Reflections Upon the Anniversary of My Descent - Sample Chapters

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Chapter One: The Day it Happened

Dear Marton,

I hope you get this. I don’t understand how burning a letter in the physical world is supposed to transport the message to a specific person in the afterlife, but after everything I’ve seen, I’m not discounting folklore ever again.

It’s been five years since you died. I assume you’re somewhere nice, like the stories they told us at the temple about the Precursor’s Garden. I hope there’re plenty of books there. You can spend all day studying and no one will give you shit about it. Maybe you’ll be in a library that goes on forever, or a university near a rainforest.

Please, move on. Meet other girls that won’t threaten you with a hockey stick until you take them to the school dance! (Sorry I did that. Hey, I was sixteen.)

Don’t wait for me.

This is going to be a strange letter, Marton. I wanted to write to you the same way I used to scribble postcards to Grandpa. I would throw them on the bonfires at the Autumn Festival, and watch the wind blow the sparks upwards until they became the stars above or parts of the planetary ring.

When I started this, it was a single page. Now, there’s paper everywhere and I’m still going. Thaena said it was alright to write stuff as long as it’s never found by others. (Rule One, don’t make a mess, blah blah blah.) I’ll burn everything, and you’ll have a big rambling offline blog thing to read while you’re walking around the gardens of paradise.

If you’re wondering what I’ve been doing since the Day, I pulled through, trained extra hard, got my degree and qualified for pro hockey, where I’ve made $$$ in endorsements and I’m married to a famous scientist who’s also a great stay-at-home dad and we have a set of boy/girl twins.

The sort of future we talked about.

And while that’s what I want to tell you—it’s all bullshit.

I owe you more than that.

I owe you the truth.

You always asked that from me.

I wish there had been more to our last day together.

I wish it had been perfect.

Like my amazing birthday the previous year where you picked me up in your new red sports car and gave me that silver bracelet. You’d booked the Harbor Room at the yacht club. Afterwards, we walked along the piers and ogled the rich boats, and the sunset turned the river to liquid gold, the same color as your eyes.

Or when we drove to the beach in the summer, and the temperature spiked and you were a red lobster for days, shedding skin flakes everywhere like Mom’s stupid hairless cat.

Or even our usual date night, where we’d grab the latest Blitz Burger special, and hit your Dads’ den and watch whatever random movie was on and pretend school never existed.

Instead, our last day was… normal, I guess?

It was the weekend. I went to hockey practice, did my laundry, cleaned my room, and updated all the socials. Oh, and I had (another) fight with Mom. I heard her on the phone talking to one of her friends, and paid little attention, until she said, “Just checking, Inserra. Esha’s going to a High Summer party tonight, at your place and I wanted to confirm that—”

I shot bolt upright and stalked downstairs to where Mom walked slowly on the treadmill, speaking into her headset. “—oh good, that’s great to know—”

I stood in front of the treadmill, glaring.

Mom frowned, but spent a few more minutes on pointless pleasantries until she hung up. “What, Esha?”

“Did you ring Areven’s mom to check that the party tonight was real?” I folded my arms. “Do you think I lied?”

“Honey, I’m just making sure—”

“We had a deal. I have done everything you’ve ever asked of me. My grades are good. I got the hockey award last year. Yet you still don’t trust me enough to believe me when I tell you I’m going to a party at Areven’s house!”

“It’s not you I don’t trust.” Mom stopped the treadmill, dabbing her face with a towel.

“What do you mean?” Then it hit. “This is about Marton? Again? How many times does he have to prove himself to you?”

“He’s a year older than you,” Mom complained. “And he’s always so sly about everything—”

“Huh? Mom, he’s the sweetest, kindest boyfriend in the universe! You don’t like him, you never have!”

I stormed to my room and didn’t speak to Mom for the rest of the day. Didn’t even get her advice on my outfit, something I usually did. Oh, how I wish I’d made more effort to get on with her! To understand what she was saying; that she did this from a position of respect.

Instead, all I wanted was to be with you. The only person who understood me; the one who truly listened.

I met you outside in your red sports car, and we drove away.

Do you remember what we talked about? I don’t. Why do I remember a fight with Mom, and only fragments of my last proper conversation with you? I think I mentioned hockey, and there was that band you wanted to see. Oh, and I asked how your dad, Tervan, was doing after his heart attack.

“He’s good.” You smiled in that way that lit up your face. “He’s been discharged from hospital.” Then your expression closed off. “Let’s talk about something else.”

