It was half-past dark when the grieving parents left the deadhouse.

Petra Cooper watched them go from her hidden vantage point. She could see the couple talking about something; they were probably comforting each other, with the husband crying and the wife nearly to tears herself. Plain clothes, bent backs, trembling fingers, and that awful hollow emptiness where light and hope should be. A pair of grey-eyes just like her.

She couldn’t hear their conversation through the fog that shrouded Stygia’s streets, but a part of her was grateful for that; the more she learned about the family, the more guilt she’d feel over stealing their son’s dead body.

She waited for the family to slip out of sight, waited a few more minutes past that, steadied her nerves, and finally left her perch and crept down the street, sticking to the shadows until she was right at the deadhouse door. The fog masked her approach and her skills did the rest. She tested the door and found it locked, but it was nothing a few seconds with her picks couldn’t fix. She was in.

The deadhouses – necromancers called them mortuaries, but Petra considered the street name more fitting – were some of the cleanest buildings in Stygia, or at least they had been as long as she could remember. She’d heard stories of a time before the Renaissance when deadhouses had been hovels of filth and rot, but New World ideas of medicine and hygiene had transformed the deadhouses into the sterile, pristine structures they were today. Corpses were kept in sanitized cold chambers for the benefit of necromancers and the recently-deceased were treated with the highest care.

It was a shame, of course, that none of that care and hygiene found its way to Petra or people like her.

The interior of the deadhouse was cold enough that Petra could see her own breath, but she didn’t intend on staying long; corpse golems patrolled the halls, controlled by the deadhouse’s resident necromancer, and they would deliver her straight to a Judge if they caught her. Not a pleasant way to die.

Petra evaded the golems and snuck a glance into the preparation chamber: inside, a uniformed necromancer was refreshing the corpse’s preservation spells. The quality examination and initial castings had been completed days prior, and by the time the family was allowed to see their son’s body it had already been sold.

She took in the necromancer and memorized his appearance: gold eyes stuck in perpetual boredom, cropped white hair, and a neatly-pressed charcoal uniform with a small name tag declaring him Zivix. Petra curled her lip; necromancer names were so ostentatious.

The grey-eyed thief left the necromancer behind and went looking for the storage closet. Every post-Renaissance mortuary was constructed in the same layout so she found it immediately.

She scavenged the closet quietly, ignoring most of its contents – though she did pocket a few scalpels – and stopping once she found her objective: a spare uniform. It was an assistant’s outfit, more basic than the one Zivix wore and missing a name tag, which meant it was perfect for Petra.

She stripped out of her street clothes and donned the uniform, which was a bit loose on her malnourished frame but not enough to impede movement if she needed to cut a quick escape. She adjusted the sleeves and collar until they matched Zivix’s uniform, then bundled her clothes into a sack and walked out of the closet confidently.

She passed through the halls of the deadhouse, not trying to hide this time. She heard the steady rumbling of a corpse golem walking through the halls and braced herself, trusting the disguise to keep her safe.

Petra saw the brute coming down the hall and had to fight the fear trying to bring her to her knees. The monstrous thing coming toward her might have been human once, but now it was just a nightmare cloaked in flesh.

Slabs of muscle grafted on top of each other were covered in a thin layer of sallow skin and barely held together by lines of black thread. The golem was easily three times her size and could have picked her up and snapped her in half like she was a frail little twig. Rather than make clothing for a creature that vast the golem’s maker had fused metal plating to its flesh in all the vulnerable and unsightly areas, leaving the golem from the outside looking like just as much iron as dead flesh.

As it passed by her the golem leveled a single look at Petra, but its dead eyes swept over her uniform and immediately dismissed her. Petra shivered at its brief attention and didn’t let herself breathe until it had left the hallway entirely.

The thief made it to the back door and stepped outside. Behind every deadhouse was a carriage that took corpses to their new owners, plus a stable to house the carriage’s horses when not on duty. Lucky for Petra, the horses were already prepped and ready with harnesses and horseshoes.

Petra threw her sack into the driver’s seat and gave one of the horses a friendly pat when it looked at her funny. She made some meaningless shushing noises to soothe them and admired the animals: a pair of Stygian horses, skin and hair as bone-white as that of any Stygian human, with fearless eyes used to seeing all manner of undead monstrosities. They settled under her tending and she let out a relieved sigh; the horses hating was just one more way her plan could have gotten her killed.

She leaned against the carriage and gave herself a moment to collect her scattered nerves. The stakes were high, but this was far from the first time she’d stolen from a Judge-controlled operation and she berated herself for getting so anxious.

Petra Cooper was a thief, but she always balked at stealing from the ‘lower class’ – grey-eyes and free undead – so that only ever left her with the dangerous jobs up against necromancers and Judges with guards and golems. She lived her life balanced on the knife’s edge, and one day she would slip up and fall and that knife would split her in two and Petra Cooper would be just one more corpse in one more deadhouse waiting for one more necromancer or daring thief to do as they wished with her cold dead body.

But that was the price of the job.

Okay, enough melancholy. I need to get under the carriage before-

“There you are!”

A bolt of fear tore through Petra’s indulgent contemplation. She glanced up and her gaze was caught by that of the necromancer Zivix, still looking intensely bored but with a new vein of irritation reaching those disks of dark gold. Keep your cool, keep your cool. Just trust the disguise.

“Quit lazing around, minion. There’s work to be done and I refuse to lug a heavy body by myself just because one of my minions wants a break. Follow!”

Petra pushed herself off the carriage and scurried to follow Zivix, relief flooding her internally but not quite drowning out her anxiety. The necromancer had bought the costume but it wouldn’t hold up forever, and now she was heading back into the belly of the beast.

She kept her mouth shut and let instinct guide her as she entered the preparation chamber with Zivix. He tasked her with packaging the body for transport. She trussed the corpse up, slid it into a body bag, then threw another light loop around that bag and zipped it up so it would move as little as possible during the carriage ride.

The necromancer grabbed one end of the body and Petra grabbed the other. Together they hauled it out to the carriage, Petra pushing doors open with her foot. She was gentle with lowering the body into its waiting casket, mindful that Zivix was watching. She tied the casket down with more rope.

Petra closed the doors and slid the locking bar into place, then wiped her brow and watched the necromancer’s reactions. Zivix nodded at the carriage, then turned around and started walking back inside. One chance, Petra.

The grey-eyed thief darted around the side of the carriage and leapt into the seat where she’d left her bag. She seized the reins and gave a purposeful flick, sending the horses into motion. The second that first clatter of hooves on cobblestone rang out, Zivix whipped around and stared at her. Confusion became irritation, and then as their eyes met and Petra smiled and started to laugh, irritation became boiling fury. Zivix screamed something at her, but Petra’s laughter and the clatter of hooves drowned his words.

Petra drove through the streets of Stygia’s second-poorest district, Ashen Row, where the crumbling hovels of the south and east transitioned to an even mix of derelict history and new brickwork. The district took its name from the fire that tore through it about half a century before Petra’s birth, the result of Stygia’s neighbors getting out the torches and handaxes. The corpses of those raiders became the deathless soldiers that marched on their unwise homes, and so, like always, the villages and towns surrounding Stygia shut up, sat down, and returned to paying tribute.

Ashen Row was full of shadowed alleys and sharp corners at odd angles. Its cobbled streets were lit by electric lamps installed a few years prior. Petra recognized most of the shops in the district – shops of wood and brick with hand-carved signs and dirty windows. A butcher’s there, a cobbler, a tailor, and dozens more tucked between or incorporated into the crammed-tight houses that loomed over the street.

Most of the people she passed were grey-eyes with heads down and threadbare coats clutched to their bodies to try and stay as warm as possible in the perpetual chill of Stygia’s climate. A few carried umbrellas just as a precaution; when it didn’t mist in Stygia, it rained.

Rarely – rare enough she couldn’t assign a fraction to its frequency – she saw a necromancer. Flowing dresses and crisp suits, pretty parasols and reanimated retainers, each one with their held high and their green or gold eyes gleaming. One necromancer was carried by her golem, while another walked the streets but used the bodies of his undead servants to avoid puddles. Lowborn Stygians kept to the very edges of the street when a necromancer passed by, shrinking away and only daring to look directly at the necromancers once they were far enough away.

Petra passed one of the uncompromising stone towers the Judges and their lackeys resided in and it sent a shiver of fear down her spine. She kept her head lowered and stirred the horses to keep going. Almost to the market. No pursuers in sight. I can do this. I’ll be fine.

Then someone threw a talking skull into her carriage.

The skull – a plain human one, mostly, but with glowing orange embers in its eye sockets – bounced across the front seat of the carriage and settled into her lap with a soft thump. Petra stared at it, shocked, and then it said, “Blasted necromancer… hey, you there! Drive faster, and take a left!” and Petra yelped.

“What are you? What the seven hells are you?”

