back in the buildingggg

-

It never turns around.

It never meets Marella’s gaze, or tilts its neck, or moves any part of its body. Its dark hair floats in the breeze, but the breeze never settles down. 

Maybe its lips move when it speaks; Marella wouldn’t know. When it deigns to speak to her, it speaks with many voices, though they are all muffled by the winds. 

Mysterium is rarely windy. 

Tonight, it is silent for two minutes, and—as always—Marella is frozen in her position among the trees. Things will play out the same way regardless of how much she struggles. If she tries to save it, she will wake up with sore muscles and red scratches across her shoulders, almost as though something—someone—is pulling her back. It will beg and it will drown, the same fate it has always met. 

Tonight, though, it doesn’t utter its usual few-word mutterings, telling her to come closer. 

Let them, it says, and the word echoes though they are in the middle of the forest.

Let them? Marella repeats, though she knows it never hears her.  

They will burn me, it says. Let them. 

Who? What? 

You must light the flame. 

Marella pauses. She’s used to the regular, unsettling pattern in her dreams: a stranger in the woods repeating her name, a desperate plea for her to come closer. Never has the creature given her orders.

What flame? she asks. 

Light the flame. 

What are you? Marella takes the chance to ask, wondering if maybe it can finally hear her. Maybe she can finally save it. 

I made you what you are. 

Marella blinks. Excuse me? 

Its chorus of voices suddenly sharpens to just one—a high pitched voice, a little girl’s. One that Marella almost recognizes, but she can’t quite place. I can become you. You are not yourself. She tries to respond, but her mouth is forced shut by some invisible glue. Something cold seeps into her shoes. A quick glance down reveals that there is water flowing, and she is knee-deep in it. Her wet dress weighs her down, sinking her into the mud. 

I made you, it repeats. I can become you. 

Marella cannot breathe. She cannot gasp for air, as her lips won’t part, and there is something in the air that tickles her nose. She is dizzy, she thinks, but her thoughts are fuzzy. Smoke, her mind supplies through the haze. She is engulfed by a thick cloud of smoke. It pushes down on her chest, compressing her lungs. There is nowhere to draw air from. She is crushed. She is collapsing. 

You are not yourself, Marella Redek. 

What happens when you die in a dream? Who decides who gets to wake up? 

I can make you burn. 

-

“I need to use the phone,” Marella tells the boy slumped over the cashier. He slides begrudgingly back into his seat, then does a double take when he recognizes her face. 

He looks her up and down with a frown. “Sorry, wet dogs ain’t allowed. Dress code.” 

“Don’t see a sign,” Marella replies, crossing her arms. “Just give me the damn quarter, Keefe.” 

Keefe, predictably, rolls his eyes, but he reaches over and slides her the coin anyway. As she moves to turn around, he drawls, “What’s in it for me?” 

Watching him hide a yawn behind his hand, Marella says, “I won’t tell Elwin that you’re napping on the job.” 

Keefe huffs. “I’m not,” he protests, like a petulant toddler. “But fine. Whatever. Just quit tracking mud across the floor, ‘cause I’m the one who has to clean that.” Marella glances down at her feet, where a small brown puddle has begun to form around her drenched sneakers and equally soggy socks. “Sorry,” she tosses over her shoulder, but it’s insincere—Keefe’s built up a debt of owed favors to her over the years, so it’s about time she cashed one in. Even with her pretend nonchalance, though, her manners are built into her, and she wipes her shoes on the curb once she knows she’s out of Keefe’s sight. It’s a strange duality: despite knowing that she is rage, through and through, the well-mannered lady inside her always wins out. Perhaps it’s the price she pays to avoid being known in this town.

Outside, she slides her quarter into the slot, dialing the number she’s known by heart for as long as it’s existed. As it rings, she prays, Please don’t be Tiergan; someone must be listening, because it’s a girl’s voice who answers. 

“Hello?” Linh asks, clearly groggy. Marella can imagine her blinking the sleep out of her eyes, strands of her braid sticking out wildly. 

“Linh!” Marella says, and she knows her relief is plain to hear. “It’s Marella.”

There’s a pause. “It’s five in the morning,” Linh finally replies. “Where are you?”