Oh, and yeah. I spoke about my history paper.

(Look, I know you know a lot about this. Some of this. But since this is my letter/journal/thing, I’m writing it all out. Mainly, because I want to tell you what happened to me, and how it all felt. Let’s just go with this, okay?)

Anyway, Mr. Crabb had given me a C for the essay. I moaned about it for ages.

You said: “It was fanfiction. I was surprised you didn’t get a D.”

“It’s not fanfiction. It had real events in it. I totally would have been a knight at General Hawkbow’s side, kicking Dark Legion butt. Hmm, maybe historical fiction?”

“You know Crabb hates anything that suggests magic actually happened.”

Anger flashed briefly in your eyes; I wish I’d asked you more about magic in that moment. I really do. “Anyway, there’s no scientific evidence,” you continued. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Fine, what about—” I glanced out the window. “Where are we going? This isn’t the Diamond Ward.” I peered through the darkened window at unfamiliar landmarks. We’d driven to Areven’s house plenty of times and I didn’t recognize the streets outside.

“I’m picking up supplies for the party,” you said.

“Beer? And VodChocs?” They were the best; they tasted exactly like a chocolate milkshake with ice cream, only they were full of vodka. I could manage a couple at a party.

(I haven't had one for years, but remember the flavor.)

“Absolutely. This liquor store has everything and I know the guy on shift.”

You drove to a row of stores in the middle of nowhere. One of them had a glitzy sign: ‘Bear’s Beer & Wine’. You turned into a narrow alleyway where a small parking lot stretched behind the strip. The only light came from distant streetlights on the other side of a chain-link fence that cut us off from a train line.

“I’ll come.” I didn’t want to be alone here.

“Nah, it’ll be easier for me to get the stuff if you’re not there. Wait in the car. You know the drill.”

That was the problem: I was a seventeen-year-old dating an older guy. I held you back at places like nightclubs and liquor stores because I made you look young (or so you said). I got used to waiting in the car.

“This place is so creepy,” I complained.

“Won’t be long.” You gave me a quick peck on the cheek. More like a grandma kiss than a proper last embrace. “Play some music, Esha, and chill. It’ll be fine.” Then your shoulders tightened with tension. “Listen, there’s something important I need to tell you.” You ran a hand through your disheveled hair. “It’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while.”

“About what?”

“Later.” You smiled, closed the door, and sprinted across the concrete to the main street.

That’s where you left me.

I put on the radio, tried not to think I was in a spooky place in the middle of nowhere, and that soon I’d be at the party with Areven and VodChocs. And what were you trying to tell me? Were you going to do something like propose? I daydreamed about a wedding, my eyes half-closed. I mean, it was way too early to get married, of course, but I wouldn’t have said no to a ring. I loved you that much.

Question Time.

Why did you take so long?

Why didn’t I complain harder about being abandoned in the creepiest parking lot in the world?

Why didn’t I lock the door?

Instead, I waited, humming along to the radio. Secure in my bubble of reality that everything was fine.

Until someone opened the passenger-side door.

I thought it was you for a second before I realized my mistake.

A man with blonde hair plastered over his face, like he’d come from the shower, loomed over me wearing a t-shirt with a horned skull on it. A skullshirt. I couldn’t believe he was wearing something so blatantly fascist-douchebag.

Yes, I was being terrorized by someone and all I did was stare at his t-shirt. I didn’t move as he grabbed me and dragged me outside.

I could have done several things.

Not fixate on the stupid shirt.

Honk the horn.

Call the police.

I did exactly none of them.

Instead, I froze as he pulled me onto the concrete of the parking lot.

Where two more waited. One watched everything: a man with a receding hairline and a face so pimpled and acne-scarred he resembled a toad.

The other reeked of thick, choking musk: an orc, with foam coating his snout. A string of shark teeth hung around his neck.

That was the three of them: Skullshirt. Toadface. Fangs.

“Let go of me!” The ice holding me broke. I screamed and struggled. Liquid fear poured through my veins. I was going to run and—

Fangs hit me. My head cracked against the concrete.

Skullshirt bent over me with a knife, blade glinting in the distant light. He stabbed me. Again and again. His glazed eyes resembled frosted marbles.

I howled. The shock of seeing myself stabbed was worse; I didn’t feel any pain. Except I couldn’t move, I couldn’t move my arms.

Had to get up, had to run, get help—

I fell back, dizzy. Couldn’t move.

