healing properly, how are you feeling?” I nod to his leg pointedly. “Are you … happy with your decision?”

The nurse leaves with a small smile, head down as he pulls the vitals tree with him.

Samuel Jenks nods enthusiastically. “I can keep on flyin’, so that’s just fine with me. Of course it’ll be awhile, but that’s alright. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or so they say.”

I glance at the chair beside Samuel’s bedside, then quickly dismiss the idea. “One would think you’d want to get back in the air again.”

Samuel lifts a shoulder, his smile never quite gone. With the sand, blood and general devastation washed away, what’s left behind is a young man, around my age I’m assuming, that is admittedly handsome. His hair rebels against the slicked back style he must’ve attempted earlier, black is tousled in all directions and hangs along the soft sides of his scruffed face.

“A little blood never scared me.”

And that …

Well, I can’t help the laugh that escapes me.

I cover my mouth swiftly, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, it’s just … a little?” I start, and Samuel’s laugh joins mine.

He waves me off, eyes glinting. “Okay, maybe it was more than a little.”

Once we’ve recomposed ourselves and my heart feels oddly light, he continues with a more serious tone. “I’m not going to stop doing what I love because I might get hurt. I could walk out here tomorrow and get hit by a bus, or mugged and left for dead in an alley. I could live for decades and be perfectly fine, only to die of a cold or something else that’s entirely … normal. But I’m not normal. I don’t want to live, or die, being normal. One day, it’ll be the death of me, but not today. Today I’m talking to a handsome doctor, the sun is out, and I have all my body parts, mostly.”

I’ve found myself standing beside the innocuous chair, cheeks flushed and unsure how I got there. Handsome doctor?

Me?

As several beats of silence stretch on, the first signs of uncertainty tug down the corners of Samuel’s smile. I come back down to myself, immediately resolving to fix that problem. “I’m sorry, you’re just … I don’t know. A breath of fresh air.”

The grin returns in full force. That’s better.

“Yeah?” Samuel’s eyes dart to the chair, then the door, and back to me. Then he looks down at his leg, brows furrowing the slightest bit. “Could you … do me a favor? Possibly? Or is that weird?”

I chuckle. “Depending on the favor.”

His eyes drop to his lap and his hands brace on either side of his hips, fingers digging into the mattress as he readjusts himself. Then he warily looks back up to me. “Could you keep me company for a little while? Unless you’re busy, I mean– of course you’re busy, you’re a doctor– it’s just that my friends kind of left and I’m–”

Samuel shakes his head, his grin still on but weaker. “Nevermind.”

I sit down, facing him.

His eyes widen.

“Considering everyone thinks I’m sleeping, I can stay for a little while. But I demand to know the story behind your predicament.” I gesture to fresh pitch black sprouts slowly crawling across his leg, weaving through older magicked tissue.

Samuel’s hair falls across his nose as he shifts on the bed again, drawing attention to the crookedness of it. How did I not notice that before? The amount of scars and bent bones on this man is probably absurd.

He says, “I’m a Dune Diver.” At my rapidly pinching features, he adds, “A professional one at that. My mistake lies in the fact that I may have ignored the official track in favor of … untouched desert, one might say.”

I glare at him, and he laughs.

I try glowering, but he laughs harder.

“I cannot think of any reason that I would willingly dive into a mountain of sand, especially ones that have not been thoroughly scanned.” Flashes of glass, splintered wood and blood come to mind. “You dove into ruins.” I say, more to myself than him.

He shrugs, cheeks pinkening. “I did not expect there to be a castle in that lil’ sand dune. Back where I come from, people don’t build castles in the desert. Unless they’re made of sand, of course.”

That startles me into another fit of laughter, which seems to please him greatly as he smiles at me so wide, I’m afraid it’ll fracture his face. “It wasn’t always desert down here, you know. I still don’t understand … even if it’s just sand, aren’t you afraid of getting stuck, suffocating in one?”

Samuel thinks on that for a moment, tenderly caressing a tiny leaf after it unfurls from his thigh. Now that I’m closer to him, I try to ignore the dark hair across his exposed leg and the contrasting paleness of his upper thigh that is barely hidden by his hiked up hospital gown.

“I have, a few times. It’s terrifying as fuck, don’t get me wrong there.” He looks up to me, an unsureness washing across his face, then he stares back down at his leg. He shakes his head, laughing quietly to himself. “You make me want to say things I don’t want to.”

That ices my blood immediately.

“I can’t do that, and even if I could, witches aren’t inherently malicious—”

Samuel’s head jerks up. “Oh Gods! I didn’t mean it like that, not at all. You’re just … you have this way about you. I feel like I can tell you anything, and I don’t even know you.”

I swallow something heavy that threatens to block my airway. “Oh.”

His fingers twitch in his lap, but he doesn’t look away from me. “I never feel more alive than I do when I’m dying.”

And for reasons unbeknownst to me, I lean forward.

I lean forward and gently take both his hands in mine. He stares at me, eyes wide and pliable under my touch. I whisper, “And what about now?”

Samuel Jenk’s fingers entangle with mine and he grins, but this time it’s soft and sweet and filled with something like awe. He says, “I’m feeling pretty fucking alive right now.”

—

Samuel stayed in the hospital for three weeks.

I visited him every day.

At first, I scavenged excuses.

He needed more follow ups. Insurance purposes, of course.

He needed company. Solid mental health is paramount to the healing process.

He needed magick infusions, something he would need for the rest of his life. Witches can share their magick in the most mundane of ways, by donating blood. For purposes such as this, only a small amount is needed to sustain the magick in a Normal’s body, someone without a witch’s heart to regenerate the blood flowing through Normal veins.

I insisted that since Samuel’s body was known to accept my magick, that he use mine.

At first he resisted, but eventually gave in after I threatened to stop bringing him Berkinson’s cinnamon rolls. Berkinson didn’t question why I loaded my plate with four of the homemade and absolutely delicious baked goods he brings to work every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, but I did notice he started to bring more after the second time I took extra.

The vampire and I are back on good terms, albeit kind of odd and strained, but everything is back to semi-normal. If hardly speakly counts as normal, that is.

Everything is normal except for the anomaly in my life that is Samuel Jenkins.

After the second week, I stopped making excuses for why I disappeared for three hours in the early afternoon. No one questions me, and that is something I’ve been doing on the daily.

Why can’t I stop seeing him? Why does the pit in my stomach widen when I’m not around him? Why does he laugh with me like that?

Samuel and I sit together in his room and I read to him from one of my favorite books. Admitting to a man I hardly know that monster porn can be romantic and heart warming is not something I ever thought would come to pass, but it’s one of many things that the man has drawn out of me. When I try to skip the … graphic scenes, Samuel quickly chastises me for censorship and I’m forced to read them aloud, which flushes both of our faces but we laugh endlessly.

Neither of us have spoken of the fact his leg is nearly healed and his physical therapy has been going extremely well.

“And that was when I knew that I was in love with him, tail, fangs, and all.” I say, then close the book. Sweat trickles down my spine, then is swept away by my scrubs.

“I like that one,” Samuel says, smiling nervously at me.

Nervously?

I clear my throat, setting the book down on the rolling table between the bed and my chair. “Me too. I have a few more by that author back at home, I’ll have to bring the next one tomorrow.”

Samuel nods. “I’d like that. Is it the next in the series, or?”

I tip my hand back and forth. “Sort of. It’s set in the same world but it follows different characters.”

“Oh. I really liked them, though.” He says, almost frowning.

“Yeah, it’s hard to say goodbye, but I often find the couples in the next books are just as good, in different ways.” I stand, stretching my arms overhead before releasing a giant yawn. “Tomorrow’s cinnamon roll day, better get all your rest for that sugar rush.”

Samuel smiles up at me. “Can never have too much sugar. Your friend is a genius.”

I roll my eyes, cheeks flushing with guilt. Berkinson and I have been amicable, but it’s definitely not the same. “The first time you had one you nearly went into a fit.”

Samuel barks out a laugh. “I hadn’t eaten real food in days! It’s all your fault.”

