Stories

116.678 wakes in the back of a van, hivedreams slowly receding as its lonelyself comes back to the surface. It hurts as it always does, but its two service dolls are fussing around it, and there’s the familiar fullness of fresh tanks slotting into its back, so it’s okay. It’s fine. It hurts, but there’s the warm reassurance of hivethoughts lapping at its most distant thoughts, the reassuring hum and flicker all through the wires that grow like lichen across the van’s surface, the feeling of its dolls easing it back into the world. ...

False-color blood flows in neon spurts, rivulets painting her cheek in a tie-dye tapestry her ruined eyes will never see. She knows her own taste all too well, can’t help but letting her tongue dart out to grab a few more drops, to soak up the vibrance pooling on her lips— Of course she can’t see you looking, but she notices nevertheless; tilts her face up, gore-filled sockets staring into your too-eager eyes, licks her lips one last time, and— ...

This last tape is singed, speckled with shinysmooth patches where its plastic has begun to melt. There’s no label, just a few scraps of lingering paper, disconnected letters stripped of all context.

“What is a moth?” a witchling asks; an innocent question, just a glimmer of the voracious hunger that set her along her path. She does not understand the look on her teacher’s mask, the strange reflection in its mother-of-pearl eyes. “Find out for yourself,” it finally answers. She is not yet wise enough to understand what it really means; young and hungry enough to believe in her own immortality with a strength that almost makes it real. And so she does not take her time to prepare: she slips away as soon as she can find a chance to. ...

“Here, my dear. Take it.” The glass is heavy in your hand, solid crystal and the flickering liquid within. You’re not shaking, not yet, but it moves as if you are, shuddering against your skin just like you shuddered under her as she prepared you for this. It takes so long to wring the sin out of someone, especially someone like you; you can’t help but blush as you think about it, eyes downcast and thighs pressed together, but that’s okay. Shame and desire aren’t sins—she wouldn’t lie to you about that. ...

The video starts immediately, with no explanation, its only context a steadily increasing timestamp blinking in a corner.

The tape is shit quality, footage full of splotches and distortions; whatever closed circuit system it was recorded on was obviously too close to the manifestation. There’s no sound.

(This story is also featured in my collection Joyous/Decay.) “Oh, little angel … this is such a place to find you in, here down among the world’s roots. Why would you let yourself fall so far, my dear? There is nothing here for one like you.” She whirls, looking for the voice’s source—but her halo is so dim. She can’t see a thing. “I’m not your dear!” she yells, glaring at where she thinks the voice came from—a matted tangle of roots and thorns and filthy wood. “And I’m not fallen. I’m on a mission.” ...

Her hand on your cheek as she guides you down, careful to keep her claws just away from your skin. You’re so close to her, lost in the heat of her body and the smell of her delicious spicy musk. It’s almost too much as you settle onto your knees and look up at her, at the marbled purple and red of her body and the ample fullness of her breasts and the horns curling from her head far above; she’s so large, so strong. She could break you without even trying, and the thought of that always makes your heart quiver and your cheeks burn. ...

It regards you from behind the free-standing mirror, its long-beaked skull quizzically tilted; you weren’t supposed to summon it again before your half of the deal came due. But— You’re careful not to stutter as you speak, as hard as that is. “You tricked me, and I want out.” Its shoulders shake, and it takes you a few moments to realize that It is silently laughing at you. “It’s not funny!” you sputter. “The power and wealth you gave me wasn’t what I thought it would be—you wrote the contract to be unclear, and took advantage of me!” ...