You ran into view, hands waving. My hero. You’d save me and everything would be alright—

Except, I watched you die.

Toadface ran forward and hit your head with a stout piece of wood. He said something, only I couldn’t hear it. Skullshirt left me on the blacktop, blood pooling everywhere, and ran over to you. Fangs joined them. They surrounded you and kicked.

I couldn’t lift my hands above the ground. All I could think was this shouldn’t be happening. How could it be happening?

I screamed for help. Except my shouts never left the bounds of my head. I was powerless. Alone.

And worse, I couldn’t do anything.

These guys had taken everything from me, and it had only been a few minutes.

My vision faded. My head spun. It wasn’t fair. The last thing I saw was the three of them surrounding you, kicking and clubbing and beating you. Why? Why?

Even as my consciousness faded, I raged. I’d give anything to be able to do something.

Then I heard the deep, headmaster-ish voice bouncing off the inside of my skull: Do you want to live? To gain vengeance on all your foes?

“Fuck yes! Let me kill them all!”

Accept this vestige of myself and make it part of you.

Who was the voice? What was a vestige?

I didn’t have time to worry about that.

Everything hurt. Like being impaled by a thousand spikes. I screamed as liquid agony burned through me; my blood turned to hot lead. Something heavy sprouted from my skull, my skin burned, shifted, hardened.

Everything clicked over from darkness into clarity. It wasn’t as though lights snapped on. More like every scrap of illumination—the blur of stars, moon and ring behind the clouds—intensified. I stood as the tides of agony subsided.

I saw your head: the side crushed in, raw and bloody.

And my hands, now covered in crimson, serpentine red scales. My stomach, no longer bleeding—the red scales sealed the wound over.

Pain faded from my limbs. I flexed my hands. Huge, black-dagger claws erupted from the ends of my fingers.

“What?” Toadface screamed, backing away. Fangs growled, drool running down his snout.

Rather than panicking and going oh no I’ve turned into a monster WTF! or _woe is me,_anger boiled in my gut, and I leaned into it.

These claws? Time to use them.

I ripped into Fang’s shoulder, tearing through layers of cloth, bristly orc skin and muscle.

He tried to stab me. I head-butted him. The heavy things on my head shattered his skull. I bit down on the exposed raw meat and ate chunks of his brain, not thinking, simply exulting in being free to do something, to make them suffer. Whatever I was now, I was strong, tough. I could hurt them, just like they’d hurt me.

Fangs dropped to the concrete: smashed, cut-up, dead. I seized the blood-covered necklace of shark teeth and yanked it free, holding it aloft.

His internal essence—his soul—was flushed away like shit in a toilet, screaming as he went someplace bad. My body burned with the pain of a thousand barbs.

Normality snapped in. Darkness replaced my super night vision. My skin returned to its normal brown, and my claws vanished.

The blood covering me turned to powder and drifted away. The world itself wanted to hide the monster within me.

Human again. My exposed stomach was crusted with dried blood, but no open wounds.

I was ready to chase Skullshirt and Toadface. Only you were lying before me on the ground.

According to the movies, I would have been able to cradle you in my lap and hear your last inspirational words.

I didn’t get that.

The left side of your head was a bloody mush. Your golden eyes were bulging, bloodshot, and staring at the sky. Unblinking.

I wrapped the shark-fang necklace I’d won around my arm, sat in your blood and begged you to wake.

You didn’t move.

Before, something had answered me—the thing within that hurt like a rusty iron hook.

The vestige. Maybe it could bring you back.

When I poked at it, a shiver of pain ran through me, and I stood in another world.

It was in Birth Dad’s old office. One of those big ones with an architect’s desk, rows of bookcases and a fancy computer. The room was how I remembered it before he’d run off with that lawyer.

There was a man sitting on a tall chair. He resembled Birth Dad—thick, horn-rimmed glasses, kinky hair buzzed into a military cut, open-necked shirt, jeans—but not quite. More like a famous actor was playing the part. Close, not perfect. An aura of coldness and yet familiarity surrounded him.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

“We spoke earlier. I’m your Father now.” He leaned into his chair. “We don’t have long—these connections are fleeting. I will answer your questions.”

“You gave me these powers.” Claws slipped briefly from my fingertips—sharp, painful. “And that vestige thing.” The bit of me that was also part of him arced between us like electricity. That wasn’t important at the moment. “How do I save Marton?”