“No time for that! Judges on your tail, three, the nasty types. You want to spend your days in very creative agony, be my guest, but if you don’t, then drive.” The voice that issued from the skull was acerbic and raucous, but the picture it painted was disturbing enough that Petra obeyed almost on instinct.

She sped the horses up and swerved them left at the nearest turn. “How’d they find me?”

“Been on you the whole time, kid. Usin’ you, likely, to flush out whoever you’re sellin’ to.”

Petra swore under her breath. I’ve been played. She sped the horses up again, stirring them into a gallop. “Why are you helping me? Who threw you?”

“Someone who cares, and that’s all you need to know until you are safe. Just focus on driving.” She imagined the skull would have grabbed the reins itself if it had any hands.

“Fine.” The girl was immensely curious, but she could hardly ask questions if she was being flayed in some underground torture chamber or being murdered and reanimated in an infinite loop. She’d heard nothing but horror stories about what happened to those seized by the Judges and found guilty.

The horses galloped out of Ashen Row, careening wildly into the streets of Grand Boulevard. These streets were bustling with grey-eyes and undead rushing to fill orders and demands, and more than one civilian yelled at Petra as she blatantly ignored driving laws. Grand Boulevard had gorgeous parks, towering spires, and some of the best-kept buildings in the lower city, but Petra had little time to admire them with how fast her carriage was rushing past.

“Where are we going?” she shouted over the wind.

“Do you really need to know?”

“Yes! Obviously! I am driving, you ass!”

The skull grumbled, “Feisty one. Fine.” Reluctantly it said, “Eastern Terrace, one of the cliff-side manors.”

Petra’s grip on the reins briefly slackened as she stared at the skull in shock. “That’s where the necromancers live! The scary ones, the ones with power, the ones-”

The blare of a horn trumpet cut off the rest of her outrage. One quick glance behind her confirmed her fears: the Judges had decided to abandon subtlety.

Three cloaked figures rode skeletal horses in pursuit of Petra’s carriage. The heavy grey cloaks obscured their features, but each rider wore a tabard in Stygian green-and-gold with the sharp, angular symbol of the Judges emblazoned proudly. They bore no visible weapons, but every Judge was a living weapon that needed no mortal armaments. These were the beings that killed rogue necromancers. Petra didn’t stand a chance.

“Shit, shit, shit!” She sped the horses up, pushing them to their limit. “C’mon, faster, faster, please!”

They’re watching, they’re all watching, ten thousand eyes staring at you, seeing you, mocking you. This is how you die. The Judges will kill you and they’ll put your corpse on a pike and the whole city will watch you.

The skull next to her muttered something she couldn’t hear, then said louder, “We’re almost there, kid. Eyes ahead, just keep those eyes pinned to the road, okay? You’re gonna live, I promise.”

She didn’t believe the skull, but she forced herself to comply.

Cobblestone streets. Turn here. Faster. Streets. Walls. Faster. Don’t let them catch you.

Chittering. Noise like metal scraping metal. Chill down her spine.

Petra’s stolen carriage passed out of Grand Boulevard and she gripped the reins so tightly her hands were going numb.

Stygia was divided into the lower city and the upper city. In the lower city, commoners lived and worked for the benefit of their overlords, while necromancers only visited briefly to conduct business and tour markets. The upper city was the exclusive domain of the necromancer caste and was partitioned into the three Terraces: Western, Northern, and Eastern.

Of the three, Eastern Terrace was home to the worst by far; necromancers like the Stygian High Council, Kazrezar the Constructor, and Zazzyl Hope-Ender. Only the strongest, smartest, wealthiest necromancers were allowed to reside there.

For a moment, Petra wondered if death-by-Judge might be preferable to the cruel mercies of a necromancer. She imagined being made into an experiment, a plaything, or something worse. But then the cold keening of the three Judges behind her filled the air and all thoughts of surrender vanished.

Petra guided the carriage up the steep road into the Terraces. The hisses and shrieks of her pursuers were getting closer and closer, unimpeded by her wild driving or the harsh slope of the path.

“Any time now, bonehead!” Petra glared at the skull and witnessed the incredibly peculiar sight of its amber light-orbs rotating in place, like it was trying to approximate an eye-roll.

The skull muttered, “I get enough of that from the boss. Just keep east and I’ll tell you when you’re close.”

“Urgh, you are so useless! Fine.” Petra rolled her eyes right back at the skull and kept the horses steady. She dared not snap the reins again for fear the horses would rebel and abandon her to the Judges.

They passed estate after estate, opulent mansions adorned with lightning rods and dressed in moulding made to resemble bone. Every one of the gaudy structures carried its own unique brand of ego, all shouting to the world, “A necromancer lives here!” Petra gritted her teeth and resisted the urge to spit at them.

Servitor undead and idling necromancers looked up as Petra’s carriage rushed past, or perhaps their gazes were drawn to the hooded Judges upon their skeletal steeds.

I hate this. I hate this. This is the worst day of my life, and probably the last!

And then – “There! Up ahead, kid, third one down, that’s our stop!”

Petra wasted no time complying. Her gaze locked on the indicated property, a reclusive abode nestled against a sheer cliff leading down into the roiling ocean. It resembled a castle out of myth, a fortress like the ones that the old kingdoms were said to have, if perhaps a bit lean and vertical. Three stone towers rose out of a cramped main hall, the highest tower proudly bearing a lightning rod. A few squat buildings with thatched roofs leaned against the false castle, looking almost barn-like in structure.

The estate’s wrought-iron gates swung open as the carriage approached and Petra guided her stolen vehicle inside. Her heart sank with every meter. A tall, lean woman – the necromancer, it had to be – stood waiting at the end of the path. Petra brought the carriage to a halt just in front of the necromancer and held her breath.

The necromancer swept her gaze over Petra and the thief shivered. The necromancer’s eyes were like cold emeralds, devoid of any emotion beyond calculation or fascination. Her features were angular, her skin and hair bone-white, her head held high; she looked the classic Stygian necromancer. Her hair was tied up in a bun and she wore an elegant black robe with a grey shawl and a near-to-overflowing satchel at her side.

The necromancer’s assessment of Petra was quicker than Petra’s assessment of her and in only a few seconds the necromancer turned away from the thief and wordlessly walked past her. She calmly stood in the path of the three dark riders and adjusted the collar of her dress.

This close, the aura of the Judges paralyzed Petra with fear. She could only watch as the two sides spoke.

“Assembled Judges, you have my greetings and attention. Nils, Sigrid, and Helmut, what business brings you to my estate?” Her voice was cold, smooth, and controlled, like every word had been clinically selected. No emotion lurked within her voice, no sign of confusion or hint of deception. She managed to sound almost disinterested while talking to three soulless killing machines.

The lead Judge stepped down from its horse. As soon as its boots hit the ground, the monster transformed. Cloak and belts melted away to be replaced by more chitin, claws and mandibles sharpened and lengthened, and new legs tore out of an elongating body. In seconds the Judge went from an insect-like humanoid to a monstrous, muscular centipede.

It chittered at the necromancer, and although it spoke no language, the intent of its words was forced into Petra’s mind by the creature’s intrinsic telepathy. WE ARE HERE FOR THE GIRL. STEP ASIDE, STORM-TAMER.

Storm-Tamer? That’s a title, right? Why does that sound so familiar?

The necromancer replied, “The girl is my employee. If the Judges have a concern with my business, please address those concerns to me.”

She’s lying to Judges?! Who the hell is this lady?

Petra started looking around for escape routes. Maybe if Petra dove off the cliff while the Judges killed the necromancer, she could land in water. Is it the ground that kills you or the fall?

The talking skull – which was still in her lap, she realized belatedly – whispered, “Don’t even think of running, kid. The boss is stickin’ her neck out for ya.”

Petra winced and quietly sighed as she sank back into the seat and accepted her fate.

The lead Judge chittered again, slowly and menacingly, mandibles gnashing. THE GIRL STOLE FROM MY MORTUARY. WILL YOU SHELTER A THIEF, LADY VIZLA?

Lady Vizla.

The Lady Vizla. The Storm-Tamer. The Bloodstained Prodigy. The Enigmatic Inventor.

Petra’s blood ran cold and in an instant she forgot all about the Judges and her fear of them.

Vizla folded her arms. “Tell me, Helmut: what did she steal?”

More gnashing, full of rising fury. A BODY AND A CARRIAGE. Helmut pointed a claw at the stolen carriage.

“The body of Lars Carpenter. The body I purchased two days ago and which now rests on my property, delivered by one of the carriages that solely exist to transport bodies to their new owners.” Vizla raised an eyebrow. “A truly ingenious theft.”

I stole from the Bloodstained Prodigy. I tried to steal a corpse from the woman who killed six rivals in two years without once getting caught. I-

The Judge hissed and Petra could feel the malice radiating from its hideous spiked form, but as soon as it began to speak again with that awful mandible mouth, Vizla cut it off.

