The following is an excerpt from my forthcoming novel, A Curse for Gracey Daylittle. Enjoy!

Aroma had a way of betraying the most well-kept secrets. After eight years of training, Marco Flores’ nose was well versed in the codes of the kitchen and could unlock the most closely guarded culinary surprises. The smell of freshly cut lemon and vanilla beans meant Mama was baking a birthday cake. Lime, chicken, cilantro, and cumin bubbling away on the stove in a base of tomato meant somewhere in Love & War, someone’s common cold would soon be cured with a bowl of Mama’s locally world-famous chicken soup. And the mouth-watering smells of ancho chiles, onion, pork, rose water, and melted chocolate meant someone special would soon be arriving for a visit.

Pulling on a shirt and pants, Marco scooted past his sleeping brother, slipped into the hallway, and pulled the door closed behind him. Poking his head around the corner, Marco stood as still as he could, listening for the muted sounds of his mother’s prayers. If his mother was praying, it meant someone she needed to impress was visiting: perhaps her in-laws or an important man from her husband’s business. If she wasn’t praying, it meant the visitor was a friend, or perhaps a family member.

Marco strained to listen harder. He heard no praying. A small smile crept over his face; he much preferred his mother in her relaxed state, a rare enough affair. He didn’t know what “anxiety disorder” meant, but he did know it made his mother cry a lot. At least, that’s what his stepfather had said.

As expected, he found his mother in the kitchen with carefully curled hair pulled back from her face with a silk scarf. She wore a ruffled hostess apron over a pressed, white linen dress. She was wearing shoes. Marco’s mother never wore shoes in the house. When she turned around, Marco saw she was wearing makeup. His mother never wore makeup.

“Mama, who’s coming?” Marco asked, his brows creased. “How come you’re so dressed up?”

Bettina Esquivel smiled brightly, bending to kiss her son on top of his head. “It’s a surprise, mijo. You can go get washed up. They’ll be here very soon. Go on. Shoo.”

Marco wanted to object, but his mother had already turned back to the stove, busily stirring, smelling, tasting. She was humming something to herself as Marco left the kitchen.

He found his brother awake when he returned to his bedroom. Alejandro was already dressed down to his shoes, but he wasn’t wearing his Sunday loafers, which Mama would no doubt want him to put on. Alejandro was wearing his dirty tennis shoes, and shorts and a shirt that didn’t match. He was rummaging through the closet and cursing under his breath.

Marco wondered briefly if the curse words were worth telling Mama about, but when his twin popped out of the closet with his soccer ball and a huge smile, Marco decided against it.

“Going to play soccer, Alex? Right now? Don’t you want to know who’s coming over?”

Alejandro frowned. “What?”

Marco sighed. Alejandro’s nose was not as clever as his. The smells coming from the kitchen meant nothing to him. “Mama told me to get dressed. Somebody’s coming over.”

Alejandro propped the ball under his arm. “For breakfast?”

Marco shrugged a bony shoulder. “I guess so.”

Alejandro thought a moment, then returned the shrug. “I’m gonna play soccer with Junior. See ya.”

The boy disappeared from the room without further discussion. Marco heard the front door slam shut.

Alejandro was always disobedient; it was one of the many differences between the twins. As Marco searched his closet for an appropriate shirt to wear for company, he wondered how anyone could confuse the two boys, though it happened all the time. The only person who never confused them was Mama. Everyone else in Love & War seemed to find the boys interchangeable. Well, everyone except Gracey Daylittle. Gracey always knew his name. But then again, that was probably because Alejandro never visited Gracey. Gracey was Marco’s friend.

Changed into his Sunday clothes, Marco made his way to the bathroom to wash up as his mother had suggested. But just as he turned on the water, he heard the front door open. Moments later, Marco could hear a woman’s cry of glee, a man’s voice, and an eruption of voices speaking swift Spanish that Marco didn’t recognize and couldn’t quite make out.

Hands unwashed and forgotten, Marco followed his ears into the living room where he saw his mother wrapped in the arms of a short, fat old woman with cheeks like apples and fingers like sausages. Marco’s eyes lit up. He recognized her immediately.

“Amá!” Marco ran for the old woman, flinging his small body into hers, nearly knocking the two embracing women backward. Marco felt the square, fat hands on his back, felt soft lips kissing at his cheek. When he pulled back, he saw that he was nearly as tall as his Amá, which wasn’t saying much. Last time he’d seen her, he had to be careful to turn his head when he hugged her, lest his face get lost in her ample chest.

“Ay, Marquito, look how big you got! ¿Cuantos años tienes ahora?”

“I’m eight!” Marco shouted, eyes wide and smiling. “But you didn’t forget that, did you, Amá?”

His amá laughed, shaking her head. “No, of course I don’t forget. I’m not like la Condesa, but my memory is still pretty good.”

It was at that moment that Marco realized they were not alone in the living room. As Marco followed his great-grandmother’s gaze to see whom she was speaking about, he was surprised to find another woman standing in the corner, someone he had never seen before. He wasn’t sure how he’d missed her the first time. She was nearly the same height as Amá, but that was where the similarities ended. The woman in the corner was thin and shiny with skin the color of roasted coffee beans. She stood perfectly still, her back ramrod straight, her small hands clasped in front of her. Her face was full of angles and wrinkles, her nose broad, and from her earlobes dangled fat golden hoops. And to top it all off, her head was perfectly bald.

“Marco,” Bettina’s voice had gone soft, using a tone Marco was unfamiliar with. “I’d like you to meet my great Aunt, la Condesa.”

Marco drew in his breath, his eyes growing wide with understanding. He’d heard of la Condesa—she was his Amá’s older sister. But as Marco stared at her, he wasn’t sure his mother was not mistaken. There was no way the woman standing in the corner could be related to his Amá, his mother’s grandmother. She looked nothing like the rest of his family. For one thing, la Condesa did not look Mexican. She looked like someone from a magazine he’d seen—someone who might have lived in Africa. Marco could almost picture her with a bone in her nose. Instead, she had one clear brown eye, the other smeared with gray film. Marco didn’t like the look of her, but found he couldn’t look away.

“Don’t be rude,” Bettina scolded. “Say hello to your great Aunt.”

Marco stepped forward, unsure. He expected the woman to sweep in and draw him into a tight embrace as women in his family—especially the older ones—tended to do. But instead of stepping forward with a smile and wide arms, la Condesa simply held out a hand. She neither smiled nor frowned as she considered Marco with a steady, unblinking gaze.

He took the hand gingerly and, finding her grip not unpleasant, offered a smile as he shook it.

“Hello, Great Aunt.”

La Condesa sniffed, dropping the boy’s hand. “You can call me Condesa,” she said stiffly and with no trace of any accent. “Everyone does. Besides.” She narrowed her eyes as she glanced at Marco’s mother. “I am not your great Aunt. I am her great Aunt. I am your great great Aunt.” Now the old woman cracked a small smile. Marco saw that her teeth were very white and even. “But that’s too much for a little boy to say.”

Marco wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he said nothing. He knew “la Condesa” meant “the Countess”. He knew this because he’d heard stories of his Amá’s older sister, how she considered herself better than everyone else, how she demanded to be treated like a little countess. She always sounded awful in the stories, but now that Marco had met her and held her soft, wrinkled hand in his, he wasn’t so sure.

“Ay, I’m keeping you standing! Please, sit, sit.” Bettina motioned to the couch, over which she had recently thrown her most cherished afghans. Marco loved the old afghans, crocheted by Bettina’s mother, his true grandmother, when she was just a girl in Mexico. Bettina almost never brought them out, saving them for special company. Marco knew better than to take a seat before the guests had chosen their spots, so the boy waited patiently for the old women to take their places.

Chucho breezed into the room, smiling warmly, offering the women mugs of beer. “You must get your mettle from these two chickens,” Chucho joked to his wife, nodding his head toward the old sisters. “The whole drive up these two wouldn’t stop for anything. They probably have to piss like racehorses.”

Marco hid his laugh behind his hands as he looked to his mother, watching her face go pale and then flare red with anger and embarrassment. “Chucho!” But the old women tittered like little girls from behind their cold, dark cups.

“Don’t harass him,” Amá sad. “He’s a good boy for bringing us all the way up here. Juarez is not so close.”

Chucho shrugged good-naturedly. “It’s not so far for an old trucker like me. I can drive to Juarez in my sleep.”

Now, Amá’s brow drew together as she sniffed the air. “What’s that I smell? Is that roasted quail?”

Bettina’s smile widened. “Your favorite,” she said. “It won’t be ready for a while yet, but I wanted to make you something special.”

“Let me help you in the kitchen,” Amá said, standing, ignoring Bettina’s objections. “I’m most at home in the kitchen anyway. Chucho, will you pour an old woman another drink?”

As his mother, great grandmother, and stepfather made their way to the kitchen, Marco found himself alone with la Condesa. He knew his mother would expect him to entertain her, but how was he supposed to entertain an old woman he didn’t even know? She probably wouldn’t want to play a board game, and they didn’t have a television anymore. Should he offer her something to eat? Marco bit his lip in nervous frustration.

