Over the wintry

Forest, winds howl in rage

With no leaves to blow.

Natsume Sōseki

It is at the cusp of a lonely road that I find myself, meandering there towards the end, where at the beginning I ran, half my life now gone like a dream, a dream that seemed so grand and noble, but could not be fulfilled by a will so weak. Where once a child wanted to save the world, to a failure of a man at the end of the lonely road, standing there as the gods look on and say, o’ the sham, how did we waste such a strong and healthy body, such an inquisitive mind, on a soul so pale and pathetic?

Even the wind seems quiet here. The distant stars seem ever more impossibly far and cold, and beneath my feet a crumbling façade of a dream falls into an abyss of time.

I look back once again at the road behind that led me here, at that childhood dream of a free world. The way twists and turns, and parts of the road are still covered by the debris of ambiguity, by my lack of courage and the inability to find closure.

But ahead of me at the end of this road, there is no mystery, no opaqueness, and the way is clear. In that endless pit of time I will reside as a failure, and there my destiny I will meet.

Inspired by My Thirty-Three Year's Dream by Tōten Miyazaki

She’s done it again. I’ve fallen under the captivating spell found in the endless depths of her eyes. I’m transfixed by the mirth, dark brown that dances on the edges of the iris. I know I’m being teased, but I can’t help but laugh along. She places her smiling face delicately within the palms of her hands, dark skin and gold jewelry catching the sunlight. “I love you,” I say without preamble. Her charmingly intense eyes widen slightly the same way they always do when she hears those words. Someday soon, I pray, they’ll soften in understanding and acceptance.

Suzanna took another gulp of wine. She swirled the ruby red liquid in her glass then sat back in the big leather chair. Sitting alone in the attic, she was drunk.

Coming to this cabin in the woods was her idea. She was worried. Everything was falling apart.

The first night here, they left the cooler of food sitting outside all night. A bear helped himself to their food. Greg left four hours ago to buy more food. Sam went after the bear. It bit her in the stomach. Danny raised that Shepard from a pup now she was bleeding out on the table. He's a mess and won't leave her side.

She filled her glass again. What if Danny figures out her real identity? Surprised he didn't recognize her when Greg introduced his best friend to his new girlfriend, she's been holding her breath waiting for Danny to realize she is his ex-girlfriend, the girlfriend that stole money causing his family to lose their restaurant and home. Danny held the key to her identity. Despite cutting and bleaching her hair, inserting colored contact lenses, losing thirty pounds and changing her name, sooner or later, she will say or do something, and he will make the connection to the woman who ruined him.

Excited to pick up her custom Harley, she called the dealership. When the voice on the other end told her she would always be noticed on her new ride, she knew she would never pick it up. She didn't want attention. She buried the money at this cabin.

Guilt from destroying the family didn't occur until she was dating Greg, a good and kind man. Coming here was strictly so Danny could find the money. Why continue with the original plan? If he finds the money, Danny is going to know her real name.

This weekend is going to hell!

The dancer kicked her leg high and swished her pink dress, cut low how McGurk liked it. He watched her and not the screaming woman who kicked her legs even higher, albeit with the benefit of a man carrying her aloft toward the door and the waiting Bowery cop.

“Where do they get it?” the barman asked him beneath the piano music. He poured three more fingers of whiskey for a swaying, unshaven man.

McGurk stroked his moustache and eyed the dancers, choosing. “Get what?”

“The carbolic acid.”

McGurk’s flat gaze remained on the edges of the dress, which had slipped a little, it seemed to him. “Don’t your missus clean house, Willie?”

“Not if she can help it.” A customer put three bits on the bar, so Willie extended the tube to him. The man took a deep breath, then began gulping as the crowd began hooting around him. “It could be a problem, Mr. McGurk,” Willie said.

The dancer on the left had stopped smiling, McGurk noted. He didn’t pay her to frown. She’d get a little pick-her-up before her time upstairs. “How’s that?”

“These women. That’s the third one tried to kill herself, now. In two weeks. The cops might ask questions about upstairs.”

“They all know upstairs. There ain’t a one of ’em but he dips his wick at McGurk’s after a patrol.”

