Author: floofiestnine

The ridge rose slowly over the course of miles. She started walking along it at the very beginning, where its jagged cliffs plunged into the sea. Waves kissed the rocks over and over, their pounding growing more passionate as the tide came in. The sun was high but its warmth couldn’t take away the faint chill of spray and the cool of the ocean breeze.

She turned from the ocean and went up, always up. At first it was an easy walk, then a hike, then a scramble over tumbling rocks and old petrified trees. Sometimes she flew, just for a short hop between boulders or a trip around a particularly pointy log. Never for long though. Her glowing wings faded back into non-existence and she dropped lightly to her feet, walking farther and letting what little magic she could still conjure recover before doing it again.

There had been a time when she would have flown the whole distance in the blink of an eye. Two small stubs wouldn’t have been all that carried her either, but six glorious wings beating in sync with her heart. She shoved those thoughts away. Pining over the past was a wasteful occupation. Better to focus on the here and now: this rock, this piece of lichen, the feeling of stone tearing at her soft hands as she hauled herself up and over, over, over again.

Twilight began to fall. She looked behind her. The sea was a vast field of black, darker even than the unlit land. To her sides, the first lights were just flickering to life in the valley. The city ahead of her was fully lit already. Its spires rose high into the sky, slicing open the bellies of the clouds and raining the water within down on the inhabitants. She had made it closer than ever before. Abandoned ruins from the city’s more prosperous age already surrounded her path. The ridge had leveled off to almost flat.

Yet she hadn’t made it. She turned back to the sea and watched as the first star flickered to life over the waves. It was too late. The world blurred and spun around her. Lights swirled together with darkness until nothing was left but a gray blur. She sighed and sat down in the empty void.

Exile hadn’t seemed like the worst punishment originally. There was a simple way out of it: make it home, and she got everything back. Status, magic, fame, everything. Reality had not proved itself as simple. Or perhaps it was simple, and she had just overestimated her abilities. Regardless, here she was, once again. Waiting for the time to come so that she could try once more. Just a little faster. She had been in the outskirts already. Just a little faster, and she would make it.

The hours dragged by. Finally the gray began to split and separate. Land formed underneath her and sky above. It was noon and the waves drummed their base beat, urging her on. For just the briefest of moments she gazed over the hazy water before turning and walking, determined, towards home.

Othello said she was wasting too much time picking the right flower. Lyndis ignored him. The flower was the foundation, the base upon which the whole spell rested. It might not serve any direct purpose on its own, but without the right base, the whole thing would collapse.

Wind swirled her long robes as she paced slowly through her personal garden. No windows looked into this closed off courtyard. She had long ago had them bricked over, finding that the curious gazes of maids and pages distracted her from the serious business of magic. Besides, she had learned early in her tenure as palace mage that rumors started easily and spread quickly. Better to head them off at the source.

Roses she had in plenty. Their ruffled blooms were classic. How many empires had a well chosen rose taken down over the years? Many to be sure. They were versatile but also… cliche. Her thin fingers caressed the edge of a petal before she moved on. There would be a use for roses yet. They would not go to waste.

Daisies had the benefit of being plain. Nobody suspected a daisy, or hardly even noticed one tucked in among the other blooms of a bouquet. They were practically invisible. Easy to work with as well, their straight petals taking to the magic easily as the red stain soaked in. Still, they were awfully complex. So many petals, so many factors, so much to go wrong.

She continued down the path but then paused, a flash of color by her feet catching her eyes. A violet. It poked bravely through the grass, fully aware she had not planted it there but boldly growing regardless. This specimen was not actually violet even – a tiny bit of purple hid in its center, but most was pure white. Lyndis plucked it slowly and smiled. Five petals. Enough to get the job done, with no extra to confuse matters. It would be better if it was the same perfect monochrome throughout, but there was little enough color that it should be fine.

She twirled the stem between her fingers and returned to the low stone table in one of the garden’s corners. Rack after rack of vials covered its surface. Othello had spent years building this collection. From the mundane to the exotic, anything she could want was here at her fingertips. She pulled out five vials thoughtfully and carefully deposited one drop from each onto the petals. They hissed quietly as the blood spread across their surface, slowly sinking in and dying the cells and veins a beautiful dusty red.

For a moment that was it. A younger mage might have began to fret, worrying the magic had not taken hold. Lyndis just waited calmly. Finally the flower twitched, wiggling loose from her fingers and falling to the table. It twisted and grew, curving in on itself in unsettling ways. When it stabilized, a small fey stood looking up at her. Lyndis smiled down at it and gave the only order it would ever need.

“Kill the king.”

***

Violet walked down the hall. Her mind was empty save for the command, echoing over and over. She had no self, no personality, no dreams. The only purpose of her life was to fulfill the command of her creator, and she would do it well.

She ran a hand along the edges of the five petals hanging around her waist like a skirt. The last was for the king, but the others would help her on her journey. It was a long way from the gardens up to the throne room, especially for one so small as herself. If she was able to feel daunted, she would have. Instead she just felt the drive and heard the words, over and over.

Kill. Kill. Kill.

This hall had been empty and still, but the next was not. A maid leaned against a wall, mop by her side. She held a crumpled note in her hand. Even from here, Violet could smell the scent drifting off the purple paper. A mixture of lavender and roses, with a bit of something else mixed in as well. Honey perhaps, or perhaps that was just the sweetness of the flowers themselves.

Violet watched as the maid brought the page to her nose, inhaling deeply before returning it to a pocket with a silly grin. The floor behind her was wet; she would be turning this way as she began to mop once more. Was it time to use one of the petals? This early in the journey she could not afford to be seen. A mad dash to the throne would be impossible from here.

She plucked one off the petals and considered it. Most of it was a delicate eggshell pink. The base was still purple though, dark and out of place. Her hand rested on the purple for a brief moment before she sprang into motion, crushing the petal between her hands. Its juice covered them and she leapt onto the wall next to her. Like the lizard whose blood drove this particular spell, she stuck.

Running up the wall on all fours was a strange sensation, an action missing from the basic muscle memories baked into her mind. She was a fast learner though, and in a flash she found herself hanging upside down from the ceiling. The maid standing far beneath her had just recovered her mop and was dipping it into the bucket by her feet. She had noticed nothing.

Violet prepared to move on, but found a strange sensation holding her there. She wanted to do something. The strands of this new desire wove and curled around her driving force, tugging her in different directions until finally they resolved into distinct pulls.

She wanted to create mischief.

She had no experience in life, but she had been made knowing some things. This alternate wish, this need to make a mess, it was wrong. Knowing something was wrong made it no easier to control. Her eyes skittered along the ceiling and landed on a big dusty cobweb. She scampered over and detached the threads holding it in place. It drifted slowly downward before splattering across the newly washed floor with a puff of dirt.

Violet smiled. She felt something new. Joy at her accomplishment, with perhaps a bit of smugness mixed in. Would this be how she felt once she killed the king? Intrigued, she headed onward.

***

This garden was different than the one she had come from. It was surrounded by walls, but the commonality stopped there. These walls were four luxuriously tall stories, each with wide glassy windows and the occasional balcony. Bricks laid at careful angles made delicate patterns that became just barely visible when the sunlight shone on their surface. Instead of the overflowing beds and cascading blossoms of the witch’s garden, here everything was neat and orderly. Small hedges bordered the gravel paths, and each blade of grass seemed to be in just the right place.

Violet rested atop one of the ornate iron lamp posts. The lizard hands had worn off gradually as a thin layer was left behind with each step she took, and a bigger layer stuck to each of the many dust clumps she flung to the floor with quiet glee. As she caught her breath, she considered what to do next.

She needed to cross the garden to reach her goal. Walking across would be an option, but something held her back. It felt too exposed, too open. Too risky. If she was going to complete her task, she couldn’t get caught. The people slowly gliding across the lawns seemed oblivious, but all it took was one pair of eyes at the wrong moment.

A gentle breeze fluttered the petals at her waist. It was time for another. She pulled one loose and ripped it carefully in half before holding the fragments up to her back. They fused instantly and stretched to form a pair of gossamer dragonfly wings. She gave them an experimental buzz before hopping into the air.