As if reading his thoughts, la Condesa cleared her throat. “Don’t you have any photo albums?” she asked.

“Photo albums?” Marco sat up straight, glanced around the room. “Yes. You want me to bring you one?”

“Bring the oldest one, from when you were a baby,” she said. “And then we’ll work our way forward.”

Bettina was not much of a photographer, and the family had only one album. Marco dug it out from the shelf of encyclopedias and cookbooks and heaved it to the couch. He sat closer to la Condesa so he could narrate the scenes before them. She smelled of tobacco and flowers.

“This is from our old house in Odessa before Mama married Chucho and we moved to Love & War,” Marco said, pointing to a faded photograph of his mother in a pretty dress, a mound of belly under her skirt. “Mama is pregnant with Alejandro and me,” she said.

“I didn’t know you had a twin,” la Condesa said.

“Alex is a few minutes older.”

“Then you’re the baby. That’s a shame. It’s always better to be the oldest.”

“You’re older than Amá,” Marco said.

The old woman gave a brief nod. “By five years,” she said.

Marco turned the page. This page was filled with images of him and his brother as babies. He hated these baby pictures because he was naked in many of them. He felt his face flush. “Me and Alex,” he muttered. “Mama had to paint one of my fingernails red so she could tell us apart.”

But the old crone narrowed her eyes, shaking her head. “That’s ridiculous,” she said. She tapped one pudgy, smiling face with her bony finger. “That one’s your brother,” she said. “I don’t need to see any nail polish to know that’s not you.”

Marco turned, his mouth agape, eyes wide. “But…but how did you know that? How can you tell? No one can ever tell us apart except Mama!”

La Condesa peered at Marco, her thin lips pursed in thought. Finally she said, “I am completely blind from cataracts in my right eye,” she said. “But I can see more than other people see. For example, I can see the difference between you and your brother. I can see that your mother cries often. I can also see that you, little one, have a special gift. But you don’t know about it yet.”

Marco looked skeptical. “I have a special gift, Condesa?”

The old woman nodded her head. “You do. I didn’t know it until I met you, but now I’m sure.”

“Well, what is it?”

La Condesa grinned and patted Marco’s hand. “I’m not sure yet. But I imagine you’ll find it out soon enough.”

Marco tilted his head. “How do you see all that, Condesa?”

“I use los ojos de los santos.”

The eyes of the saints. Marco laughed then, thinking the old woman was pulling his leg. He could plainly see that the only eyes she had were her own. But when the old woman’s expression did not change, Marco’s giggles subsided, and he cocked his head to the other side. “What do you mean? What are the saints’ eyes?”

La Condesa lifted her hand, and gently pressed two fingers into Marco’s forehead, just between and above his eyebrows. “Here,” she said, her voice low, conspiratorial. “In most people, los ojos sleep, never opening. If you don’t use them, they wither up and die. But I use los ojos to see the invisible world. And I believe you will use them in a similar way.”

Marco reached up, lightly touching the spot on his forehead la Condesa had just touched. He didn’t feel any saint eyes there. Maybe the old woman really was just pulling his leg. He decided to test her. “What kinds of things do you see with los ojos, Condesa?”

She chuckled then, smoothing her skirt over her knees. “I will tell you, but you must understand that what I see with los ojos may not be what you see. You and I are gifted, but our gifts may not be the same. Do you understand?”

He didn’t, but he nodded anyway.

“Good. For me, los ojos de los santos let me see things that have happened in the past. Not everything, and not all the time,” she amended quickly, “but many things, especially if they are very big or very important. Sometimes I see things I don’t want to see. Sometimes what I see scares me.”

Marco thought about this a moment. “I don’t want to be rude, Condesa. But everybody can see things that happened in the past. That’s just remembering.”

His great-great aunt narrowed her eyes at Marco, leaned in closer to him. “It’s only remembering if what you see happened to you. You can’t remember anything unless you have first membered it. Is that not so?”

Marco opened his mouth to respond, but when he noted the way la Condesa’s lips had twisted into a smile, he realized she was only playing with him. “That’s not a real word,” he said, relieved and grinning. “You almost tricked me.”

The old crone chuckled. “I did. I couldn’t help it. Playing tricks on little boys is part of the fun of becoming an old woman.” She chuckled again, squeezing Marco’s hand. “Now. Do you want to try something with me?”

“Like what?”

The old woman’s good eye twinkled. “Magic.”

Marco blinked. He knew there was no such thing as magic. He also knew that if there were such a thing, he wouldn’t be allowed to do it, because his mother would certainly think that magic, like video games and gambling, were from the devil. Still, the idea of trying magic with la Condesa, even if it was another trick, appealed to him. So he nodded, hesitant and excited at the same time.

La Condesa instructed Marco to sit back and make himself comfortable. She removed his shoes, and the boy folded his legs beneath him, sitting cross-legged on the couch. “Give me your hands.”

Marco held his hands out, and the old woman took them, planting a delicate, leathery kiss on each fingertip. Each kiss left in its wake the sweet scent of copal rising from his skin like steam, and a faint glow like that of a dying ember. The boy drew his breath, eyes wide. La Condesa crossed herself, and Marco quickly followed suit. When he was done, la Condesa pressed his palms together and draped a rosary over them. She tucked his arms against his body, the tips of his still-glowing fingers gently pressed underneath his chin, and smiled. She licked her index finger and reached out, drawing a cross on Marco’s forehead. Marco was too enthralled to be disgusted.

“Close your eyes,” she said, her voice soft and calming. “And let the saints come to you. Can you see, Marco?”

Marco closed his eyes, letting his breath come slow and even. At first, nothing happened. Then, slowly, a pinprick of light formed in the middle of black space. It widened slowly, glittering as it expanded, and in a moment Marco could make out the figure of a woman stepping through the light, brightening the darkness. It was an image he knew very well. In his mind’s eye, the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe bloomed like a rose. Bathed in gold light and smiling a radiant smile, she glowed like a coal, her star-flecked blue robes rippling softly against her skin. Her long, dark hair flowed like rivers over her shoulders. She held her arms out to him, as though welcoming him into an embrace.

“It’s la Virgen de Guadalupe,” he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. “She wants me to go to her.”

“Yes,” the crone nodded. “Yes. Go to her, Marco.”

In his mind, Marco approached the Virgin, and as he did, the Holy Mother drew her hands together into a cup, holding it out to the boy. She was making an offering. A ball of light grew between her hands.

“She wants to give me something, Condesa.”

The old woman drew her breath in sharply. “Whatever Nuestra Señora offers you will be very important and very wonderful. You have to search your heart to know what she offers. Only when you know with your heart will you be able to see with your eyes. Ask yourself, Marco: What is very important and very wonderful?”

Marco squeezed his eyes tighter, concentrating as hard as he could. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be thinking of.  What might the Virgin offer him? Something wonderful and important; what could that be? Soccer was wonderful (though he was bad at it), and carnitas were wonderful, and summer vacation was wonderful, but those things didn’t seem very important. Homework was important, as were his chores, and brushing his teeth, and obeying his parents, but those things were not wonderful. Marco scoured his brain, but the combination of wonderful and important continued to elude him. What was wonderful and important?

The Virgin was staring at him intently, obviously waiting for him to do something. But Marco had no idea what she could possibly offer him. He began to panic. He had to think of something, anything, before his time for magic ran out. In desperation, Marco let his mind wander away from the image of the bright Virgin, seeking out any vivid image he could cling to.

He began to think of his bedroom. He scanned its contents, letting his mind’s eye wander over the chest of toys, his dresser of clothes, the drawings he’d created hanging on the wall. Then he saw his bed, and lying at the foot of the bed was an open comic book, one of Marco’s favorite things in the world. In his mind, he opened the comic book, and began to scan its pages. His eyes fell on the central hero, a dark, Japanese hero of night, a human blessed with superhuman power in exchange for his promise to avenge the night’s reputation. La Venganza de la Noche. He felt his skim pimple over as his mind grabbed onto the image. Comics weren’t important, not really, but they were the most wonderful things he could think of, and La Venganza de la Noche was important to him. As he concentrated on this image of his favorite superhero—the way his cape fluttered in the wind, the way his skin shone like ebony in the moonlight, and the way his teeth glittered like glass when he smiled—Marco could feel his heart begin to beat faster. He felt his fingers begin to hum under his chin. He saw the superhero zipping through the night, rescuing good guys from robbers, making the night safe for all to enjoy. With these images firmly in his heart, he forced his mind to return to the Virgin of Guadalupe, but she was no longer there. In her place was La Venganza de la Noche, clothed in all his comic book finery and bathed in golden light, looking on Marco with the same beatific smile, his hands outstretched to Marco in the same way the Virgin’s had been. Marco’s breath caught in his throat. What had he done? He’d perverted the Holy Mother with the image of a comic book hero! But even as he scolded himself for this transgression, he was filled with warm, bright joy, and suddenly the cross of spittle on his forehead began to grow very warm.