My cheeks heat. “Well, who wants their first meal to be oatmeal? Blech.”

Now is just as good a time as any. Tentatively, I reach into my pocket and take out the project I’ve been working on for weeks. My fingers enclose around the pendant and a shuddering breath overtakes me. I take Samuel’s hand, depositing the necklace into his palm. We haven’t touched again, not with direct purpose, since that first day when I took his hands in mine. I close his fingers around it and squeeze his hand tightly in both of mine.

I search for words. He’s better with them than I am, really everyone is. After a moment, I find some. Whether they’re good ones or not, I have no idea.

“You make me feel like I’m stuck inside a sand dune.” I murmur, watching his face in case I have the wrong ideas.

But oh, I was so right.

Samuel Jenk’s smile widens to that dangerous face cracking intensity. He says, “You make me feel alive too, Nino. What’s this about?”

After a moment of staring into each other’s eyes like idiots, I clear my throat.

“As you know, my specialty lies in manipulating sand, and therefore, glass. I was able to save some of the pieces from your accident, and I thought maybe …” I shake my head, pulling my hands back. “It’s really not a big deal.”

Samuel’s brows furrow and he looks down at his hand as his fingers unfurl. Strung on a braided leather cord is a pendant in the highly detailed shape of a solar board, complete with a sail and the mast. Samuel exhales heavily, carefully bringing the small glass piece closer to his face so he can examine it.

“It’s so fragile,” He whispers, face unreadable for the first time since I’ve met him.

I sit on the edge of his bed, drawing his rapt attention to me. “It appears to be, but it will never break, not as long as I’m alive, anyway. It’s too morbid, isn’t it? You don’t have to keep it, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

I reach for the pendant but he wrenches his hand back, fingers closing around the glass. “No, it’s … the nicest thing anyone’s ever given me. Thank you, I will treasure this for as long as I live.”

My neck heats obscenely and I tug at my collar. “Oh, well that’s … good. Really good. I’m glad you like it.”

“Will you help me put it on?” He asks, and I nod with perhaps too much enthusiasm.

I gingerly take the pendant from him and he leans forward, chest almost touching mine as I reach around his neck. I tie the leather cord into a simple but effective knot so that the solar board hangs at his sternum, resting above the hospital gown. My heart races when he leans back, still painfully close as he looks down at the pendant now cradled in his hand.

When his eyes meet mine again, they are wet and glinting and under the fluorescent lights. “It won’t break? You’re sure?”

I chuckle, unable to help it. “I made sure it would hold up to your lifestyle. “

He grins. “I’ll put it through its paces, that’s for sure.”

After a little while longer, I bid Samuel goodnight and dare to kiss his forehead. He gifts me with one of his smaller, almost secretive but infinitely rich smiles. My lips burn and tingle the entire rest of the evening as I work my shift in a daze. It’s not until much later, when I’m curled into the cubby in the on-call room that I’ve been residing in more than my own apartment, that I realize something.

I never told Samuel my first name.

—

I have one hour before my shift starts. I knock on Samuel’s ajar door with my free hand, the other holds onto a tray of six warm cinnamon rolls. The next two books in the series Samuel and I finished yesterday are tucked under my arm. Sunlight filters in through the halls and Godsdamnit the birds are fucking chirping. How cliche.

When he doesn’t cheerily call me in, I poke my head through the crack in the door. He’s not lying in bed, but the bathroom door is shut. There’s no nurse waiting outside it to help him back to his bed, but then again, he hasn’t really needed one, it’s been more of a precaution. I step inside the room and set the tray of cinnamon rolls on the empty rolling table, then place the books beside it.

I take a pastry and sit down in my chair, shoving half of it into my mouth. Once I sit down, I notice a scrap piece of paper atop the rumpled blankets littering Samuel’s bed. Probably one of the nurse’s. I pluck it off the bed, fingers jittering as the sugar kicks in. Holy fuck, Berkinson really does need to tone it down abit.

One word scrawled across the top of the paper catches my attention.

Nino.

My breakfast falls to the floor.

Nino,

Thank you for taking such good care of me over these past few weeks, and for being a friend to me. An actual, true friend who didn’t care that I’m famous and didn’t want anything from me other than to be with me. I’ll admit it, I took the coward’s way out.

I don’t think I could’ve said goodbye to you.

I’ll never be the kind of person who can stay in one place, Nino. While I think you know that, I don’t want to hurt you, or disappoint you. I know one day our paths will cross again, but for now, I will always remember you as the person who made me feel alive without having to put myself in danger.

I am an honest enough person to admit that I will never be able to say goodbye to danger, either. Please don’t think poorly of me for leaving you like this, but I wouldn’t blame you if you did.

You’ve changed me, my friend, and I look forward to the day I see you again. Maybe this time there will be less blood involved.

I’ll make sure there’s sand, though, just for you.

Samuel Jenks

I cry.

There’s no use in hiding it. I’m alone, and even though I have absolutely no reason to cry over a man I’ve only known for three weeks, my patient, I sob like there’s no tomorrow.

For five minutes, that is.

After five minutes of thoroughly soaking the note with my tears, the overhead system yanks me down to reality. “Code Green, all available practitioners to Bay One. Doctors Lasange, Berkinson, and Myonski report to Bay Three. I repeat, Code Green, Bay One.”

I stand.

I leave the books and cinnamon rolls to retrieve later. (more like the empty plate after housekeeping sniffs them out) I don’t miss the fact that the book I left behind yesterday is gone. For some reason, I take comfort in the fact Samuel stole my book, along with my heart.

I leave the abandoned room, shoulders square and head held high as I sprint towards the emergency department, ready to save another life. Berkinson and Myonksi meet me halfway there and I fall into step between them. When we arrive at Bay One, there’s a bloody and sandy mess awaiting us. I glance at Berkinson and his lips twitch upwards.

He asks, “Ready for this, Nino?”

It’s after his fingers finish sweeping across his cheeks that something clicks. I take his hand, squeezing gently. “Ready, James.”

James Berkinson’s eyes widen, and he squeezes back.

Real people.

October 22, 2022 / Aelina / Leave a comment

One of my favorite things about Phantom and Rook is how messed up the characters are. And I mean that in the most realistic, and best of ways.

Most people I know in my personal life have mental illness, and I have supported people with a wide range of disabilities my entire adult life. In short, there is no such thing as normal. To think living as a cis, healthy person with not a care in the world is normal, is a rather absurd thought.

This is something I did not come to terms with until later on in life. Later on life, I learned that it’s okay to take medicine, or not. That it’s okay to talk about it, or not.

That it’s okay to need help.

That it’s okay to not BE okay.

And I feel, now, that it’s pretty common to not be okay with being yourself until later in life. I most certainly did not know how to be an adult and realize the other shoe wasn’t going to drop until my mid twenties. Don’t forget to throw in the gender crisis that was repressed for far longer that it should’ve been.

What I’m trying to say is that these are the type of people in this book. Adults, with adult problems. Of course there’s magick and unrealistic things, but the characters are the most realistic shreds of imagination I’ve ever put to paper. That’s why these lines in the reviews so far make me so happy.

‘I also loved the examination of mental health and healing. I loved the acknowledgement that while Arlo was on his own journey of healing, his actions had a HUGE impact on his loved ones as well, and this story was as much about them healing from it as it was him.’

‘I’ll start by saying I loved this book. If a book manages to make me laugh, cry, feel angry, etc it will always be a good book in my eyes.’

‘Arlo’s friends play a big part in helping the reader understand him and his past, and I definitely appreciate the focus on his mental health needs while destigmatizing mental illness. It’s so rare to find that as a main focus in a book.’

And just because it made me happy,

‘This is the first book from this author I have read and to be honest I was absolutely blown away and have fallen in love !’

The Secret

October 19, 2022 / Aelina / 3 Comments

I have a secret.

The Game in Phantom and Rook is based on a real treasure hunt that has been ongoing in North America since 1982, called The Secret.

