 © 2021 Maria Vermisoglou The Plague I stumbled in the dark forest and glanced over my shoulder. The lurking shadows grinned at me over the patches of light, beckoning me in. My ribs and my legs ached from the long run, but I couldn’t stop now. I turned left, then took the next right and kept going deeper into the unknown. The Plague had sneaked in on our village one night, and many brave men tried to fend it off. One by one we watched in terror as it took the men first, then the women and children. It left no survivors. Locking doors and windows, we stayed isolated, but it found us there too and it attacked viciously. The Homen showed no mercy. With fear spreading throughout our village and no means of protection, I had decided to get my family to a safer place. Alas, when I returned to my house at night, I screamed at the frozen expression of their dead faces. I took off, with only my coat, some food and a hunting knife as my only possessions. My Beata and my Anatol still lived in my mind, their ghastly faces and white hair engraved in my memory. Glancing behind me, I pushed my legs to pick up the speed and heard the grinding of my old bones. Biting my lip, I tasted blood. An owl hooted, and I jumped, cursing the fat bird. The night had moved forward and the pitch-black sky showed no mercy for my poor eyesight. I took another left turn and came in front of a hut. Tears rolled on my cheeks, my heartbeat pulsating so hard my ribcage groaned. I had been in the forest all night and didn’t see another residence to seek out help. In my desperation, I had started to believe Homen had killed everyone. Such was my haste, I almost took down the door. With my heartbeat punching my throat, I pounded at the door. “Anyone there?” I screamed, breathless. “I need help! The plague is here.” I pushed with my shoulder and managed to crack it open. “I’m sorry for the…” My words hung in the musty air as I took in the dusty room, cobwebs strung in the ceiling and the absence of light. I cursed the gods and spirits. “No one has lived here and can’t help me!” I growled and fell into a rickety chair. My feet were holding me no more. I took some sharp breaths and stood. Dragging my aching body, I went outside and started collecting leaves and twigs. Seating by the fire was a pure bliss, but I could not rest. Rummaging my pockets, I found some bread and canned meat. The campfire’s crackle gave the false impression of security, and my stomach rumbled. I longed to curl up and gaze upon the stars before I fell asleep. But I could not. I cut the meat, laid it on the stale bread and stuffed it into my mouth. The bushes moved, and I grabbed the shotgun I had found in the empty cabin. Begging my shaky fingers to work, I found the trigger and lifted the weapon. A raccoon ran past me, screeching. I lowered the shotgun and waited to see the dog trailing him. His master could give me news and directions. But my hope fell into dead water. I stared at the majestic deer that leaped from the bushes, taking the same path as the raccoon. I scratched my beard. Something thrashed into the ground and I prepared to shoot when my weak eyes revealed a terrified squirrel. “Has the world gone mad?” My head snapped back and forth, watching the animals pass by, their fur standing on end, ignoring me. They run to escape from something, but what could it be that the wildest of animals would run side by side with their prey? When the bushes rustled again, I held the gunshot loosely in my hands, expecting another animal. It was a woman. The woman swayed, her white dress wrapped up like a bedsheet. As she approached, I noticed her milky complexion dotted with black blotches. When the moon shone over her, she grimaced. I lifted the shotgun to my chest. “Who are you?” I yelled. “Speak!” “I am only lost, farmer. Will you let me stay for the night?” she said in an alluring voice. I kept my gaze pinned on her papery skin. My wife, Beata, walked with a smile towards me. “Come on, dear. Let’s go home. Our son awaits.” Taking a step back, I blinked, my lip quivering at the sudden change. Was I hallucinating? Without lowering the shotgun, I shuffled, searching with my eyes at the quiet forest. The bushes stood ominous under the moon, the fire still burned in front of the hut, but the woman I saw moments ago had disappeared. “Where has that woman gone?” “What woman?” Beata quirked her eyebrows, smiling at me. “There’s only me.” My hoarse voice turned tight, and I winced as the information clashed in my mind. “But you were gone, Beata. I saw it.” My hands shook. It cannot be. Beata giggled, her gargling laughs out of tune. “Dear, were you having a bad dream? Of course, not. We were just strolling, and you wandered away.” She held out her hand. I rubbed my sweaty brow. “I wandered because of the ridiculous plague.” My wife’s face twisted, her eyes burning with a live fire. “The plague is not ridiculous,” she hollered. My wife’s figure melted into the strange woman. Rattling her claw fingers, she threw herself on me. I shot her. One, two, three bullets whistled, wedging themselves into her body. I retreated, watching the woman stand up, the holes in her