Flying was effortless. The breeze bore her high into the sky, far above the heads of the giants ponderously sweeping the grass with their oversized skirts. She felt the urge to drop something on their heads but suppressed it successfully under her need to avoid jeopardizing her true goal. It was a moment’s task to zip across the garden to the door she knew she must go through in the far wall. She had almost reached the exit when motion caught her eye and she paused.

Something else was in the sky. Somethings. They were like her, tiny creatures born aloft on wings of petals. These were roses though. Deep red stained their wings, and here she knew them to be different. They were permanent guards, designed to last for months. She was meant to die. The instant she was done with her task in life, her life would end.

The guards had not noticed her, or had not cared. She could slip away and continue on. Again something new was pulling at her heart though. Anger. No, worse. Rage. Why should they live and she die? How dare they float so smugly above this beautiful garden while she risk her life for their mistress’s good?

She darted higher to hover in front of one. He acknowledged her with a polite nod and then looked back to the ground beneath him. Wings thrumming, she drew closer, daring him to fight her. He didn’t respond. It wasn’t built into him to fight another of his mistress’s creations. She knew this for she was not meant to either. She was defective. Broken. Somehow this just made her angrier though. Feelings were a curse, and only she could suffer. She angled her wings and sliced through his.

They tore easily. He did not look surprised, or betrayed, or mad. He could not. Instead he just fell. Violet watched as his body tumbled to the ground. It hit the gravel with a quiet crunch. Slowly the magic leaked out, leaving behind nothing but a crumpled blossom.

That would be her soon. She couldn’t avoid it, but at least she could bring them with her.

One by one they dropped until only she was left in the sky. The people beneath noticed nothing, so lost in their lives as they were. For a few minutes she hovered watching their pointless dance across the lawn. Her anger slowly ebbed, replaced by the dull tired throb of frustration at her inability to change the inevitable.

Her wings were growing tired as well and she knew soon their magic would be fade. With the last remnants, she drifted down and landed just inside the doorway. The petals dropped from her back as she walked forward, each step taking her closer to the end.

***

Violet was lost. Emotions pulled her mind back and forth. Thoughts screamed for her attention. The inner knowledge leading her to the king was still there, somewhere. But she couldn’t hear it.

This passage seemed just the same as all the others. Perhaps she had even been here before. Tall windows arched up on the left-hand wall to meet the descending curves of an glittering golden ceiling. Mosaic tiles cluttered the floor, though from her height she could not make out the pattern. If there was one, that was. Maybe the tiles were just as random as her wanderings through these endless rooms.

Walking further was doing her no good. It was dumb luck nobody had discovered her yet. Best to hide for a bit and think. With great effort she hauled herself up the side of an ornate planter. The leafy greens inside provided excellent shelter and she gently pushed them to the side to huddle right by the plant’s base.

For a while, she just sat. Her mind had not been meant to handle anything more than just the one goal, the one thought. It was too much. Any moment now, her head would surely explode. She would die, and then she would fail. Thinking about it only made it worse, the worrying adding one more voice to the cacophony in her mind.

She needed something to focus on. Her goal. Find the king. This wasn’t working. She couldn’t just walk and hope to get lucky. With trembling hands she tugged one of her remaining three petals into view. A dog’s blood. Would it help? Only one way to be sure.

Carefully she broke it loose before rolling it into a long cone as big across as her head at the wide end. She looked at it dubiously. The magic was already running though; she couldn’t just put it back. Closing her eyes, she lowered her face to meet the petal’s edge.

The pink curve blocked out her vision. In exchange for her blindness, the world of scent opened up to her. There was more than she could ever have imagined. Dirt had its own richness of worms and compost and minerals, leaves had a depth made of many months of water and sunlight and dust, even she herself smelled of blood and flowers.

Crawling on her hands and knees so she didn’t have to figure out how to balance based on this strange new sense, she felt her way to the edge of the pot. Here a new wave assailed her. People, some stale and some fresher. Almost overwhelming the smell of flesh were the smells of everything they wore. Perfumes, lotions, make-up, soaps for themselves and their clothes, the remnants of food on their fingers and dirt on their feet.

Could she even recognize the king in this cacophony? Either she could not, or he had not been down this hallway recently enough. If it hadn’t worked, she would give in to panic and despair again. Better to assume this was the just the wrong location. She dropped over the edge of the planter and fell awkwardly to the floor. The going would be slower without sight, but she would just have to hope she found him before the spell wore off.

Thankfully it did not take long. Two turns later she picked up the thread. It was different than she expected, but in her heart she knew it was him. Wood smoke and ash mixed with the musk of an active man. The trail was recent, within a few hours. She ran after it. If he hadn’t gone too far, she would be able to find him in time.

As she grew closer, more and more details filled into the picture painted by her nose. Horses, leather, wool. Fresh grass and the blood of a freshly killed deer. A woman, worried but loving. His own worry, and the air of confidence he put on to hide it. Violet found herself drawn deeper and deeper into the world of his smell. Could she learn enough to help her dispatch him more easily?

Suddenly another smell cut across and dragged her to a screeching halt. The witch. Her mistress. Guilt filled her at the thought of the one who had so generously given her life. After all the work that had been poured into creating her, Violet had been disobedient. She had thrown dust at the maid, cut down the guards, gotten lost in the maze of her growing consciousness. She was bad.

The trail curved off left, away from her goal. Indecision paralyzed her. The proper action would be to go back to her mistress and beg forgiveness, tail between her legs, and hopefully be rewarded with pity and not a boot to the side. But perhaps her mistress would be happier if she returned after fulfilling her job? Her job would end in her death though, and then she would never get a chance to beg forgiveness. Tears filled her eyes as she stood, trembling, unable to chase one or the other.

***

She wasn’t sure how long she had been frozen. A new smell was coming closer. It was like the king’s, but different. Younger, with a touch of silk and washing powder. She should run. Should, but could not. Fingers scooped around her and lifted her up.

“Are you lost, little flower?”

The voice was concerned and innocent. A child’s. Violet felt a tug on the petal glued to her face as it was pulled loose, magic too far spent to keep it in place. The boy looking down at her could hardly be more than five or six years old. He was overfed and a bit short for his age, but his round face was kind and gentle as he said, “There, much better. Poor thing. I wonder how long you were walking around with your head stuck like that. Are you hungry? Do you eat?”

She just stared at him, still too unsure to react. He didn’t wait for a response regardless, instead fumbling in a pocket to set a lint-covered biscuit onto his palm next to her. “Here, dig in. It’s good!”

It did not look particularly appetizing but she obeyed anyway and chewed a corner slowly. Cinnamon and sugar rushed across her tongue. She smiled slightly. The bits of lint were chewy and unpleasant, but the flavor was worth it.

Stabilizing her carefully with his other hand, the child plonked himself down in the middle of the hall. He watched as she ate, seemingly engrossed by each crumb that passed her lips. She took her time. The act of eating helped break the loop of her thoughts and let her start actually working on a solution. She was close, but now she had no way of finding the king. There was only one petal left before she used the final one to kill him. A parrot. Uncertainty filled her but this time she did not let it overwhelm her. Instead when she reached the end of the biscuit, she pulled the petal from her waist and ate it as well.

The taste was bitter and acrid after the lovely sweetness. She choked it down. The child’s bemused eyes watched her as she struggled to parse her new ability. Finally she opened her mouth and spoke, soft as a whisper, “Thank you.”

His eyes grew wide like saucers as he exclaimed, “You can talk!”

She nodded slowly. What should she say? The truth would not be wise, but another way presented itself. The way of the mimic, the liar, the manipulator. Words strung together quickly as she stalled until finally she said, “Can you help me please, sir? I need to find the king. I have a message for him.”

A smug thrill ran through her as the boy sprang to his feet without question. His chest puffed up proudly and he declared, “Of course! I can always find the king. He’s my dad, you know! Come on, this way!”

He held her firmly and then took off at a run through the halls. She paid no attention to where they were going; her mind was thoroughly occupied with planning. The king would see her coming. Sneaking in quietly and getting close to eliminate him was no longer an option. What if he wanted her to give her message from too far away and she wasn’t in range?