“I have no time for games. Present a case with substance or leave. You waste energy on a prey-less hunt.” Delivered by any other necromancer that speech might have sounded sneering, but from Vizla it was a cold statement of fact.

Helmut hissed again… and slowly shifted back to its humanoid form. It mounted its steed, gave one last glaring look at Vizla, and then all three rode off.

The necromancer waited until all three had vanished from sight before turning from the road.

Vizla walked up to the carriage and Petra tensed up, but Vizla seemed to ignore her completely. Vizla snatched up the skull and looked at it with the faintest signs of worry escaping her indifferent mask. “Are you damaged? Did they see you? How do you feel?”

“I’m good, boss. Y’know, aside from the lack of appendages.” The skull sounded almost embarrassed to receive such doting attention.

Vizla snapped her fingers and a headless corpse golem emerged from a nearby shed. It walked over to Vizla and presented its neck socket. The skull fit perfectly in place and was reunited with its body. Vizla fiddled with the connection and made minute adjustments.

“Relax, relax. I’m fine.”

Vizla pursed her lips but nodded. “Very well. Take care of the body and the carriage. Quickly, before Helmut gathers anything to use against us.”

“You got it, boss.” The talking golem opened the carriage, hefted the body, and jogged inside with it.

Once the golem had entered the estate proper, Vizla turned to the still-paralyzed corpse thief and said, “You may leave now. You should keep your head down for a few months. The Judges will be watching you.”

And then she was looking away again, and walking back inside, and Petra’s paralysis broke.

“Wait!” the thief cried out.

The necromancer took another step, then paused. She didn’t look back.

This is crazy. You’re crazy. This is your stupidest plan yet. Petra shook off her negative thoughts and pushed herself out of the carriage, stumbling to the ground with her sack in hand. “Listen, I… I appreciate you saving me, and I know you didn’t need to and you took a big risk, but, just, hear me out: I want a job. My name is Petra Cooper, and I want to work for you, Lady Vizla.”

That made the necromancer turn around. Vizla tilted her head and stared at Petra like she was a fascinating puzzle box that Vizla wanted to crack open and examine. “I have no need and you are unqualified,” she delivered flatly.

Petra took a step forward, daring to venture nearer to the terrifying woman. “I can be useful. I know this city better than your other assistant, and I know to keep my mouth shut when Judges come looking in to your illicit dealings. And I know you have those kind of dealings, because you lied to those Judges like it was your thousandth time. You don’t like their kind any more than I do.”

Vizla frowned. “Imprecise. I do not blame a servant for the crimes of its master.”

Petra hesitated, confused by the necromancer’s words, but she kept talking out of desperation. “If I go back on those streets, I’ll die. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but one day I’ll slip up and be a corpse on a necromancer’s table. People like me don’t get to play it safe. We don’t get to keep our heads down, because this whole city is owned by people like you.”

A crack in the facade. For a moment, for one single infinitesimally small instant, emotion shone clear as day in Vizla’s emerald-green eyes. Emotions too complicated for Petra to parse, but a sign she was getting somewhere.

The thief continued, “I don’t have necromancy. I don’t have power. But I’m quick, and sharp, and I can learn whatever you need me to know. I want to learn. The way you dealt with those Judges… Lady Vizla, I don’t want to be gutter trash. I want to be like you. So please, I’m begging: teach me how to bend the law instead of breaking it. Teach me to be like you.”

Vizla was quiet, still, more a statue than a person. Petra’s heart raced with terror and anticipation warring against each other. Please.

The moment stretched on, Petra afraid to break the silence and ruin her opportunity. It was the golem that spoke next – returned from its trip inside and ready to drive the carriage back to the deadhouse.

“Hey, boss, what’s the kid still doing here?”

And the Lady Vizla said, “Skull, you have a new coworker. Meet Ms. Petra Cooper. Ms. Cooper, meet Skull.”

Skull groaned. “What are we, a home for wayward strays?” But he stretched out a hand and Petra tentatively shook it. “Welcome to the business, Petra. You better impress the boss if you wanna stick around.”

Petra smiled. “I know I will.”

The sun was just reaching its zenith when we met for our molotov date.

I remember wearing a pink skirt, and my girlfriend had her anarchy-A hoodie. She brought a heavy-duty backpack, too, but she hardly seemed to notice the weight.

It was a long way to the place she’d picked out, so we held hands and listened to music together as we walked. We complained about school, friends, and parents, and a few other things, I’m sure. Mostly it was just nice to talk, and the words weren’t so important.

We followed a river through the woods to the old quarry just past the edge of town. The quarry used to be a big deal, but the corporation that owned it shut it down when the limestone started to thin out. That happened before I was even born, so it was a pretty secluded spot, perfect for what we were planning.

The date had been her idea. At first we just planned on seeing a movie, but then she came up to me with this look in her eye and this adorable smirk on her face. How could I resist?

The quarry looked wide and misshapen from above, but from within it was just an endless wall of stone. My girlfriend took pleasure in sliding down a gravel slope, but I walked to the bottom, like a normal person.

Once we were together in the heart of the quarry she set her backpack down and started taking things out. A box of firecrackers, a lighter, a bunch of cardboard and loose paper, and three beer bottles with rags coming out of them.

She picked out the firecrackers and offered me one, but I shook my head nervously. I didn’t trust myself with them nearly as much as I trusted her.

She dragged a piece of cardboard away from us, then ran back and scooped up a few firecrackers. She lit two and threw them in one fluid motion, then punched the air when they both landed perfectly on the cardboard target. Sizzle and crackle echoed across the quarry.

I giggled at her. “Show-off.”

She grinned at me, then grabbed more. She had me choose spots in the quarry and point to them, and she’d try to get as close as possible with a live firecracker. I had fun trying to mess with her and get her to miss, but she hit all the targets I chose.

We kept at it until she ran out of firecrackers. She scoured the box for any she might have missed, but once she was sure they were gone her face lit up. Now for the real show.

She took all the cardboard and loose paper and scattered it around a point at least twenty feet away from us, probably further. When she was finally satisfied with the layout, she raced back to me and grabbed one of the beer bottles.

She gave me a wink, and then she lit the molotov and threw it. It arced through the air perfectly.

The little green bottle hit the quarry stone and erupted in red and orange, in a wave of heat and a dull roar that drowned out all other sound. Beautiful, brilliant fire exploded outward from a single point and blazed so bright it seemed to steal light from the sun itself.

I couldn’t do anything but stare at it, mouth open and eyes wide, enraptured by the flames dancing across paper and cardboard and wrapping around glorious fuel. Flickers of fire found hosts in the detritus we’d laid out, and they devoured their food to leave only char and embers.

My girlfriend smirked at me with her smug, beautiful face as I watched the last wisps of flame die down. She looked out proudly at the little inferno she’d created, then picked up the second molotov.

As she went to throw it, the bottle slipped out of her hands and fell towards the ground. I gasped in horror and put my hands to my mouth, but she caught it just before it hit the stone. I saw her snicker and realized she’d done it on purpose to mess with me.

I rolled my eyes. “Get on with it, pyro.”

She lobbed the second one, this time throwing it as hard as she could. It arced through the air and shattered against the quarry wall. Another burst of fire, this one rippling outward and vanishing to leave only glass shards and the smell of burning. It was still beautiful and spectacular, but it was less satisfying without something getting burned in the process.

She handed me the last molotov and my breath caught in my throat. I stared at her wide-eyed and mumbled something. She pressed the bottle into my hands, gave me a peck on the cheek, and said, “I believe in you.”

I swallowed nervously, nodded, and took the molotov. My gaze swept the quarry for a suitable target, but I kept coming back to the pile of scorched paper. I could see pieces of cardboard still unburnt, parts of the ground unsinged by flame. That needed to change.

I closed my eyes and just breathed, taking comfort in my girlfriend’s presence. Then I opened my eyes, reached back, and lobbed the bottle.

It wobbled and spun through the air, careening towards the pile of debris. I winced at my terrible throwing skills, but once it hit the ground the fire washed away my worries. The roaring, whispering, comforting blaze devoured every last scrap of carbon and left behind grey ash and black soot.

It was so beautiful, and I was the one who threw it. I did that. It was my fire, all mine.

I turned to my girlfriend with an ear-to-ear smile on my face, and she was smiling too. I started to laugh, but she grabbed my hand and dragged me towards the ashes.

Once we were surrounded by blackened paper and scorched cardboard, she pulled out her phone again and made me take an earbud. I was expecting another pop song, something cheery and fast like we’d listened to on the way here, but instead classical music filtered through.

I raised an eyebrow at her, but she just put a finger to her lips and took a step towards me. One arm wrapped around me and the other took my hand, and then she was leading me in a waltz across the ashen remnants of our makeshift playground.