chest shrinking until the metal casings fell off. “You idiot peasant!” Her voice froze my bones and reached my heart. “I am the Homen. No one can kill me. For every life I take, I retain my beauty. It's a small price to pay for the destruction humans have caused.” My arms trembling, I struggled to aim straight at the apparition. Patches of liquid skin gushed on the ground, the woman’s bones popping around her eyes. I shuddered. “I have found you now. You cannot escape your fate.” “So what if you’ll get me?” I glowered, ignoring the grinding of my teeth. “You’ll never be as beautiful as a woman. Now, you’re turning into a monster as punishment for the crimes you’ve committed!” I fired once more and reloaded. “You imbecile!” That terrible scream was worse than Hell’s demons. I pushed my fingers into my earlobes and despite that, I could hear her shrilling howl. Begging God and whoever was in charge to save me, I fired. But the bullets only seemed to irritate her as they removed more skin off her than harm her. The woman soared in the sky, screaming. I fired, having no other effective weapon. Begging the spirits of my village, I spoke the names of the deities. My wife was a believer, but until now, I only believed in blunt force. A howl cut the Home’s cries short. She turned her head the whole way until I was facing the back of her head. My eyes widened at the abnormality. It was impossible. But she was a bony ghost. A large dog leaped in front of me, its saliva dripping on the ground. The dog barked at Homen, who hissed. My heart that had been causing painful attacks in my throat and ribs relaxed some. Nothing could beat her and she seemed afraid of no man, but this dog made her crawl. I took the rope God tossed at me and pulled at my salvation. I clapped my hands and pointed at Homen. “Go get her, boy!” “Naah!” Homen’s strident voice lost her impact, and she dashed to the bushes, but the dog grabbed her ankle and sank his teeth to her bones. One by one, they cracked under the dog’s canines and she disappeared in a puff of smoke. I still live in that hut, guarding the woods with only my dog as company. I cannot see much now, nor hear the sounds around me. On chilly nights, I can hear the penetrating voice of Homen who spreads chaos. That’s when I take my shotgun and hunt. My suffering bones might not hold, but I will get her. One day I will. Acknowledgements Thank you for reading The Plague, which is part of the fairytale collection Quill & Dust. If you want to discover more of my stories, you can subscribe to receive monthly newsletters, or follow me on social media. Until next time, Happy Halloween! Boo!  Maria Vermisoglou is an International Bestselling author of fantasy and paranormal with an obsession for witches. She loves throwing her heroes into impossible situations. Maria draws inspiration from books, travel, and…the ceiling. (So blame the ceiling!)
Maria started writing when the stories she read became too boring and the voices in her mind too loud. When she's not writing, she loves a good ride on the fantasy dragon, but a book can also be exciting, along with a cup of tea. Nowadays, you can find her in Athens, exploring the mysteries of the ancient world.
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 A CODA OF CONTROLby Amir Lane Copyright © 2024 by Amir Lane All rights reserved. Patience. Controle. Jean-Étienne was under strict orders to keep his kills clean. This was not clean. It wasn’t the prey he wanted, either. Not that they always killed. They didn’t always have to kill, not every time. But Jean-Étienne liked the hunt. They were all, the members of Bloody Morningstar, hunters in their own ways. Predators. Monsters. At least, Jean-Étienne was. Brys liked to watch and wait, sniper habits ingrained into him. Elyes like to catch them from behind, still an ambush predator pirate. Tetsuro refused to be a coward and wanted his prey to see their killer. Jean-Étienne liked his prey to feel hunted. He liked them to know he was coming for them. It wasn’t always his fault. Not really. Not when they came to him, sitting too close or even touching him. Nobody could blame the way he was dressed tonight. Sure, his jeans fit well and the long-sleeve Kathedral shirt was cut a little low, but he wasn’t dressing for attention. Even his makeup was subtle. It was just enough to hide the scars. His hair was tied up into a loose bun. Even his earrings were small, simple gold hoops. He didn’t want attention tonight. He just wanted to sit at the back of the bar and listen to the deathcore band with a drink and a book. He had just started Les Désastreuses aventures des orphelins Baudelaire 3: Ouragan sur le lac. They might have been books for children, but it had taken him a very long time to be able to read at this level without sounding the words out loud. Reading was much more difficult than writing. Regardless of how behind he felt, especially compared to his more academically gifted bandmates, he was quite proud of himself, thank you very much. Jean-Étienne set the half-empty glass of Diet Coke back down on the coaster and flipped the page as the woman pulled a chair up to sit beside