The drinker coughed beer onto the floor. The surrounding patrons jeered, and McGurk smelled the camphor he cut the beer with. A drunkard reached for a dancer’s leg, then yelped as she brought down her heel on his hand.

“The customers, then,” Willy said. “Bit hard to have your fun while some woman’s burning her throat out next to you. And everybody’s heard about it.”

McGurk turned to his barkeep. “That’s right,” he said. “Everybody’s heard about it.”

John McGurk was a diligent man. He worked through the wee hours. Before the Bowery rose from its stupor sometime the next afternoon, he had affixed his new sign to the crumbling brick. New York City had 7,000 saloons, but everyone would hear about McGurk’s Suicide Hall.

Mystic Monks of the Full-Spectrum Light, through arts esoteric, can see beyond the black and the white.

To wit, the monks encircle a Mystic Supreme XL Bubble Machine.

(1) In unison the monks bend forward exhaling, raising hands high they inhale the Bubbles.

(2) Retaining breath they straighten, beating their chests with open hands.

Then forward exhaling as the high priest chants:

(1)

Glorious

Bubbles harbor

Colors un-

seen to our

world black and

white.

(2)

They

burst in the

depths of our

hearts leaving

traces im-

bued with the

Light.

Walken stepped out of the time-jet. He stood looking around the clearing in which he stood. Gray grass covered from the ground, and white flowers grew in patches. Above him a single black colored bird soared, silhouetted against a white sun. Tall, straight black trees with gray leaves swayed in the wind. The wind was cold, and Walken pulled his rainbow coat closer around him. He brushed magenta hair out of his orange eyes, with his hand. As the boy stood looking at the colorless world around him, he raised one red eyebrow. What was this? A world with no colors? How did one live in such a world?

Walken felt something brush by behind him, and quickly he turned. Nothing was to be seen but a few shadows. Then, one of the shadows moved, and took the form of a human. But what a human! The girl who stepped into view was tall, with black hair, gray eyes, and perfectly white skin. She was as colorless as the world around her; even her clothes were gray and white.

She timidly advanced towards Walken, and reached out a hand to touch the edge of his coat.

"Hello," Walken said, breaking the silence.

The girl jumped at the sound of his voice.

"Do you understand what I'm saying?" Walken asked, with a questioning glance.

The girl nodded slowly, her eyes glued to his coat.

"My name is Walken," said the boy, "What is yours?"

"Sayah," she whispered softly, her eyes now fixed on his hair, "What are you?"

"I'm a person, just like you," answered Walken.

"A person? You can't be!" replied Sayah with amazement. She pointed to his coat and asked, "What is that?"

"A coat."

"Yes, yes," she answered impatiently, "I meant why does it look like that?"

"Oh, you mean the colors? It's a rainbow coat," explained Walken.

"The colors? A rainbow coat?" Sayah repeated in confusion, "What does that mean?"

Walken stared at the girl. She didn't know what colors were?!? How did one explain colors to someone. Seriously, you just looked at them!

Sayah pointed to his hair, and said, "What did you do to your hair?"

"Nothing!" replied Walken, "I was born that way."

"Oh."

"Haven't you ever seen colors before?" asked Walken.

"No," Sayah waved a hand about her, "Do you see any, what did you call them? Colors? Anyway, do you see any here?"

Walken shook his head.

"Where did you come from?" asked the girl.

Walken pointed at the time-jet.

"I rode on that," he explained, "I traveled from my world here."

"Is everything in your world like you?" asked Sayah eagerly.

"Yes. I've never seen colors, or not colors, I suppose, like you have here."

"Could I see your world?"

"If you would like, I could give you a ride in my time-jet, and then bring you back."

Sayah's gray eyes lit up in excitement.

"Would you really?!? That would be like a dream..."

"Hop right in!" Walken said, holding the door of the time-jet open.

Sayah stepped in and fastened her seatbelt as Walken pushed buttons rapidly.

Soon the time-jet started; Sayah and Walken were swept up into the sky.

"How many...colors are there in your world?" asked Sayah curiously, after she had gotten over the first shock of taking off.