“Outside Elwin’s,” Marella replies, and grins when she hears keys jangling in the background. “Also, you should maybe bring a towel.”

Linh sighs. “I hope you know I have so many questions.”

So do I, Marella thinks. “There’s no interesting story,” Marella says. “Sorry. Just ended up here.”

“You’re telling me you sleepwalked half an hour away from home?” Linh asks, incredulous. Marella can almost hear her shaking her head. “You know, you’re an awful liar.”

It’s a comment Marella’s heard a lot, and one that’s led her to believe that the perceived “worst liars” of the world must indeed be the best, if they’ve managed to convince everyone of their sincerity through small, calculated mistakes. Sure, she’s an open book on most unimportant matters, but there are feelings—there are ideas—locked away so securely in her mind that she’s faced with no choice but to lie about them. Even to herself. 

And given that this town still welcomes her, she’s done a damn good job at it. 

“Look, are you gonna pick me up or no?” Marella replies.

“Obviously,” Linh says, then lowers her voice to a whisper: “Just give me twenty minutes, I need to sneak past Tiergan. Don’t do anything stupid.” A pause. “Stupider,” she amends. 

Despite herself, Marella smiles. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Then Linh hangs up, and Marella’s left alone on the roadside again, covered in mud and shivering as her soaked socks and shoes finally catch up to her. She sits down on the curb, holding her head in her hands. 

She has twenty minutes to decide how exactly she can explain the truth to her best friend. 

Partly, it’s impossible, because even Marella can’t tell what the truth is: she vividly remembers going to bed in her own room, then being haunted by the nightmare that’s plagued her every night since she graduated. But it had been different, this time, far more disturbing than she’d ever experienced. 

Marella shudders as she recalls the little girl’s voice, echoing in her mind: You are not yourself, Marella Redek. Perhaps this was its demonstration. 

After suffocating in her dream, she’d woken up beside the lake, soaked from the knees down and clothed in a white dress from the back of her closet that she knows she’s never worn. She’d brushed off the mud and sticks stuck in her hair—put up in a French braid too perfect for her to have done herself—and blearily hiked her way to the nearest gas station she knew of. 

But she can’t explain any of that to Linh. Marella knows she sounds crazy. She’s been convincing herself for months that her dreams are simply a result of stress, that the looming changes in her life are to blame for her constant sense of unease. But every day, she wakes up with a sense of warning, as though she is counting down the days to doomsday, to a true Hell on Earth. 

(Though perhaps that’s it: it’s a divine reminder that she was always meant to be dragged to Hell. She has always been meant to suffer for what she is: her father’s punishment.)

Marella is saved from her spiral by the headlights of a beat-up blue pickup truck, screeching to a stop beside her. Linh rolls down the window. “I still have questions,” she says as Marella moves to open the door. 

“Yeah,” is all Marella can find the words to say. She slumps onto the towel spread across the passenger seat and kicks off her wet shoes, wincing at the smell. 

Linh glances down at them. “Tiergan’s going to hate that,” she says, though her lips curl into a smile. 

Marella meets her gaze, strangely finding herself smiling, too. “Not as much as he’ll hate you driving his truck,” she counters, and laughs as Linh huffs.

“It was the quickest way to get here,” Linh says. “He’ll understand when I tell him I did it for you.” 

“Me?” Marella questions, though it feels selfish. 

It also earns her a flat look as Linh shifts gears into drive. “Obviously I’d drop everything to find you. Tiergan knows that. Cyrah knows that. Clearly, you knew that, since you called me first.”

“You don’t know that,” Marella protests, but it’s futile. Of course she’d call Linh first. That’s how they work. 

Linh ignores her. “I still want to know what happened, by the way,” she says, and Marella knows she’s out of time. 

“It’s…hard to explain,” she says, and there’s that bitter taste of confession on the tip of her tongue. Once she lets this go, she can never go back. “I guess I’ve been feeling strange lately.”

Linh hums. 

“I’ve been having these dreams,” Marella continues, “and they’re always the same creepy setup. There’s a woman, and voices, and…well, anyway, last night was different.”

“Right,” Linh acknowledges, taking a slightly-illegal U-turn. 