It was an ethereal moment. Her skin glowed and her smile sparkled, and all the color in the world drained away except for her emerald eyes and the orange embers we danced around. Nothing existed but her smile, and her warmth.

In the midst of our revelry there was a crack of thunder. Overhead, dark clouds invaded the afternoon sky. A drop of rain splashed on our intertwined hands, and then it was pouring.

It took us a second to comprehend the rain, but then my girlfriend went scrambling. She ripped out her earbud, gently removed mine, then raced to scoop up her backpack and shove the lighter and her phone inside before the rain ruined them.

Then she offered me her hand and together we raced through the woods back the way we came, running to escape the rain and laughing all the while. We didn’t stop until we found a bridge to rest under, safe from the rain.

For a long moment we were just there, breathing, staring like we couldn’t believe it. The downpour made that pitter-patter noise and echoed around us like a blanket of white noise. My heart was beating so fast, but I didn’t feel stressed or tired or any of that; I felt alive.

She leaned forward and kissed me, and I kissed back, and we stayed like that till we couldn’t breathe and had to come up for air. She smelled like rain-drenched soil and scattered ash, earthy and rich. Her emerald eyes sparkled, and everything around her looked blurry, out-of-focus. Like there was no one in the world but her.

I kept smiling, I couldn’t stop, and there was this warm feeling in my chest and butterflies in my stomach.

She gave me that smirk, that arrogant, full-of-herself, adorable little cheeky grin, and she asked me, “Better than a movie?”

I kissed her again. “Definitely.”

The street lights flickered as the last employee at Forever 21 locked the front door and drove away.

The moment the car was out of sight, two girls slipped from the shadows. Both were teens, one tall and rainbow-haired while the other was short and mousy.

Rachel, the tall girl, grinned. “This’ll be great.” She squealed and had to cover her mouth to keep the noise from escaping. “I’m so excited I can barely hold it in! You ready, Ghost? Think you can pull it off?”

Ghost hesitated. “I… I think I can. I usually can, but I’ve only done it on this a handful of times.”

Rachel put a hand on her shoulder and looked her in the eyes. “Hey. I believe in you, okay? You’re gonna be just fine.”

Ghost smiled softly and nodded. “Okay. Wait for my signal.”

The quiet girl took another step into the flickering light and let out a deep breath. She raised her gaze to the cameras above the store entrance and let the world fall away, everything blurring into blackness except for that one point of reality. She reached out with one hand, concentrated, and drew on a power deep inside her.

Ghost felt the lines of energy and information flowing through the building. She felt each camera as a node within that flow, each node an access point to a network like the intersections of a web.

She could see herself through mechanical eyes but the image was indistinct, only half-there. She was already cloaked from view, hidden to the store’s synthetic nervous system by instinct.

Ghost tugged on strings of power, inserting her will into the flow of information and making subtle changes. The software wasn’t used to being talked to so directly, so informally, and it had no defenses to her tender touch. She unlocked the doors, looped the cameras, and put all the alarms to sleep.

She felt prickling on her skin as each facet of the mechanical organism folded to her desires. She heard the beeping of cameras like whispering in her ears as they looped footage. She felt the click of unlocked doors reverberating through her bones. She saw each light as it turned on, and she saw the pockets of darkness where no light was allowed to shine.

Ghost slowly pulled herself away from the network of flashing lights and whirring signals. She swayed as she came back into herself, but Rachel was right behind her, ready to hold her steady.

Rachel gave her a concerned look. “You okay?”

Ghost smiled. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. And we’re in.”

Rachel hugged her, then bounced on her feet and sprinted for the door, laughing. She pulled on the door and it opened without complaint. She closed it, opened it again, and beamed at Ghost as the other girl approached.

“Holy shit this is so cool! They locked the door and then you unlocked it with your mind!”

Ghost pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and smiled nervously. “Um, yeah, I guess I did. But if we stay out here celebrating then someone’ll probably notice us.”

Rachel got the hint and opened the door wide, gesturing for Ghost to go in with a curtsy. “After you, my ghost in the machine.”

Ghost rolled her eyes and slipped inside.

The inside of the store looked like your average Forever 21: glam, glitz, and desperation colored in a billion different shades of white. Rachel immediately went to the nearest coat rack and started trying on different jackets. Fur, fleece, and flannel were all given attention and offered up as tribute to the gal of the hour. Ghost voted for the flannel, so Rachel picked one out in gray.

Ghost’s first destination was the cash register. She popped it open and started scooping out bills, stuffing them into her bag. Rachel came over to join, but paused.

“You don’t think any employees will get in trouble if we take this, do you? I don’t want someone getting fired ‘cause we nicked a whole day’s profits.”

Ghost blinked a few times as if the thought had never occurred to her, which it hadn’t. “Um… well, the system should show that all the alarms and locks were turned on, so they can’t hold the person that locked up responsible, can they?”

Rachel shrugged. “Maybe. Or they’ll just assume the last person to leave was the thief and hacked the system.”

“Oh.” Ghost shrank a little. “I… I guess I never thought of that the other times I did this. I’ll put it back.” She hung her head dejectedly and started putting cash back into the proper slots.

Rachel put a hand on her arm to stop her. “Hey… what if…”

She pulled a blue spray can out of her bag and pointed it at the wall behind the registers. She let loose and quickly sprayed a message:

You’ve been visited by the Phantom Thieves

Ghost gave her a look. “Phantom Thieves? Really? That’s silly on multiple levels.”

Rachel shrugged. “If it works, it works. Now finish stuffing your pockets and help me pick out more clothes.”

Ghost rolled her eyes and followed Rachel into the labyrinth of shirts and skirts and bright white tights. There wasn’t nearly enough black for Ghost, but Rachel reveled in finding the ugliest, gaudiest clothing.

A few were pretty, Ghost had to admit. Rachel picked out a new pair of sneakers and a tank top (actually a regular shirt she cut the sleeves from) with kittens on it.

Ghost preferred to just watch and comment, but Rachel refused to leave her out of the fun.

“Come on, just try on a few,” Rachel cajoled.

“You know none of this is my style. ‘Sides, I don’t like wearing stolen clothes. I’d rather steal money and buy stuff legit.”

Rachel slipped a shirt off its rack and held it out in front of Ghost. “This would look really cute on you. I think if you tried it on, your cuteness would jump by at least 30%. You might become so cute I’d have no choice but to kiss you.”

Ghost blushed beet-red and mumbled, “Fine, I’ll wear the dumb shirt.”

“What was that?”

Ghost snapped her mouth shut and snatched the shirt. She didn’t bother taking off her existing top. After a bit of wrestling with it, she layered the new shirt over her old one and gave a little twirl for Rachel to see.

Rachel giggled. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind, but it works. You make a good model.”

Ghost stuck her tongue out. “What, were you just trying to see me with my top off?”

Rachel winked, and Ghost blushed even darker this time.

After a few more minutes of running around the store and pilfering expensive adornment they both ended up on the floor, lying parallel and inverse on a bed of dresses and fur coats.

They were murmuring to each other, trading meaningless words and empty sounds, just enjoying their shared presence, when Rachel turned to Ghost and asked, “How long have you been able to do stuff like this?”

“Stuff like…”

“You know what I mean. The locks, the lights. You’re like… psychic. Or psionic, I guess? A technopath! That’s the word I was looking for.”

“…You read too many comics.”

“And you don’t read enough comics. So spill: where’d you learn how to control machines with your mind? Gimme the whole story.”

Ghost was quiet for a long time, thinking it over in her head.

Slowly, she asked, “The whole story? All of it?”

Rachel sat up a bit and nodded. “Yeah. I wanna know how Ghost, elite technopath, got her start. I’ll be your secret keeper, like Lois Lane for Superman, but gayer.”

For once, Ghost didn’t snicker. “Okay. But it’s not really a happy story.”

Rachel leaned over and grabbed Ghost’s hand. There was a new earnestness in her expression. “I still want to hear it. And I’m here if you need me.”

“Okay. I guess… I guess I’ve always had these powers, in one form or another. When I was little I made the lamp in my room flicker every time I sneezed. When I got my first cellphone, I accidentally used it to read the text messages of a girl I had a crush on. As long as I can remember, I’ve been… weird.”

“Weird is cool. I like weird.”

Ghost sighed. “Yeah, but I grew up in a shitty little town in the middle of nowhere. People in the middle of nowhere don’t say ‘cool’ when you accidentally turn off all the lights in the house. They say ‘call the exorcist’ and ‘what did you do with our daughter.’”

Rachel looked crestfallen. “Oh.”

“I didn’t have anyone to teach me. I didn’t have anyone to say it was okay. I just had something weird inside me that felt more like a curse than a gift. I wanted… I wanted to be normal. I tried to be normal.”

Rachel didn’t say anything, but the question was in her eyes: how did that turn out?