"Lots. Can't even name them," answered Walken, steering the time-jet carefully.

"How long until we get there?"

"Not too long; it's a pretty short trip."

Soon Walken warned Sayah to get ready for landing. They settled on the ground with a soft bump.

As Walken prepared to open the door, Sayah held her breath. The door slid open and Sayah stood speechless. Finally she whispered in a raptured voice, "It's like a dream... I can't believe it's real."

And then the colorless girl from a colorless world stepped out of a time-jet and into a world of colors, rainbows and sparkle. She would never be the same again.

Note: Walken means Rainbow and Sayah means Shadow.

Why am I fighting something that is going to happen naturally; that can't be stopped? What makes rushing the ending unnatural? Where did all these ridiculous rules come from that say I can't and why should I listen to them? Pain is everywhere. There is just the question of cause and transference. What is really left for me anyway? All the things I always thought were so important are all unattainable now and it only brings me pain whenever I get sucked down the rabbit hole of bullshit, American Dream, fantastical, fucking delusions. Everyone always wants what they can't have, but it's torture. What is worse than revolving your life around a concept that isn't real and can't become real for you, no matter what you do? You could argue that I should change my concept, that I should find an attainable goal instead. That's not very satisfying, and honestly if I'm dumping the weight of the entirety of my being onto a small insignificant achievement, I predict the collapse of the concept (or even several, if I was motivated enough to multiply my absurdly, masochistic baby steps). I'm not handling reality well. I'm not handling my existence well. I am my own worst enemy, and yet I am the only person I can never escape. I'm never going to allow myself to be happy, so why can't I just not be? I've been looking for a personalized and intellectual argument to this question for most of my life, and ironically, the society that insists upon the continuation of my pain and clear depression (among a longer list of issues) cannot seem to answer my query. This society that has become obsessed with everyone's opinions on everything being so vital, cannot even convince me of the reasoning. When did people stop telling ignorant assholes to shut up? When did the ignorant assholes stop feeling like their opinions were unwelcome unless they stopped being assholes? Why can't people understand and believe the truth of it all; that not everyone is going to give a shit about your opinion, and furthermore, most don't care. I get that everyone wants to feel loved and most people want to be liked, but when did the reality of "Not everybody gives a damn." go out the window? Why are we raising fucking narcissists? What kind of society does that? I mean, seriously, what the fuck?

Sophie loved exploring., and today she was making her way through the thick forest to find places yet unknown and undiscovered by her thus far. Her best friend, Abby, had decided to ditch her in favor of going shopping with her Mom, but Sophie much preferred trekking through the woods any day to picking out a new outfit.

As Sophie topped a hill, she spied a small house that she’d never spotted during previous times in the woods; it was situated just inside a small copse of trees. Perhaps the massive oaks and pines with the hanging moss had disguised the house from unwanted eyes. It appeared to be abandoned, with shutters hanging off their hinges and doors perched open, including a broken screen door. As she carefully drew nearer to the old home, she saw that the front door was ajar and there was an opened window that likely looked out from a bedroom. It was quite possible the house had been abandoned longer than suspected. Knowing her mother would likely tan her backside if she entered it, she headed straight for the house anyway, walking up the three steps and onto the long porch where she stopped just outside the open door.

“Hello?” Sophie yelled, but the only sound that came back to her was the faint echo of her own voice.

“Hello? Anyone home?” she yelled again, this time even louder, but still, no response. Yes, there was no doubt the house was abandoned. No one would leave their door and windows open like this, and the house was far too dilapidated.

Curiosity getting the better of her, Sophie raised her hand to push against the door, but it would not budge. It was as if there was something on the other side of it holding it steadfastly in place. Using her shoulder and the full force of her small, twelve-year old body, she pushed harder, but still to no avail. The door wasn’t budging, and it was not open enough for her to squeeze through its narrow opening.

Turning about, she eyed the open window. It was large and open wide enough for someone to easily enter through it. Looking around and seeing no one, Sophie headed down the concrete steps, searching for anything she could use as a step stool. Spying a small stump, she rolled it toward the open window. If she stood on the stump and then hefted herself up ever so slightly, she’d be able to climb inside with no problem.