“You cannot,” ‘Father’ said in a crisp, commanding voice. “Nothing in the world can return the dead to life, as they were.”

Raw, hot pain flooded me. Anger simmered from my gut. “What are you?” I demanded.

He sighed and removed his glasses, polishing them on a shirttail. “A prisoner of the Netherworld, sentenced by ancient, unjust laws.” He donned his glasses again. “A demon.”

“Really?” I scoffed. “That’s just folklore!”

“You used my gifts to defeat your foes. Were you saved by folklore?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Well, okay.” I suppose I should have been more panicky, more questioning. Instead, there was just calm acceptance. “What happens now?” I figured he wouldn’t kill or eat me straightaway—that vestige he’d given was part of him. It felt like an enormous investment.

“I gave you power. Do with it as you see fit.”

“Come on!” I snapped. “No one gives away things for free. Especially not demons.” All I knew from folklore, festivals, and religious ceremonies was that they were sinister spirits; the creatures that answer cries of vengeance for offerings. And that was the key bit—they wanted something first.

Father nodded. “The Netherworld of Thargul is a vast prison for souls that fall afoul of the ancient laws. It’s a barrier between your world and the horrors outside reality that seek to invade. Thargul is brilliantly designed.” He tapped at the drawing on his architect’s plan, which was a convoluted labyrinth that made my head hurt. “It’s a self-perpetuating system where the prisoners are also the jailers and there is brief respite. In short, to stave off my own torments and to keep the horrors sealed, I require souls.”

When I’d ripped away Fang’s life, he’d gone somewhere. And how I’d changed into a crimson-scaled murder machine. “You want me to go around slaughtering people for you?” I folded my arms.

“Nothing so crude.” His lips curled in distaste. “The Netherworld is a prison that craves particular souls—those who transgress its ancient laws. A good deal of its rules are irrelevant rubbish; however, there are still acts that were crimes in my age, and remain in yours. Murder, rape, treachery, the defilement of the innocent, and so forth. You’ve already had your first taste of worthy prey.”

I licked Fangs’ blood from my teeth.

Thought of you, Marton, and how you were gone.

And because I’d lost control on that cusp of transformation, Toadface and Skullshirt were free. “I can get them. The bad guys.”

“Excellent.” Father sipped coffee from a finger-painted mug I had given Birth Dad when I was seven. “You have the idea already. You will wake shortly. Speak to me again on resonant ground. Otherwise, ask your sister.”

“Sister? I don’t have a sister.”

He gave a knowing look and glanced at his watch.

Everything froze and shuddered. Our psychic internet connection was dropping. More questions came to mind. “Hey? How do I find those—”

Too late.

I woke up.

I know Mrs. Carter said never to end a story with ‘I woke up’, but that’s really what happened after I spoke to Father that time. Seems a good place to end this for now; my hand is cramping from getting this all on paper.

You’re probably thinking I’m going to tell you about how I avenged you, like a slick cambion vigilante. Except that’s not what happened. Not exactly.

More next time.

Chapter Two: Being Normal

I woke in hospital. Not some weird secret government lab where I’d been imprisoned by the authorities for excessive monsterism. Just the normal ICU. All clean, stitched up, and wearing a gown. Needles were stuck in my arms. Mom was leaning over me, eyes red with tears. “I thought I was going to lose you.”

The doctors hadn’t noticed anything strange about me; and I was happy to leave it at that. I looked like I’d always done. But that vestige was still in me; the monster burned beneath my skin.

I had promised ‘Father’ I’d hunt the rest of your murderers. Like, right this very second. Only Mom embraced me. It was the answer to a secret wish I’d made last Summerlight Festival for her to notice me more. She’d been so distant lately. Busy with work, or other things. We didn’t talk as we used to. But now, she was back, and loved me again.

I cried. At that moment, I didn’t want to be a monster or to eat murderer flesh. I wanted to be her little girl. To return to a time when I trusted her implicitly and when we had a good, warm relationship. And while it had been easy to rip apart a thug in the dark after being stabbed multiple times, those memories scared me in the harsh light of the hospital ward.

‘Father’ could wait. And how did he think he could replace Birth Dad? I mean, Birth Dad had walked out of my life when I was seven. There’d been a divorce. Shouts. I remember that much. And no calls or visits. Not even a postcard. Fine, I’d accepted that. But to have another ‘parent’ suddenly slot into that previously empty space made me uneasy. Especially a demon. Even if he had saved my life.