Ghost laughed, a bitter sound. “Being normal sucks. So I finished high school a year early and fucked off to live with my cousin here. Started… started actually trying to use my power. I learned how to control it, how to make it do what I want rather than the other way around. And I stole. It’s how I paid rent.”

Ghost brushed some hair out of her face and looked away from Rachel. It felt weird sharing this stuff. Like she was giving up something precious, shining a light on something that had been perfectly comfortable to stay buried in darkness forever.

But… it was nice, too. It was nice feeling Rachel’s warmth through intertwined hands, and it was nice to be able to admit she stole things without getting looks of pity or disgust.

“Well… I think you’re pretty cool, Ghost. Crimes are also cool, for the record, but you’d be cool even if you didn’t commit crimes. I’m glad I met you.”

Ghost smiled and closed her eyes. Without meaning to she drifted off, comfortable atop her bed of stolen clothing.

Ghost woke to the sound of an alarm.

She panicked and skittered to her feet. She looked around wildly, searching for Rachel. She saw her running out of a side room with an equally panicked look on her face.

“What happened?!” Ghost darted to Rachel’s side and questioned her.

“I don’t know! I was just going to the bathroom and when I walked out everything went haywire!” Rachel clutched at Ghost’s arm, eyes wide.

Ghost buried her face in her hands. “Of course, it must be on a different part of the system since they don’t use cameras in the bathrooms. Maybe a timed lock? Dammit, I should have checked.”

Rachel glanced around nervously. “What do we do? Why is everything else freaking out?”

Ghost shook her head and grabbed at her own hair. “Just- Just give me a second.” She reached out for the electrical web of the store, but her control was shaky.

The whole store was lighting up, alarms going off, cameras swiveling. Somehow tripping the bathroom alarm was like a wake-up call to the rest of the system that was undoing Ghost’s meddling. Every alarm was on and active, every camera was recording their presence, every light was flashing.

She could sense the store’s hatred for her, its resentment of her power. She could hear it whispering inside her bones, she could feel its eyes glaring at her. Every nerve resisted her, every strand of the web fought her presence. Too many synapses firing, too many crossed signals, too many things at once, too many-

Ghost screamed, and everything electrical in the building went dead.

Silence. Ghost stared at her hands as they shook and slowly stilled. She lost control. She did it again. Just like all those times before, all those bad memories. What was she doing? What would Rachel think-

“That was so cool!”

…Same Rachel as always. Ghost had to laugh, and slowly her panic melted away. “C’mon, nerd. Let’s get out of here before the cops show up.”

Rachel nabbed a few more articles of clothing, then followed Ghost out into the parking lot. Together they raced away from Forever 21, giggling and clutching their ill-gotten gains.

They ran and ran until they couldn’t see the store or the street it was on. They ran through a precious night, the stars above hidden by industrialism, the street lights their only source of illumination. They saw a few people, rarely, but this late at night nobody was really around.

They came to a stop, breathless but ecstatic. When Ghost could talk without gasping, she asked, “Hey, wanna see something cool?” and gave Rachel a wink.

Rachel nodded eagerly, and Ghost raised her hand and swept it like a conductor’s wand at all the lights on the street. One-by-one they went out until only the light above them stayed lit. They were illuminated, highlighted, the starry crown of the street.

Rachel smiled. “You’re such a romantic… I like it.” She drew Ghost in for a kiss, and then another, and then they disappeared into the night already plotting their next adventure.

There was a ridiculous trend going around where vampires drank blood cold, and my closest friend was the latest convert.

We were sitting in a posh cafe hidden away deep in downtown Manhattan, in the nonhuman part of the area, and we were having lunch, which meant it was close to midnight. It was the nicest cafe to relax in, which wasn’t saying much when there were only three vampire cafes in the whole of the city. I was sipping warm blood like a normal person, but Eveline had this abomination of a drink that made me shiver just looking at it. There were ice cubes in it, and little bits of sugar crusted on the edges.

I was being polite and not mentioning how much her disgusting beverage made me ashamed to be in her presence, but she must have noticed a few telltale signs. She glanced at me with crimson eyes, and they glittered with humor.

“It’s actually really good, I promise. Try some, Cordie, come on.” She gently pushed her glass in my direction and my lip curled on instinct.

I forced a smile. “I’m afraid I’ll have to pass. Diets just don’t agree with me, and I’d hate to rob you of such a… delectable drink. Perhaps we should discuss something else?”

Evie rolled her eyes, then tapped her chin. “Okay, topic change: what were you up to last Monday? I came by to drop off some books, but you weren’t home.”

“Must I always be home on a Monday?”

“Yes. Monday’s your ‘stay home and read as many books as possible’ day. You never do anything on a Monday.”

It was my turn to eye-roll. “Fine. I was out doing things. Having some fun. Enjoying the night air.”

She nodded. “Mm. See, I really want to hope for the best here and believe that you’ve found some new friends and were hanging out with them, but you didn’t mention a single thing about that to me, so now I’m fearing the worst instead.”

I pressed a hand to my chest and gave her wounded doe eyes. “I am the most civil and polite person you know, Evie. I taught you everything you know about vampire etiquette, remember? Having friends would be child’s play for me.”

She gave me the Look. “Being polite and being antisocial aren’t mutually exclusive. Spill.”

I took a long sip of blood and savored it while I prepared my answer. The blood wasn’t fresh, certainly, but the temperature was near-identical. Human, young and healthy. Not particularly interesting stock, but it carried a delicious tinge of desperation that soothed me and reminded me of a misspent youth charming my way into the necks of heirs and heiresses.

But those days were long gone. I sighed and looked away from Evie. I could never lie to her. “I… I went hunting. I didn’t kill anyone I swear, just… snacked.”

“Cordelia,” she whined. “We’ve talked about this. You can’t keep acting like everything is the way it was before.”

I made a little frustrated noise. “I’m trying, I just- It isn’t easy setting aside two centuries of being an apex predator. It’s easy for you; you’ve only been a vampire for two decades. You’ve never known what it’s like to truly immerse yourself in the hunt, to rule a feeding grounds, to feed without worry of being caught.”

“You’re right: I haven’t. But that’s because the world is different. We’re living in a new era, and we are part of their society now. We have to share it. If vampires can’t play by the rules, we’ll be snuffed out like candle flames before a cold breeze. The humans will walk all over us. You get that, right?” Evie looked at me with earnest passion, the need for me to understand etched into every facet of her youthful face.

I took another sip of my drink, set it down, and stared into it in silence.

“Cordie…”

“I’ll try. Okay?”

She patted my hand and smiled at me. “You can do it, I know you can. Keep trying, Cordie.”

“We’ll see. Anyways, how are you doing? How’s work?”

“Great! They finally gave me a slot in food and lifestyle. Can you guess what that means?” She grinned impishly and swirled her disgusting drink.

“Ah, so that capital offense against vampirism is for an article, not just to torture me. What a relief.” I smiled at her to show my good humor. “In all seriousness, I’m proud of you. You’ve deserved that promotion for a while. I’d suggest we clink glasses in celebration but I think we both know what a terrible idea that would be.”

She snickered and cheered her drink at the air. “To moving up in the world. Though it’s really more of a lateral move than a promotion and I don’t expect my pay to increase for at least a few-”

I interrupted her with a gentle, “To moving up in the world.” I raised my own drink at a careful distance from hers, downed the last of it, and set it on the table with a delicate clink. “And to good culinary choices.”

Eveline tapped her chin idly and started making a plotting face; her brow furrowed with a certain adorable intensity and her spindly fingers danced to the beat of whatever song she’d last listened to.

I let her plot, finding amusement in watching her subtle twitching motions.

“Hmm. No, yeah, that’s a good idea.” She was talking to herself, and then she returned her attention to me. “Hey, Cordie, you’ve seen a lot of fad diets come and go, right?”

“Like the one you’re currently partaking in? Yes, I have. I’ve even see this particular diet crop up before. You were around, then, I think, though perhaps too feral at the time to remember.”

She nodded absently. “Right, yeah. So how would you like to talk about that kind of thing with someone who knows his stuff? I have a friend who’s writing a book on vampire diets and I think the two of you would really hit it off.”

I raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Is this another attempt to make me eat your weird diet food?”

“I promise, you don’t have to eat or drink anything you don’t want to. Just a nice chat over dinner, your choice of place. I’d consider it a personal favor.” It was Evie’s turn to flash doe eyes, and, as had been the case for nearly twenty years, she was much better at it: I caved immediately.

“Alright, fine. I’ll do this… interview? Chat? And is he a vampire?”

“Both, probably. And yes, he’s a vampire. Though not much older than me.”

“I suppose it might be a little interesting.”

“Awesome!” She grabbed her smartphone and started tapping away. “I’ll text you his number so you can set up the meeting yourself, and I’ll tell him to expect you. You’re still one of those weirdos who calls instead of texts, right?”