Byron Preiss hid twelve treasure boxes and the clues to finding them were provided in a book written by Preiss, also called The Secret. In this book are paintings which holds clues, along with written clues. These boxes across the United States and Canada in places that represent events and people that played significant roles in North American history.

Those who discover one of the treasure boxes are entitled to exchange it with Preiss for a precious gem. After he died in 2005, his estate assumed the responsibility of honoring the terms of the treasure hunt.

The painter, John Jude Palencar, has also honored Preiss’ wishes and claims he has no knowledge of the actual locations of the treasure boxes, and even if he did, he wouldn’t tell anyone.

As far as I know, only three boxes have been found. I first learned about this on the show Expedition Unknown and have always loved the idea of people exploring and engaging in their community all for the sake of discovery.

Hence, the Game in Phantom and Rook. This year the Illusionist has hidden clues to their identity throughout the town, using paintings stolen from the local museum. The cover itself has a few details regarding the Game, and while we may know who the culprit is, it’s fun to watch the characters struggle in their attempts to solve the Game.

Featured

Phantom and Rook Cover Reveal

Featured / Aelina / Leave a comment

Sure you’re ready ?

When An Immortal Falls In Love With A Witch

How many details can you spot?
Words will never be enough to describe how beautiful this cover is and how much I appreciate the hours upon hours of work the artist, Bear Pettigrew, put into it. Thatch and Arlo are spectacular and I WANT Arlo’s sweater! Scroll down for a full spread with the spine and back.

Everything has been submitted to Ingram and Amazon and in a few days the pre-orders will be available on there, but if you want a signed copy with prints and all that fun stuff, check out my bookstore.

Kirt Graves is narrating the audio book which will be coming out a couple of weeks after Phantom and Rook releases in print (November 2nd) and I’m beyond excited to listen to it once it’s all done.

Bookstore

Did you know this is already on Goodreads?

Goodreads

Bear Pettigrew has done several covers, comics and sells original artwork in the form of prints, stickers and other cool things. You can check them out here.

Crossroad Art

Witchtober – Crystal

October 13, 2022 / Aelina / Leave a comment

Today’s witch is brought to you by the prompt Crystal.

A woman hits her knees before me, smacking the translucent floor with an ominous thud. Aquatic life scurries away from the sound waves rippling through the cradling the submerged Den of the Nightingale. While her hands are unbound, and the unseemly gag in her lips is removed, I check my nails. A chip remains in the paint covering my pinky nail from the last mess I cleaned up.

You can tell a lot about a person based on the first words they reclaim after having their voice stolen. Some immediately begin screaming, others argue or demand to know what is going on. A rare few, like the woman before me, says nothing. Blood red hair sweeps across her cheeks as she tilts her face up to meet my bored gaze. Her strong eyes match her smooth tresses in color and shine, but they pulse between the crimson red and an invigorating white.

I pace around the woman, hands clasped behind my back. My talons clack upon the floor and my silken black dress trails behind me. Upon finding the slash across the woman’s back, marring her own black dress that extends from wrists to throat, my wings quiver with distaste. When I stand before the woman again, I close the distance between us so she has to tilt her head back uncomfortably to meet my eyes.

“You denied healing services. Why?” I ask, more curious than offended.

The woman’s eyes simmer with a fresh wave of magick, restrained by the collar around her neck. When she speaks, she never looks away from me. “I’d rather bleed out on your pretty floor than accept help from a goniff.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Me, a thief? Quite a sentiment coming from you.”

The woman scoffs and I snap my fingers, beckoning the shomer standing in the corner of my office. Without having to ask, the human, equipped in fighting leathers, weapons and an astounding amount of intelligence, retrieves a binder from inside their jacket. They cross the room without making a sound, transferring the black leather into my hands without ever touching me. We lock eyes, theirs are a soft pink that contrasts the hard lines of their partially masked face

They give me no indication to stop with my line of questioning, so I continue.

“Thank you,” I dip my head to the shomer. I open the binder and begin reading off transgressions and facts. “Tanuki Starshot, Half-Elven Descent, 127 years old, residence currently unknown. Worked as a psychiatrist at Heartstone Medical for fifty years before quitting without notice or acceptance of the retirement earned. A series of crimes escalating in severity occured, including but not limited to; Arson in the Lesser and Majority, Thievery in the Lesser and Majority, Kidnapping even. The police of course have no leads or a theory as to motive, but certain … sources say that you are seeking vengeance against me.”

Tanuki’s scowl tightens, but she says nothing.

I elegantly drop into a kneeling position, opposite Tanuki. I rest my palms on my thighs, while her hands are shaking fists. I tilt my head, awaiting a response. Third eyelids sweep over my eyes, casting Tanuki in a translucent filter. Her thick, bloody aura is calm, furious, but calm. She isn’t afraid of me.

Tanuki swallows, then says, “You’ve been watching me for longer than I thought.” I can’t help but laugh. It’s quick and soft, but the severity of it penetrates Tanuki’s stoic posture. “Why?” She grits out.

“Why did you crash my Gala and murder three innocents in attempts to steal what is rightfully mine?” I counter, amusement replaced by icy curiosity.

Tanuki throws her head back and laughs. “Innocent? None of you are innocent, that’s why I’m!-” She cuts off with a snarl, glaring at me with a hatred burned anew. “You’re murderers, thieves, cheaters and liars. A stain on Levena, and you’re at the top of the tower, monopolizing the black market.”

I lean closer and she stiffens, but doesn’t pull back. Inches separate us and I smirk to hide the pride swelling in my chest. “You’re not innocent either, dear. Spare me the self-righteous bullshit. You’re here on a personal … errand. If you wanted to see me fall, there are plenty of less dangerous and direct ways to do so.”

I allow that to hang in the air for a moment, and when she doesn’t deny it, I continue in a whisper, driving each point home with a harsh rasp.

“Every settlement, from city to village, has a stain where the less fortunate saturate the earth with their blood, sweat and tears. There will always be those who suffer under the weight of those who live with more. It may be due to personal circumstance, societal pressure or rich assholes taking advantage of the working class, but there will always be those who need a helping hand. Would you prefer a pompous prick to have total control of black trade? Someone who could easily poison this city with such influence, power and connections?”

Tanuki scoffs, jaw working as she stares directly into my eyes. “And what makes you so fucking righetous? How do you help the less fortunate? Murder not only the competition, but all those speak against you? Even those who don’t even know you? Don’t pretend like you peddle things as trivial as drugs and whores. I know about the Wrens.”

I smile, pleased with her intelligence. If it were anyone else, I would’ve slit her throat at the mention of the assassins. “We don’t kill anyone who doesn’t deserve it. If you doubt that fact, I can prove to you otherwise. We target only those who the police can not or will not touch, and for the most part, our work does not take place in Levena. Not until recently, but as you can imagine the NOJ and AWO groups have kept us quite busy. The same groups that fed you false information.”

That finally gets a reaction out of her. Pure surprise.

“Why are you telling me this?” Tanuki asks, hands loosening. Then her face hardens. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

“Oh no, not at all. Quite the opposite.” I pat her hand and she pulls back like I’ve burned her. “That would be a waste of your talents, and I’m afraid I’m the sentimental type.”

Tanuki bares her teeth. “No. Fuck no. I’d rather die than work for you.”

I frown, standing. “No, that just will not do.”

Tanuki says nothing, glowering up at me. I return to my desk, glancing briefly at the shomer. They lock eyes with me, then dip their chin.

I take a seat in the plush desk chair, tracing absent circles on the wooden desk surface. I follow the dark whorls of time preserved in plant fiber, allowing complete silence to fill the office for a minute. I glance up at Tanuki, pressing my palm to the desk. She’s watching me intense scrutiny, her fury has given way to intense distaste and interest.

Magick doesn’t rush through my veins and arteries in the same volatile way that it does to my brethren. It flows like a cool, steady stream throughout my circulatory system, powered by the quiet and steady rhythm of my witch’s heart. A pale blue glow dances around my hand, like a loose cloud swirling with an invisible breeze.