Well, another lie then. She would claim it was just for his ears only and ask to get on his shoulder. She would be close enough then that he wouldn’t be able to react in time once she did… whatever she did. It struck her that she did not yet know what the last petal did. The blood was from a human, but how it would help… she could only hope it would become clear as immediately as the others had.

For now, there was little to do but wait.

***

Violet and the prince waited in the hallway. The king was in a meeting with his advisors. A page had gone to tell him that they were there, but it was an important affair and they were warned that he wouldn’t be able to interrupt it.  While the child waited patiently, Violet paced back and forth across his hand and rubbed her throat anxiously. What if her voice wore off before they got to speak with the king? How would she get close then?

Minutes passed and the page did not return. Violet’s pacing grew more and more agitated. Suddenly a door opened and the page stepped through. To her surprised, he was followed by a tall man with a bushy black beard. The king.

The prince rushed over to give him a hug which he reciprocated with a wide grin and a deep belly laugh. Violet took the chance to clamber onto the king’s shirt and begin climbing. Maybe she would not have to deceive at all.

Despite the urgency of whatever meeting the king had been in, the two took their time. She had made it almost to the king’s shoulder when he finally released the prince to hold him at arms length and say, “Michael said you had a friend with you. I’d love to meet her.”

The prince noticed his hand was empty for the first time. He looked around wildly before spotting her just cresting to stand on the king’s shoulder and pointing. She froze as the king’s head swiveled to regard her. “Well, hello there. It’s nice to meet you.”

Violet didn’t respond but thankfully the prince did for her. “She’s shy, dad. She said she had a message for you though.”

The king smiled at her and then looked back down to his son. “That sounds very nice. I would love a message. You just take your time, miss. Whenever you’re ready is fine.”

Freed from his gaze, she pulled off the last petal hastily. It was covered in tiny inscriptions. Words maybe, but she had no knowledge of reading. Panic rose in her. Was she meant to be able to read? Had something been missed in her creation? Suddenly her vision clouded over and memories popped into her head, playing in black in white.

The man whose eyes she watched through was an assassin. He did it for money, nothing else. There was no joy in his work, but he was good at it and it paid well. Money could be hard to come by. At times he considered turning to honest work. There were debtors though, and it wasn’t just his life on the line anymore.

He waited in a cell for the guillotine. Ten years, and finally he had been caught. Death did not scare him, but the consequences did. His son had no one else. Without him, the child would be on the streets when the rent ran out on their little apartment. He thought of his truest love joining the urchins littering the street corners and his heart broke.

She came to him then, a tall woman in long robes. A witch she said, a mage of great power. She wanted to use his blood for a spell but needed his permission before he died. He refused.

Then she made the offer. His son would be cared for, protected, given a loving family in the countryside and enough money to never want. All he had to do was give his blood. It would be used once. One last assassination. He agreed.

Violet blinked as reality flooded back. She knew how to kill. It would be easy, even for someone as small as herself. Just a quick action, and she would be done. Her mission would be complete.

And yet… Her heart weighed heavy with the regret of many lives lost. She looked at the king’s face, loving and joyous as he watched his son playing with the ring on his hand. Could she really take another father’s life? Did that have to be the price of saving the assassin’s son?

The king heard her sigh and glanced over at her again. His smile fell at the sight of her face. “Is everything alright?”

She took a deep breath and told the truth.

***

The king caught the tiny body as it tumbled off his shoulder. It shriveled and dried in his hand until nothing was left but the stem of a broken flower whose petals had been plucked off one by one. He closed his hand over it reverentially and slipped it into a pocket. His son was in tears, scared by the flower’s revelation or upset at its death, or likely both. The king scooped him into his arms and looked over at the page who still stood frozen off to one side.

“You heard all that, yes Michael?”

The page nodded mutely.

“Good. Please tell Captain Rice, and have Lyndis and Othello arrested. I will notify the council.”

The page bowed before running off down the hall. The king watched him go and then looked down at his prince and murmured, “Shshsh it’ll be okay. She was very brave to do that. We’ll all be fine, okay? I promise. I’ll always protect you, remember?” He wiped his son’s tears dry with a thumb and was relieved to see a brave smile creep tremulously onto his lips. He really was an incredibly strong child. “There you go. Will you come with me to the council? And then after we can bury her in the garden?” The child nodded and with a deep breath, the king returned to the meeting chambers.

Isabelle walked through the garden of death.

It was an unusual experience, to say the least. She could remember how she died, but only distantly. The memories flickering across her head reminded her of watching a movie. She felt pity for the character on the screen, and sorrow at its demise, but there was no sense of real connection. The young woman stepping into the street, head too full of the music singing from her headphones to notice the bus, gone in an instant as it rounded the corner – that wasn’t her.

Perhaps it had used to be. But the fact of the matter was that the woman she used to be was dead and left behind far away on the cold, hard London pavement. Now she was here.

The gardens were, in a word, perfect. Manicured grass swept up to the base of stately oak trees ringed by circles of bright tulips and tiny brick walls. Pots and planters clustered here and there at turns in the path, stacked so their contents spilled out in a cascade of leaves and color. She had been to the Royal Botanical Gardens once, on a school trip, and had thought it quite impressive. This was even more grand, but in a different way. It was more haphazard, neatly maintained yet piecemeal in its design, like the architect had gotten distracted every five minutes with a new idea and not known when to stop.

Isabelle reached a stone bridge that arched across a narrow stream and paused to lean on the stone railing. Her skirts rustled in the gentle breeze. She glanced down at them again and still couldn’t help smiling. When she died, she had been wearing the garb of every youngster heading out to grab a bite of breakfast in the morning – loose jeans and an old hoodie. She had come to in the gardens in a ballgown.

It was not just any ballgown either. As a child, she had seen it in a shop window once. Since then it had been her dream dress. Of course it was already sold by the time she was old enough to wear it – as if she had any occasion appropriately fancy for it. Even if she had, it probably had cost more than she made in a year. Still, it had stuck in her mind, and every princess she had imagined growing up had worn it.

Strange to be dead and yet thinking of such things. She leaned back to peer along the path. He was still sitting on the iron bench where she had left him, surrounded by a veritable cloud of butterflies. They perched on every available inch of his tuxedo. Those who couldn’t find a place to settle flapped through the air in swooping paths that somehow just barely avoided colliding with each other. The flower beds looked dull compared to the riot of color concentrated on him.

He was strange. She had always expected death to be a tall skeleton in a dark robe. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She had expected death to be… nothingness. You just died and then that was it. Some worms ate you, if you were nice in life maybe you got to be a dandelion and if not perhaps a thistle? Instead, there was him.

He was strange, but mostly because he was almost normal as well. He was dressed in a tux to match her gown, but his face was plain. Middle-aged, short black hair, grey eyes, a few smile lines framing his mouth, nothing that would make you cross the street to get a better look. When she arrived confused and a bit afraid, he had been comforting and friendly. At first they had walked together as he gently helped her sort her memories and come to the understanding that she was, in fact, dead. When she wanted time on her own, he just nodded and sat, letting her continue on her own. He was a gentleman.

Her gaze shifted to look along the stream and she nodded to herself. It did sort of make sense. This was a gentleman’s garden, after all. Everything here seemed to fit. She was a princess in tulle, he was a gentleman dressed in black, the flowers were perfect and the swan floating atop the water’s surface too. Part of her felt like it should unsettle her. In real life, things were never perfect. But then, this wasn’t real life was it? Why shouldn’t it be beautiful and gorgeous and all the things one would wish?

She left the stream behind and kept going. The woods thinned until she walked instead through a field of gently rolling hills. Tall grass surrounded her, reaching up to her chest. She ran her hand through it as she followed the trail up a hill. At the top she paused to get her bearings. Behind her was the forest, in front of her more fields. To the right the land dropped off suddenly to meet a vast sea, reminding her of the island they had vacationed on as children.

She watched the waves a moment before looking the last direction. Left was what looked like a graveyard, stretching off into the distance. A frown creased her lips. What was the use of a graveyard if the dead could just walk about as they pleased? The sea called to her, but curiosity was stronger and she turned her back on it. It seemed she had all the time in the world; she could always walk the shore later.