“Correct.” My phone vibrated. Being a lady of class, I did not rush to check it as Evie had already done several times over the course of our midnight luncheon.

“Cool, got it. He’s got a super flexible schedule so pick whatever works best for you. And thanks, I’m really excited for his book and I just know you’ll have some great insight to add.” She grinned wide at me and I couldn’t help but smile back.

I paid for lunch and politely ignored any insistence that we split the bill. We hugged, parted ways, and I glanced at the stars to see how much time was left in the night.

It was still only a little after midnight, so I had most of the evening outlined before me. Plenty of time to visit friends or attend a party or do something fun with my Saturday. Endless possibilities.

I called the number Evie had given me and scheduled dinner for the following evening, and then I went home and read a book.

It’s not that I’m antisocial, I mused as I scrolled through my phone contacts. Incinerated, moved to Brazil, and I don’t even know what she’s doing these days.

Once, I had been fabulous and popular, living a lavish lifestyle off the bounty of others. I’d flitted from social circle to social circle, charming actors and executives and artists alike. But that was before the masquerade Shattered and the whole world learned that vampires were real.

We could have ruled humanity from the shadows if we only learned to cooperate for more than a few minutes at a time… but instead we were thrust into the light and burned like ants beneath a magnifying glass. The Shattering took it all away.

I crawled into bed early and let sleep wash away my bitterness.

The next evening, at 4 AM sharp, I arrived at the restaurant I’d selected, the only one for miles around that catered to vampires. The sun would rise in a few hours, and already my skin prickled in anticipation. A bit of sunlight wouldn’t kill me, but it would weaken me.

My dinner partner showed up a minute late, which I forgave, and we shook hands. “Lewis Averford, we talked on the phone. Eveline’s friend, right?” He gave a toothy grin.

“Correct. I am Cordelia.”

Lewis was a vampire, that much was obvious. His skin was pale, though not as pale as mine, and like Eveline he chose not to hide his crimson eyes. The mark of his vampirism was on clear display, bright and red. It only took a little effort to disguise them as black or brown when in public, but these days it wasn’t really necessary anymore.

We entered the restaurant together and found our way to the seats I’d reserved. I ordered black pudding and Lewis had steak. I debated whether or not to get a glass of blood, seeing as I’d already had a more than healthy diet that week, but then I remembered it was Sunday and decided to treat myself. Lewis drank blood hot, which was a relief.

I started the conversation off light. “So, how do you know Eveline?”

“We travel in the same circles. We both research stuff for public consumption, I just do books and she writes articles. I actually met her at an event, but only briefly.”

“What kind of event?” Evie was always happy to share stories about her findings, but rarely talked about the people she met or the places she visited. I suspected it was a courtesy on her part, knowing my history.

He shrugged. “Some writing convention, nothing memorable. I’d say our real first meeting is when I started working on this diet project and asked to borrow some of her research. She was super passionate about it once we got into details.”

I nodded and sipped from my glass. “Yes, Evie’s always been a curious one. The joys of youth, I suppose.”

He chuckled. “I’m only a decade older than her, you know. I was sired just eight years before the Shattering.”

I clicked my tongue. “Youths.”

He laughed again. “The humans would never call us that.”

I smirked. “Good thing I don’t care for their opinions. No matter how much Eveline chides me about it.”

“Actually… here’s something I was wondering about: did you sire Eveline? She talks about you like you’re very close, but never uses ‘sire’ or ‘fledgling’. Sorry if it’s a touchy subject, it’s just been eating at me.”

I frowned, and old memories came unbidden. A girl in an alley with a rail-thin frame and too-red eyes. A fledgling abandoned by her sire for being weak. A promise extracted. Then, less than a year later, the world changed forever.

I murmured, “It’s… a complicated story. Suffice to say that she is not my fledgling, but I have cared for her as if she were.” Conviction entered my voice. “She is important to me, and I will not allow anyone to harm her.”

He nodded. “I can tell. I think she can, too. She talks about you a lot.” He snickered a little. “She calls you ‘the pickiest eater’ sometimes.”

I rolled my eyes and sipped some blood. “Yes, well, she would.”

Food arrived and we ate slowly to savor it. Well worth the price. The conversation strayed into vampire-friendly restaurants briefly before I brought it back to Evie.

“Honestly, I’m proud of her weird food research, much as I am any of her work. We may disagree on culinary taste, but she knows more about the fad diets she tries than any trend-chaser. It’s about knowledge to her, not popularity.”

Lewis nodded. “She’s smart. Crazy-smart. And she likes to keep her finger on the pulse.” He pointed to my meal, black pudding made with traces of human blood. “You’re a fan of the classics.”

“They were modern when I first tried them. And they’re part of our culture, the traditions passed down from sire to fledgling in this country and those that came before it.” I could tell I was already getting defensive.

Lewis swallowed a bite of steak and pulled a folder from his bag. “I’ve talked to a lot of vampires lately that have been here as long as the States have, or close. Some of these notes are purely nutritional, or palette differences, but I’ve been really fascinated by what certain trends say about periods of vampire culture. The way we drink blood, I mean. I’m sure you’ve noticed the recent craving for cold blood?”

I shivered. “Yes, and it’s disgusting. I’ve seen it before, with the rise of blood bags and refrigeration. It was especially prominent right around the Shattering. Hated it then, hate it now. If I can’t drink from the source, don’t take away my facsimile.”

“You still can drink from the source, it’s just harder now. They have to know exactly what they’re getting into. I know plenty of vampires who still manage to feed from the source once or twice a month.”

I shifted in my seat and ignored my sense of guilt. “It’s nothing like the old days. You must remember that time, yes? Even if it was only a few years, that’s still hundreds of feedings. Hundreds of times that your fangs sank into a vulnerable neck or wrist. We were royalty of the night, sovereign and unchallenged. Now we’re rats, skittering around begging for handouts. Why should a vampire bend to the will of a human?”

“You were human, once, Cordelia. We all were, every last vampire.” I glared at him and he winced. “Sorry. I should be gathering data, not trying to sway you.”

There was cold bitterness creeping into my voice as I said, “Then ask your questions. And tell me what my peers have told you. I want to know.”

He tapped his notes and looked away from me. “Well… there are trends. Do you have fond memories of fresh blood?”

I nodded and took a long sip of my drink, dissecting every detail about the blood pouring down my throat. Female, early twenties, indolent. Blood given callously, cheaply, and fearlessly. Blood of cattle raised for milking, sold for a sum that would be pennies to some and most of a month’s rent for the destitute. Value quantified, codified, and converted to a dollar sign.

“It’s… such a powerful thing. So unique. It is part of being a vampire. The taste of a vein, the beating pulse. Intimacy. Strength. Power.”

“Do you ever wish you could go back to that time? When vampires hunted freely?”

I drained my glass. “Often. We were predators once, and they were prey. We were the elite, the chosen. What is this miserable existence we have now? How much have we lost, confined to human morality, human cages, a human world? Will we wither away under their reign, or will they choose to slaughter us at the slightest hint of danger?”

He pursed his lips as if to say something, but stopped himself and simply jotted down a few notes. “You asked what the others said. Vampires sired after the Shattering tend not to have problems with cold blood, or actively enjoy it. Vampires sired only a few decades before it prefer warm, but are willing to drink cold. The older they get, the more opposition they show. Whether it be for cultural reasons or purely culinary ones, a lot of vampires who have been around a century or more are worried about hot blood going away.”

“And? Is it?”

He shook his head firmly. “Definitely not. As long as the demand is there, and it will always be there, there will always be that option. Especially at places that cater to the lavish crowd, the vampires with old blood and old money. It may become more of a delicacy, but it’s not really being replaced.”

I stared into my empty glass for a long moment, then finally murmured, “I hope so.”

We finished dinner and split the bill. We shook hands, said our goodbyes, and parted ways.

I tried to read when I got home, but echoes of our conversation lingered in my mind and sent me brooding.

What are we if we forsake the hunt? What about lineage, birthright? Humanity has us under their boot and we should just accept that? Suck up to the humans and forget centuries of history?

Is this so-called safety worth bending the knee? Is this so-called freedom worth sacrificing our place at the top of the food chain?

I remembered blood. Blood from my victims. Blood pouring down my throat. Blood on my hands, staining them.

Once, I fed at my whim, and I fed on whoever looked like a good meal. Any day of the week, any hour of the night, all according to my mood. When the Shattering tore away those halcyon days, I was reduced to scraps. Chances slipping away one-by-one until entire months went by where every drop of blood I drank was tainted by plastic or glass.

Am I supposed to be satisfied with that? Can any of us be satisfied with that meager existence? How does Eveline even bear it?

Slowly the energy drained away from me, and a single question remained:

What is best for Eveline?

I pushed that thought away and crawled into bed right as the sun came up.

Monday.

My fangs ached. Hunger was calling my name, whispering to me of fragile vessels and a delicious prize.