him at the small, round table. There was more than enough space elsewhere in the bar. The woman was too close, and staring in a way that made Jean-Étienne stiffen. It was an uncomfortably familiar look. Beneath the reek of alcohol and cigarettes was the smell of rotting fruit and old iron. Diabetic, maybe something else. Jean-Étienne ignored it, and her attempts to get him to talk, though his lips twitched in annoyance at her poor attempts at reading French on the cover of his book. She kept moving closer to him. She leaned in close against his side, one hand on his upper thigh to support herself, and yelled something into his ear. Her voice was muffled by the earplug and the sudden rush of blood in his ear. Jean-Étienne stiffened. His breath hitched, and his mouth went dry. He shoved her hand away and shifted his chair, inadvertently cornering himself against the wall. It reminded him too much of his days as a young dancer, with much older wealthy potential patrons pawing at him or treating him like show livestock. His eyes scanned the bar for Sean, who looked like vocalist of Emperor Immortal had become a bartender instead of a musician, but the man was occupied by the influx of metal heads coming in from another show. He stayed rigid, his heart racing as the drunk woman pawed at him, until the crowd thinned and Sean finally came over to suggest she give him some space. “We’re just talking,” the woman slurred. “Why don’t you come talk to me instead,” Sean said. “What’s this scar, huh? Under all this makeup.” “Come on, give the guy some space.” Sean’s firm tone might not have been enough to make her leave him alone, but the distraction was enough to give Jean-Étienne a chance to slip away. The brick wall was cold against Jean-Étienne’s back. He breathed heavily through his nose, grinding his teeth together. His nails scraped against the brick as he struggled to control himself. The freeze and flight instincts had passed. The feeling of being sixteen or seventeen and being treated like a meat lamb had passed. In its place was cold anger at being made to feel that way again. Frustrated tears stung the corners of his eyes. By the time the scent of fruit and iron passed beneath his nostrils again, the frightened teenager was long gone. The rational human was gone. All that was left was the predator. He followed behind her, sticking close to the shadows along the walls. It wasn’t difficult to stay just at the edge of her senses with how drunk she was. He could have been a foot behind her and she likely wouldn’t have noticed. Every now and then, she looked back over her shoulder, searching for something her dull eyes couldn’t find, and tried to walk faster. It only strengthened the predatory instinct. Her blood tasted awful. There was far too much sugar and not enough oxygen, with a greasy texture. He could have left her unconscious on the sidewalk with the deep tear in her arm. Even her blood had more than enough nutrients to satiate and sustain them. He didn’t have to kill her. He did it anyway. It wasn’t clean. He’d torn through far more than he needed to, her arm and throat and most of her face. He smashed her teeth in with the heel of his sneaker. If anybody asked, he might say it was because it would make identifying her more difficult. The truth was he’d done it because he hated her. He hated her for making him feel the way she had. But now, she was the one who was dead, and he was the one who was free to do whatever he wanted. It wasn’t until he’d returned home and washed the blood from his skin that he realized he’d left his book at the bar. ### Patience. Controle. They were the two things Jean-Étienne should have been best at. His body moved in time with the distorted guitars and rapid drumming coming through his earbuds. He didn’t understand a word of the angry Japanese shouting, but he didn’t have to. Even if Tetsuro hadn’t briefly explained that the woman was trash-talking her ex for constantly being thoughtless, he could understand the emotion behind it. He kept his movements sharp and jerky, almost overly precise. It was interesting to catch the familiar drum fills. There were a handful that Tetsuro always used no matter who he was drumming for, even with bands other than Bloody Morningstar. Japanese rhythms always bled into his playing. Unlike Tetsuro, Jean-Étienne didn’t play in any other bands. He had played in symphonies for a while, but he’d quit that when he hadn’t been able to shake a composer who constantly wanted Jean-Étienne to be his only soloist. It seemed the curse his mother placed on his blood was still in effect nearly two hundred years later. The reason he liked playing with Bloody Morningstar was that they let him cover his face. He didn’t dance in public anymore either. Three hours of practice should have left him feeling strained and exhausted. He should have at least been sweating. Other than a slight hitch to his breath and strain in his calf, he was fine. The alarm on Jean-Étienne’s phone interrupted the music. His evening class would be starting in 15 minutes. He sat on the floor with a sigh to stretch. Pain shot through his foot as he touched his