As she grew closer, it became clear that they were indeed graves. She paused just outside the low stone wall surrounding their plot of land. Each stone was a bit different from the next. Some had angels weeping over them, others were smooth marble monoliths, some were even just traditional slabs. They were all perfectly clean, and the names etched into them were easily legible. She read a few then wondered out loud, “Who are they?”

“Those who decided to stay.”

She jumped at the sound of his voice and spun to face him. He bowed and apologized, “Sorry for startling you, Isabelle.”

She waved away his apology and asked, “What do you mean by decided? Do you mean that you can decide to leave?”

He nodded and sat on the stone wall. “Yes.”

“And… what then? I would wake up in the hospital?”

“No. They only place you cannot go is back. That life has finished. It’s story is over. But you can start a new one, if you like.”

For a moment she just stared at him before hopping up to sit next to him and asking quietly, “Where… where else can I go?”

“Many places. You can pick a new life – as a person, or an animal, or perhaps even a tree. If you’d rather, I can send you to the afterlife of your choice. You could wander the woods and live here for a while, or you could become a child’s imaginary friend. Really anything you can imagine well enough to ask for it. Or, if you are done and ready to rest…” His voice drifted off and he swept an arm to gesture at the stones behind him.

It was a lot to consider. She hadn’t expected to have any choices at all after she died – or even the ability to make choices – and yet here were so many. Hesitantly she asked, “Will I remember?”

He shook his head. “No. You will only remember when you come to visit me next.”

“Does that mean this is my first time? Since I don’t remember you?”

“Yes, it does.”

She raised her gaze to stare up at the sky. Small white clouds drifted slowly across the brilliant blue. Had they chosen to be clouds? Or were they just puffs of vapor, or an illusion cast by this strange land? Did it make a difference? It felt like it should. If they had once been alive like her, they deserved… what? To be treated with respect? How did you even respect a cloud?

She shook her head loose of that train of thought and looked back to the fields, focusing in on the real question she needed to ponder instead. What would she be? The knowledge that she would one day return here and get to pick again took a bit of the weight off her decision. If it didn’t work out, she would get another try at it.

He was still sitting there, eyes fixed on the horizon. His gaze was patient, calm, maybe the tiniest bit sad. What did he think of all this? Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to ask. Instead she said, “If I became an imaginary friend… could you make sure I was a nice one? I wouldn’t want to be mean. I’d want to be one of the ones that a kid plays with, and relies on, and feels better because they have an ear to talk to.”

A smile crossed his face and he nodded.

She took a deep breath, looking around once more before offering him a hand. He shook it. “In that case, that’s what I’d like to try next. Until next time?”

“Until next time.”

Sand stuck to Oni’s mask, weighing down the fabric and threatening to drag it from his face. The fine red powder skittered off all his other clothing, but the moisture of his breath was just enough to turn it into a fine mud that clung to the weave. He scraped it clean, though he knew the relief would not last long.

Dunes were constantly shifting in the Red Desert. The ceaseless wind blowing in from the shore kept much of the sand in the air. A traveller had told him once that the desert was always expanding farther and farther as the sands moved. It would run out of sand, but the sea made more constantly as it ground up the shells of the tiny pink shrimp that teemed in its waters. The whole story had seemed fantastical. Sand made from shrimp? As many as there may be, there could not possibly be a desert’s worth.

He crested a dune and paused to look out at the horizon through his smoked goggles. Of course, he shouldn’t judge. The story he was chasing was much wilder, much more outlandish. The distant mountains were just barely visible through the haze of sand. He set his sights on the tallest of the bunch. It would be easy to get lost in this desert and wander in circles until thirst consumed you. Luckily he had a landmark, and a big one at that. With a slight adjustment of his course, he set off again.

Based on the maps he had studied before leaving, the journey should take him three days. He had planned for five and brought supplies accordingly. The extra weight was a pain, yes, but it was better to be safe than sorry. If he ran out of water here, there would be no one to save him.

His caution was looking more and more likely to be wise. It was already noon on the second day, and while the low rooftops of the trading post at the edge of the desert were long out of sight, the mountains seemed no closer than before. Scale on large things could be tricky though, and slow changes were often the hardest to see. If he trusted the map and the numbers he would be fine, he just had to keep going.

As he walked, his mind sunk back into considering the circumstances that had led him here. He was not a man prone to introspection or nostalgia. Looking back was a waste of time when you could be looking to the future and planning a way to make it work out as well as possible for you. That said, he was angry. It had been a month, but still rage seethed in his gut every time he thought of her face. Miri, the traitor. He spat into the sand and planned how to make his future perfect, starting with his revenge.

***

The sands shifted around him as he slept. He had laid down to rest on the side of a dune and now he found himself at the bottom of a small valley of sand. His feet slid as he labored his way up the slope to get his sighting on the mountain. Always making more work, this desert was. At least the mountains were a constant, a shining beacon in this useless sea of sand.

Warmth crept into his chilled limbs as the sun rose high in the sky. In an instant it went from a pleasant glow to a hard glare that began baking his head. Mirages shimmered across the sand like water flowing across a beach. His mind drifted back to a vacation. They had money, and a lot of it. Soon it would all be gone again but that was just the way of life – it was better to spend your fortune on enjoyment than to horde it in a stuffy bank somewhere. That was doubly true if someone might be coming to take it away from you.

This time they had spent it to rent a resort condo on the beach. It was just the three of them and the butler, a quiet man who had a knack for being there when you wanted him and vanishing when you didn’t. He took care of everything and for a month, they lived like the rich did. Each day was spent on the sand or in the water, with good books and delicious food and all the entertainment they could want.

They had originally rented the place for three months, but one night Taylor’s special radio picked up the chatter of a police raid settling into place on the streets around their house. It was no big deal though. There was enough money left over to bribe the butler to stall the police as they slipped across the sand and silently out to sea in the Com-Pac Horizon Cat he had bought. Miri was nervous about how close things had gotten, but he and Taylor had just laughed. Sure, it was luck that there had been enough wind to move them that night. But they had layers and layers of contingency plans in case it had not worked, and they had been plenty closer to getting caught before. No one had even gotten shot this time.

Oni shook himself back to the present with a scowl. Nice times, yes, but then the ruinous girl had ripped it all away from them. Once he got Taylor back, retribution would be swift. But not too swift.

He topped a dune and scanned the horizon. Still on course, but the sun was almost at its peak. If he was going to turn back, it would have to be now. The mountains hardly seemed any closer than when he had started. Was his pace really that much slower than he had planned for? Perhaps so; the sands were quite a bit harder to hike through than any other terrain he had encountered before. But was it that much slower that he needed to give up?

He hefted his water skin and sighed. It should be more of a debate than this. Logic said return, plan better, get some sort of vehicle that could handle the dunes and come back. The mountain was hardly going anywhere. Normally logic won. It was what had kept him alive all these years. Yet this time… his heart dragged him onward and with a quiet groan he let it.

***

Another morning, another sand dune surrounding him. He was beginning to question his decision from yesterday. Was he being ridiculous? Would he run out of water and his bones be ground to sand by the winds, a tiny patch of white powder scattered across the red? There was no sense pondering it. It was too late to turn back now. One foot in front of the other, step by step.

He hated this place. There was nothing to fix your eyes on, nothing to watch other than the occasional glimpse of the mountains when you crested yet another hill. The sands were always shifting, but they never seemed to change from the same basic set of shapes. He was used to a life of distractions. They had always been doing things, planning things, enjoying things. With nothing to occupy his mind he found himself remembering, and he hated it.

They had first found her two years ago. She begged a coin off them. Oni had wished a thousand times now that they had just left it at that, one coin, flipped to her without a pause in their step as they carried on with their lives. Everything would have been so different. But no. Instead Taylor had paused and taken pity on the treacherous wretch as she crouched innocently by a wall with an old coffee cup in her hands.

Their last job had gone well; they had the funds. They took the girl out to eat with them – nowhere fancy of course, they were still trying to keep a low profile until they got out of the country. A place where you could get plenty to fill your gut though, one of those all-night-all-you-can-eat type of places. Oni didn’t remember the food well, just how amused he had been thinking of how much money the poor restaurant was losing on their party.