I saw the police. My heart thumped painfully as I spoke to Inspector Silverlake, an elven detective with amazing platinum-blonde hair. She was nice, and I wonder why she didn't have a traditional elven name, like Helianthus Lindarien Variel, the actor from those old movies, like A Sword at Sunset. Except I didn’t ask; that was her personal business. And when she asked me for details about what happened that night, there was only one thing I could think to say.

“I don’t remember.” My hands sweated. I didn’t want to lie to her, but I also couldn’t tell her that demons were real, and I’d made a pact with one. And that it was me who’d ripped Fangs open and eaten chunks of his brain.

“Let’s start with what you can.” She smiled. Her elven eyes were solid green orbs, without visible whites. What did she see with them that was different? That I was lying through my teeth?

“What happened after you left for the party?”

“I had a fight with Mom,” I admitted. “She doesn’t trust me, even though I’m seventeen. She rang up Areven’s mom to check that the party was happening…”

I ended up telling her most of the truth. You’d parked in some grungy parking lot near the train tracks so you could nip around to the liquor store to purchase some VodChocs for the party. Some guy had opened the car door, pulled me onto the concrete, and stabbed me. I described what Skullshirt and Toadface looked like, and the police artist made a sketch.

And that was it, or so I thought, but then she called me to give another statement at the police station.

“Had you been to that liquor store before?”

“No.”

“Did Marton often stop at strange places like that? Locations you didn’t know about.”

“Once or twice.” My fingers twitched. My heart raced. I wanted to kick the table over Silverlake’s blandly pleasant face.

Instead, I glowered at the counselor, who had to be in the room with me while I was being questioned, as I was underage. She gave a supportive nod.

“Did you often wait in the car for him?” Silverlake continued.

“Sometimes.”

“Where did he go? Where did you wait for him?”

I got up and slammed the edge of the table. If only it hadn’t been bolted to the floor. “I’ve told you everything I know! Leave me alone!” I stalked off, leaving the room, while Mom entered and shouted at Silverlake and the counselor, and then a short while later, we drove home.

“Mom, are they going to arrest me?” My palms sweated. Even though the blood had sloughed off me after I’d eaten Fangs, I’d still taken a life. And I wasn’t sorry.

“Esha, don’t be silly. You did nothing wrong.” Mom’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. “However, if you know what Marton was up to…”

“What do you mean? He was getting drinks for the party—”

“Esha, this is important. Tell me the truth.”

“I don’t understand—”

“Please—”

“I told Silverlake everything! I’m sick of repeating it!” I fell apart again. I didn’t want to hear anything bad about you. You were a saint, and I was a killer with blood-soaked hands. Nothing could tarnish the purity of my intent of avenging you when I’d made that demon pact.

Besides, anything she said wouldn’t be true. You’d always agreed to tell me everything. You’d never keep secrets from me.

Except for that thing you were going to say before you died. What would you have said? What would have changed between us?

All the while throughout this period, I dreamed of the Things. Holding them, playing with them. Having them. Not having them was like having lost your passport the day you were to travel overseas on a special holiday. There were three Things:

The silver bracelet you’d given me.

The shark-fang necklace torn from Fang’s corpse.

The knife that had stabbed me.

One person knew where they were. I accosted her over breakfast. “Mom, did you see my jewelry? It was gone when I woke up in the hospital. There was a bracelet and—”

“You don’t need those horrible things, sweetie. Let’s buy a lovely new necklace.”

“No. I want those.” I needed them for when I began my hunt. (Someday. Soon.)

Mom regarded me with wide-eyed shock. “They’re covered in gore and filth—”

The pressure built within my chest. Talons scratched at the tips of my fingers, desperate for release.

“Marton gave me those.” The taste of blood filled my mouth.

“Esha, please. Forgetting about them will help you move on and focus on your schoolwork—”

Down, I told the claws and ire. Going berserk and ripping open murderers was one thing. Mom was another. And the way to ‘win’ against Mom wasn’t with violence.

Since I’d been young, Mom had taught me to wheel and deal when I wanted things from her.

Need cash? Do these chores.

Want to go out? Get a high grade.

After all, Mom was a Seastrider, descendent of the Merchant Kings of Adhova, masters of the waves, the Lords of the Third Empire. (Never mind I got sick on boats, or that Grandma had disinherited Mom for running off with a guy she didn’t approve of.)

“I would like those returned, Mom. If you do, I’ll focus on my university prep.” Trying so hard to be completely reasonable—the only way to ‘win.’