Surprised, Marco’s eyes flew open and he found la Condesa watching him with a curious expression. He put a hand to the spot on his forehead that had begun to heat up—it felt normal to his touch, if a little damp. La Condesa smiled and clucked her tongue in approval.

“That was a good start,” she said. “Los ojos de los santos are opening now. Very good. Here.”

La Condesa reached behind her neck and unclasped a necklace. She brought it forward so that Marco could see. It was a golden medal of a patron saint. His mother had one like it.

“This is Santa Lucia,” la Condesa said, smiling. “She is a patron for blind people. Santa Lucia will teach you to see the world with your heart and not to rely on your physical eyes.”

She draped the necklace around Marco’s neck and fastened it. “Keep it,” she said. “She will teach you how to find your way.”

Marco took in a deep breath, and met la Condesa’s steady gaze. He saw nothing in her face that was mocking or cruel. All he saw in her strange eyes was love. “Do you want to know what I was thinking about?” he asked.

La Condesa shook her head. “No. That’s only for you to know. But if you practice seeing that image with your heart, and practice seeing with los ojos de los santos, wonderful things will begin to happen for you. Magical things.”

“Like what?”

But at this, the old woman could only give Marco a small smile. “Only God knows that,” she said.

“Condesa?” Marco hesitated, looking for the right words. “Were you serious before? About seeing the past with your saint eyes?”

The old woman gave a brief nod. “That part was true, Marco. I would not joke about that.”

The adults came back into the living room then, and a single glance at his mother let him know he was dismissed. It was time for the grown-ups to enjoy grown-up time, and Marco was not invited to sit in on their grown-up conversation. He sprang from his seat, delighted to be freed of his familial obligations for the time being.

After all, he had work to do.

2.

“Alex, where are my binoculars?”

Marco sat in the corner of his bedroom, rifling through a pile of toys in a corner. Alejandro sat on his bed, pulling dirty socks off his feet, brow creased with disdain. “How do I know where your stupid binoculars are?” He threw the socks toward the hamper, missing it by a good foot or more. “Do you still have them? I thought you threw them out.”

“I didn’t throw them out,” Marco complained, digging through the mountain of old toys for the second time. “They were a gift from Aunt Conchis. I wouldn’t throw them away.”

“They’re just a baby toy anyway,” Alejandro said, flopping down on the bed his back. “They don’t even really work.”

“They work pretty good,” Marco said. “It’s just you don’t know how—here they are!”

Triumphant, Marco pulled a pair of blue and yellow plastic binoculars out from underneath his bed. He put them to his eyes, fiddling with the adjustments as he looked. “They still work. They have a crack in them, Alex. Did you borrow them without asking?”

Alejandro shrugged. “Maybe.”

Marco knew better than to reprimand his brother. They were the same size, but Alex had a penchant for physical violence that Marco didn’t share. He could defend himself in a pinch, but Alejandro had given him enough bloody noses that he’d learned to avoid confrontation when possible. “I can still use them,” he said, mostly to himself.

“What you gonna use them for anyway? There’s nothing to see out here.”

That much was true. Marco’s street, Nation’s Best Road, was lined with older houses much like his own, each filled with a family not very different from his own. He’d lived in this house most of his life, and all the while he’d lived there, he’d never seen anything on his street worth watching.

But maybe that was only because he hadn’t been looking with los ojos de los santos. Marco reached up and rubbed the spot in the middle of his forehead. He still didn’t feel any new eyes, and he still didn’t completely understand what la Condesa had been talking about. But he had a good feeling that the binoculars would help—if there was anything worth seeing on his street, his binoculars and the Santa Lucia necklace would help him find it.

He clutched the toy to his chest, smiling to himself. Maybe Alejandro couldn’t get the binoculars to work, but he had saint eyes. He could see superheroes. And if he could see superheroes, with a little practice, he’d be able to see anything he wanted.

Binoculars hanging from a cord around his neck, Marco crouched low, slinking down the hallway, around the corner, through the living room, and carefully through the front door. Nobody would care if he went outside to play—there was still plenty of daylight to enjoy. As long as he came in before dark, nobody would miss him. Still, if he was going to practice seeing what other people did not, he figured a little stealth would go a long way.

It was hotter than he expected, even for summer. Putting the binoculars to his eyes, Marco looked up and down the street, but after a moment, dropped the toy with an audible sigh. It was just as Alejandro had said. Nothing to see. All the houses had their curtains drawn against the heat, and nobody was outside at this time of day. After a few sweaty minutes of unsuccessful people-watching, Marco retreated indoors, not caring when the screen door slammed shut behind him.

“You weren’t gone long,” Alex said, smirking. “Binoculars don’t work, huh?”

“They work,” Marco said again, dejected. “It’s just too hot.”

Alejandro nodded. “Yeah. That’s why I came home. Junior’s mom said we were gonna get heat stroked if we stayed out.”

Marco kicked his shoes off and stretched out on the cool sheets covering his bed. It would be another few hours before night.

“I can wait,” he said, mostly to himself. “All the good stuff people want to hide probably happens at night, anyway.”

Alejandro snorted. “How do you think you’re gonna see anything in the dark, smart one?”

Marco ignored his brother, smiling to himself. With los ojos de los santos, of course.

I bet you guys thought I fell off the face of the earth, right? I haven’t. I’ve actually been working on Love & War pretty much constantly for the past six months.

Some of y’all may have noticed that a lot of the content of this site has disappeared. In fact, most of the content has disappeared. In fact, entire storylines have vanished!

They have. I’m sorry about that. But it’s all good. Because those storylines are getting rolled into the 2nd book in the Love & War series.

I hear what you’re saying. “Book 2? Wait a minute. Where’s Book 1?”

Where, indeed? This is where the good news come into play. Book 1, titled Demons Fall for Pie (Every Time) will be available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble Summer 2011.

As I roll out the ebook and Kindle editions of Demons, I’ll be redesigning this website and creating new vignettes to accompany the first novel in the 6-book Love & War series. The website will change some, but you’ll still be able to follow the adventures of your favorite characters even if you choose not to purchase the novels. Love & War will continue to live and grow online, just in an altered manner.

So, keep your eyes on this space for book updates, or like the Facebook page to keep up with the demon-centric shenanigans in your favorite tiny west Texas town.

Smoke from the bonfire wound its way  upward into the night sky, carrying off the laments and woes of the day. The residents of the Badlands huddled around the fire, palms stretched toward it, taking in its warmth and comfort. Stone strummed her ukulele quietly and badly, though she was improving—the tentative melody of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” eeked its way out from between blundered notes and sloppy misfingerings. Some of the men passed a joint around. Satsuko and Mitsuo stared into the fire, watching the flames dance their transcendent choreography.

“There’s that woman again.”

Following Satsuko’s gaze, Mitsuo’s eyes fell on a woman clad all in black, a shawl wrapped over her head and shoulders. They’d seen her a few times now at the Badlands— a woman who was not a regular and whose business in their enclave they could not ascertain. She kept her head bent low as she moved nimbly through the shadows, making her way through the shambles as though she had been there many times. No one stopped to speak to her, which wasn’t unusual, and she stopped for no one, scurrying toward the back of the camp. When they couldn’t see her anymore for the thick darkness, the teenagers turned to each other and shrugged.

In the distance, Satsuko could hear thunder. The horizon blinked with pink and lavender light as electricity set the desert sky aflame. The thunder rumbled low, accompanied by the eerie descant of the coyote’s mournful song. Desert music. Satsuko sniffed the air, leaned her head against Mitsuo’s shoulder. “Witching hour,” she whispered.

“What?”

Satsuko closed her eyes, a slow smile spreading on her face. “Got to stick together tonight,” she said. “Spirits are out. Take all your good luck, you don’t watch out.”

Mitsuo smiled, unperturbed. He was used to Satsuko’s superstitious babbling. “Which spirits?”

Satsuko yawned, snuggled closer into Mitsuo’s chest. “Mostly yokai,” she said. “Maybe zashiki-warashi. Steal your drawings. Put gum in your hair.”

Mitsuo felt his skin pimple over. When Satsuko got going it was hard to stop her, and the effects of her tales were often palpable. “Okay,” he said, grinning. “Tell me about it.”

“Yeah, Satsuko,” called another voice. It was one of the regulars, Cannon, so called for his propensity to pass gas violently and loudly. “Let’s hear one of your stories.”

“Ooooh, please?” Stone stopped her strumming, putting the ukulele on her lap. “Your stories are so good.”

Satsuko, who could hardly resist being the center of attention when she was in the mood, cocked an eyebrow at Stone. “What you know about my stories, hippie? Thought you didn’t listen to nothing I say.”

Stone shrugged. “I hear what I wanna hear,” she said.

“Come on, Satsuko,” Mitsuo urged. “We all know you have a story for us. Spill it.”

Satsuko sat up, ran a hand through her tangle of hair. The amber glow of the fire lit up her face like a jack-o-lantern. She grinned, amplifying the effect. In her way, she was beautiful.