She talked little. Taylor had a way with kids though, which apparently extended to teenagers – or whatever she was supposed to be – as well. A story came out, piece by piece. Dead parents, lost inheritance, looking for a rich grandmother, certainly going to be a reward for helping her get there. An obvious lie, of course. But that was alright. They respected a girl who would make a mark out of two strangers who were already helping her out. Her lie took them in the wrong direction for their plans, but they offered to let her ride with them if she didn’t mind going north instead. To nobody’s surprised, she agreed.

A flicker of motion caught Oni’s eyes and brought him out of his daydream. Camels rose into view as a caravan struggled its way up an adjacent hill. There were six total, each ridden by a person dressed in the same loose-fitting protective robes he himself had bought back in the border town. His heart rose and he waved greeting to them. Perhaps he would be able to buy some water and continue his journey with a more relaxed mind.

They did not seem to see him. He tried calling out, but the wind snatched the words from his mouth. Nothing else to do, he began to run down the hill. Already they were moving down their own dune. His tumbling footsteps felt inelegant and awkward compared with the graceful plodding of the camels. Normally he would try harder to make a good impression, but it wasn’t worth the risk of losing them. Besides, they looked like traders which meant he already had the only thing he really needed to impress them: money.

He caught up to them halfway along the little valley that connected their two dunes. They ignored his raised hand of greeting and kept moving. There was no way they did not see him now. Irritation filled him and he ran forward to grab the sleeve of the lead trader.

His hands passed through.

Oni shook himself and tried again, slower this time. His fingertips slid into the side of the trader’s camel as it swayed by. Solid as the party looked, he could not feel a thing.

He sat heavily on the sand and let the other camels pass through him as he thought. It explained why they did not react to him. The question was just what they were. Mirages? But no, mirages melted and fled as you got close to them; he had been in the desert long enough to have a good idea of their behavior. Was he hallucinating? Possible, though he had been doing a good job of keeping himself shaded and hydrated so the cause would be dubious.

He thought of his quest and a third answer presented itself. Ghosts. Shades of the living, forever journeying back and forth across this wasteland, hopelessly following the tracks they had laid in life. It was ridiculous, yes, but no less so than chasing the mountain was. And if it was true… he smiled. If it was true, that meant he was getting close. Sand poured from his robes as he scrambled to his feet and up the nearest dune. The mountains really did look bigger today. He would be there soon.

***

Oni was getting thirsty. Another day had stretched by and his water bottles felt uncomfortably light. With the dunes still shimmering tauntingly in front of him, he had started to ration what little fluids were left. It should be enough. He had planned for five days; he still had one to go. Or was this the fifth? Somewhere along the way he had lost track. Like the bones of a shrimp, the desert was rubbing away at his mind.

Faces drifted in front of his eyes. At first he had tried reaching out to them, hoping they would be like the caravan. If you found the right one, did you get to keep it? Or did you have to make it all the way to the hills first? Taylor smiled at him from the sand and he stumbled as his arms instinctively reached out. The vision vanished.

He paused at the top of a dune to stare across at the mountains. They were so impossibly large. How would he even find – no, that wasn’t the way to think. It was just a heist. They always found the treasure by the end of a heist. He would succeed.

Now more than ever, he did not want to dwell on the past. The memories came anyway. When he shoved them from his mind, they floated in the mirages instead. He couldn’t keep his path with his eyes closed. Hatred for this desert filled him, but he watched.

Things had gone wrong. That in itself was not uncommon. No plan ever survives the first step in its execution. They had come back from broken tools, missing alarm codes, trapped vaults… the list went on. This was different though. Things had gone very wrong.

At first, he was just confused what even had happened. They had their haul and were getting ready to celebrate. Suddenly sirens were everywhere. A whole squad surrounded their position, lights flashing, alarms blaring. A truck provided temporary shelter while they tried to find an escape. He and Taylor argued, angrily. Miri had just stood and walked calmly around the truck as they stared. She did not even raise her hands in surrender. Just walked around, crossed the parking lot, and was greeted by the cops with open arms.

It was then they realized they had been set up. Had she been working for the cops all along, or did they only get their claws in her recently? Their argument had died when she left and now neither had the energy to start it again. A helicopter whirred in the distance. Reinforcements were coming, and they were still pinned here.

Then they noticed it. A small red light blinking under the truck, speeding up, the tiny flashes coming faster and faster. Taylor leaned forward to get a better look. The truck exploded.

Oni couldn’t remember what came next. There must have been police, probably doctors as well. He didn’t feel pain, just rage. She had betrayed them. Taylor was dead. It was all her fault.

He stomped a bit too hard on the sand as his rage welled up again. His foot triggered a tiny landslide, turning the surface under it into a sliding quasi-liquid and throwing off his balance. The ground rose up to meet him as he pitched forward and tumbled down the hill.

At the bottom he stayed in place, laying on his back and staring up at the cloudless sky. Perhaps he should give up. He would see Taylor again for certain if he did; there was no way they weren’t both going to hell. But would Miri end up there as well? She had betrayed them and killed Taylor, but did it count as a murder if you worked for the government? Probably, but it wasn’t like anyone would try you for it. Would the big guy care?

He groaned and got back up. He must almost be there. Just a bit farther, and he would get Taylor back, and they would get their revenge together.

***

Thirst glued his mouth shut. The water had run out; his mind was a bit foggy on when. More and more ghosts crossed the sands though. He was getting close. The memories had thankfully faded. Nothing filled his blurry mind other than the mantra of the wanderer. Left foot, right foot, left foot. On and on until you reached your goal.

Finally, there it was. The dunes fell away to either side of him and he stood at the base of a mountain. A giant gold door was set into the cliff and as he watched, it swung open ponderously. Taylor walked out, holding an arm high to wave greeting. Oni smiled and waved back wildly, tears filling his eyes. He blinked them away.

Sand surrounded him. For a moment he just stared in confusion before letting out a scream of frustration. He was back in the desert, at the base of one of the millions of dunes. He scrambled up it and looked around wildly before falling to his knees. The mountains taunted him in the distance, once again far, far, away.

A glint caught his eye and he looked down the sandy hill. Light shone off the harness of a camel, laying half buried at the base of the dune. Another ghost? But no, they had not left tracks and this one was at the end of a long path that ran the length of the valley. With one last venomous look at the mountains, he slid down the dune.

Flies flew off the animal as he approached. He gagged as the smell hit him. He couldn’t see what had killed it, but this close it was clearly dead. Circling it, he noticed the edge of a bag poking out of the sand. His thirst drove him to hold his breath and dart forward to pull it away from the beast. There was food inside, still good by the looks of it. Filled canteens as well. He cracked one open and sniffed it suspiciously before taking a sip. Water. Stale, but drinkable.

He tested the rest of the bottles. All full. Together there was probably enough here for three days, maybe even five if he was careful. The angle of the mountain did not look like it had changed. He must still be in the same narrow part of desert. Since he could not see the town behind him, he must be a decent bit through the journey.

His lips set into a determined line. It was only a few days to the mountains. He would make it, Taylor would be there, together they would get their revenge.

All he had to do was keep walking.

Sarissa held her bag tightly to her chest like a shield. The subway car was empty other than herself. It was almost two, and the lunch breakers and commuters alike were all tucked away safely in their cubicles. Still, she kept her eyes firmly fixed on the poster across from her. She had read it already – some stupid boy-band concert – but it gave her somewhere to focus. Something to concentrate on. A way to ignore… them.

There seemed to be more lately. Tiny flickers of black at the edge of her vision. A rat ducking between seats perhaps, or a wrapper blowing in the fetid breeze rushing from the open window. She knew if she tried to chase them, however, there would be nothing there. Nothing to see, just a trick of the eyes. Pictures forming in the shadows like the ones they had found in the clouds as kids.

The subway rattled back underground. Only one of the carriage lights worked, casting her into a pool of almost darkness. They multiplied in the gloom. Sarissa forced her gaze to focus again, rereading the words over and over as she reassured herself.

They didn’t exist of course. Her eyesight had never been spectacular; it was just because her glasses were out of date. As soon as she could afford a new pair, they would disappear. Sure, she was depressed and anxious, but who wasn’t these days? That didn’t mean she was going crazy or anything. She wasn’t seeing things. It was just the light flickering through the windows casting odd moving shadows, and she was overreacting. Sleep would help.