right toes with his left fingers. When he peeled his slipper off, he found his second toe bent at an odd angle. Heat radiated from the joint. The nail was black from broken vessels in the skin beneath. “Putain,” he muttered under his breath. He finished his stretches before rising back to his feet, careful to keep his weight off the broken toe. His basic first aid kit was at the bottom of his gym bag in the back corner of the room. Pain flared through his foot again as he straightened the broken bone, then used medical tape to splint his first two toes together. The tape made his slipper feel a little tight, but not unbearable. His last feeding had been several days ago. It should have been enough to make him heal quickly, but unfortunately, his metabolism disagreed. The sound of familiar footsteps reached Jean-Étienne’s ears. It was followed by the equally familiar breathing and heartbeat, and an aftershave that must have been new. By the time Connor knocked on the open door, Jean-Étienne was back on his feet. Conner was almost always the first one here. He dropped his gym bag onto the shelf beside Jean-Étienne’s. Down the hall, Jean-Étienne heard the chatter of girl’s voices, including Madeline’s. They were standing about halfway down the hall, clearly taking their time catching up on the week while migrating to class. “Look at this bracelet he got me,” Madeline’s voice said. Jean-Étienne’s shoulders tightened and he clenched his jaw tight against the pressure in his gums. Patience. Controle. Jean-Étienne hated that part of him wished Tetsuro wasn’t touring Asia with a Japanese pop-rock star, or that Brys wasn’t back home in Wales, or that Elyes wasn’t on a boat in the middle of God knew where. He hated how much easier it was to be in control when they were around. He should have been able to handle himself without their help. He waited with patience and control for the evening class to filter into the studio as the clock ticked closer to 7. His reflection in the back mirror reminded him of an older woman, but he couldn’t quite bring her face to his mind. He’d forgotten what his mother looked like a long time ago, though he had to imagine that parts of her still lived in his face beneath the makeup that hid his scars. At the very least, she still lived in his posture. Jean-Étienne smiled at the group. There were seven girls and three boys, all between the ages of fifteen and nineteen. They all looked so young to him, even though he didn’t look that much older himself. He clapped his hands together to get their attention. The chatter and laughter ended, and they all turned their eyes to him. He pretended not to notice the bracelet on Madeline’s wrist or the way the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end at the deep scent clinging between the metal joints. He knew expensive jewelry when he saw it. “Bonjour, classe,” he said. “Bonjour, Mx Marin,” they said out of unison. “Did you all have a good day? Good. Then let us get started.” ### Patience. Controle. Jean-Étienne did not have Brys’ ability to wait and watch for days. None of them did. His human training as a sniper had clearly carried over to his new life. Jean-Étienne was too restless for that. Tetsuro was going to kill him for using his good knife for cutting meat again, but Tetsuro wasn’t here. The cats sat at Jean-Étienne’s feet, waiting patiently for him to bend at the waist with gristle from the chicken thighs. Every time he did, pain shot through his foot. It was up to his ankle now, and stronger than the pain in his stomach. He gave the cutting board — which he was also not supposed to use for meat — a wry smile that came out as more of a grimace. At least he was dealing with one of those pains. Weighing and portioning the package of chicken into bags was a quick process. The slight excess was split between the cats, which was likely the only reason they stuck to his side when Tetsuro wasn’t home. He stuck the edge of the bag in the vacuum sealer. Whirring filled the apartment. Sushi let out a distraught sound and ran to hide under the couch, while Sashimi hissed at the machine. Jean-Étienne used the knife for its intended purpose to chop a few bell peppers into small pieces while the rectangular cast iron pan heated. He might not have been as quick or precise as Tetsuro with a knife, but it was good enough. He thought it was good enough, just like how Tetsuro thought measuring with his eyes was good enough. There was a very good reason they never cooked together, and it was not just because Tetsuro was vegetarian. A tablespoon of oil sizzled from heat. Jean-Étienne used the back of the knife to scrape the diced peppers into the pan. Just because he didn’t care about not using the tools for meat didn’t mean he wanted to ruin them completely. “Of course, it will be harder for him to stab me again if I make his knife dull,” Jean-Étienne told the cats in French. Sashimi’s meow was either agreement or a demand for more chicken. The vacuum sealer had finished, but Sushi was still hiding. Once the peppers were the way he wanted them, he scooped them onto the plate and returned the pan to the heat. Jean-Étienne had