“All right! I’ll tell you a story. But you don’t interrupt me!” She cut her eyes at Stone as she said this. “You can ask me your questions after.”

Satsuko cleared her throat and slipped into the subtle trance of the storyteller.

As Satsuko finished her tale, a slow smile spread over the face. She could barely make out the expressions of her audience, but she could tell they’d been listening to every word. After a moment, Cannon cleared his throat and leaned his elbows onto his knees. “So that fox, Zorro-san, was gay?”

Satsuko rolled her eyes, sucked her teeth. “Not gay,” she said. “Zorro-san is a spirit, not man or woman. So he can’t be gay.”

“But you keep calling him a he,” Cannon retorted.

Satsuko shrugged. “It’s just how the story goes,” she explained.

“But what was Zorro-san doing there?” Stone asked. “Why was the fox at the Emperor’s court to begin with?”

Again Satsuko shrugged. “Probably he was going to destroy the court from the inside so he could take over and rule everybody, cause lots of trouble, get famous. Classic espionage,” she said, her eyes twinkling even in the darkness.

Stone looked confused as ever. “But why?”

Satsuko grinned. “For fun. Don’t know much about foxes do you, Stone?”

Stone shook her head. “Guess not.”

“I have lots of fox stories,” Satsuko said. “I can teach you all about foxes. Raccoon dogs, too.” She dropped a wink at Mitsuo, who blushed and looked away.

Now that storytelling hour was over, the Badlanders slowly took their leave of the bonfire, making their way to their own domiciles. Only Satsuko and Mitsuo lingered long enough to see the woman clad in black making her way back into town.

It was already full dark when the Prime of Darkness stepped into the living room, finding Gracey at the couch with a book and her knitting. He wondered fleetingly how she managed to do both at the same time.

Hearing him approach, Gracey set her needles in her lap and smiled. Darkness thought she looked tired—her skin looked ashen and she had the beginnings of her circles under her eyes. He could see faint lines in her forehead. Worry lines, she’d called them. He wondered how much of her worry was for the murdered man and his wife and how much was something else altogether.

He hated to worry her further. And what he had to tell her would certainly worry her further. He had never before wished nor cared for the ability to lie. He felt this wish burn deep in him now.

There was nothing to be done about it.

“Gracey,” he said. His voice was even, steady. He looked her in the eye, held her gaze for several beats before saying, “I have to go out for the night.”

Frowning, Gracey glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s late,” she said, her voice tinged with an unfamiliar weariness. “Where you off to?”

The demon clenched his fists. “Gracey. I have to breathe.”

She was confused only a moment before realization clouded her face and her mouth opened slightly as she began shaking her head. She closed her eyes. “How long?”

The Prime of Darkness shrugged, never taking his eyes off her. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll be back before morning. It’s not safe for me out in the day. You know that.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He didn’t want to put that kind of pressure on her. There was nothing she could say that would make him stay, of course. What he did was done not for wont or desire but for the basic fact of his existence. “Breathing” was thus as apt a term as any. Still, she was human, and her field of vision was different from his. He couldn’t expect her to understand or give even tacit consent. What he was about to do, even though he had no choice, she would consider evil. And perhaps, from a certain point of view, it was evil.

There was nothing to be done about it. One cannot help but breathe. Even if one doesn’t want to.

Night envelops him like a glove. He slips into it easily, weaving strands of shadow and darkness around his figure like a weaver at a loom. The spiked pauldrons, which would have gleamed under even the softest starlight, are safely tucked into shadow where curious eyes will pass right over them, finding nothing of note upon which to linger. The motorcycle is harder to conceal for the terrible rumble it makes as it vibrates beneath him, but with small effort he extends his obfuscation to include the fantastic hunk of metal he has come to love so well, cloaking it both in darkness and silence.  Hidden in his twisted, tenebrous veil, the Prime of Darkness is not strictly invisible, but unless one knows precisely what to look for, he will remain unnoticed.

There are those who know what to look for, however. Angels with holy agendas, demons from enemy lordships, wanton spirits and unhappy ghosts seeking chaos, adventure, challenge. Groundless violence is as prevalent amongst the traditionally bodiless as amongst the corporeal, and the Prime of Darkness, though he has existed since time out of mind, is not ready to transcend existence and lose his individual identity. He is even more vulnerable in this ridiculous body, with its lumbering limbs and clumsy movements, its slow reaction time and tendency toward injury. To keep himself safe from those who would see him destroyed, he fashions for himself a blade forged in shadow and tempered in calamity; a blade so black it seems a hole in the world. Into that blade he pours despair and destruction. One cut would be all it took. He could kill a mortal in a fraction of a second; they’d never even see him coming. But the blade isn’t for mortals. The blade is for adversaries unknown. A soldier must always be prepared.

Forging the blade has used much of his reserves. He’s running on empty. He hasn’t time to waste.

He revs the bike and looks toward the horizon. The thrill of the night’s promise ripples through him, sends waves of electricity through his being. He can ride for a few hours if he must. Take his breathing to a place as far from Love & War—as far from Gracey— as he can.

He avoids bars. They buzz with an energy he doesn’t understand and can’t tolerate.  The overt sexuality clings to his skin like oil, makes it difficult to concentrate. He often wonders if that was what intoxication felt like, and why anyone would seek it out.

Humans are beneath his understanding.

He drives past bars, past liquor stores, past alleyways and all night diners; he rumbles past movie theaters, gas stations and empty parking lots. The city at night is a glorious thing; neon lights flash gaudily against the dim gray of night, the natural blackness of the sky sucked into the city’s ambient light. What the city’s night lacks in starlight it makes up for in street lamps, the burning ends of cigarettes, the eerie glow of a cell phone screen. He hums in near silence through the city’s slick streets, past hookers and drug dealers, past groping couples, past homeless men, none of whom turn a head in his direction, none of whom sense his presence. For them it is just another night. He glides past them, right through their night, ensconced in near-invulnerability, looking for a place to breathe.

Desmond Street turns into Munroe, winding away from downtown toward the river. He follows the yellow lines, obeys the traffic signals, sniffs the air for a sense of direction. Looking for a place to breathe. When he rounds Munroe’s soft bend, unsuspecting, finding black grass backing up to a small amphitheater, he knows he’s found sanctuary.

He parks the bike, saunters into the amphitheater. It is set into the side of a hill, crude concrete benches arranged around a small, moodily lit stage. He surveys the crowd, finds it is mostly women. The performer is an indie rock singer with a twelve string and a twang in her classically trained voice. It makes for a dazzling combination. Her voice, not big by any standard, carries surprisingly well. It is a sparse audience, but for his purposes more than adequate. The Prime of Darkness only needs one soul to consume.

Two women sit at the back of the theater, one collapsed happily against the other, their fingers entwined. The woman leaning against the other, a freckled, strawberry blonde wearing an oversized red sweater, is humming along with the singer, a hazy smile on her face. The other woman sits upright, expression mostly impassive, stroking her lover’s hair unconsciously, pumping a crossed leg to the song’s beat.

It takes less than a second for the Prime of Darkness to strike. Nestled deep in his armor of shadow, the demon’s consciousness reaches out to the redhead, piercing her heart and soul with a cold blackness he reserves specially for these occasions. He penetrates her quickly, finding the core of her warm and welcoming, the perfect feeding ground for this mission. As soon as he is inside, the black spear of his consciousness blooms into a thousand inky tendrils seeking out every crevasse of her being.

Possession.

Invaded, the woman sits up, pulls away from the woman caressing her. The smile slips from her face and she reaches up to her chest, clenching at her heart. Her consort leans forward, places a steadying hand on her back. “Shannon? You okay?”

Tears spring unbidden to Shannon’s eyes as overwhelming sadness descends upon her. She doesn’t understand where it is coming from. “God, this song,” she says, her voice low and uncertain. “I just…Jesus it just really gets to me.”

The tendrils grow into blossoms, thousand-petaled flowers of icy blackness in the center of Shannon’s being. The flowers swell, finding each other, winding their way like parasitic vines around each other’s stems. The darkness seeks out Shannon’s memories, eating them like acid, leaving holes and emptiness where deposits of her human existence had been. As memories of joy, childhood, happiness and expectation crumble into nonexistence, the flowers grow thorns, puncture her lungs, letting the warm breath of her life seep slowly out.

Corruption.

She opens her mouth to breathe, the tears falling freely from her eyes. Her girlfriend sits forward, grabbing Shannon’s arm. “Shannon! Honey, what’s wrong?”

Shannon leans her head back, shaking, ignoring the tears as they fall hot and salty on her skin. “Please don’t touch me,” she says. Her voice is flat, devoid of emotion. Her girlfriend pulls her hands slowly, confusedly, into her lap.

The flowers and their thorns crystallize into ice, spreading waves of frozen despair through Shannon’s veins, into her heart, into the deepest recesses of her thoughts and emotions. Her eyes glaze over and the tears dry up. The ambient sounds of the evening drain away until all she hears is the low surf of her blood going out with the tide. She doesn’t feel the press of her lover’s thigh against her own, or the bite of the cool night air on the skin of her cheeks. The shadows of the amphitheater meld together, forming a bleak gauze that fade her surroundings into a mere impression of space. The numbness begins at her heart, growing outward until everything is encased in gray. Her eyes move over her lover’s face. They hold not a mote of recognition.