She scratched that last bit from her mental litany. Sleep would not help. Sleep was when the nightmares came.

The train ground to a halt with the tortured squeal of ancient brakes. Sarissa sprang to her feet, pulling open the door with a grunt as a tinned voice from the ceiling implored her to “Please stand back while the doors are opening.” Why that voice got to live even after the doors were long broken she would never understand. After enough time in the city though, you learned not to question these things.

Air quality in the stations was always the worst. She pulled her shirt over her nose and hurried down the hall. Here and there other passengers did the same, but they all avoided acknowledging each other by unspoken rule. Up the metal staircase – some said it had moved once, but she herself had never seen it – and down two more halls until finally she burst out into the (comparatively) fresh air.

The streets were packed as usual. Vendors covered the sidewalks and spilled out onto the road even though it was supposed to be kept free for traffic. Nobody cared. It wasn’t like anyone living in the Burrows could afford a car. Even if they could, they would never drive it here. It would be stripped for parts and sold the instant they stepped away from it.

She paused at one of the food stalls and bought herself a gyro. When the new year began, she had promised herself it would be different. She would cook at home, eat healthier, work out some, maybe take up yoga. Anything to get better and calm the storm in her mind. As always, it lasted about a week before she fell back into old routines. Change was hard. If everything got better the instant you started, it would be fine. But trying to do more while still labouring under the same weight… sometime she felt like Sisyphus trying to take up knitting. It wasn’t going to happen. At least the gyro had a few vegetables hidden in it. It was better than nothing.

Reggie and Liz were sitting on the apartment steps smoking. Sarissa nodded to them as she went in. Blank stares greeted her. She sniffed the air as she passed and rolled her eyes. No wonder.

Her apartment was on the sixth floor. The steps creaked under her feet as she slouched up them tiredly. The stairwell curled around an empty elevator shaft. When she first moved in, she had been naive enough to ask when it would be fixed. The landlord had explained to her emotionlessly that when it dropped four tenants had gone with it. It was a grave now. Fixing it would be sacrilege. She imagined the ghosts watching her climb and shivered.

Finally she reached her door. The apartment was tiny. A joint living room-kitchen area, a bedroom just big enough for her twin mattress, and a bathroom small enough that you had to step out into the living room to towel off properly. Decoration was sparse but she did not care. It was a safe haven away from the world, and that was all that mattered.

She pulled a plate from the stack on the counter and slid the gyro onto it. There, cooking. She tossed herself onto the couch and raised it to take a bite. And paused. A shadow was standing outside her window, blurred by the dirty panes. Another trick of the light? But no, they were usually small things and this looked more like a person on the fire escape.

The hair on her arms prickled nervously. At least the filth meant they couldn’t see in any better than she could see out. The window was locked (she shoved away the quiet voice pointing out that it would be easy enough to smash). It was probably just another tenant looking for some fresh air. She dropped her gaze and took a bite of food. When she glanced back up, tzatziki running down her chin, the shadow was gone.

Still unsettled, she finished her supper with one eye on the window. The shadow stayed away, however, and even the ones she normally saw skittering in the corners by the counter were silent. A peaceful evening, and yet she did not feel at peace as she finally slunk off to bed.

***

In the morning, Sarissa got up early and headed out onto the streets. Breakfast was an apple pancake wrap from a different vendor, eaten on the go. For once, the persistent city smog had cleared enough to let the sunlight probe into all the alleys and twisted streets. The sunlight was a gift and for the first day in a long time, she did not see anything out of the ordinary as she walked to the work office.

The line was short today. In a half hour, she reached the bored man sitting at the front desk. He sighed, “You again? Are you going to actually keep the job this time? If you keep getting fired, you’re going to start reflecting badly on our office, you know.”

Sarissa winced and nodded in what she hoped was a convincing manner. She always tried her hardest to make the jobs work, even though they were low-paying menial gigs. Things just… went wrong.

At the gardens, she had spent two days planting flowers only to have all of them turn grey and die. Working with the garbage man, she had lasted a bit longer until the truck she was riding on broke and splattered her and the refuse across the street. Her last job had been trimming grass at the public park. That had ended when he groundskeeper told her he didn’t like the way the mower looked at him when she was operating it. He had been a bit crazy, perhaps, but who was she to judge.

The clerk sifted through the pile of help wanted ads on his desk. Sarissa knew better than to ask for something good. She would be lucky to get anything at this rate. The work office closer to her apartment had already banned her for good; anything she could do to avoid antagonizing this one was worth it. Finally, he slid her a page.

“Here. Clean-up at the Ashfield Cemetery, over in the North Quarter. You start as soon as you get there.”

She took the sheet and read it quickly. It sounded easy enough. Clean graves, rake up leaves and grass clippings, pick up the trash tossed over the fence by the irreverent. She gave the man a winning smile, thanked him, and hurried out back onto the streets.

North Quarter was midtown, half a mile from her apartment. It was a bit nicer than her neighborhood, but not really middle class yet. Or maybe it was, and middle class just didn’t mean what it used to. Nobody owned their houses, but the rent was twice as much and the flats were a lot bigger. Street vendors were only allowed in designated parks, but still the streets were packed with people hurrying to and fro.

She found the cemetery easily. Between jobs she had gotten into the habit of exploring the city to fill the time. Other than the truly high class areas where she dare not go, she had a good map of the place even after only living there a year. Perhaps that said more about the amount of time she spent jobless than her mapping skills though.

It was a small cemetery, pinned between two streets. Four-story apartment blocks bordered it on the other two sides. No windows looked out onto the grassy lawn. Maybe they had decided that after a lifetime of living wall to wall and hearing everything the neighbors said, the dead had earned some privacy in their everlasting rest. Or maybe they just didn’t like the reminder that they too would one day sit under six feet of dirt.

The wrought iron fence surrounding the place was rusted and falling down and the gate squealed as she pushed it open. Leaves littered the mossy brick path that twisted and split as it meandered between the trees and the headstones. She looked down at the granite as she passed. Most were illegible. Dead flowers, trash, and more leaves sheltered by their bases. It was a dismal place, even on a beautiful sunny day. You will die, the wind seemed to whisper, and then you will be forgotten.

Sarissa thought guiltily of her parents’ grave and shivered. When they died during the revolution, she hadn’t had it in her to stay in her home city. Not that there was much left anyway. She had followed the flood of refugees and ended up here, stuck like many of them in the worst parts of town, just trying desperately to make a living. Did her parents’ graves look as bad as this? They weren’t forgotten, but their headstones were just as alone.

A distant sound shook her out of her gloomy thoughts. She paused and tilted her head. Again, schkrrrrrrch. Someone was raking, very slowly. She followed the sound quickly, weaving between a pair of mausoleums before finding its source.

A man stood, leaning heavily on a rake. His back was bent sharply over, though he didn’t look like he would be more than five foot five standing up straight anyway. The hands curled around the wooden handle were gnarled and wrinkled, and erratic tufts of white hair shot out from under his cap. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of giant black sunglasses. It did not look like he had been raking long; the only evidence of his efforts was a tiny pile of leaves at his feet.

Sarissa approached slowly and held up a hand in greeting. “Excuse me, sir, are you the grave keeper?”

He raised his head to peer at her for a long moment before nodding curtly and looking back at his leaves.

She continued hesitantly, “I’m supposed to be working with you? You left an ad at the work office?”

Again he looked at her. She had the feeling he was sizing her up, and the curl of his lips told her he wasn’t impressed. Finally he let out a short barking command, “Clean.” His voice was as old and tortured as the fence. It rasped like that of someone who had smoked one too many cigarettes, or spoken until there was no room left for words.

The skin on Sarissa’s arms prickled but she ignored it and gave him her most charming smile as she assented, “Of course, sir. Can you tell me where the tools are please?”

He pointed further down the path and then returned his gaze to the ground. The conversation appeared to be over. She thanked him and continued past.

A few turns later, she found a small metal shed tucked into a corner of the lot against one of the neighboring buildings. The door was ajar and she let herself in. Tools hung from the walls, most rusty with disuse. She found an old hand mower buried beneath some broken boards, and three busted buckets and one whole one. Outside against the back wall was a wheel barrow and the rotten remains of a compost pen. She took a deep breath and paused to think.