“At the end of term.”

“Whatever you do, don’t throw them out.” My voice was harsh and threatening, even to my own ears.

Another bargain struck. I would stop thinking of running away to hunt the murderers, and concentrate on high school. I’d pass my exams, get into university, become a legal adult in a year and then, perhaps, I’d explore that other world.

I wish things had happened that way. Wish I’d left the Golden World more gracefully. Been more organized. I wished I had made a wonderful speech at your funeral, and said the right things to the counselors, made up with Mom and enjoyed regular mother-daughter nights until I was ready to leave after passing my exams and properly graduating high school.

Except, I’d over-estimated everything.

I could barely speak at your funeral at the Diamond Ward Temple. Just stared at the polished wooden floor, holding sweat-sodden strips of paper in my hands where I’d tried to write something and couldn’t remember what I’d wanted to say. Glared at the fresco of the Seven Saints above the altar and thought, if they cared they could have saved you.

If they didn’t care, or weren’t even real, why bother with religion; why believe in the Light at all?

Only a demon had come to my aid.

I didn’t speak to anyone. I sat with people at lunchtime and went to coffee shops, staying silent and staring. At night, I dreamed of Fangs, Toadface, and Skullshirt. Screaming as they cut me, as I saw you fall, as I couldn’t do anything—

Then I felt the monster stir.

I pushed it back because I had to be normal, had to get through this. It was easier when everyone treated me like… I don’t know. Some sort of helpless, silent, glass doll that sat in the corner. Maybe I could have gotten through like that, except for the time at lunch when Areven offered to take me to the latest Darkblade movie, and I said, “I can’t. I promised to see it with Marton when he returns.” I was in the middle of eating an apple and I remember the way I’d crunched into it, the tartness in my mouth.

Everyone stared at me. Uncomfortable silence dragged on.

Areven fiddled with the silver spider rings on her fingers, and rubbed her crystalline blue eyes, like she didn’t know what to say. Despite being friends since grade school, mostly because we each had a Seastrider parent, I hadn’t seen her as much since you and I started going out, but she was still there, my closest friend, aside from you.

“Esha, Marton’s gone.”

“I know he’s gone, only—”

“He’s dead—” Weskin, a hulking footballer and Areven’s current squeeze, cut in, leaning forward. He was a direct, somewhat ham-fisted guy. I think he was trying to be kind. “Not gone. He’s dead, and he’s not coming back.”

Areven slapped him. Weskin folded his enormous arms. “She needs to know.”

I stared at the apple with a chunk eaten from it. I remembered how I’d bitten into Fang’s skull and devoured bits of brain and blood.

Of course I knew. What else did they think I dreamed of constantly? Did they think I was in a trance? In denial? I stood mechanically, like an automaton.

Areven and Weskin rose as well. Perhaps they thought I’d burst into tears and rush forward for a hug, like they do in movies where there’s a big cathartic moment and everything’s so much better afterwards.

Instead, I dropped the apple.

“I know he’s dead!” I screamed. “You don’t have to remind me of it!”

I ran off, clawing the taste of blood from my mouth. Remembering again how I’d killed someone to avenge you. Because you were gone. Not coming back.

After that, I stayed away from others. I sat and only thought of you. Flicked through my phone for hours, staring at photos of you and me at Blitz Burgers, or on the rides at Whoa Bang Tower, or driving around the Diamond Ward in your new sports car and selecting houses we were going to buy one day. I’d cry and hug my pillow. I’d watch from my bedroom window, hoping to see your red sports car turn in the driveway, but it never did. Once or twice, a black SUV came by, slowing, and I got hopeful. What if you had simply gone missing and now had a different vehicle? What if you’d been recruited by a secret government program, and you’d knock on the door and tell me everything?

But the car drove past.

At school, I was a ghost. I waited for you at the library and you never came. I turned to speak to you about some of the dumb shit some kid had said, and you weren’t there.

At lunch, I would sit on our hill and near our tree, on which I’d carved last year: Esha & Marton, and you’d yelled at me for defacing it. I made token offerings to the wood spirit (water and fertilizer) to apologize.

I kept thinking I should leave. Find Toadface and Skullshirt. Only I’d waited too long. How was I going to locate two murderers when the police hadn’t? I wasn’t trained for this. It was too hard.

I stayed. The rage and frustration grew. Boiling away inside like a pressure cooker with no valve.