There is no music. No sky. No concrete bench, no girlfriend, no nimble fingers, no breeze of breath, no glory, no joy. No sadness, no anger, no memory, no sound, no itch, no desire, no echo. No red sweater, no freesia perfume. No nothing. The black ice of the demon taking her soul fills her up, pushes everything out until all that makes her Shannon is gone, and only a shell of meat and bone remains.

Depletion.

As Shannon drains away, leaving a well of emptiness, the Prime of Darkness’s energy meters slowly begin to tick toward full. He surges toward wholeness, every atom of his being replenishing. Her siphoned energy fills him like a balloon, and he expands, invigorated, taking her in, drinking down all that she is, leaving nothing to waste. As he gorges on her golden energy, the sky becomes brighter, colors richer, the sweet voice drifting from the stage more silken, dripping with honey. Warm life roils inside him, sending him spinning, a vortex, a universe of a billion exploding stars all his own. He prickles to life, once again replete, robust, his ultimate, shining self.

He throws his head back and roars, a soundless rumble that charges the night air around him. He laughs, bewildered at the glorious gift of existence. All this for so little! It took only the spark of one girl. A small, mostly insignificant sacrifice.

The Prime of Darkness smiles, relaxes in a way he hasn’t in a long time. Having breathed in, he is ready to spend the next several months breathing back out.

Pie Crust

• 1 1/2 sticks unsalted butter
• 1 cup unbleached all purpose flour
• 1/2 cup graham flour
• 1/2 cup toasted pecans, finely chopped
• 2 Tbs sugar

Every perfect pie begins with a perfect crust. And there’s no such thing as a single perfect crust, no matter what anyone might tell you. Each crust has to complement the pie it supports, and only the eater can really know for sure what the perfect combination is.

Well, the eater and me, of course. Because I have a “thing” for pie. A sixth sense. It’s just a little quirk I have.

My sister says I’ve had it all my life. Maybe she’s right. She remembers a time when I made her cry for a week because I baked her a birthday pie right after I found out my boyfriend was cheating on me. I was upset when I made the pie, so my sister became upset when she ate it. According to her, she cried inexplicably for a week. I actually don’t remember that. The her crying part, I mean. I remember the boyfriend. His name was Bryan. With a “y”. I should have known he would be trouble.

Pie Filling

• 1 cup powdered sugar
• 8 oz. cream cheese at room temperature
• 1 cup Cool Whip

Honestly, I think it’s cheating to use Cool Whip in a homemade pie recipe, but sometimes you have to cheat. Like the time in college I was too brokenhearted after a devastating car accident to finish a term paper and had to ask a friend to finish it for me. My professor found out, but she took pity on me and didn’t report me to the dean. I’m sure I would have been expelled. Instead she failed me in the course.

But it worked out all right. You don’t need a degree in sociology to become a pie baker.

Though having a knack for people helps.

Directions:

1. Preheat the oven to 375.
2. Combine the ingredients for the crust.
3. Spread the crust mixture into a 9 inch pie pan. (I prefer metal. You can use glass. If you’re not a purist.
4. Bake for 20–25 minutes. (This is a guesstimate. The crust should hold its form and not release crumbs when touched. But honestly, this isn’t how I know my crust is ready. I know the crust is ready when I can smell it from thirty paces and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but I realize this isn’t a useful measurement for most bakers.)
5. Remove from oven and let cool completely. On the porch if you’ve got one.

My mother didn’t bake. Doesn’t bake. She drinks a lot, which I guess has always been her hallmark. She didn’t bother too much with my sister and me, preferring to leave the child rearing to Matola, our housekeeper-cum-nanny. But I don’t resent my mother for that. Her inattentiveness and self-absorption is just who she is. She left Tiny and me to far more loving hands than hers, and Matola’s kindness taught me to love myself, to care for myself, and to be the woman I grew up to be. Could my mother have offered me the same stability and self-assurance? I doubt it. Those weren’t her strong suits.

No, I don’t resent my mother for the things she couldn’t help. I resent her for the things she could have helped but didn’t. I resent her for never once trying to be a better mother. I resent her for making alcoholism look glamorous. I resent her for turning Tiny out of the house when all she did was get pregnant too young and out of wedlock.

Which was stupid of her, yes. Every modern woman knows about birth control. And it’s not like she couldn’t afford it.

But what do I know? I haven’t had a man, or a reason to use birth control, in years. And it’s not because of my thighs.

Directions for the filling:

1. Combine all the filling ingredients in a mixer.
2. Pour the cream cheese mixture into the crust.
3. Refrigerate for at least an hour or until the cream cheese is firm.

“Firm thighs,” my mother said in her evaluative tone as I descended the steps in my prom dress. It was black and A-line with fluttery sleeves and a flattering V-neckline. I had preened and primped in the mirror for 30 minutes before trusting myself to come downstairs. I was brimming with confidence and joy until my mother stopped me dead in my tracks with an analytic stare that blatantly read, “Does not measure up.”

“That’s all your dress is missing, darling. Firm thighs.” My mother sighed, brushing her platinum blonde hair from her eyes. “Why you couldn’t spend a few hours at the gym I just don’t know. Boys don’t like fat girls. That’s probably why you’re going stag.”

The idea that I was fat at 16 should have been ridiculous to my ears. I was a size 10, and at 5’6 that was perfectly normal and healthy. I was a pretty girl, and in that dress I looked like a million dollars. Besides, the dress came just to my knees. You couldn’t even see my thighs. I was going stag because I’d caught my asshole of a boyfriend making out with Meaghan Florence who wore a size 6 and had firm everything.

My mother would approve.

I should have told my mother to go jump in a lake. But teenaged girls are not models of self confidence, and my mother’s words rang like a bell inside my head, sending me into a downspiral of self doubt and insecurity.

The thing is, I don’t think she said it to be cruel. She really, truly, thought it was the appropriate thing to say.

Lime Curd

• 3/4 cup Key lime juice (I haven’t met anyone who can tell the difference btween limes and key limes, but for posterity’s sake, use key limes.)

• 1 tsp. lime zest

• 1/2 cup superfine sugar

• 3 eggs

• 3/4 stick unsalted butter

Directions for the lime curd:

1. Cream the butter and the sugar until fluffy
2. Add the eggs one at a time, scraping down the bowl as you go. Ensure each egg is fully absorbed before adding the next.
3. Add the lime juice
4. In a double boiler, gently heat the lime curd mixture. Whisk constantly until the curd thickens.
5. When the curd is nice and thick, pour into a ceramic or glass bowl, cover, and refrigerate.

I was in college when my father died. It isn’t much of a story. He died unexpectedly of heart failure. I was sad, but not overly so as a daughter should be, because my father and I were not close. I would love to tell you that we had a classic Daddy’s Little Girl relationship, but the truth is he wasn’t around very much. Though when he was around, he clearly preferred Tiny to me. That was okay, as most everyone preferred Tiny to me. It was hard not to. Conventionally beautiful, smart, and brimming over with personality, Tiny could wrap anyone around her little finger, and did, most of the time. Give her and inch and she’d take a mile. But you couldn’t hold it against her. It was just her way.

Baking key lime pie always makes me remember the more sour parts of my life.

I’m working on it.

Whipped Topping

• 2 cups heavy whipping cream
• 1 Tbs powdered sugar
• 1 tsp Madagascar vanilla

Directions for topping:

1. Beat the whipping cream with the sugar on high speed until it holds stiff peaks.

Putting it all together:

1. Once the cream cheese is firm (unlike my 16 year old thighs) pour the lime curd over top of the cream cheese layer.
2. Spread the whipped topping over the lime curd.
3. Garnish the whipped cream with the lime zest.
4. Refrigerate at least 2 hours but preferably over night before serving.
5. Be prepared for comments about your delicious pie’s unconventional coloring.

“This key lime pie isn’t green,” Mama said, her eyebrows drawn together like curtains on a too warm day. “Why on earth is this key lime pie yellow?”

It was Thanksgiving, the last Thanksgiving Daddy was with us. “Real key lime pie isn’t green, Mama,” I said, my voice even. I was used to her criticisms by then. “If a key lime pie is green, it means they added food coloring. Real key lime pie is the color of butter and egg yolks,” I said, sliding a hefty slice onto Daddy’s plate. I was proud of myself for knowing these things, and excited to be able to share my knowledge with my family.

But Mama wasn’t impressed. “I don’t know why you’re wasting your time in college if all you seem to be learning is how to bake unconventional pies,” she said, pushing her slice away from her without even taking a bite. “I grew up eating key lime pie and it’s always been green and quite good, too, I might add.”

If that was a test, I’d failed. Tiny and I had exchanged looks, finished off our slices, and gone in for seconds.