made these so many times, he didn’t have to think about it. Four eggs, soy sauce, mirin. He left out the sugar. The process of adding eggs, letting them cook, and rolling them was oddly grounding. He wouldn’t say he liked the Japanese style more than the French way. Obviously the French way was much better, but this was what Tetsuro had him do when he was starting to lose control, and it had become a habit. He wasn’t losing control now. Not yet. Jean-Étienne slid the rolled up eggs onto the plate with the vegetables, then set the croissant thawing on the counter in the pan with a touch of water, and put a lid on top to let it steam while he grabbed the bag of chicken from the vacuum sealer. Pain ran through his foot and ankle on each step. Even though there was plenty of space on the top shelf that was supposed to be his, Jean-Étienne set the bag on the bottom shelf. It was small and petty, but Tetsuro was the one always encroaching on his fridge and freezer space. He arranged the plate of food in the most photogenic way possible, rotating it a few times until he got the lighting he wanted, and snapped a shot. He typed out a quick caption with a small heart at the end before posting the picture. While Jean-Étienne was a fairly active poster, he wasn’t much for actually using social media. Tetsuro was the one who had to comment on every post he saw. Jean-Étienne scrolled through mindlessly as he ate. There were thousands of people following him, though he only followed a couple hundred. Someone had left a lovely comment on one of his quick makeup tutorials. He wasn’t sure how to respond to it, so he just hit the little heart. Most of the posts in his feed were dancers and musicians sharing their most recent performances. Tetsuro had shared some pictures of himself with fans and musicians from his tour with a Japanese pop-rock star. In all of them, he had at least one hand up in a peace sign, flashy makeup around his eyes, and glitter on his cheekbones. It was almost more like ballet stage makeup than his Bloody Morningstar makeup. His eyes were dark from contact lenses. Brys Darcy 22:17 glitter is a good look 4 u tets 1 Attachment im sure jeanetienne would lend u some The attachment was a screenshot from the Japanese pop-rock girl’s Instagram. Both she and Tetsuro were both covered in sparkles. 斎藤 徹朗 22:31 I’m pretty sure Jean-Étienne would rip my arm off if I tried it Brys Darcy 22:32 isnt it like 11am why r u awake 斎藤 徹朗 22:34 I am on pop star time Sushi crawled from his hiding spot and climbed onto Jean-Étienne’s lap. Jean-Étienne fed him bits of egg. He could only bring himself to eat half the meal. After jotting what he’d eaten down in a notebook Elyes had brought him from a trip home, complete with approximate calories and macronutrients, he packaged the leftovers into a container and stuck it on a shelf on the fridge. Unlike the cats, he wasn’t hungry for regular food. By now, it didn’t take him long to put his face on. Primer and foundation to even out his skin, concealer to cover the scars. Some needed darker or even green concealers. Most of the time, he would add eyeshadow or lipstick to draw attention away from the deformities. Tonight, he didn’t. He didn’t want to be memorable tonight. When he checked his reflection in a compact mirror, he looked more like himself than he liked. Jean-Étienne slammed the mirror shut before he could spend any more time looking at it. The apartment was enough of a mess as it was. If he had another meltdown so soon after the last, he would never get the place fixed. And Tetsuro would never leave him alone again. In all honesty, it was a bit surprising that Tetsuro hadn’t asked Brys to babysit while he was touring Asia. He doubted Brys would say no no matter what he’d been doing. Even Elyes would cheerfully agree to keep a very close eye on him. It was frustrating to Jean-Étienne sometimes, how often he had to eat in both senses of the term. He was an athlete, even if not everybody recognized ballet dancers as such. The amount of calories he needed to sustain himself was almost sickening. And then there was the blood. He was older than Brys and about the same age as Tetsuro, but spending the early years of his new life feeding on rats meant he needed to feed more often to keep from going feral, as his band mates liked to put it. That one was more of a nuisance than anything. Gone were the days when they could pick off whoever they wanted without worrying so much about being caught. Now, with cameras everywhere, he had to be more careful. Patience. Controle. He could handle it. ### His prey’s scent had clung to Madeline enough to become familiar to him, and she’d spoken enough about him that it wasn’t difficult to find where he liked to spend his evenings. Still, it had taken Jean-Étienne weeks to piece together the full timeline on foot. The man always went to the gym after leaving the law office he worked in. He always left smelling fresh and clean, though his hair would be dry by the time he reached a very expensive-looking home to have dinner with whom Jean-Étienne assumed was his wife and a daughter no older than Madeline. He would leave