Tanuki straightens, leans ahead. Her own magick flares in response to seeing mine, but is still restrained by the binding collar. “You’re a witch.” She says in a whisper, not quite accusing but unsettled all the same.

I nod, pressing my palm harder against the desk. An invisible plume of energy expands from my hand, bringing with it a sweet fragrance that has always reminded me of freshly baked cookies. Tanuki sighs, visibly relaxing. That is, until the desk transforms.

Molecule by rearranged molecule, the wood beneath my hand changes into something infinitely harder, cooler and brighter. Ruby ripples through the desk, washing away all traces of the tree that unwillingly once gave its life to become a piece of furniture. The transfiguration takes less than ten seconds, but they are ten seconds of pure bliss.

I don’t allow my magick out to play very often. People are not all that different from inanimate objects, perhaps even easier to crystalize.

I lift my hand from the desk and straighten. “This is how I help. Why my businesses and my people thrive. With protection, and the wealth I can offer them. I have a gift that most would, and have, tried to kill for. I will use it for good, by the motherfucking Gods, I will. I have never hurt a person who did not deserve it. I have never killed an innocent. That I can promise you. If you work for me, you will have a chance to fight the actual villains, and I will show you just how much you’ve been lied to.”

I watch the calculations fly behind her eyes, the corners of her lips wrinkling as she reworks what she knows about me. Tanuki shakes her head and says with determination, “You killed my mother.”

The shomer leaves their post, crossing the room with squared shoulders. I stay where I am, allowing them to take over. They stand before Tanuki, and I come around my desk, wanting to be able to see both their faces.

Tanuki looks between the shomer and I, face pinching. “What is this?” She asks, and I say nothing.The shomer reaches up with subtly trembling fingers, hooking them through the loops of their black fabric mask. They pull it down and Tanuki blanches instantly.

The true Nightingale, the shomer that has been by my side for decades since she left her old life behind, says, “Hello, Daughter.”

Witchtober – Blade

October 12, 2022October 12, 2022 / Aelina / Leave a comment

Today’s witch is brought you to by the prompt Blade.

I’m lost.

A broken sword jingles in my pack, overwhelming the scuff of my boots against worn stone. I check the map on my phone again, pretty sure the internet has failed me. I turn in a circle, shadowed by cottages and the nearby Aviary towering high above the city. Overlooking the west is Syorini Lake, catching the evening sun on its beautiful surface. Certainly not going to find a blacksmith there.

“Ai, need some help?”

I startle, throwing my phone into the air. The vampire that had once been a little farther down the sidewalk is now right before me, my phone cradled in their outstretched hands.

“Oh my goodness, thank you! Yes, I’m looking for Tessa’s Smithy, happen to know where that is?” I breathlessly take my phone back and return the smile given to me by the blue haired vampire with striking violet eyes.

“No problem,” They nod with a quiet chuckle, pointing to a narrow side road that diverges from the sidewalk we stand on. “Follow that path there, it’ll lead you right to it.”

“Oh, thank you so much. Have a good night, friend.”

The vampire smiles, then dips their chin and parts ways with me.

I straighten my shoulders, clutching the strap of my pack, then carry on. The side path is quiet, flanked by frogs, crickets and water lilies. Small trees and decorative bushes, along with endless amounts of wildflowers in their full summer bloom, follow the road which easily switches back and forth until folding in on the lake proper. Something flies overhead, too big to be a bird. A wyvern, perhaps?

How I didn’t see it before I’m not sure, but the small island sitting a little way off shore is plain as day now. A small boardwalk connects the island to the grassy shoreline of the mainland. Lanterns hang from the tall wooden posts and beckon me to come closer. I swallow hesitantly, not sure if I want to edge towards the island. I didn’t expect the smithy to be on the water, and paired with the fact they hold odd night hours, I’m uneasy.

The clinking of shattered metal grounds me. I sigh, reclaiming my courage. I’m doing this for Alice. She deserves this —by Gods does she deserve this— and so much more.

I take a step, then another. Even when my boots thud against wooden decking instead of soft grass, I keep walking. I distract myself from the water licking at the beams holding up the bridge, focusing on the little cottage nestled onto the little island.

Both are small, but somehow … Infinite.

Wind chimes catch my attention first. They hang from the fruit trees surrounding the back of the cottage, intricately knotted hemp cord dangles in the soft breeze. More come into view when I step onto solid ground, the soft clattering and ringing chases away the heartbeat in my ears. Some are metal while others are bone, or of the driftwood and shell variety. They make an appearance in the open windows of the house, bits of beads and glass shine under the setting sun and call to be known. My favorite are the ones made with simple things, like spoons.

The cottage has been beaten down by time. The only paint to be seen frames the numerous and misshapen windows which are close to the ground. Perhaps the color was blue at one point, but now it’s mostly a dull gray with a hint of what it once was. A rhythmic clang joins the wind chime symphony and my heart stutters in response. My path curves around the corner of the cottage, ending in what is undeniably a front yard.

The anxiety of stumbling upon someone’s home by accident is softly dulled upon finding a sign that is remarkably newer than the front porch it hangs from.

‘Tessa’s Smithy; Open by Appointment’

I pry my fingers off the strap to my pack one by one, then flex my hands open and closed at my sides. I follow the sounds of a workshop, picking up on a radio that’s screaming metal into the warm evening air at a surprisingly low level. I duck beneath overhanging tree limbs, around low tables filled with clutter, and between piles of metal that at first glance appear haphazardly placed. They are organized according to size, though, and material.

I shake off my snooping habits and come to a stop in front of an open garage.

In fact, everything stops.

Thousands of bronze and gold scales reflect the coals blazing in a forge set low to the ground. A thick, muscular arm flexes as the smith turns their work this way and that in the heat. Sweat infringes on the collar of their white tank top, causing the fabric to stick to their gleaming, deeply tanned skin. Dark brown locs are tied back with a strip of ragged fabric, but a few have escaped and dangle before the smith’s pinched eyes.

Their breathtakingly elegant and long tail sweeps back and forth, slowly, across the mossy floor of the garage. I’m surprised that their movements are easy and not at all unhindered by the lack of water. Tiny scales cover their thick body from the hips down, catching the light and my attention. Even without seeing their face, I can feel that they are the most heartbreakingly beautiful person I’ve ever met.

The smith removes their work from the coals, moving a short ways to an anvil where they begin to hammer upon the metal like it owes them a life debt. Their body shudders with the impact and despite the distance, the forge’s heat is getting to me.

“Well, come in.” They call out over the violence of hammer against metal, scaring the shit out of me. I manage a squeak and a step back, which finally draws the siren’s attention. Sirens are the beautiful counterpart to mermaids, all beauty and less teeth. They stop hammering and say, “I don’t bite.”

I pull myself together and inwardly chant, ‘Alice is going to love this, Alice is going to love this.’

“H, Hello.” I step inside the garage, very much feeling like I’m intruding on a personal sanctuary. “I’m Ori, with the birthday present?”

The smith closes the distance between us, their tail smoothly glides across the moss not unlike how a snake moves. They extend a hand towards me, a demon, like it’s nothing.

I take it. By Gods, do I take it.

“Florence Quintessa, at your service. How would you like to be addressed, Ori?”

“Oh,” Heat flushes my cheeks at the forward question but I appreciate it. “I prefer she/her, thank you. And you?”

“Any, all, none? Whatever you like. Now, let’s see that blade.” Florence shrugs, the peripheral fins of their lower body flutter with the movement. The translucent, gold tinted fins at the end of their tail are gorgeous, reminding me of frond leaves.

After Florence raises a brow, I remember myself. “Oh, right.” I sling the pack off my shoulder, then gently remove the three pieces inside it and hand them over. I feel off balance, dazed and smitten.

Oh Gods, I’m smitten.

Florence takes the pieces and lays them out on a workbench, then heaves into a rolling stool and leans over the table to inspect the sword, tail dragging alongside them. Their eyes flare the slightest bit, enough to reveal the bright red magick swirling around their irises. I inhale sharply at their side and Florence’s head jerks up. Sparks simultaneously fly from the coal forge on the opposite side of them, all but confirming the gossip.