I should have taken the whole pie and shoved it in Mama’s face. I wonder what Daddy would have done. Would he have laughed? Would the laughter have relieved the pressure that was building up in his heart? Could shoving my mother’s austere face into a whipped cream covered pastry perfection have saved my father’s life?

Pie can do amazing things. It can make people laugh, or sing, or purr. But I don’t know if pie can save a life.

But I’d be willing to try.

Mornings begin early at most bakeries, and Want Some Pie? was no different. At a quarter past four, Gracey found herself up to her elbows in flour as she guided a tray of single-serving Chocolate For Breakfast pies into the oven.

Mitsuo sauntered through the back door, disheveled as usual, but with confidence in his step and his chin lifted so that you could actually see his eyes. Gracey tried not to smile as he pulled his apron on over his black hoodie. He was practically a different kid from when she’d found him camped out in her barn.

“What’s the special today, Gracey?” The teenager tossed a stray lock of hair from eyes that just missed making contact with Gracey’s.

Hooking her thumbs into the belt loops of her jeans, the pie baker leaned back slightly, closed her eyes and breathed deeply. A litany of ingredients ran through her mind as though to an internal beat, a private form of meditation she’d practiced as long as he could remember. Rocking back on the heels of her boots, Gracey opened herself to the energy of the morning, let the subtle vibrations and gentle workings of the town fill her from her toes to the crown of her head. Breathing in, she could almost smell the sleeping residents of Love & War, could almost infiltrate their dreams, see what they were seeing, feel what they were feeling. They smelled of spice, of flours, of myriad different ingredients that shifted subtly each morning. Her meditation was an essential part of her magic, though she would never have described it that way. To her, it was simply part of her process, part of how she decided what pies to make that day. It was as much a routine as brushing her hair and teeth.

“Something unusual today, I think,” she said, her eyes still closed. “Apple, cranberry, rosemary. We’ll call it Fourth Thursday Pie. We’ll add a bit of cornmeal to crust.” Opening her eyes, she smiled at her assistant. “You okay to go down to the market? I’ll make you a list.”

“Sure,” Mitsuo said, pulling off the apron he’d just tied on. “And, Miss Gracey, if I haven’t said anything, I really appreciate you giving me this job.”

Gracey waved away the gratitude, ignoring the “Miss” she’d asked him a million times to drop. “I gave you chance; you earned being allowed to stay. It’s not like I could have you squatting in my barn forever,” she said, throwing him a teasing look. “How close are you two to being able to move out of the Badlands?”

Mitsuo shrugged, withdrawing into himself just a little. “I’m sorry you found us out there,” he said. “We weren’t trying to take advantage.” When Gracey didn’t say anything, he continued. “We don’t have enough for rent just yet; you need money for deposits and stuff. The Badlands is fine for now. I was raised in a trailer,” he said, trying to sound lighthearted. “But thanks,” he said.

Gracey was about to interject that there was a difference between living in a trailer and squatting in an abandoned one when the bell over the entrance jingled. Gracey always came in through the front door in the mornings and rarely locked it behind her even though the bakery didn’t open until six. She knew the townsfolk and they knew her; locking the door just seemed an unnecessary bother. So she was surprised to see the Prime of Darkness striding into the bakery, his pink salon smock tied awkwardly around his pauldrons. Gracey had to stifle a smile.

“Darkness! What on earth are you doing up so early?”

The Prime of Darkness sank into a seat near the door, his expression troubled. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said, popping a handful of Smarties into his mouth.“You got any day old pie? Blackberry, maybe?”

“‘Course I do,” she said, “but that’s not what you want today.” Reaching into the refrigerated case, Gracey pulled out two plates of caramel pecan pie and set them before him with a napkin and a fork. She watched him take a healthy bite before asking, “Was I right?”

The Prime of Darkness set his fork on the edge of his plate and looked up from his plate in wonder, eyes wide with disbelief. He couldn’t hide his smile as he nodded slowly, still chewing. “It’s brilliant,” he breathed. “It makes me feel …” He cast about for a moment, making groping motions with his hands before settling on, “Happy.”

Gracey nodded.  “I thought it might,” she said, without even a hint of self-doubt. “Anything on your mind you wanna talk about? I got some coffee brewing in the back; Mitsuo ain’t gonna drink any.”

The demon gave her a hard, evaluating look before shaking his head, heavy locks of black hair falling into his face. “No. Just couldn’t sleep.” He cast a sidelong glance at Mitsuo, who watched them discreetly from behind the counter. When he noticed the Prime of Darkness noticing him, he quickly looked away.

The Prime of Darkness motioned for Gracey to come closer, which she did without hesitation. He lowered his voice, looked her in the eye. “You knew about the pie, didn’t you? That it would make me feel good? How did you know that?”

Gracey shrugged. “I always know,” she said simply.

Moving away, she pulled a rag out of her hip pocket and began wiping down tables. “If you don’t have anything to do for the next few hours, you could go down to the turtle pond and look for Old Leviathan.”

The demon looked up from the pie, confused. “Old Leviathan?”

“Bigass turtle,” she said, without looking up. She was scrubbing furiously at a smudge only she could see. “Old Leviathan is the gigantic turtle that lives in the old pond at Bigsbee Park. Way I hear it,  he only comes out at night. And though it’s technically morning, it’s still dark. He’s probably still out.”

The Prime of Darkness took another bite of pie, his expression dreamy as he finished off the first slice. “How big is it?”

Gracey shrugged. “Real big. I haven’t seen him in years. But if I remember correctly, he’s got to be, what, twenty, thirty pounds? We’re talking huge.” She held her hands far apart to demonstrate size, and gave Darkness a bright smile, her dark eyes alive with laughter.

The Prime of Darkness polished off his second slice and pushed himself away from the table. “Okay. I got nothing better to do.” Remembering his manners, the Prime of Darkness nodded in Mitsuo’s direction. “How’s it going?”

Mitsuo lifted his chin in return. “What’s up.”

“Do you need a flashlight?” Gracey asked, her voice respectably level.

The Prime of Darkness gave Gracey a quizzical look. “You know I can see perfectly well in the dark. Thank you for the pie, Gracey. It was really great. Are you cooking dinner tonight?”

Gracey shook her head. “Sorry, cowboy. It’s Tiny’s night.”

The Prime of Darkness made a face. “Tiny can’t cook,” he said. It was almost a whine.

“Well, I’m sure you can still take Irma Flores up on her offer to have you over for dinner,” she said. “Irma cooks the best Mexican food this side of Juárez.”

The demon seemed to think a moment, then nodded his head. “Maybe. See you,” he said. He gave Mitsuo a lame wave, which the teenager ignored, and ducked out the front door. Gracey waited until she heard the rumble of his motorcycle starting before breaking into laughter.

Mitsuo nodded towards the doorway. “That guy really likes to eat, huh?”

Gracey shook her head, her hand to her temple. “Oh, you have no idea.”

“That was cold,” Mitsuo said, not disapprovingly. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for someone to pull the Old Leviathan on anyone,” he said.

“Even I like a good joke,” Gracey said.

Mitsuo grinned. “You pull it on your sister?”

Gracey shook her head. “Naw, Tiny’s heard my snipe hunting story too many times to fall for that.”

Mitsuo raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You went snipe hunting?”

Laughing again, Gracey gave Mitsuo a kiss on the forehead, much to his mild horror, and slapped him on the back. “Go get my ingredients,” she said. “Sun’ll be up before we know it.”

Gracey and Tiny were curled up on the couch together, sharing a bowl of popcorn. Gracey pointed the remote at the television, absently scrolling through the disappointing options on the TV Guide channel. “I should just cancel the cable,” Gracey complained for the hundredth time. “There’s never anything good on.”

“Oooh, no no wait, go back,” Tiny said, waving frantically at the television. Gracey scrolled up and Tiny squealed. “Oh my God, you guys! Harold and Maude is coming on in fifteen minutes. I love that movie!”

Gracey made a face, hit the “select” button. “I’m surprised you even know this movie,” she said, shoving a handful of popcorn in her mouth. “This is way before your time.”

“I watched it with Mama once,” Tiny explained. “You know how she is about Cat Stevens.” Tiny shook her head, acquired false poise, fluttered her lashes and sang in a forced soprano with too much vibrato, “If you want to sing out, sing ooooooooout, and if you want to be free, be freeeeeee. There’s a million things to beeeeeeeeee, you know that there are.”

Tiny and Gracey collapsed into each other in a fit of giggles. “But you know what we need,” Gracey said, “is a six pack and Funyuns.”

Tiny’s mouth made a perfect O. “I haven’t had Funyuns in ages,” she breathed. “Is there anywhere to get them around here?”

“Oh sure. They have them at the BRB.” Leaning forward so she could see around Tiny, Gracey put on her prettiest smile and said, “Hey, Darkness, would you mind going out to the BRB and picking up some beer and Funyuns for me and Tiny? Please?”