I stared at my history homework with no idea what it meant, all dates and lists of monarchs. It was the sort of thing I’d get your help with. Only you were DEAD.

Classes would end where I hadn’t made a single note. Mom tried to talk to me, only I couldn’t remember what she’d said. We had a few empty mother/daughter dates where I was silent for hours. She cut them in favor of more stupid counselor appointments, and I’d lie in bed and forget whether it was a weekend or a school day.

Thought about ‘Father’, and how Fangs’ blood tasted. And that the remaining two killers were alive.

I tried to leave home. Packed my bag over and over and put everything away again. I saved money and hid it in my sock drawer. Only, I didn’t know where to go or how to find the murderers. My anger built. I’d wake the next morning and my blankets and pillow would be shredded.

I was ready to explode.

And I did.

We were having one of our fake mother/daughter nights watching some stupid comedy about a wedding I’d never experience, and I kept staring off into space.

Mom said, “Esha, if you don’t raise your grades, you’ll have to repeat a year.”

“What?”

“It’s been four months—” Mom said other stuff. I didn’t hear it.

Only that you’d been gone four months and it felt like only yesterday I was licking Fangs’ blood and hunching over your body, watching the raw mess that had been your skull.

I had wasted all that time. I’d never find the bad guys now. My grades were so awful Mom would never return the Things. I hated myself so much. “Marton’s dead.”

“I know, sweetie, but there’ll be other boyfriends—”

“I don’t want anyone else. Ever.”

“You need to move on.” Mom stared at me.

“I can’t forget about him,” I growled, claws pricking at the tips of my fingers. “Not like how everyone else did—”

“Esha—”

“I care for people. I don’t give up on them. Not like you. It’s been ten years since I last saw Dad—“

“There’s a good reason for—”

“You never made up with Grandma after she threw you out—” I brandished my bare arms at her. “I’ve got no lineage, no clan markings, nothing.”

“Esha, that’s uncalled for.” Mom froze, like she didn’t know what to say or do. At least her forearms were encircled with her own images of shearwings in flight. “I thought you didn’t care for the old culture. Let’s sit and talk it through and—”

“No!” (In hindsight, that’s probably one of my biggest regrets; not knowing the real story of my family. Yet at the time, you were the only thing that mattered.) “I’ve tried to do everything you said. It’s over. Give back the jewelry you took from me.”

“No, Esha, that’s not a good idea—”

“Where’s my shit, Mom?”

“You need to move on, sweetie—”

“I need them!” I screamed. “Marton gave that stuff to me.”

“He would have wanted—”

“What the fuck do you know what he wanted? You barely spoke to him.”

“He wasn’t as wonderful as you thought he was. I need to tell you that—”

I was sick of this. She’d never liked you.

I leapt to my feet, unable to hold the monster in anymore. If I’d been rational, I would have left right then. Only, I wasn’t. Mom was the target for all of that bottled frustration, and I was ready to tear her to pieces.

A moment was all it took to shift into my demon form. And it hurt. Like being stabbed all over again. Yet it was also good, like ripping off a super-tight sports bra that was stuck to your flesh. My skin itched and red scales slithered over my hands like gloves. Horns burst from my skull and claws tore free from my fingertips.

The monster wanted out.

Mom’s eyes widened. She screamed.

“Where’s my stuff?” I roared.

My angry brain couldn’t understand why she wasn’t speaking properly. All she could do was wail.

I gripped the coffee table and threw it at the wall.

Expensive paintings fell to the ground. The plaster cracked.

I stalked closer. Ready to rip her apart and—

Behind me, the balcony window smashed open in a shower of glass.

A monster leapt into the room. A demon: a red-scaled woman with burning yellow eyes and thick, curling ram’s horns. Long black claws speared from her fingers, and her muscles rippled under her dark clothing.

She sprinted forward.

Bounded at me.

I smashed into her, clawing, furious that she was here, preventing me from tearing my prey apart. Except she was bigger than me, stronger, and even as I slashed at her like a screeching cat, she stepped to one side, grabbed my arms, kicked me in the stomach and the next thing I knew I was on the floor, face first.

She had me held in a weird lock with my hands behind my back, where no matter how I pushed at her, I couldn’t escape.

“Get off me!” I hissed, my brain finally switching on. It was like the Day all over again, where I couldn’t move, and those guys were on me, cutting, touching, pulling—

“When you stop trying to kill your mother,” she said in posh Standard Pronunciation like a 1970s television announcer, or old-timey stage actress.