It was feeding day.

A few months ago I’d started feeding again. Just a bite here or there. Then a few times a month. Then every week.

It wasn’t enough. I wanted more.

At the stroke of midnight I left my apartment and concealed myself in the shadows. Humans were diurnal creatures, but plenty of them strayed from shelter amid the dark, hurrying away to whatever petty desires motivated them.

Easy enough to find one more vulnerable than the rest. A sickly gazelle at the edge of the herd. I tasted her weakness in the air, and I followed her through the city’s steel labyrinth.

She made a wrong turn, then another, and I could feel her confusion and fear rising as she slowly realized how lost she was getting, her sense of direction stolen from her. She hit a dead end, and as she turned around to leave, I stepped out in front of her.

She waved weakly at me, nervousness radiating from her. I smirked, and my fangs were clear to see. My eyes gleamed, revealed in glorious crimson. I tasted the exact moment that her nervous fear turned to desperate terror.

My prey took one step forward, but no further. She was paralyzed, bound in place by my power, unable to move an inch no matter how much she wanted to run until her legs gave out. My smirk only widened, and I drew close enough to feel her panicked breath heating the air.

I touched her cheek gently and felt her tension drain away as my presence numbed her thoughts. She stopped fighting back, her breathing slowed, and her fearful gaze became placid and dull. She was mine, and her blood sang to me with a thousand luxurious promises.

I lowered my fangs to her neck and tasted skin so soft and frail. She was so vulnerable, it would be so simple, so easy. It would only take one push. One moment. One bite.

So why… was I hesitating?

Cordelia. If vampires can’t play by the rules, we’ll be snuffed out like candle flames before a cold breeze.

You were human, once, Cordelia. We all were, every last vampire.

The voices of Eveline and Lewis came unbidden. Mocking me. Goading me. Knives under my skin.

Damn it.

I pushed the human away. I growled at her, “Run,” and she bolted.

I stuffed my hands in my coat and started walking home. My throat was dry, and I had a headache that throbbed. The taste of blood was already swimming in my thoughts, taunting me maddeningly. Why had I let her go? Why had I let them get to me?

I was a sovereign of the night, a queen of the dark! I was…

I sighed. I’m no one.

As I reached my apartment complex, my phone buzzed. A text from Evie: I saw what happened, Cordie. I’m proud of you <3

I stared at the text for a long moment, trying to figure out how she’d followed me undetected. Then I gave up and just smiled softly at my phone.

I guess that’s worth losing a meal.

The necromancer’s life became far more interesting the day she met the talking skull.

Lady Vizla strolled through the marketplace at a calm and focused pace. She was not particularly interested in individual meat hooks or pulsating, disembodied hearts, but she considered the whole of the market to be greater than the sum of its offerings.

Vizla had completed her shopping efficiently, which let her take one and one-quarter hours to browse whatever was on display. She was not expecting to be impressed, so she was not disappointed with her lackluster findings.

Then, as she passed an unremarkable table with a seemingly unremarkable skull sitting atop it, the skull called for her attention.

“Hey, boss lady! You gotta help me out here.” A rough, raucous, and vaguely male voice issued cleanly from between the skull’s teeth. From the depths of his eye sockets shone an ambient orange glow, an almost supernatural light that persisted despite the rays of sunlight that broke through the overcast sky.

“How quaint. A talking skull.” Vizla tilted her head at it and poked a spindly finger in one of its glowing sockets.

“Hey! How’d you like it if I started sticking fingers in your eye holes, eh?”

“You have no fingers. You are a skull.”

The skull grumbled at her incoherently and Vizla removed her finger from its facsimile of an eye. She examined the skull from a distance, scanning its surface in search of any identifying marks or symbols of necromancy. She found nothing.

“You intrigue me, skull. Why do you want my help?”

“See that dolt over there with the crummy fashion sense? The guy at the till?”

A portly zombie in the throes of decay was placing coins into a rusty lockbox. His sense of style incorporated far too much mustard yellow for one with such flaky, jaundiced skin. From the sign overhead, he was the Elbert of Elbert’s Oddments.

“That guy owns me, and he’s a bigger bore than any other lout for a mile around. I’d know. I know lots of things.”

Vizla arched an elegant eyebrow. “Do you desire freedom, or simply a more interesting master? I can provide you only one.”

“Can provide, or will provide?”

Lady Vizla smiled thinly.

The skull chuckled. “You’ll do, boss. You’ll do.”

Vizla tapped the table to get the zombie’s attention. He lurched over, grumbling with each step. When he looked up at her, his crusty eyes went wide.

“Lady Vizla! You honor my stall with your presence.” Elbert’s voice had a toad-like quality that remained no matter how many times he cleared his throat. “What can a humble merchant do for such a prestigious necromancer?”

“I wish to purchase goods. This amputation saw, that sprig of conium maculatum, those pickled adrenal glands, and the skull.” She pointed at a few items she knew to be mildly valuable, and then at the talking skull.

The merchant’s jovial expression faltered when she pointed at the skull. One sallow, flaky-skinned hand rested on it protectively. “That’s a high list, Lady Vizla. Are you sure about all those items? Not to question you, of course,” he simpered while questioning her.

“A reasonable concern. Just the skull, then.”

The zombie winced, clearly hoping for a different outcome. “The skull really isn’t for sale, though. I keep it out here to watch for thieves. It talks, you see. Never shuts up, more rightly.”

Vizla glanced at the skull doubtfully, which obliged her by keeping quiet. “It seems well-behaved enough. I want it, merchant. I will pay a more than fair sum for it. You can’t have paid much for such a useless object.”

The mixture of greed and guilt in Elbert’s eyes suggested that he had not, in fact, paid anything at all for the skull. “Well… I suppose I can’t pass up an offer like that. 115 Stygian marks. In coin, please.”

“Patently ridiculous. 85.”

“I have bills to pay, necromancer. 110 would be a generous price.”

“100, and my continued patronage.”

He hesitated, but she knew his capitulation was inevitable. “Deal.”

They shook hands, traded coin for skull, and Vizla walked away with her prize. She placed the skull face-up in her satchel, atop her other purchases.

“Nice haggling, boss. But you could have just stolen me and slipped away.”

“100 marks is a steal. It’s not every day I find a puzzle like you.”

Vizla and her acquisition drifted through the crowd. The sun was winding its way down toward the horizon, the cloud cover was breaking up, and the less dedicated customers and vendors were packing up to leave.

Lady Vizla had decided her skull needed a name. Since he refused to provide one, she had to get creative.

“Tibbs?”

“I’m not a shinbone.”

“Crane, then? For cranium.” She gave a thin-lipped smile to her own pun.

“Ha. Ha. Never heard that one before, boss. You come up with it yourself?”

“I shall cease if you tell me your name.”

The skull sighed, and if it had eyes to roll it would have. “You say that like I was given one, which I wasn’t. I was made to help necromancers, that’s it. Names are for people; don’t need a name when you’re a glorified library.”

Vizla frowned. “Then tell me of your creation. What are you?”

There was a long pause. When the skull spoke again, his words were eloquent and measured, a complete departure from his usual speech. “’As a zombie is stitched of flesh and blood, you were stitched of thought and memory.’”

“And?”

“And that’s it. That’s all I know, boss. My maker didn’t give me details. She didn’t want the process repeated, maybe, or didn’t want me changing myself.”

“Curious. You still need a name.”

The skull chuckled. “You can try, boss.”

Their afternoon stroll continued, chatting idly and examining what the market had to offer. Nothing interested Vizla as much as her new assistant did, but she still bought a vial of putrefied jackal’s blood and a pair of vulture eyes.

“There it is! Seize that thief, minion!”

An indignant shout ended Vizla’s shopping. A goliath of stitched flesh emerged from the crowd and lumbered towards her with clear intent. A corpse golem, the ideal bodyguard and henchman of any well-to-do necromancer.

From his perch, the skull muttered, “Oh, great. These chumps again.”

Vizla took a few cautious steps back as the golem approached. “Friend of yours?” She kept her voice low and even.

“That oaf works for the guy Elbert stole me from.” For a moment, the skull sounded almost sheepish. “I guess my old owner thinks you’re the thief. Whoops.”

The corpse golem drew closer and flexed its fingers. Though its mottled, stiff face struggled to show emotion, somatic signs of aggression were unmistakable: hunched shoulders, outstretched arms, and heavy stride.

Vizla plucked the skull from her satchel and held it in her hands. She smiled at the golem and said, “I suggest you halt, unless you’d like to explain to your employer why his precious property is in pieces.”

The creature hesitated and twitched in place. It reached for her, then pulled back, then repeated the motion, caught between conflicting orders.

As the golem struggled, the skull laughed nervously. “Pieces? How many pieces we talkin’ here?”

“Quiet.” Vizla silenced him with a word, her attention focused on the creature.