“Problem?” Florence asks, unmoving while awaiting my answer.

I shake my head. “No, nothing.”

Florence stares at me for another moment, then goes back to evaluating the sword. The magick in their eyes doesn’t die, but the forge simmers down. I wait, trying not to fidget and interrupt their analysis. Eventually they murmur, “You’d be better off requesting an all new blade than repairing this one. It’s imbued with witch’s magick, but then again, I’m sure you already knew that.”

Panic throttles my heart. “I was assured you’re the best when it comes to repairing magickal weapons.”

Genuine surprise ripples throughout Florence’s face, ending with a tick in their strong jaw. They fold their arms across their chest, pushing together an ample amount of cleavage that piles over the top of their tank top. Sweat instantly tracks down my spine.

“And who says that?”

He did say it was alright to share his name, that the smith is a trusted friend, but the recent attacks on witches by witches has deemed trust a brittle thing. I have little choice. I don’t tear away from Florence’s intense gaze when I say, “Arlo Rook. He said you’re trustworthy, and exceptionally skilled.”

Like a balm to a festering wound, Florence instantly relaxes, but their curiosity piques.

“Is that so?” Florence looks back to the sword, contemplating. A soot covered finger taps the bench once, twice. I take a step closer, looking down at the sword scarred with time and battle.

“I know it’s impossible. I’m … desperate. My daughter,” Emotion thickens in my mouth and I clear it away. Alice. Alice. Alice.

“It was her father’s. She’s taken on swordplay, for recreation, not … necessity, like he had to, but I thought … well, I don’t know what I thought. You know what, I’m sorry for wasting your time like this, I–”

I reach for the discarded pieces of my husband’s life, but Florence stops me with a gentle hand to my wrist. “I never said I couldn’t do it.”

I lock tear filled eyes with the siren, unable to remove myself from their grasp, or question why they haven’t let me go. “Really? You can fix it?”

Florence smiles then, and I can’t help but smile too, just a little. Oh Gods, it’s been so long since the expression came without burden.

“I can fix it.”

Witchtober – Glitter

October 6, 2022October 6, 2022 / Aelina / Leave a comment

Today’s witch is brought to you by the prompt Glitter.

I’ve officially decided glitter is an asshole.

Witch House is empty, a rare thing these days. I managed to convince Dad–Arlo, that I’m not feeling well, not that I would need much of an excuse to stay home from school. He knows I like going, so if I want to stay home, there’s a good reason.

But I’m not sick.

Oh, my nerves are shot and my glued together fingers shake. That’s only because I didn’t sleep last night and pounded a half a pot of coffee the moment everyone left for work or school. An hour later and the caffeine hasn’t relented, but whatever.

This has to be perfect.

I stand on wobbling legs, the sensation in my toes long gone from sitting cross legged too long. I hold the banner up, inspecting my work. Excess purple and silver glitter cascades down my front and I frown at the drooping letters. A few of the pasted on, gigantic letters flop to the floor with simultaneous wet slaps, leaving behind a partial message.

‘HA PY B RTHD Y A LO’

“Fuck.” I mutter, blowing out a heavy breath.

“Don’t let Arlo hear you talking like that,” A distorted voice says softly, scaring the fucking shit out of me.

The banner goes flying overhead and I squeak. Magick flares and rattles the paintings on the walls. I inhale sharply and contain my energy before causing a disaster. Again.

Silas tucks his chin into his left shoulder, but instead of the usual loud hum that follows the movement, he laughs. In the few months we’ve been living together at Witch House, I’ve never heard the sound. It’s … probably frightening to anyone that doesn’t know him, but I like it, screechy rasping and all.

“You’re supposed to be at school,” I mumble, hurrying for the banner now cast across the craft table behind me. Before I can crumple it into a ball, Silas’ hand falls on mine.

“Don’t do that,” He says, and I frown.

“It’s not good enough.”

Silas shakes his head. Thick white bangs sweep back and forth across the bridge of his nose, hiding his eyes from me. Another thing Silas doesn’t let the world see. His hair is longer now than when we first met. The near translucent tresses cast well beyond his shoulders as he takes the banner from me. I reluctantly let him have it with a huff.

Silas studies the mess of a banner that I intended to hang in the kitchen downstairs before Arlo and the others got home, but at this rate it’ll never happen. He gently lays the banner down on the craft table, allowing rivers of glue, glitter and panel to flow onto the paint covered surface that hides what was once dark wood. The metal covering his pitch black, wrist to ankle ensemble jingles as he moves. All bracelets and chains, harnesses and necklaces.

He asks, “It’s Arlo’s birthday?”

“Yeah.” I nod, rocking back and forth on my sock covered heels.

Silas’ fingers twitch. “He didn’t say anything.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, well, that’s D— Arlo, for you. He didn’t …” I gesture vaguely, searching for words that won’t betray him. “He didn’t get to celebrate last year, for his centennial. It’s … kind of a big deal I guess, turning a hundred.”

To my surprise, Silas snorts. “So old.”

I blink rapidly. “Did you just … make a joke?”

Silas lifts his head and gives me a look, or at least I think he is. His lips push together like they usually do when he’s not impressed, and he crosses his arms. “I can be funny.”

“Right.” I say, unsure what to do now.

“Can I help?” Silas asks, gesturing to the banner. “We can make a new one. You were using too much glue. And glitter. Less is more with these things.”

“Oh,” I say dumbly, not expecting that. It’s not that we don’t get along, we just kind of … exist next to each other. I’m always being weird and breaking shit, he’s always on the outside looking in, aloof but not in an unkind way.

Silas turns away with something reminiscent of a soft chuckle, but to others it could be considered an evil villain laugh. “If we take this downstairs, I can bake and give you directions on how to properly make a birthday banner. Two birds with one stone, as they say.”

Without warning, heat swarms my cheeks and neck upon remembering the cake Silas made for me in the fall. It was really good.

I nod. “Yeah, okay. If you’re sure you want to help, I’d like that.”

It starts with a slow, upward tugging of the corner of his pale lips, but a wide smile lights up Silas’ features. “I want to help.”

Twenty minutes and five trips up and down the stairs later, we’ve set up shop in the kitchen. I was afraid of making a mess in here, and frankly after last week’s debacle with the stove, I try to stay out of the kitchen as much as possible. Silas assures me that it’ll be fine, so I leave it to him to clean up any wreckage I leave in my wake, which he agrees to with another smile.

Weird.

While the oven preheats, Silas helps me roll out another length of six inch wide paper on the floor, this sheet a bright pink. We make it long enough to fit the open archway separating the kitchen from the dining room, then Silas suggests we write the message in glue and spread glitter over it, instead of cutting out and individually pasting each letter to the banner.

Why didn’t I think of that?

“Will it have enough time to dry?” I ask, and Silas nods.

“It should. I’ll start on the cake, if you’ve got this.”

I wave him off. “Yeah. Good idea, by the way.”

Silas opens his mouth, closes it, then starts again when he gestures to the banner. “Shouldn’t it say Dad or something like that?”

Heat flushes my cheeks and I shift uncomfortably. “Oh, I don’t … It’s, you know …” I chance a look at Silas, who hasn’t moved a muscle, waiting patiently. “It’s early, isn’t it? Shouldn’t I wait?”

As the words tumble out in a rush, a weight falls from my shoulders. I’ve been wrestling the word Dad farther down my throat ever since Arlo adopted my, not wanting to seem too—

“Says who?” Silas counters, and I scoff.

“I dunno,” I snap, crossing my arms. “Aren’t people supposed to be–”

Silas puts up a hand. “I’m going to stop you right there. Anything involving the words ‘supposed to’ is generally a bad idea. Do you see him as your Dad?”

I nod, grumbling. “But won’t he feel uncomfortable? What if he doesn’t see me as … As his son?” I admit, near quiet and breakable.

“Felix, you are his son.” Silas says, incredibly soft and strained. He extends his hand to me, then retreats. “Don’t worry about it, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” I shrug, unfolding my arms.