Once the stump was beneath the window, Sophie stood on it and took a moment to peer inside, ensuring that indeed no one resided in this forsaken looking house. Her mind raced with curiosity once she saw the room. There were tattered remnants of a flowery bedspread and old, yellowed pillows scattered about the floor. Several pictures hung askew upon the walls with their tattered and faded wallpaper. There was an old dresser and bedside table, but the drawers of both were open. However, from what she could see, the drawers were all empty.

Just as she was bracing herself to climb inside, she was momentarily stopped as it began to rain. It was a soft, summer scented rain, and Sophie inhaled of its’ sweetness, not caring that it soaked her hair and clothing. She loved summer showers, and she could think of nothing more magical or endearing. How befitting, she thought, that a magical summer rain would ensue as she began her adventure inside this lonely, forsaken home that had once been very special to someone.

Focusing again on the purpose at hand, Sophie gave a heave, hoisting herself up and over the crumbling ledge of the window. Before she could maneuver her way completely over it and inside the house, however, a piece of the windowsill gave way, and she fell inward and onto the hard floor of the bedroom.

“Ouch!” she cried aloud as she fell, closing her eyes as elbow and knee hit the hardwood flooring with a thud. Wincing, she opened her eyes and immediately checked her elbow and knee to make sure there was no substantial damage before looking up to peer at her surroundings. Thoroughly mystified, all Sophie could do was stare in wonder and awe at the room, unsure as to where to land her gaze for longer than a few seconds. It was entirely different than it had been when she had peered into it from outside. It was now a lovely, and beautifully decorated room, filled with splendid coverings on the bed and walls. Several colorful paintings of flowers hung on freshly painted walls, and there was a gleaming mahogany dressing table with no drawers open. It was decorated with a crocheted drop cloth and several little porcelain knickknacks. A crystal atomizer full of an amber liquid that Sophie assumed with perfume was nestled on a tray along with a silver comb and brush set.

Gingerly standing and rubbing her elbow in addition to rubbing her eyes in sheer disbelief, Sophie gazed all about the vast room. What the devil had just happened and where the heck was she? Had she entered some kind of fantasy world when she fell through that open window? Perhaps the rain had been pure magic, leading her to an unknown and undiscovered place in time. There seemed to be no other explanation for it. Being twelve, she was smart enough to know that fairy tales and magic didn’t really exist, but every indication was that this was indeed a magical window, and life as she knew it was entirely different from everything she’d ever known or been told.

“Hello?” she yelled again, but this time her voice was weak, croaking from the surprise she felt.

Still, no answer - only silence.

Slowly, lest she make a sound, Sophie made her way to the dressing table and took a seat on the round stool in front of it. The oval mirror in the center of the table reflected her visage of wonder at her surroundings.

Sophie’s small fingers trailed lightly over the gleaming wood and doily. Interestingly enough, there was not one speck of dust.

Carefully, she picked up a small, carved, white onyx elephant on the right side of the table, fingering it before placing it back where it had originally rested. On the left-hand side, she saw a lovely wooden music box. As she opened the lid, it began to play Tchaikovsky’s Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies. It was lined with a light purple silk and nestled within were several pieces of glimmering jewelry, including a pair of long earrings made from the most beautiful ice blue stones.

Sophie slowly lifted the earrings and pretended they hung from her ears. She looked quite sophisticated, she thought to herself, despite being only twelve years of age. Not daring to actually try them on, she replaced them in the box before she pulled out a ring with a large stone of the same blue hue. It was encircled with small, tiny diamonds. Unable to stop herself, Sophie slipped the beautiful ring on her third finger. As she was admiring its beauty on her tiny hand, she looked up at the mirror and gasped. Directly behind her stood a woman who appeared young but also old enough to be a mother; she wore a flowing white dress. She was beautiful and had the warmest and most welcoming smile upon her lips that Sophie had ever seen.

Quickly, Sophie removed the ring and spun around in the seat. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think anyone was here…….” Her voice trailed off when she saw no one. Her heart beat rapidly. She knew she had seen the woman in the oval mirror, but where was she? She attempted to gather her wits. Did the woman live here? She was not about to leave now when this house had so many surprises awaiting her discovery. Chances were she’d probably imagined the woman, she thought to herself.