Two more golems pushed through the crowd, and Vizla sighed, letting a hint of frustration show on her face. She was going to be late for evening tea with her sister.

Between the corpse golems shambled a hunchbacked necromancer with gold eyes that shone like greasy coins.

The arrival rudely jabbed a finger at Vizla. “Thief! Give me back what you stole, and I won’t sic the rest of my servants on you.”

Vizla frowned. “No.”

The necromancer’s face became puffy and red. “You stole my belonging. Admit it, fiend! I am Kazrezar the Constructor, fleshsculptor magnate, creator of the renowned Kazrezar golems. Everyone in Stygia has heard of me.”

He puffed out his chest. When the crowd did not immediately cheer, he glared at them until a few people half-heartedly affirmed his statement.

Kaz turned his glare back on her and sneered, “And who are you, thief?”

“I am Vizla.”

Kaz deflated visibly and the crowd oohed at the name. “Oh.” He scratched his head. “I, uh, I apologize for the disrespect, Lady Vizla. I think there’s been a misunderstanding here.”

Lady Vizla did not look impressed. From her satchel, her assistant muttered, “Misunderstanding, yeah.”

“See, that skull you have there, that’s mine. If you could return that I would deeply appreciate it and be happy to get out of your way.” He offered her what was most likely meant to be an assuring smile. She was not assured.

“This is my assistant, Skull. He is in my employ.”

Kaz stared at her. “You gave it a name?”

“Yes.”

Skull asked her incredulously, “You named me ‘Skull’?”

“Also yes. I think it suits you.”

The wind in Kazrezar’s sails had dropped from its initial gale to a light, ineffectual breeze, but desperate greed still lurked in his eyes. “It’s still mine by right.”

“He won me in a game of cards,” muttered Skull. “And almost lost me on dice the very same night.”

“Silence, servant!” snarled Kaz.

“New management, jackass!” shouted back Skull.

Vizla enjoyed their bickering for a few volleys before stepping in. “Enough. I have taken him, so he is mine now.” Vizla saw no reason to implicate the true thief, Elbert; she would have to fight to keep her prize either way, so blaming the merchant would gain her nothing and waste precious time.

Kaz tensed. There was still wariness in his posture, but there was no denying the value Skull offered to an employer. Someone like Kazrezar would be prone to overestimating his own abilities, and he might even think he could take her on.

Vizla weighed outcomes. Killing the golem maker was certainly an option, and the blood would wash out of her cloak, but Kaz did have the most legally sound claim to Skull. Killing him out in the open would be gauche.

Vizla held up one hand in a placating gesture. “I propose a wager.”

Kaz blinked awkwardly. “Huh? A what?”

“A contest of skill, for possession of the skull. Whoever creates the more impressive corpse golem wins. Standard terms and conditions. We are both professionals, yes?”

Kaz hesitated, but only briefly. Relief flooded his eyes and was swiftly replaced by the confidence of a gambler. He accepted.

A market square was cleared for the contest. A golem contest was not as exciting as bloodsports, but the market-goers were still more than happy to watch a bit of skillful competition.

Twin workspaces were set up, with a large medical table in the middle of each. Parts were easy to acquire, and every item was carefully selected to be of similar quality.

As was law and custom in Stygia, the proceedings were watched over by an impartial judge selected from the local roster. Vizla and Kazrezar fiercely debated the available candidates, with Vizla not giving an inch until Kaz suggested a very particular judge, one well-known for her experience and fair dealing. As if waiting for the name, Vizla almost immediately agreed to the choice.

The judge was ten feet long from chitinous mandibles to quilled tail, and her needle-teeth were freshly cleaned. Her black-pit eyes oversaw everything with keen sight, and her feathered claws clicked against the cobblestones at a steady pace to mark the time. Her name was Nancy.

Vizla smiled warmly at Nancy when she arrived, then set to task. The necromancers worked at a fever pitch. Kaz ordered his golem servants to reshape flesh to his will, while Vizla carefully measured, marked, and stitched severed limbs together.

Kaz used a strong dose of magic in his construction, pouring power and energy into bone and gristle. Runic symbols carved into ribs, muscle added in careful layers, incisions in the flesh sealed with a press of his hands. Glands, nerves, and raw meat were broken down into component parts and reshaped by the will of the fleshsculptor.

Vizla worked coolly and professionally, only using magic when scalpel and sinew would not suffice. Excess growth was removed with clean slices and deposited in labeled containers. Joints were carefully tested and then loosened or strengthened accordingly. Measure, mark, stitch. Bone to bone, attached with metal. Skin to skin, sealed with thread.

The two golems slowly took form. Thread ran out and needed to be refilled, then embalming fluid – preferred by Kaz – and black blood – the choice of Vizla.

Skull proved himself to be of considerable use. He stopped Vizla from stitching over a frayed nerve and was able to tell from sight alone which of three rib cages had the greatest structural integrity.

Vizla spent time on the golem’s hands, jolting them with electricity to check the dexterity and response time. They were subpar and she considered replacing them, but decided it wiser to focus her efforts on completing the construct’s spinal column. Skull alerted her to a weak point and she carefully reinforced it with resin.

Once all body parts were secured, only detail was left. For someone who specialized in mass production, Kazrezar had a surprisingly good eye for detail. He was efficient and economic with his creation, but also very precise. Vizla considered his golem-making skills impressive, and quite possibly superior to her own on a mechanical level. She checked her stitching again.

As she finished up her golem and observed her adversary’s work, she addressed Skull. “Kazrezar’s necromancy is artless, but he displays mastery of craft. Why do you wish to stay with me instead of him?”

Skull scoffed. “Makin’ the same thing over and over again, schematic after schematic? That’s not what I was made for. I help necromancers make wonders, not product. Kaz never got that.”

“He lacks vision?”

“Yeah, something like that. Now let me ask you a question: why’d you say I needed a name? And what’s with this assistant thing?”

Vizla furrowed her brow. “You are my employee, and employees need names. Unless you are not interested in the job? I suppose there must be better offers elsewhere in Stygia.”

“Thought you said you couldn’t provide freedom. Changing your mind?”

Vizla did not meet his gaze, instead focusing on the pattern of the corpse golem’s skin. “Simple pragmatism. An employee who is given a choice will work harder and possess more loyalty than one forced into the role.”

“Uh huh.” There was a pause. “Y’know, boss, I think you’re lying about your motives. And I think you’re a better person than you pretend to be.”

For once, Vizla had nothing clever to say.

At last, the time came to present their creations. Kaz went first, gesturing at his hulking brute and extolling its virtues.

“This golem is a variation on a classic. Solid, dependable, and with enhanced strength and endurance, this servitor can perform manual labor hours – nay, days – at a time without rest. What it lacks in fine motor control, it makes up for in combat capability. With fire-resistant skin and subtle regeneration, this golem has nothing to fear from pitchforks and torches.”

The golem grunted. The crowd murmured, and many clapped appreciatively.

Vizla commanded her golem to rise, and Kaz frowned. “Why doesn’t yours have a head?”

Vizla smirked and retrieved Skull from her satchel. She placed him atop the exposed spinal column of the construct and heard bone snap into place. Skull flexed the muscles of his new body and posed for the audience.

“The physical power of a corpse golem and the intellectual acumen of a necromancer. No more brutish lab accidents. No more bemoaning the hardship of being the only genius in the room. Why work harder when you can work smarter?”

The audience clapped with much more enthusiasm, and many nodded in agreement. Kaz fumed.

“This is crazy. Completely against the rules! You can’t just bring in outside material like that, you can’t just toy with the rules of the contest. Judge! Judge!”

Nancy slithered over on her soft underbelly and inspected the two golems. Her mandibles chittered thoughtfully and the crowd tensed, awaiting her decision. Screams of the damned issued authoritatively from her hell-maw, and Kaz’s shoulders slumped as the verdict was delivered. Nancy pointed a claw at Vizla, declaring her the winner.

Vizla gave a polite bow and smiled at her opponent. Kaz cursed Vizla’s name and promised that he would not forget this slight, but he assented to the judge’s decision and stalked off with his golems. The crowd dispersed soon after, and Vizla collected her things.

Vizla made Skull carry her satchel as recompense for her hard work, and they traveled home to her lair.

After putting away her purchases in various cubbyholes and freezers, he turned to her and tilted his head, staring as much as an expressionless skull could stare. She gestured for him to speak.

“You got real lucky slipping that flimflam under everyone’s noses.”

“Did I?” The necromancer’s face was mostly expressionless, but mirth glittered in her eyes.

“I mean, I’m not criticizing your work, boss. Golem’s great. But c’mon, we both know you cheated. Everybody could see it, plain as day. That was a huge gamble, and I didn’t take you for the gambling type. So how’d you pull it off?”

Vizla smiled, like a magician revealing the smoke and mirrors behind a clever trick.

“My sister was the judge.”