“Kill Mom?” Horror blossomed through me and I instinctively shifted to human form as common sense returned. Mom? I’d nearly killed Mom? “Is she—” I tried to see, but the woman kept me in a lock.

“She’s fine, but won’t be if you can’t control your cambion nature. Now get up.” She released me.

I clambered to my feet.

Mom was on the floor, staring blankly ahead. I ran over and hugged her. “Mom, I’m sorry. Please—” It was like embracing a manikin. Mom didn’t respond, just stared vacantly ahead.

“What’s wrong with her?” I frantically snapped my fingers in front of Mom’s face.

“She’ll be fine,” the other woman said. “The barriers are kicking in. We have a few minutes.”

“What?”

“There’s a bunch of old magic around that protects mortals from the Indigo World—”

“What?”

“The supernatural world. If ordinary people see something they can’t process, they’ll forget it. Now pack a bag and come with me.” She pointed at the door.

“Just a minute. Who are you, and why the fuck should I go with you?”

Now I had time to look her over. She was taller, more bulked than I was. Her dark hair was tied loosely around her horns, and she wore a black turtleneck and designer gym pants.

“I’m Thaena Ashmore, your cambion sister. We have the same patron. You should come with me because I’m the only one who can tell you how to control your powers.”

“Father mentioned you,” I growled. “Where were you?”

“Waiting. You had to be ready. Are you?”

I stared at Mom. What I’d done to her.

And the monster I was now.

It felt fantastic.

I went upstairs, changed into a tracksuit and stuffed my hockey bag full of random bits. A photo of you, sporty clothes—if I was going to go around killing bad guys for ‘Father’, I wouldn’t need any dresses.

Downstairs, Thaena had carried Mom over to the couch and was sweeping up the glass fragments, scattering them outside the balcony.

Now that I was calmer, I sensed a bit of familiarity. The same sort of energy that arced between Father and me was present between me and her.

She pointed to a pen and paper on the dinner table. “Write a note. Say you’ve run away.”

“I don’t want to.”

“It’s not for you. It’s for her when she has to explain your disappearance to the world.”

Fine. I wrote something angry and scrawly about how I was going to find your two remaining killers and deal with them, and not to worry. Again, I wish I’d been nicer. More gracious. It doesn’t hurt to tell the people you care about that you love them. Because you’ll never know when you won't have them in your life anymore.

“Doing the dishes next?” I asked as Thaena righted the coffee table.

“Rule One. Don’t make a mess, or some self-righteous nephilim or other border-watcher will hunt you. Do you have your cache objects? When you made your pact with Father, energy would have collected into items near you.”

“She took them off me.”

Thaena stared at me with her yellow eyes. I wondered how old she was. Thirty? Forty? Way older than me. Not as old as Mom. I didn’t like her: cold, bossy, impersonal.

“Sense them.”

“What?”

Thaena’s jaw tensed slightly (a habit I got familiar with) and she said, “Think about them. How they feel. What they mean to you. There’s energy between you and them. And they’re yours. Find them.”

I tried to do as told. It took a few minutes of pacing around, swearing, before I visualized my stuff. The bracelet you’d given me. The necklace of fangs covered in gore.

They were close.

I walked down the corridor into Mom’s room. The vibe of my Things came from her walk-in wardrobe. Under a pile of shoes was a small floor safe.

I struggled, pulling at it.

“It’s locked.”

Thaena pushed me aside and ripped the safe door open with her claws.

“Does that leave a mess?” I snapped.

She gave me a cold, yellow-eyed glare. Those serpentine eyes were freaky. Inhuman. I wondered if mine were like that in my other shape.

I got the hint and fished through the papers and rings in the floor safe until I found the sealed plastic bag that contained the birthday bracelet and shark-fang necklace.

My stuff.

Thaena peered over my shoulder. “There should be a third item.”

“The knife.” The one that had stabbed me. “Skullshirt has it.”

She sighed again, replaced the safe’s door, and gestured for me to follow. “We can worry about that later. Let’s leave.”

“Good.”

The last I saw of Mom was her lying on the couch, eyes closed. I wish I’d kissed her cheek. Said something nicer than what I’d written in the note. Only I was pissed off at her for withholding my stuff, for saying you didn’t matter.

And now it was time to step into that other world I’d spent four months hiding from. Ready to begin the hunt and avenge you.

First, I had to pass Cambion 101 with ice-queen Thaena as my judge, jury, and executioner.

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