Sophie stood and walked over to the bed. Stepping upon the foot stool, she sat upon the large mattress and fell backwards, encompassed in the bed’s softness and silky coverings. Here indeed was heaven, she thought. She closed her eyes momentarily, relishing the feel of the luxurious coverings.

Moments later, she opened her hazel eyes to find the woman from the mirror standing next to the bed. She was smiling warmly, just as before, as she gazed at Sophie.

“Hello, Sophie,” the woman said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Startled, Sophie bolted straight up and came face to face with the woman.

“Hello,” she croaked. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know this was your home.” In her surprise, it had not even dawned on her that the woman had called her by name.

“No, Sophie dear, don’t be sorry. I’ve been expecting you, love. I have tea and biscuits for us,” she said as she extended her hand toward a small table set with tea. The woman’s voice was strangely soft and lyrical, and her image was nearly ethereal.

Sophie eyed the woman skeptically, tempted to reach out and touch her to ensure she was real.

“Tea? Biscuits? You’ve been expecting me?” Sophie asked.

“Yes, dear. Shall we?” The woman headed to the table of tea and biscuits, seeming to float across the hardwood floors.

Sophie stood and followed, intrigued. “Thank you,” she said for lack of knowing what else to say as she took a seat at the table and watched as the woman poured steaming tea into dainty bone china cups covered with hand painted purple violets.

“And so, how is Sophie today?” the woman asked as she placed a cup of tea before her.

“I am good,” Sophie answered. Perplexed, she asked, “I’m sorry, but have we met before?”

“Not precisely dear, but we do know one another in a manner of speaking. I’m Genevieve.” The woman smiled as she took a seat across from Sophie. “I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance. Biscuit, dear?” she asked.

Confused, Sophie picked up a biscuit and absent-mindedly bit into it. It was delicious, melting in her mouth. Eagerly, she picked up another as Genevieve watched and continued to smile while she sipped her tea.

Moments passed in silence until Genevieve stood and walked to the dressing table. She picked up the small onyx elephant and returned to Sophie.

“Sophie, dear, please accept this elephant to remind you of our time together. Oh, yes, and please take all the biscuits you’d like. I have a handkerchief with which you may wrap them for safekeeping.”

Genevieve placed the small elephant in front of Sophie and then handed her a lace-trimmed handkerchief and proceeded to pile it with the delicious, sweet biscuits. Even as she did so, the biscuits seem to magically replenish on the platter from which they were removed.

Sophie’s eyed widened in disbelief. “Thank you,” she managed to politely say, despite the fact her mind was racing with so many unanswered questions.

“You’re as pretty as your mother, Sophie,” the woman said once she’d resumed her seat.

“My mother? You know my Mother?” Sophie asked in surprise.

“Well, dear, we met many years ago. She was a special young girl, just like you.”

Sophie’s mind raced. First of all, this was definitely a magical place. Secondly, her mother had never mentioned anything about this house or Genevieve. Sophie was confused, and though she knew she was wide awake, she still wondered if she was dreaming.

Genevieve stood and walked to the window, peering out. It had stopped raining and the sun was shining once again. “It’s getting late, dear. Your mother will be worried if you’re not home soon.”

Sophie realized it was nearly five o’clock and that Genevieve was right. Where had the time gone? She was anxious to get home and see her mother though. She had a ton of questions. Sophie stood and brushed the crumbs from her lap.

“Don’t forget your biscuits and the little elephant, dear,” Genevieve said. “I’m so glad you visited, and we met one another. Perhaps the future will bring us together again.”

Stuffing the handkerchief full of biscuits in one pocket and the little elephant in the other, Sophie stretched out her hand. “Thank you so much. It’s been a pleasure, Miss Genevieve.”

The woman brilliantly smiled as she took Sophie’s hand warmly in both of hers. “I assure you that the pleasure is all mine, sweet Sophie.”

Sophie returned her smile and went to the window. Before hoisting herself up onto its ledge, she turned to give one last smile to Genevieve, but she found the room completely empty. Genevieve had disappeared as mysteriously as she had appeared.