First thing was first, there was little she could do with the tools in this state. Everything would need to be lubricated and sharpened. Then raking up all the leaves and trash would be a good start. She could use the broken buckets to sort the refuse for recycling. After that, mowing and another round of raking to clear the trimmings. And then the gravestones could all use a good cleaning.

She thought back on her grandmother’s farm thankfully. Despite living in the cities her whole life, she was hardly as clueless as most others. If she could find a grindstone in the mess of the shed, and a pot of grease, she could do this. Until something goes wrong, muttered her self-doubt. It was ignored. She would give it her best, and everything would be much less gloomy here, and the grave keeper would see what a nice job she was doing and keep her in his employ. Maybe in the fall she would plant some bulbs for the next year. Day lilies along the fence would look nice.

It was a long, hard day of work but she was just grateful to make it through. Nobody had told her how long her shifts should be, so she put in eight hours. It was getting dark by the time the five o’clock bell rang anyway. The graveyard had lamp posts but either the bulbs were all burnt out or there was a breaker somewhere that needed to be replaced. Regardless, at least for now it was not ideal for night work. She made a mental note to look into the lights tomorrow and threaded her way back to the entrance. Her new boss was nowhere in sight but that was alright. As long as she could find him on payday, he could be a ghost the rest of the week for all she cared.

In the twilight, the shadows which had been blissfully absent all day began to creep back into her vision. She kept her head down. If she focused just on the ground in front of her, she could see fewer of them. It was only a bit farther to get home, she just had to ignore them until then.

Suddenly she smacked into a person, hard. She looked up, opening her mouth to apologize, then froze. The figure in front of her was pure black, featureless. Nothing more than a shadow cut out and given life. It tilted its head to the side and looked her up and down. She screamed.

People in the street stopped to look at her but she didn’t care. Her legs snapped into motion and she ducked around the figure, running like mad down the sidewalk. Was it chasing her? She dare not look back to check. Knowledge wouldn’t help her run faster. Focus would. Weaving between the people quickly would. Getting her key ready as she raced up the stairs would.

The door slammed shut behind her and she quickly locked and latched it before throwing herself on the couch. Her breath came in sharp heaves. Running after working all day was too much. Her stomach growled, but there was no way she was going back outside to grab something from a vendor. The cabinet should have some stale cereal in it; that would have to do.

Her mind was already starting to doubt what she had seen. It was probably just a person, cast into odd shadows by the pattern of streetlights. Nobody else had seen it. It must have just been in her mind. She grimaced. That didn’t help of course. That just meant she was going crazy. She didn’t have the money to go crazy, she needed to work. No, it was just exhaustion messing with her eyes. It was nothing.

Her stomach grumbled again and she sat up, walking to the little kitchenette and pouring herself a bowl of cereal. She mixed up some milk from powder and water and poured it on. The stuff never tasted like real milk, but she never drank real milk fast enough to keep it from spoiling. It was better than dry cereal at least.

She turned back to the couch and almost dropped her bowl. It was there. The shadow was right out on her fire escape, just outside the window. It knew where she lived.

Her hand shook and she quickly set the bowl on the counter before it spilled. The shadow was still and silent. Could she escape? Where? They could follow her anywhere. If she stayed, it was at least outside and she in. She shook in fear, waiting for the inevitable shattering of glass, the hands reaching through, grasping for her and tearing her out of her safe hiding hole. It didn’t come. Instead she blinked, and the shadow was gone.

It was just her mind playing tricks. She had to believe that. Just a long day at work, causing her overactive imagination to work a bit too hard. Rest would help. If she could sleep.

She wasn’t going crazy.

***

The next day it was pouring.

The sky was dark and stormy. Vast clouds roiled above the needles of the city’s skyscrapers. Here and there they dipped low, catching their stomachs on the spires and splintering into a misty fog. At least there was no wind, a small blessing. Raindrops fell flat onto the hood of Sarissa’s rain coat and slid off onto the ground. Her legs got a bit wet, but her face stayed dry.

Back home, before everything, she had loved the rain. Even when she hit adulthood, she had never stopped jumping in puddles. Her brothers had hated it. She never particularly paid attention to their proximity and more often than not, they were well within the splash zone.

Things were different now. She skirted carefully around the puddles, reminded not of the childhood fun but of avoiding other puddles, dark oily ones that would eat away at your clothes and then keep going deep into your skin. Subways rattled by on their raised tracks above her and she glanced up enviously. Funds would be tight until her first payday, but she had almost bought a ticket this morning regardless.

Shadows lurked in the corner of her vision, the dim glow of the streetlamps not bright enough to fight against them and the rain both. They were all small though. It was almost comforting seeing them. Seeing nothing would be better, but at least they were less intimidating than the big one had been. Every once in a while she cast a glance nervously behind her, but the only figures she saw were clearly normal humans.

When she reached the graveyard, there was no sign of the grave keeper. Perhaps he was hiding from the rain at home? She got to work anyway.

With the rain, it was the perfect day to try cleaning the headstones. It had already pre-wet them for her and when she was done scrubbing it would wash them clean. After a bit of rummaging she dug out an old tin of powdered soap and a scrub brush. The good bucket would still hold water. Off she went, stone by stone, scraping off the lichen and moss and the oily residue left by the smog. When she finished each, she read the now-legible name on it quietly and added, “Rest in peace.” Maybe if she remembered these dead, someone would do the same for her own, far away.

It was oddly peaceful work. The rhythm of the brush meshed with that of the rain, blurring into a calming white noise. The quick prayer over each stone became a ritual, each name filling her with a quiet sense of hope. Her mind relaxed into its task and the hours passed quickly.

In the early afternoon, she finally spotted her boss. She opened her mouth to call out a greeting and then snapped it shut sharply as her eyes processed the scene. He was leaning on his broom, chatting with someone. With a shadow. A big one, a person-shaped one. The same one who had followed her home? She crouched, trembling, behind a headstone to watch.

The shadow had no face to read, but her boss was smiling like he was talking to an old friend. From this distance she couldn’t hear any of their words. If the shadow even was speaking, that was. Could it speak with no mouth? Curiosity was well outweighed by fear and she stayed put.

The conversation only lasted another couple of minutes before the two shook hands and the shadow walked off along one of the paths. She stayed hidden. Nobody else had ever acknowledged the shadows, yet he had been casually hanging out with one. She couldn’t ask him about it though; clearly he was on their side. Was he the reason the shadow had followed her home? She peered around the headstone again but he was already gone as well.

She considered her options. Of course she could quit and run. The big shadow had appeared first before she got the job though, and the little ones had been around longer. Maybe he was involved with them, but they existed on their own anyways. There was also the question of money. If she left, she wouldn’t make rent this month.

A thought struck her. Even though her walk had been crowded with little shadows, she hadn’t noticed a single one since passing through the rusted cemetery gate. Were they also scared of the big one? Did that mean she should be even more scared of it?

She groaned and forced herself back to her feet. The facts of the matter were simple. She was a bit crazy, so was her boss, it didn’t make a difference since she needed a place to sleep and food to eat. Only getting back to work would give that to her. The peaceful calm was gone, however, as she pulled the brush over the stone she had hidden behind. Instead her gaze flicked around her skittishly, looking for any sign of the shadow. It did not return. The rest of her shift was thankfully uneventful.

As she returned her bucket to the shed, she noticed a flash of color. Someone had left a bouquet on one of the rusted shelves. The smell of carnations mixed with that of oil and dirt. She slowly picked up the bundle. It had no note, just a sky blue ribbon holding the stems together. Was it supposed to be for her? From her boss? It was an odd way to show appreciation for work, but who else would possibly come back here?

Unless, of course, it was here with the tools for a reason. She smiled slightly to herself. Either it was, or it was supposed to be hers and she could do whatever she wanted with it. Untying the ribbon carefully, she walked briskly among the nearby graves and left one flower each at the base of their stones. In a week she would have to clean up the dead blooms, but for now it looked like someone was once again visiting these forgotten people. When the bundle was finished, she tucked the ribbon in her pocket and headed home.