Silas dips his head but says nothing, retreating to the inner kitchen where counters and appliances reign. I sigh, then settle on the floor, facing the banner. I carefully write the message in a large, flowing script that I’ve been told multiple times is exceptional, but I think it looks messy.

I take my time like Silas said, laying down one letter at a time in glue, gently spreading glitter over it before going on to the next. I have to blow my hair out of my eyes a few times. I’ve decided to try growing it out and I’m not sure how I feel about it yet. While mine doesn’t grow as fast as Silas’ does, it’s long enough to be in the way.

We work in companionable silence and I glance at him a few times, only able to see the top of his head from my place on the floor and the counter island separating us. He appears to be in his own little world. Hair bouncing softly as he enjoys the music that must be blaring in his earbuds now. I do want to know more about him, and maybe become friends, but I have no idea what to say to him. On the bad days when I can’t separate other people’s thoughts from my own, I’ve stolen glimpses of Silas’ mind.

It’s loud.

That’s why I don’t feel so bad for not pursuing conversation and allowing him to take the lead. Or so I tell myself, which sounds better than being the clueless kid everyone sees me as. While I’m not an adult, I’m not a kid anymore either. It’s easier to talk now than it used to be, but not always. I had thought I would’ve grown out of it, but … here we are.

I decide to be a little brave. If Silas didn’t feel like interacting, he wouldn’t have offered to help, right?

“When’s, uh, when’s your birthday?” I ask, head ducked as I work on Arlo’s name.

He doesn’t say anything.

I peek up, finding him standing with his back to me, in front of the oven. I don’t ask again and he doesn’t move, so I go back to work. A few minutes pass in silence, then the gentle thud of Silas’ boots cross the room towards me.

I swallow heavily, pretending that I don’t notice.

But then he sits cross legged across from me, hands gripping his knees. I warily look up through my hair, shaking it out of the way so I can see him better. His back is ramrod straight, head tilted as he watches me. One side of his lips twitches into an almost smile.

“What?”

“You should let me pin your hair back, you’ve got glitter and glue all in it.”

I balk, reaching up to inspect the hair in my eyes, realizing a moment too late that’s a bad idea. I groan, setting down the glue with my other hand. I glare at Silas and he chews on his bottom lip to keep from smiling again. I itch to throw him off, just a little.

“Fine, only if I get to do yours.” I say without a second thought, then am immediately horrified. I’m good at braiding hair, Kleo made me do hers all the time, but Silas doesn’t seem like the kind of person who enjoys being touched.

Silas hums in a short, loud burst, the sound of it reminds me of an aborted laugh. I imagine if I could see his eyes, they’d be widening. He lifts his left shoulder and rubs his cheek on the peak of it, then regards me once more. I never flinch from his movements or noises, and the others don’t either. At least not on purpose.

Silas’ outbursts can be sudden and there’s been a few times when he’s been especially startled. His magick lashes out like my own, breaking things, but it’s always an accident and it embarrases him. So I don’t flinch.

I shrug, picking the glue back up. “I’m just joking. You can … You can fix it, if you want. It’s kind of in the way, I don’t know how you do it. You don’t have to, though.”

Silas scoots back, allowing space between him and the banner. He crooks a finger in a ‘come hither’ gesture. I oblige, leaving the glue behind. My cheeks flush and I sit in front of him, unsure what to do.

“I don’t have any pins,” I say.

Silas reaches into his pants pocket, revealing a handful of bobby pins.

I nod once, giving him a sideways smile. “That’s handy.”

“Do you mind if I listen to music while I do this?” Silas asks, drawing his hand back.

I shake my head, drawing my knees to my chest. “No, you don’t gotta ask. Thanks for letting me know.”

Silas nods, tapping the side of the earbud buried in his hair. His mouth twitches and he doesn’t move, so I close my eyes.

A moment passes.

Then, ever so gently, cold fingers brush against my forehead. I fight the shiver threatening my spine as he twirls a patch of hair, then pins the twist back against my crown. He repeats the process, my hair not quite long enough to be fashioned in any neat sort of way. I’ve never had my hair done before.

I breathe.

And he breathes.

I tilt my head, the subtle sounds of Silas’ music reach my ears. I strain to hear it better. It must be wicked loud if I can hear the interwoven harmonies of a violin and an electronic beat. Silas doesn’t resume his work and I clear my throat, opening my eyes.

He grins. “I can see you.”

“You’re one to talk.” I roll my eyes, huffing out a laugh. I gesture to his own hair. “Ready?”

Silas tenses, then nods. I don’t ask again, because I have to believe that he’ll tell me if he’s uncomfortable. He reaches into another pocket, then offers me a hair tie. I’ve never seen him use either accessory, I wonder why he carries them around. Before I can ask, he turns around and puts his back to me. I drop my knees, spreading my legs out on either side of his curled body.

“Okay.” He says, looking anything but.

I roll my bottom lip between my teeth. Chocolate fills the kitchen and I fill my lungs with the warm scent, then exhale a question. “Would you mind if we … listened together?”

Silas sharply glances back at me over his shoulder, throwing white hair from his eyes. For the briefest of seconds, I catch a glimpse of icy blue.

“You won’t like it.”

“How do you know?”

He shrugs, turning his attention ahead once again. I take that as answer enough and gently touch his shoulder before moving to his hair.

“Tilt your head up,” I ask softly.

Silas doesn’t move, atleast, not in that way. He reaches into one of the side cargo pockets, taking out a phone. After a few seconds of messing around on it, music begins to spill out from the phone’s speakers instead of the earbuds. Sure enough, an energetic violin is accompanied by a modern, electric beat, forming a refreshing melody. He sets it down on the ground outside of my legs framing him, then tilts his face to the ceiling.

“Thanks,” I say, then gather three incredibly soft fingerfuls of white at the base of his temple. Silas shudders and I pause my movements. “You alright?”

“Yes.” Silas says immediately, then hums long and low before answering again. “I’ve never had my hair done before.”

I laugh quietly. “Me either, until now. Trust me, I know what I’m doing. Kleo loves her hair being done.”

I wait another moment, then start braiding Silas’ hair.

—

It takes longer than it should have, and not because of how long and thick his hair is, but because we both can’t stop moving to Silas’ music.

It started with Silas. He would bob his head or his fingers would dance on his thigh, then stop, as if catching himself. After the third time he cut himself off, I softly began tapping my toes on the floor and swaying back and forth, gentle as to not pull his hair. I added humming for good measure, but otherwise kept the silence between us.

With each noise and small movement that I made, Silas’ shoulders lessened and lessened until he was happily moving in place and humming along with me. Then, he started to tell me about each song that came on, all by the same violinist.

And I listened.

Now, I secure the tail of the main braid. A masterpiece, if I do say so myself. Numerous plaits begin at the front of Silas’ pale head. A main one in the center and three on either side which interweave with each other, snaking back and forth until meeting again at the base of his neck. The end of the singular, thick braid running down his spine comes to an end between his shoulder blades. I gently lay the white locks against his black shirt.

“Finished,” I say softly, not moving any further. I haven’t paid any attention to Silas’ face, not even when I uncovered it bit by bit, braiding his bangs back into the center section. I wanted to wait until all his hair was restrained, but now a swell of nervousness rushes over me.

I take a deep breath upon realizing the feeling is not mine.

“How does it look?” Silas asks quietly, staring straight ahead.

“Well, not to brag, but I think it’s pretty epic.”

Silas snorts. “I better go check the cake.”

“Oh, right.” I say, watching him stand and walk away from me. I sit there, feeling empty and a little disappointed, but unsure why. I decide not to dwell on it and be thankful that he trusted me to be in his space, to share his music. I spin in place on the floor, checking out the banner that was once behind me.

I smile at how beautiful it turned out, poking the glue to ensure it’s dried.

I stand with the banner in my hands and turn, coming face to face with Silas.

Oh.

“What’re you guys doing?”