again not long after with his gym bag and a promise to be home in a few hours. After that was where it became difficult. He had a handful of places he liked to frequent, and a handful of women of varying ages, but there didn’t seem to be any set pattern. At least, not one that the intelligent part of Jean-Étienne’s brain could piece together. It was easier to track Madeline. A faint breeze rustled Jean-Étienne’s hair, tied back into a ponytail. His head was tilted toward Madeline’s house at the other end of the street. He listened carefully until a window creaked open, and he caught the scent of a perfume that was likely meant to smell expensive but only made Jean-Étienne think of artificially sweetened syrup. Jean-Étienne followed from a good distance, far enough back that he was sure Madeline’s glances over her shoulder were out of habit than any real instinct that she was being followed. He had to fight down the urge to rush ahead. He counted the beats of his footsteps in his head, like he was playing a part in a ballet. This was just another role he was playing. Dancer, musician, roommate. Hunter. The tree line gave both Jean-Étienne and Madeline plenty of cover. This trail wasn’t one she should have been going down so late at night. Farther down the trail and slightly off the path was the scent of a crackling campfire and the whispers of people who were clearly trying not to draw attention to themselves. At least he’d still be able to get a meal at this hour if things with Madeline’s date didn’t pan out. Jean-Étienne crouched low to the ground, resting all his weight on his heels. After several minutes, his thighs should have begun to ache but all he felt was boredom. Every now and then, he had to stop himself from getting up and walking away. He was here for a reason. He really could have used Brys’ patience right now. He wished he had his phone, but he’d left it on the kitchen counter so it wouldn’t be tracked. In and out. In and out. It wasn’t his body that bothered him. The worst was the pain shooting through his broken toe, but that was easy enough to ignore as long as he focused on anything else. Even if it hadn’t always been easy to step out of his own body, his muscles were so much stronger now than they’d been when he was all but starving in the streets. There was something uncomfortably familiar about this feeling. It was like he was waiting for a concertmaster or a ballet master to release him. He wanted to spring up from his position in protest. Nobody controlled him anymore. Nobody-- Jean-Étienne inhaled sharply and caught the scent that had been clinging faintly to Madeline for far too long. He ground his teeth together and sank his heels deeper into the dirt. He couldn’t lose control. Not yet. If he wanted to prove that he didn’t need to be babysat, he couldn’t lose control. Even Tetsuro would have been proud of Jean-Étienne’s self-control when he didn’t immediately rip the man’s face off when he arrived, or when he and Madeline embraced. His skin felt hot despite the cool breeze wafting the scent of perfume over him, and his heart sped up just slightly. Sharp claws dug into the tough skin of his palm. The steady in and out of his breathing sped up until he was nearly hyperventilating. He was in control. He was in control. He was in control. At least, until a large hand slid up Madeline’s skirt. Jean-Étienne tasted blood the same way he tasted the tub of black cherry ice cream he’d binged a few days after Tetsuro’s departure. It was less that he actually tasted it, and more that he was aware of it filling his mouth and stomach. Bits of flesh and fabric stuck beneath his claws as he tore through far more than was necessary. The tip of a claw caught the solid bone beneath an eye socket. His fingers curled around the windpipe and tore it out. He swallowed down mouthfuls of hot blood. It was so much more satisfying than ice cream. And his toe didn’t hurt anymore. The ringing in his ears wasn’t just ringing. Jean-Étienne wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It didn’t do much to clean himself. He usually took pride in being more civilized than this. At least with the ice cream, nobody had been around to see him eating like an animal. He licked his lips and swallowed before lifting his head. Madeline stopped screaming. She took a few steps backward, but stopped. Her hands fell from her face, and she stared down at him with wide eyes. “Mx Marin?” This was not clean. Tetsuro was going to kill him. The End  About Amir Lane
Amir Lane writes supernatural and fantasy with LGBT+ characters. From the frigid and mysterious land of Northern Canada, Amir is obsessed with loud music and black magic. They spend most of their writing time in a small home office or doing the circuit of local coffee shops. They live in a world where magic is an every day occurrence, and they strive to bring that world to paper. When not figuring out what kind of day job an incubus would have or what a necromancer would go to school for, Amir enjoys visiting the nearest Dairy Queen, getting killed in video games, and watching cat videos. |
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