Small shadows skittered about, but she did not see the big one again on the streets, nor outside of her window. Hopefully it would stay away. For now though, at least she could sleep a bit sounder.

***

She arrived at the graveyard in the morning in remarkably good spirits. It had been the best night of sleep she had gotten for weeks, her favorite sausage vendor had given her a discount on the breakfast special, and the sky, while grey, was at least a bit brighter than normal. Her steps were light as she walked along the paths towards her shed. Then she saw them.

Each of the graves had a shadow standing over it.

She found herself petrified in place. There were just so many of them. Each was a bit different from the others, as if someone had chosen randomly from the natural variation of people and then just stolen all the color. They stood in identical poses: feet together, arms crossed like a corpse in a coffin, carnation clasped between their hands. They were watching her.

It was hard to say how she knew. None had eyes or any other features. Hairs on her arms raised nonetheless as she felt the pressure of dozens of eyes boring into her. Part of her screamed for her legs to move, step backward, flee. Its small voice battered against her paralysis as the closest shadow stepped forward. It came closer, almost gliding more than walking. Still she could not move.

It paused right before her. Her heart raced in her chest. Slowly it bent at the waist. A bow. Carefully it set the flower at her feet then raised up to standing. The darkness began to crackle like paint blistering under the heat of a fire. White shone through, a quiet glow that highlighted the curves of a face. A woman, perhaps in her thirties, with long hair tied back into a braid. She was smiling but tears hovered in the corners of her eyes.

And then she was gone.

Sarissa blinked the after images away. Already another was approaching, completing the same ritual before vanishing into nothing. The fear freezing her heart thawed. She stayed still regardless, letting the line advance as ghost after ghost broke free from the darkness before disappearing. Soon only one was left.

It had been hanging back and now she saw why. Unlike the others, it carried no flower and held its hands simply at its sides. Sarissa stepped back nervously as it approached. It paused as she did and held out both hands in a sign of peace. When she made no further moves, it continued forwards, slowly and carefully. At the pile of carnations it crouched, gathering up the blooms before offering them to her. She took them gingerly, avoiding contact with the inky hand.

It stepped back and then raised a hand to point at the graves before bringing both hands together as if in prayer. Sarissa had to clear her throat a few times before she could form the words to ask, “You want me to do the same for them?”

The shadow nodded and then bowed deeply.

Sarissa asked nervously, “What… no, that isn’t the right question is it. Who are you?”

It raised a hand and motioned for her to follow. After a brief hesitation, she did. They twisted along the paths until they reached a cluster of headstones at the base of a tall oak tree. She had not made it to this corner of the cemetery yet in her cleaning, and the stones were coated in lichen and dead leaves. The shadow pointed at one in the center. The words were just barely legible through the grime.

“Major Charles Edinburg?”

The shadow nodded. She scanned the other stones, mouthing the names silently.

“And this is your family?”

It nodded again.

“Do you want me to start with you?”

It shook its head, vehemently, and swept an arm out to gesture at their surroundings. She bit her lip as she tried to piece together its meaning and then guessed, “You want me to get all the others first?”

A nod. Tension eased out of its shoulders.

She took a deep breath and then nodded slowly in return. “Alright. But we’re going to need a lot more flowers. And it will take some time to get everyone. Can you make sure I don’t miss any hidden stones?”

It nodded again and offered her a hand. She shook it.

“Well, then I guess we best get started.”

The sphinx asked her riddle a thousand times over the years.

She only received around eight hundred responses. Those who ran, those tried to fight, they were not given a second chance to satisfy her. None escaped. She took no pleasure in their deaths, or in any for that matter. Each lost life filled her with sorrow and, increasingly, frustration. Each was one more failure to find the only thing that really mattered to her. The Answer. The key to freedom.

Of the eight hundred, only five and a half were unique. Fewer if different turns of phrase carrying the same meaning were discarded as well. The count of new responses had dwindled with time but still she felt a surge of hope each time one was spoken. It lasted only until she tried it on the lock that held her captive. Then she turned to the frail creature in front of her and spoke the words that cut deeper and deeper into her heart.

“You are wrong.”

Fear filled their eyes, so much smaller than her own. Anger too, desperation, despair. And inevitably hatred. It was the last she saw before they were gone. The last they saw was her maw, teeth spread wide, red tongue out as she devoured them.

This one was small, even by their diminutive standards. Was it young perhaps? She pitied it if so, for how could it know that which so many others had not? Indeed it had been silent thus far. Considering her question or planning its attempt at survival, the sphinx cared not. It had been still thus far, and after this many years the sphinx was nothing if not patient.

After ten minutes, it sighed and sat on the ground. The sphinx thought it would declare its answer, or perhaps beg for mercy. Instead it said, “I might need a bit to consider this one. It is a pretty hard riddle. Do you mind if I sit here for a bit?”

Its voice was calm, but a different calm than the others the sphinx had heard before. Their calm had been due to misjudged confidence, or a fake veneer thinly disguising terror. This one just sounded distracted. Perhaps it was truly considering. Regardless, the sphinx had all the time in the world. She nodded and let her deep voice ring once more across the cavern, “You may.”

The little one smiled up at her. “Thank you. If you don’t mind me asking, do you have a name you would like me to call you? Is Sphinx your name?”

The sphinx regarded it. Names were familiar to her, but the concept was still foreign, human. What use had a creature for a name if she was the only one of her kind? This was too much for her to explain though, so instead she just answered, “You may call me Sphinx.”

It nodded again. “My name is Vera. It’s my grandmother’s name – passing down names is a family tradition. My brother is Al, short for Alphonse. After my grandfather on my dad’s side.”

The sphinx did not have anything to say to this and remained silent.

Vera continued, “How come you are here, Sphinx? Do you like it in the cave? It is nice and cool I suppose.”

Conversing was unfamiliar to the sphinx, especially about herself. Something about this one drew the words forth however and she found herself telling the whole story. She recalled the man who had trapped her here, the treasure he had set her to guard, the curse he had locked her with, the search for the answer. Vera sat silent, listening intently. Finally the words ran out and the sphinx lowered her head to her paws. She felt exhausted, empty, like the words had been all that kept her up and now nothing was left. The emptiness was a relief though as well, as if sharing her pain had lifted some of it off her mind.

Vera stayed in place after the sphinx finished. The cave rumbled into silence as the last echoes of her voice bounced against the walls. When Vera spoke, its voice was so faint by comparison that the sphinx found herself leaning forward to get closer.

“I’m sorry you’re stuck here. I’ll try my best to answer so that you can get out, I promise. I only get one try right? I have to get it right first time?”

The sphinx nodded, for those were the rules of her curse.

“Okay. I will think then. Will it bother you if I pace?”

The sphinx shook her head and the little figure got to its feet. It walked back and forth across the floor, steps even and slow. The beat lulled the sphinx’s mind into a peaceful calm and she wondered idly if this was what the little creatures experienced as sleep. Perhaps not, as even in peace she still watched the motion below.

Hours trickled by until Vera stopped. The sphinx shook herself as it approached her pedestal to speak.

“I think I know what you are doing wrong, Sphinx, but you have to promise to let me finish my explanation before you eat me. Else you won’t understand, and it might not work.”

The sphinx nodded agreement. She would listen to the end, not because she trusted the creature to be honest but because she had confidence she could catch it if not.

“There is no answer.”

The sphinx growled deep in her throat. This was most certainly not the answer she wanted to hear. Vera flinched back nervously, but the sphinx remembered her promise and did not pounce yet. After a tense moment, Vera continued.

“That is, there is not one answer. Everyone wants something different. I think you need to take all the answers you have, and give that as the answer.”

The sphinx stared at it and considered the rules. Technically nothing stated that there must only be one answer, but it did not seem in the spirit of things. Then again, in a way all the answers was Vera’s singular answer. She would at least try. The sphinx turned inward and gathered all her memories of all the responses and offered the bundle to the lock.

Bars fell from the door behind her with a cacophony of metallic thuds. The chains on her soul shattered and for the first time, she smiled down at the one before her.

Vera met her grin with one of its own. “Does that mean I get to live?”

The sphinx sprang from her pedestal as she had countless times but instead of baring her teeth, she just bowed.

“No. It means we both do.”