I startle out of my skin and throw my hands up. Before the banner can go flying Silas is there to steady me, hands blanketing mine. Both of us look at the man standing in the open doorway separating the kitchen from the backyard.

An incredibly long silence follows.

I scrape my brain for something, anything to say, but of course, Silas saves me.

He gently releases my hands, then waves to Arlo with eyes so bright my heart does a weird little flip that hurts. Silas says, “Happy Birthday, Arlo. You’re supposed to be at work.”

Arlo raises a brow, the smirk upon his face widening. “Thank you, and you’re supposed to be at school.” Arlo’s emerald eyes slide from Silas to me and I awkwardly wave.

“Hey, Dad.” I say, lofting the formerly unspoken name into the air like a bomb. I inhale sharply and my heart pounds in my ears. It’s soon overwhelmed by the sparkle in Arlo’s eyes and the soft laugh that bubbles from his chest. I smile then, and add, “Happy Birthday.”

Witchtober – Clock

October 4, 2022 / Aelina / Leave a comment

Today’s witch is brought to you by the prompt Clock. Don’t forget to check out the other short stories.

There are some who say a clockwork heart does not beat, but I beg to differ.

As it has every day for the past seven (or eight) hundred years or so, the clock tower overlooking Full Moons Fields roars to life six times when the early morning hour strikes. A deafening gong, followed by two seconds of silence as the pendulum swings, then another gong as the clapper smashes into the other side of the bronze bell. Ropes sway up and down, trembling with the force of the sound.

I stand before the great clock face overlooking the east, watching the sun creep over the distant, gray horizon. I listen to the mechanisms of the turret clock behind me work, the ropes and gears working in tandem to create a semblance of control over such a fickle thing as time. I take a sip of my black coffee, sighing in content. I tuck the end of my quilted scarf back over my shoulder, dipping my nose beneath its warm fabric.

An ice storm rocks the atmosphere outside the tower, but the magick lining the glass face and metal hands keeps the clock from freezing over. While losing time would’ve been a catastrophe back in my early days, it’s not so much the case anymore. Everyone is in touch with everything, always. From the time, to tomorrow’s gossip and the news. Nevertheless, I’ll keep the clocktower running, same as I always have.

“Are you ready for work?” Lily asks, burrowed in the scarf cast across my shoulder. I chuckle, reaching up to rub the mouse’s forehead.

“Of course, little one.” I whisper to my only companion.

I turn away from the world outside my tower, descending the spiral staircase centered in the building. After several flights, I come to a stop at my workshop, still a few floors above the ground level. Upon entering, the overhead lights flick on, illuminating two halves to a giant space. On one side, neatly organized piles of sheet metal, coils of wire and oil spills reign. Work benches rest against the walls which are covered in pegboard, home to tools of every variety.

Partial droids wait on some tables, while others are empty or contain the opposite, which are nearly complete works. I choose such a table, setting my coffee mug down upon its worn and gouged surface. I remove my wire rimmed glasses and rub my sleep filled eyes, then set them back upon my nose. I immediately return to the problem I was elbows deep in last night, wiring through the vertebrae of a service droid.

Rain and ice slaps the windows and brick dominating the four sides of the tower. The hibernation stations housing my personal droids hum quietly and soft jazz pours from the cathedral style, cherry wood radio that had turned on with the lights. The saxophone and accompanying raspy harmony drowns out the overwhelming hollowness that stems from a certain type of silence.

One born from living alone, perpetually so.

I can’t remember the last time I took on a commission in person, let alone spoke to anyone aloud besides Lily. Another blessing and curse bestowed by technology, the ability for customers to place their orders and request maintenance on the droids or inventions they’ve already acquired, all without me having to actually speak to them. A drop off and pick up area staged at the base of the tower, followed by payment online, eliminates any need for social contact.

“I figured it out in my sleep last night, Lil. I have to reverse the flow of energy, that’s why the fuses were snapping.” I say, squinting as I undo the wires I had spliced together yesterday, then merge them in a new pattern.

“In your sleep, huh? Is that a dragon thing?” Lily teases, scampering down my arm until she hops off my ebony hand and onto the work table. She stays clear of the droid rattled this way and that, her tail twitching as she watches me work.

“No, just a me thing, dear.” I say, even though she already knows that.

A rather loud crash sounds from beneath us, startling Lily and I both. The sound echoes up the stairs in the center of the tower, followed by the slamming of a door and a string of curses. More thunderous destruction ensues and Lily and I exchange a look, then I sigh deeply.

“Bob.”

I cross over to the intercom situated near the doorway, making it there at the same time the selth’s hysterical voice comes through the system. “J-Josse! I n-need y-your help, p-please! It’s it’s it’s Floyd!”

“Get into the elevator,” I call down, pressing a series of buttons that activate the elevator system.

I clear off a table and collect the schematics for Floyd’s build, the papers worn by decades of time. I haven’t seen Bob and Floyd directly in years, and no news is good news I suppose, but then again, Floyd was my first. We’ve communicated via email and a long ago video call for Floyd’s annual checkup. Last I knew the droid was in tip-top shape, in good spirits and acclimating well to the move, not to mention living with Ren full time, Bob’s partner.

“Lil,” I start, but my familiar beats me to it, delivering a vial of bright purple liquid. I reach up to where she’s perched on my shoulder, taking the stored magick from her. I scratch between her ears with my forefinger, then she runs down my arm and onto the table. If memory serves me right, Bob has enough of this to last for a few more months, and there’s no way he’d let Floyd run dry, but I’ll get it ready just in case. The elevator dings and I hurry over, gasping at Bob and Floyd’s state.

The tips of the tentacles framing Bob’s face are blue, his overcoat is soaked through and stiff from the cold. His eyelashes are frozen over, nearly obscuring his onyx eyes. He shakes violently with Floyd’s unmoving form in his arms, his peachy face desperate. I rush over to him, gingerly taking Floyd from him.

“Here, sit here Bob,” I say, then give my attention to the hibernating droid in the corner that is remarkably sleeker and newer than Floyd is. “Barbara, can you prepare us a few cups of root tea, and gather some blankets for our guest?”

The humanoid automation blinks open their soft yellow eyes which matches their metallic golden complexion. Barbara nods, silently leaving her post in search of the kitchen nook occupying the other side of this level. Having food on the same floor as my work space is efficient, as is the hammock I frequently sleep in that neighbors the kitchen.

“You’re foolish, Bob. This could’ve waited until the storm passed.” I chastise, and the selth shoots me glare, like I knew he would. I can still remember the day Bob commissioned Floyd. The selth was young and offered me his life savings, (which was admittedly not very much) and I accepted his bizarre request.

Unlike my other inventions, Floyd was never meant to be of service. He was always intended to be Bob’s companion, his friend. Perhaps that is what made Floyd different. I gave him a higher purpose, thought of him as a person, not a machine.

Nevertheless, I haven’t been able to replicate anything, or anyone, close to Floyd.

“He was doing fine, one minute we were wrapping presents for Ren, and then the next he just … collapsed.” Bob whispers, watching as I gently remove the panel of his friend’s back. As I bring a voltage tester to Floyd’s solar batteries, Bob shakes his head. “I already did that. I wouldn’t have bothered you if I didn’t try everything first.”

I raise a brow at the selth. “And his magick tank?”

“Full, I triple chickled.” Bob says, tentacles slowly coming to life as he takes a mug from Barbara and thanks them. Barbara bows their head, then returns to their station. Bob turns his attention back to me, breaking voice dropping a strained octave. “Is he going to be okay, Josse? What’s wrong with him?”

I adjust my glasses, then remove my scarf and wrap it around Bob’s shoulders. I gently pat his cheek, giving him a smile. “He’ll be fine, just you see.”

—

Twelve hours later, and Floyd is far from fine.

Bob fell into a fitful sleep in his chair shortly after dinner. He never left Floyd’s side as I essentially tore his friend to pieces, eliminating possibilities as I went. Barbara and Lily reminded me to take care of myself throughout the day, and I ate at regular intervals begrudgingly. As the day has gone on, the more irritated I’ve become.

“There’s something I’m missing,” I mutter, again.