Sophie managed to climb over the open window’s ledge and then peered inside the room from the tree stump. Amazingly, it was once again dingy and dilapidated. There were no beautiful bed coverings, dressing table, or Genevieve.

More perplexed than ever, Sophie hurried home. Once she arrived, she entered the kitchen and found her mother standing over the stove. Her mother barely glanced at her when she came through the door and opened the fridge for a glass of cold water. Sophie then took a seat at the table where she emptied her pockets. Carefully, she stood the elephant up on the table, knowing her mother would see it.

Placing a lid on a steaming pot, Sophie’s mother turned around. “So how was your day……?” her voice trailed off as she took note of the elephant. Slowly, she walked over and took a seat across from Sophie, carefully watching her all the while.

Sophie, in response, only raised an eyebrow questioningly.

Finally breaking the silence, her mother spoke. “I see you met Genevieve. She’s very nice, isn’t she? Were the biscuits as delicious as they were many years ago?”

Sophie pointed to the handkerchief on the table. “See for yourself,” she said quietly, turning to unwrap the lacy wrapping. But as she did so, the handkerchief fell flat: it was completely empty.

Astonishment filled Sophie’s face, but her mother merely smiled; an all-knowing smile as she said, “But the elephant is very real ….and very precious.”

Her mother rose from her chair and left the room, returning moments later with an identical elephant in her hand. She resumed her seat and sat her elephant on the table next to Sophie’s.

“What in the world?” Sophie’s eyes grew wider and larger than before. “Who is Genevieve?”

Her mother reached down into her pocket and retrieved a very old picture and laid it on the table. It was yellowed, yet still an oddly beautiful and captivating picture of the woman Sophie had encountered once she’d gone through the magical window. Genevieve was as pretty in the picture with her lovely smile and flowing white dress as she had been in person.

“Genevieve is your Great-Great-Grandmother. And she manages to meet every female that is born into our family. I guess you could say that she continues to watch over all of us,” her mother said.

Sophie picked up the two elephants. As she did so, her mother reached into her other pocket and pulled yet two more elephants. “These were my mother’s and grandmother's elephants.” Her mother laughed. “I guess you could say we have our own herd of elephants in this family.”

Sophie laughed. It was true. As long as Genevieve continued to watch out for the family, their herd of elephants would grow, that was for sure.

Her mother grew serious as she added, “You are very special, Sophie, and Genevieve ensures that you will continue to remain so. Did you know that elephants are a symbol of good fortune, prosperity, power, wisdom, vitality, and protection from all evil? Genevieve is quite purposeful about why she gives you the elephant, and you must always take special care of it.”

Sophie nodded, strangely aware that she'd been granted a once in a lifetime magical experience that she would never forget. It would remain in her mind and heart for all her years.

That night as she prepared for bed, Sophie carefully placed the little onyx elephant on the bedside table atop the lace handkerchief where it would be able to watch over her as she slept. She would never forget Genevieve or the magical experience she’d experienced this day. And in her heart, she was hopeful that one day she would have a daughter of her own who would be able to experience the same wonder she had as she’d climbed through that magical window in the summer rain.

Feeling immensely privileged, contented, and well-loved to have met the magic that was embodied in Genevieve, Sophie easily fell asleep that night with dreams of tables laden with tea and scrumptious biscuits. And in the background, while statues of beautifully decorated elephants loomed all about. It was a beautiful dream. Indeed, it had been a beautiful, unforgettable summer’s day.

The night wears solemn black. The moon is red. Rico’s skin is white; as pale and perfect as the marble walls of the mausoleum in which we sleep. I lie with my head on his motionless chest, listening for the echo of a long silent heartbeat.

We are those who do not dream. I have not dreamed for six hundred years. We do not eat, nor do we drink, but we thirst for that which sustains us. Without it, we would cease to exist. A death, of sorts, though we cannot die.

If dreams are memories, then we are those who dare not dream.

I was born in the city of Orleans in the year fourteen hundred and eighteen of our Lord and Saviour. My mother called me many things but I was baptised Jean. So yes, I am Jean D’Orleans, but not the Jean D’Orleans who fought so bravely for the uncrowned king.