The Prime of Darkness looked up from his book, annoyed. Settled deep into the reclining chair with a throw pillow in his lap and a blanket tossed across his knees, the Prime of Darkness looked like the king of the living room. He wrinkled his brow. “I want to find out what happens,” he said. He was reading Smilla’s Sense of Snow.

“The ending’s no good anyway; it’s everything leading up to the end that’s the good stuff,” Gracey explained. The Prime of Darkness only frowned. Switching tactics, Gracey smiled pleadingly at the demon, folding her hands prettily beneath her chin. “Pretty please, Darkness? I don’t want to risk missing the beginning of the movie.”

“Don’t you have beer in the refrigerator?” he asked.

“Drank it,” Tiny answered.

The Prime of Darkness sighed. “I don’t even have my bike,” he said. “It’s in the shop, remember? Brake’s been acting weird. I asked Tucker to have a look at it.”

“That’s okay,” Gracey said, her smile brightening. She was radiating at least two thousand lumens. “You can take my car,” she said. “I’ll even let you adjust the seat. The keys are on the table.”

“Oh, no,” the Prime of Darkness said, shaking his head and holding up his hand in objection. “No way. I’m not driving the Matrix; I look ridiculous in that car. What if someone recognizes me?”

Tiny and Gracey exchanged looks, and both women did a respectable job containing their laughter. “It’s just a car,” Gracey said, rolling her eyes, mock exasperation drawing out her words. “Anyway, what’s wrong with my car? It’s a great little car,” she said, pretending to be offended.

“I like my motorcycle.”

“We know,” Tiny put in. “And your cape looks so adorable trailing behind you when you ride.”

The Prime of Darkness gave Tiny a cold stare. His exasperation was quite real.

Gracey gave Tiny a look that meant maybe they’d pushed him too far; he was a demon, after all, and his sense of humor was wanting. She sighed, waved off the previous conversation. “Ah, well, it’s dark anyway.” Gracey cocked her head to the side, gave the demon a sincere smile. “And I’d really, really appreciate it.”

Sighing, the demon dog-eared the page he was on and set the book aside. He stood up, gave Tiny and Gracey a defeated look and said, “What kind of beer do you want?”

“Shiner,” the said at once. They turned to each other and giggled like little girls. The Prime of Darkness rolled his eyes.

Rising from her seat, Gracey shuffled over to the Prime of Darkenss and wrapped her arms around his neck, careful to avoid the spikes on his pauldrons. Against her chest, she felt the demon go rigid with uncertainty and discomfort, and Gracey was reminded fondly of her first slow dance with a boy. This awkward embrace was not unlike that adolescent rite of passage. When the demon didn’t pull away, Gracey leaned in and planted a noisy, squishy kiss in the crook of his neck. She was surprised by the warmth of his skin. She looked up at him and saw that he was blushing. She’d never kissed him before.

When he’d recovered from the shock of Gracey’s unexpected display of affection, the Prime of Darkness grunted, made a good show of retrieving the keys form the table by the front door. “Where’s your wallet?”

“Oh.” Gracey ambled into the kitchen, retrieved her purse, and fished her wallet out form its depths. She handed it to the demon, who grimaced and shook his head.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he said. “How old are you?”

Gracey made a face. “Old enough to not take things so seriously,”she said. “Loosen up, Darkness.”

The Prime of Darkness looked down at the wallet. It was plastic, pink, and sported the annoying visage of Hello Kitty all over it. It was a wallet intended for an eight-year-old girl, not a thirty-something woman. He snapped it open. “You don’t even have any money in here,” he said. Incredulity practically dribbled down his chin.

“Use the debit card,” Gracey called, plopping down next to her sister. “Oh, and bring back some antacid, too, please. Funyuns upset my stomach sometimes.”

**

The BRB was mostly deserted, save a couple of teenaged girls pumping gas and nursing cherry Slurpees; still, the Prime of Darkness parked in the shadows. The chime dinged as he walked through the BRB’s glass doors, and the Prime of Darkness cringed. He preferred, as much as possible, to meander around Love & War undetected. Of course, being the only person he knew who habitually wore black leather, spiked pauldrons, and a cape, it wasn’t exactly the easiest thing to do, but he’d mostly managed to get by.

He stood in the chip aisle, carefully reading the different titles in order to identify the brand Gracey had requested. He didn’t understand why humans needed so many different forms of junk food. He’d tried some of these fried monstrosities only once when he’d happened upon them in Gracey’s pantry. Artificial color and flavoring, he discovered, were poor substitutes for actual food. He much preferred barbecue or a slice of Gracey’s coconut cream pie to anything you could buy prepackaged from the BRB. Even the Ding Dongs made his stomach churn.

When he found the right bag, he grabbed it and popped it under his arm. He retrieved the Shiner Bock from the refrigerated case and laid his bounty on the counter. The girl at the cash register, snapping gum, sniffling, and probably high on something, hardly looked up as she rang him up. “$12.97,” she said.

The Prime of Darkness opened up the horrendous wallet and retrieved the debit card. He handed it to the girl who sighed and asked, not without annoyance, “Credit or debit?”

She looked up as she asked. Recognition washed over her face, and her cheeks flushed a charming crimson. The Prime of  Darkness steeled himself. She cocked her head to the side, tapping the credit card against the palm of her hand. “Say,” she drawled, a coy smile playing over Bonne Belle coated lips, “ain’t you that Prime of Darkness?”

He cleared his throat. “Credit, if you don’t mind,” he answered. He tried a smile. It didn’t feel natural.

“You are though, right? Wow, this is better’n the time I saw Angelina Jolie at the Walmart.” She slid the card through the reader.  “She was with that little boy of hers, that Oriental one? What’s his name? She’s super tiny in real life.”

He shifted uneasily, not knowing how to respond to her prattle, or even if he was supposed to. How many times would people ask him the same ridiculous question? Of course he was the bloody Prime of Darkness, who else would he be? The town didn’t have that many blue-skinned, diabolical, cape-wearing bikers.

She handed the card and the receipt back to him, still smiling. He signed the receipt, and snapped open the wallet to replace the card. He was about to wish the girl good night when she made an awful sound, something between a laugh, a bark, and a scream, and pointed a finger at the plastic abomination in his hand. “Oh my stars, is that a Hello Kitty wallet? My little sister has the exact same one!”

“It’s a terrible trick for God to allow it to rain on Halloween.”

Tiny was frowning as she poured a handful of candy corn into her mouth. “I mean, I get it. Most years the weather is awesome, right, so I guess that’s the treat. But when we get the trick…”

Tiny, Gracey, and the Prime of Darkness sat huddled together on the porch swing, listening to the rain fall in heavy sheets, waiting for the neighborhood kids to come beg for candy. Gracey was dressed as Rainbow Brite; Tiny, dressed as a belly dancer, had succumbed to the cold and damp and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. The demon wore what he always wore—a molded chest plate of indeterminate material, black leather pants, motorcycle boots, spiked metal pauldrons, and a red cape. He had a plastic cauldron filled with candy balanced on his lap. The flames from the line of jack-o-lanterns perched jauntily on the porch rail threw dancing shadows on the walls of the old house until an ill wind swept through and extinguished half the candles.

It was a miserable Halloween.

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Gracey said, chewing a Tootsie Roll. “Don’t you remember going trick or treating in the rain, running through the puddles and laughing when your makeup melted into streaks down your face? I remember,” Gracey smiled. “I remember … I wasn’t quite sixteen so you must have been about six. You were a fairy princess. It was raining that year, and Mom and Dad wouldn’t let you wear the ballet slippers that went with your outfit. They made you wear boots, and you threw a fit because you said fairies don’t wear boots.”

“Well, they don’t,” Tiny interrupted. “I mean, I was just a kid but I was going for verisimilitude.”

“Actually,” Darkness said, his face drawn, “I don’t think fairies exist at all.”

The sisters exchanged exasperated looks.

“Anyway, you were mad about the boots, and then when we got outside you were mad about the rain. It smudged your makeup. So you started crying and carrying on until I told you to just tell people you were a Rambo fairy.”

“Oh my God,” Tiny breathed, eyes wide. “I do remember that! You said I looked like Rambo, but I didn’t know who that was. But I did what you said, and everyone laughed and said I looked awesome. Like I planned it.” She grinned, dug into the cauldron on Prime of Darkness’s lap. “Ooh, Butterfinger,” she purred, ripping off the wrapper.

A small group of kids bounded up the gravel drive, making their way to the porch. They were squealing with laughter, their costumes invisible beneath their rain slickers. They produced their candy bags and sang out a chorus of “Trick or treat!”, their smiling, ruined faces upturned and glowing.

The Prime of Darkness reached into the cauldron and grabbed a large handful of candy, dropping pieces into the children’s bags. One of the little boys in front, who might have been dressed as a cowboy, looked Darkness up and down with appreciation. “What are you?”

The demon smiled. “I am a Prime of Darkness.”

The boy cocked his head to the side in confusion. “What’s a prime of darkness?”

The Prime of Darkness faltered. It was a question he wasn’t sure how to answer, not to a child to whom he couldn’t possibly reveal the whole truth. On the other hand, he was incapable of lying. It posed a small dilemma. “Well, it’s a kind of soldier,” he said, after the uncertain pause. “A top soldier, above an ace or a deuce. But, just a soldier. That’s all.”