“You need to take a break, you’re looking too hard.” Lily says, from atop a small piece of trim framing the windows, overlooking the ice wrought city.

I rub at my forehead, grimacing. “I can’t. I’ve updated all his systems, refreshed his batteries and injected him with a steroidal dose of magick, checked his wiring. By all rights, there’s nothing wrong with him, so why isn’t he waking up?”

I groan, and my frustration morphs into a low, timbre-filled growl. I only break humanoid form once a year, but the way I’m feeling right now is enough to trigger a wave of scales shifting beneath my soft flesh. I settle for a compromise, joining Lily at the windows and only putting a small amount of distance between Floyd and I.

An eerie calm has washed over the world outside our tower, the silence is deafening after hours of violent precipitation. No one dares to peek outside their homes until the layer of thick ice has either melted away or been taken care of by the local winter crews, lending further to a ghost town atmosphere. Yule lights no longer twinkle over storefronts and homes, evergreen wreaths have been tugged from their lamp posts, haphazardly blown into the streets with other decorations that are no longer festive but depressing.

It hits me, then.

Tomorrow is Yule, and poor Bob and Floyd are stuck here with me instead of at home, enacting traditions with Ren. The thread of guilt weaving through my heart frays even further and I sigh. Is Floyd’s lifelessness due to my old age; my magick isn’t what it used to be?

Even so, he should be turning on and functioning like a, a, … a droid without a consciousness. My magick does nothing but fuel the minds of my creations, and for most, like Barbara, it’s nothing more than a sort of basic intelligence. No emotions or memories, only an awareness and knowledge of the world, and a desire to serve.

My heart thrums oddly in its cage and I rub at my sternum, brows furrowing. The Full Moons bell a few floors above us chants the arrival of the seventh hour, allowing a two second reprieve before it gongs again, then again, and again, thrusting an idea into my chest with each reverberating announcement.

—

After hours upon hours of hard work, burns to my fingertips, and a near shift into full white dragon form, I gently shake Bob’s shoulder. He startles awake violently, of course, with tentacles flapping and an indignant snort escaping from his hidden lips.

“What’s happened?! Is he alright? How long have I been sleeping?” Bob asks in a whirlwind, jumping up to standing, then stumbling backwards into his chair.

“Calm down, friend, it’s only been a few hours. I think I may have cracked the problem, but I need your help.” I say, gently helping Bob to his feet. A full tapestry of night has fallen over the windows and half the lights in the lab have switched off, providing a warm and cozy atmosphere.

“Okay,” Bob scrubs a hand over his face, nodding absently. “What do you need me to do?”

“Come with me,” I say, leading Bob over to the table I’ve laid Floyd out on, the accordion panels of his metallic chest folded back and exposing a large, hollow chamber.

“Oh, Floyd,” Bob whispers, running a hand over the droid’s forehead. Bob is anything but graceful, however the gentleness he reserves for his friend is astounding. Bob looks up to me, onyx eyes glistening. “Why is his chest open? I didn’t know it could do that.”

I nod sagely, standing by his side. “It took some fabrication, but a necessary step, for this.” I reach into my knitted cardigan’s pocket, retrieving the mechanism that took me far longer to create than the fabrication job on Floyd’s chest. Bob’s eyes widen when I deposit a palm sized, brass anatomical heart into his large, cold hands.

He cradles it like he would a babe, kind and careful.

A tentacle reverently traces over the lattice framework protecting the atriums and ventricles of the heart, then follows up and down the gleaming arteries, across the curve of the aortic arch. Stagnant gears and cogs hide inside the chambers of the mechanism, waiting for something to engage them.

Bob looks up to me and asks, “What is this?”

I smile at the selth, cupping his cheek in my hand. “Something I’ve been working on aimlessly for quite some time, didn’t really know why, but I couldn’t stop thinking about a mechanical heart. Now, I think I know why.”

Bob leans into my palm, staring up at me. “I don’t understand, droids don’t need hearts.”

“Well, Floyd’s not just any automation, is he?” I say quietly, and Bob nods once, tentacles and fingers quivering. “We’ll start it together, alright?”

I blanket Bob’s hands with my own, gently closing his fingers over the device. Magick swells, cascading out of the flesh and blood heart inside my chest, rushing through my veins and arteries until the energy meets the capillaries in my hands. Power seeps into Floyd’s hands, intermingling with his life force before drifting down into the brass. Metal calls to my energy like a magnet, metallurgy has been my specialty since the day magick burst to life in my body.

“All I need you to do is think … Think of all the things that make Floyd, Floyd. Think about how much you love him, how much Ren loves him, how much he means to you.” I say softly, and Bob heaves out a shuddering breath.

“He likes pancakes. Not eating them, obviously, but he likes the smell of them, how the little bubbles burst on the uncooked side. He loves to help Ren in the shop, I think it gives him a purpose, you know? Now that my … side hustle isn’t going on anymore, and besides, all the people love Floyd. Ren says there’s been more customers coming in, all thanks to Floyd’s hospitality and how he arranges the displays a different way every day. He always makes sure the candles in the windows at home are lit at night, and that my coffee and Ren’s tea is ready in the morning. Oh, he has a cat now, too, did you know that? He named it Fluffy Paws, how original, right?”

Magick thrums in time to Bob and I’s heartbeats synchronized to the tick tick tick of the turret clock resting a few levels above us. A tender, soft and not overtly bright white glow surrounds our hands. Bob’s voice cracks and he sniffles, loud and wet.

“More than anything, he’s such a good friend, better than any selth deserves. He rubs my back when I’m sick, and he doesn’t mind that I fall all the time, or that I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed or that I have funny tentacles. Floyd is always there for me, no matter what.”

Something clicks in my heart, and I whisper, “L’hachiyot.”

A plume of thick magick explodes from our joined hands, immediately dousing the entire lab in a white fog. Bob startles and I inhale sharply, waiting for the inevitable crash.

But he doesn’t fall.

He doesn’t fumble the heart.

He doesn’t cry out.

He remains rock steady, for Floyd.

Magick fades and I blink several times, finding Bob doing the same. He shakes in place, hands trembling beneath mine. He opens and closes his mouth, then tries again. “Did it work?”

“Let’s have a look,” I say, because I’m honestly not sure.

Ever so gently, I open Bob’s hands to reveal the mechanical heart.

Not beating at all.

—

“No, I’ll be home soon my love, I won’t leave you alone on Yule morning. I … I just need a little bit more time with him. Yeah, okay, I will, I’ll see you in a little bit.”

Bob’s murmured words of comfort seep from the kitchen and into the silent lab, where I sit beside Floyd’s body, alone. I sigh, staring at the heart nestled into Floyd’s chest. I had thought maybe it wouldn’t beat until it was in his body, but even after connecting the organ to the necessary systems, it rests quiet and cold in the corpse of Bob’s friend, of my first creation. I never had children, but Floyd is close enough to a descendent that my heart aches.

“How did I fail you, dear friend?” I murmur, caressing Floyd’s metallic eyelids. “When Bob came to me and asked for a companion, I must admit that I never expected you. I knew you would be highly intelligent, yes, but … You care for Bob, and really everyone you encounter, I can feel it in your bones. Your feelings … Your memories, emotions, they lay just beneath your surface.”

I’m fairly certain I could extract the intangibilities of Floyd through their metallic complexion, but I won’t desecrate him like that.

“I somehow created exactly what I needed, too, now that I think about it. I needed someone to carry on my legacy, to hold a piece of myself inside them. Seeing Bob with you, it’s more than I could’ve ever hoped to achieve. You have done well, dear Floyd. You have been a loyal companion, a loving friend, much more than most breathing beings are. But,”

My hand rests over his warm heart.

“You can’t leave, not just yet. Your life is only beginning, you have a family to tend to, people who love you and need you. I need you, Floyd. I need you to remind me how much people need people, whether they be metal or flesh.”

Tick Thump Tick Thump Tick

The warm— oh Gods, it’s warm– heart thuds once under my hand.

Then again.

And again.