I was not yet a man when La Pucelle D’Arc drove the besieging English out of Les Augustins. When the forces of the Dauphin, led by Le Duc du Alencon, marched to Jargeau, I followed. Though still only a boy of eleven, I fought at Patay, Beaugency, Auxerre, Troyes, Rheims, and Paris itself.

I was not at Compiegne. I did not see The Maid burn.

I had returned to the city of my birth. Which was also where my father damned me for all eternity.

His Grace the Bishop was my father, though I doubt he ever knew it. My mother was a whore. I have my father’s eyes. I keep them in a box. It is a beautiful box, carved from the wood of the one true cross. It burns my hands to hold it, but still I cannot bring myself to throw it away.

The room was cold and dark. Winter sunlight struggled to pierce the one narrow window set high in the wall. The floor was made of rough cobbled stone. Someone, unseen, shouldered the heavy wooden door closed. It scraped over the uneven flagging.

I could not see them, but I knew the door was guarded by the same men who had brought me there. They wore long robes of dark wool. Their raised cowels hid their faces. Shadows within shadows. They did not speak.

His Grace stood behind me. His hair was white. His satin robes were scarlet. His heart was unfaltering black. His hot breath smelled like a slaughter-house. I cried for mercy. I begged for my life. A frightened child.

He hushed me. “The virtuous shine like the sun in Heaven.”

His hands slowly tightened around my throat.

That is all I remember of my ‘becoming’.

I did not know it, but the hooded men who had stayed in the shadows were in the service of Gilles de Montmorency-Laval. Le Baron de Rais.

I made certain I was there at Nantes to see the bastard hang until he was dead and his body burn at the stake for the rape and murder of hundreds of young boys. Boys like my beloved.

I found Rico in a cesspit. He was floating face down in a pool of fetid, fermenting human filth. His throat had been cut from ear to ear.

The year was 1436. I ought to have been a youth of some seventeen years, but the dead do not age, and so my appearance was still that of a child. The tower guards laughed at me when I stood in front of the gates of Le Chateau Tiffauges and demanded to see their Lord and Master.

De Rais. The Champion of all France. Having squandered an immense fortune, the Baron was a desperate man. Desperate enough to believe a charlatan called Prelati who had convinced Gilles he could raise the Devil himself.

It was a lie, of-course, but still the Baron sank deeper and deeper into depravity. Prelati was a fool. My father was not. It was His Grace, the Bishop, who succeeded in summoning a demon. I had ‘become’.

I could have torn the gates of Tiffauges off their hinges, such was my power, but instead I chose to turn my back and walk away. That night, I shared my terrible secret with Rico.

Rico stirs. My fingers brush a loose curl away from his forehead. He opens his eyes. At peace, Rico’s eyes are as green as summer meadows, but tonight they burn like hell-fire. As red as the moon we hunt by. A blood moon. A killing moon. A lovers’ moon.

Death’s cold kiss has soothed our mortal brows. Cursed are we. Lost are we to wander, clothed only in the night. The moon is our mother, and we glimmer, silvered, in the fullness of her shining. We are slayers of men. Devourers of souls.

Human weakness is our strength. Their lives are the coin with which we buy our way out of this purgatory. We trespass against those who would trespass against us. We do not carry a rod nor staff, and our tearing of their flesh brings no comfort. No salvation. We are those who do not forgive.

“Viens, mon precieux,” I whisper, taking Rico’s small cold hand. “Il n’y pas de repos pour le mal.”

Kraken blood tattoos cast soft blue light on the pirate captain’s brandy. Once, he’d boasted of the monster he’d slain for that ink. How his crew’s appraising eyes had gleamed at the swirling designs!

But that stolen blood he wore turned the ocean against him. Fearing a curse, his crew cast him overboard with two worn coins and a bottle of spirits. Unable to drown him, the waves spat him ashore.

His untouched liquor glimmered like moonlight on forlorn seas. He pulled his sleeves down, masking the glow, as he coughed up brine.

The kraken had defeated him after all.