The boy didn’t look satisfied, but more explanation would have meant less time to acquire as much candy as possible, and his friends were already growing antsy. “Cool costume,” the boy said. “Thank you!” A disingenuous chorus of obligatory thank-yous followed, and the children took off toward the next house.

The wind picked up, and Tiny pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Gracey noticed, took a motherly interest. “Tiny, you should go in the house and put on a sweater or something. You’re shivering,” she said.

“I’m all right.” The redhead shrugged beneath the blanket. “It’s mood weather. We gonna watch a movie tonight?”

“What do we have?” The Prime of Darkness unwrapped a roll of Smarties and began popping them into his mouth.

Tiny counted the movies on her fingers. “Army of Darkness—I got that for you, Darkness, you’ll love it—Serpent and the Rainbow and, my personal favorite, Shaun of the Dead. And I even made caramel popcorn,” Tiny said, smiling.

“I made the popcorn,” Gracey corrected. “You sat on the counter and stuck your fingers in the caramel.”

“I kept you company,” Tiny said.

Another group of children approached, these wearing masks. When they arrived on the porch, they thrust their bags out before them and shouted, “Trick or treat!” It was more a demand than a pleasantry.

The Prime of Darkness handed out the candies, and two of the three kids muttered “Thank you” as they ran away. But the third stayed behind and removed his mask. It was Marco.

“Hey, Marco,” Gracey said, smiling. “Your costume is great; what are you?”

“A demonic overlord,” he said. The mask in his hand was a metallic orange with a pointy chin and horns. He wore a simple black tunic and glow-in-the-dark skeleton gloves.

The Prime of Darkness made a face. “You know, there isn’t exactly—”

But Gracey placed a hand on his arm, squeezing lightly. The demon took this as a cue to discontinue that thought. “Well, you look great,” Darkness finished.

If Marco noticed the exchange, he didn’t let on. He was looking at the Prime of Darkness with concern. “You’re not wearing a costume,” he said finally.

“Oh!” The Prime of Darkness leaned back into the porch swing, clearly taken aback. “Ah. Well, this is a costume,” he said. Even in the dim light, his pauldrons gleamed.

But Marco shook his head. “You wear that every day. On Halloween, you’re supposed to be something else.”

The Prime of Darkness crossed his arms over his chest. “Why?”

“It’s fun.”

The demon and the boy stood in silence, examining each other in earnest. After a moment, Marco took a sheepish step forward. “Well, here,” he said, handing the mask to the demon. “You can have that. You have to wear something,” he said.

Tentatively, with a strange feeling in his chest, the demon accepted the proffered mask and carefully fixed it over his face. It was a little snug, but the eye holes were big enough. “Thank you,” he said. His voice came out muffled.

“My name’s Marco,” the boy said, holding out a hand.

The strange feeling in the demon’s chest grew until it pressed against his lungs. Something caught in his throat. The Prime of Darkness accepted Marco’s gesture, and the two demons, one makeshift and the other not so much, shook hands. “I’m a Prime of Darkness,” he said for the second time that evening. “Ah, you can just call me Darkness.”

Marco smiled, his eyes flicking briefly to Gracey. He saw that she was grinning.

Without another word, he took off. He had some catching up to do.

When Marco was gone, Gracey turned to Darkness and admired his mask. “Pretty,” she said. “Looks like you made a friend.” She was still grinning.

The demon nodded. “Guess I did,” he said, his voice curiously soft.

The strange feeling in his chest was still there. After a moment, he realized the feeling was tenderness.

He didn’t take the mask off all night.

The shadows that fell from the hollows of Trinity Church grew longer as autumn announced her arrival. The days were growing shorter, and the sunlight that saturated the town during the day grew thinner and more desperate as it drained as much color from curtains and wooden sideboards as it could hold, readying the small desert town for the dull gray of winter.

Candles flickered in their amber glasses on the makeshift altar inside the Trinity Church office. Their light threw dancing shadows on the walls—shadows which, under different circumstances, might have been cause for some concern. Lilac and Lakmei * knew there was a Prime of Darkness in their midst, and they knew all too well the kind of powers his kind possessed, the magic they held. Allowing shadows to play across their walls, to numb them to what quickly moving shadows could mean, could have harkened the snuffing out of their ancient existence.

But Lilac and Lakmei were not concerned tonight. This particular Prime of Darkness was more interested in the pie woman than he was in them or their games. This put them at ease. For now.

They sat at opposite ends of the overstuffed couch in their waiting room, feet curled up under them as they sipped pinot grigio from identical crystal glasses and read identical novels, hummed identical melodies, and thought identical thoughts. In fact, nearly everything about them was identical, from their white, heart-shaped faces to the timbre of their lilting voices. The only perceptible difference between them was their hair–both wore their hair long and board straight, but where Lilac’s was black as death with a curious violet sheen, Lakmei’s was gleaming white.

It was the crackle of thunder that made them look up from their books and catch the other’s eyes, inviting each to recall that the other was present.

“It’s going to rain soon.” Lilac spoke the words aloud, though she needn’t have done so. She’d been communicating with Lakmei in other ways for millenia, but for some reason she enjoyed, even after all this time, the sound of her voice. She liked the way speaking felt, the way the vibrations in her chest and throat became sound, the way her voice sounded different to her than it did to others. She enjoyed the physicality of speaking and listening. It was one of the perks of corporeality.

Lakmei leaned her head back and breathed in, smelling the air for rain. “It’s coming from the east,” she said. “Should be here in twenty minutes or so. Some tea?”

“Yes, please,” Lilac purred, snuggling deeper into the corner of the couch. It was a rare October night in west Texas where the temperature hadn’t climbed above 60 and the wind howled through the narrow country lanes. Love & War didn’t have much in the way of tumbleweed, but if it had, this would be the kind of night to see them performing their namesake action down the road.

Lakmei filled two identical coffee mugs with water from the cooler and put them in the microwave. “Something has arrived that shouldn’t be here,” she said.

Lilac sighed, marking the page she was reading before setting it down beside her. “I know, I felt it, too. Not our concern, though,” she said, her voice stern.

Lakmei shrugged, rummaging through their collection of tea boxes. “I don’t know, it could be,” she said. “Whatever it is, it–”

“Human,” Lilac said. “It’s not a what, it’s a who, and you know that. It’s a ghost. This is not our domain. Stay out of it.”

Lakmei chose two tea bags and set them out. “Do you suppose it’s still a ghost if it has a physical body?”

Lilac cocked her head to the side, thoughtful. “The Prime of Darkness has a physical body. We have physical bodies. And we three of us are still what we are.”

The microwave beeped, and Lakmei retrieved the two steaming mugs and dunked the tea bags inside. The corners of her mouth quirked up into something like a smile, and without quite looking directly at her counterpart, said, “Strange to hear you speak of us like that. The three of us. Together.”

Lilac winced, her chagrined expression mimicking Lakmei’s almost-smile. “A fine trinity we make,” she said.

“Mmm.” Lakmei wrapped her hands around the hot mug. “What do you think the ghost wants?”

Lilac shrugged; the question was clearly of small import to her. “They usually want the same things. To see loved ones. To recall their too-short lives. To seek justice for wrongs done against them.”

“Or revenge.”

“That, too.”

They sat without speaking while their tea steeped, listening and smelling for the coming rain. Lakmei closed her eyes, could hear music playing in her head. It wasn’t coming from her, though, not from her own thoughts or her own memory, but from Lilac, who was remembering another time when they sat in a room not too different from this one, in a town very different from this one, listening to Alexei Dombrovski make love with his violin. His music set the very air a-quiver, his notes dancing like electricity along the skin. Hairs stood on end to be nearer to his melody; the body ached to hear him play, to be filled with his emotion, to be fluent in his language. To be present with Alexei Dombrovski’s playing was to sit at the feet of God.

His music would never be studied by eager violin pupils with more wish than earnestness, never praised by critics with more ego than talent, his name never written in the annals of music’s long history, for Alexei’s music died long before he did, as talent so often does amidst the hustle and bustle of everyday life. So much of the world’s talent went undiscovered, shared only with a handful of friends and family who inevitably envied and hated the talent more than they appreciated it. This was humanity’s way. They loved, even worshiped, what they could not themselves do but only if the genius belonged to a stranger. The genius of loved ones was too rich a pain to bear.

Lilac and Lakmei knew this perhaps better than anyone.

When the tea was ready, they drank it. When the rain began, they listened to it. When the candles burned out, they relighted them. When all was done, they sat in stillness, Alexei Dombrovski’s last impromptu recital on a virtual loop inside both their heads. The rain, with its fat splashes against the office windows, provided the perfect counterpoint to the doleful melody Alexei played. When the sun rose over the edge of town, they put their nighttime things away and prepared to greet the new day.

*Author’s note: Lakmei is pronounced LOCK-may, like the title character in the opera Lakmé.