“The voices told me that I’m ‘not myself,’” Marella says. “And then I woke up by the lake.”

There’s a long silence after that, in which Linh focuses on the road and Marella focuses on Linh. Out of habit, she lets her eyes trace the details of Linh’s face: her long eyelashes, her sharp nose, the dark spot just above her upper lip, the long-healed scar right above her cheekbone. A few acne scars are scattered across her cheek, which Marella especially notices because they’re a reminder that Linh is here without makeup, raw and early in the morning. She’d truly dropped everything to find Marella, and Marella can’t find the courage to give her the whole truth. 

“It could be sleepwalking,” Linh finally offers, though even she doesn’t sound like she believes it. 

“It’s not,” Marella states firmly, and they leave it at that. 

They say nothing for the rest of the drive. There’s no point in polite pleasantries: even as they’ve grown apart, they’ve always been in harmony with one another in a way no-one else can be. Marella can guess what Linh feels about the weather, and what she’s doing later today. At some level, they are the same people as the girls who met the summer before middle school, awkward and desperately alone. 

When they pull in to the Solreef Inn, Cyrah is waiting for them at the door. 

“Mornin’,” she greets them both, but her gaze is trained on Linh. “Out for a drive?”

Linh tosses her the keys. “Emergency circumstances,” she says, and that must be enough, because Cyrah moves to let them pass. She frowns as she notices the state of Marella’s attire, but thankfully doesn’t say anything until Linh disappears to use the restroom. 

“Marella, honey,” Cyrah begins, “are you—”

“I’m fine.” Marella cuts her off before Cyrah can voice whatever concerns must be ringing in her mind. “Just an eventful night with my friends.” Whatever happens, she has to make sure that Cyrah doen’t call her father. Marella can’t worry him further. 

Cyrah frowns. “If you need anything—”

“I’m fine,” Marella repeats, and feels slightly apologetic as the words come out harsher than intended. “It’s nothing serious,” she clarifies, trying to maintain her composure. 

Cyrah hums, but doesn’t comment further, moving past Marella to sort through yesterday’s mail. “Well, Tiergan hasn’t noticed that Linh took his baby out, so you all are in the clear. For now,” she emphasizes, mainly to Linh, who now returns with a re-tied braid and day clothes. 

“Like I said,” Linh defends, “Emergency situation.” She grabs a plum from the fruit bowl and hands it wordlessly to Marella, who takes it instinctively. “He’ll understand.”

“Oh, all too well,” Cyrah replies, then frowns, seemingly at herself. “Regardless, I won’t tell if you don’t. And you both can make it up to me by helping set up breakfast for our new guests.”

Linh raises her eyebrows. “Guests?” It isn’t often that people come to visit Mysterium. Besides a slightly haunted history (mainly fabricated, in Marella’s opinion) and seasonally scenic views, there isn’t much to be seen in their town. In all of Marella’s memory of the Solreef Inn, she can think of only ten guests, across the years, many of whom were academics that specialised in niche flora or history. 

“They came in yesterday,” Cyrah explains, handing Marella a stack of plates. “Quite young—maybe a little older than you two. Called themselves researchers, though I think they’re the supernatural hunter type.” 

Marella’s stomach drops. “The what?” 

“Oh, you know the sort. Chasing down ghost stories, solving mystic mysteries—we’ve had plenty of them come through here. Makes you wonder if the town is really haunted.” She winks at that last statement, though Linh and Marella’s gazes are already locked on each other. 

Cyrah notices after a moment and puts her glass down. “It’s nothing serious,” she clarifies, setting out a pitcher of orange juice. “Some people just believe in that sort of thing.” 

“Right,” Marella agrees, but her voice wavers. “Did they say why specifically they were here?”

“Ah, history,” Cyrah replies, waving her hand. “They wanted to know more about the old town records. Linh, if you have time today, you could drive them up to the museum on Main.” 

“Yeah,” Linh says. Her gaze hasn’t left Marella’s. 

“I can come,” Marella offers, and immediately regrets it. She can’t confront this again today. Even as it becomes more and more real. 

“Perfect,” Cyrah says, handing a few glasses to Linh. “I’m sure you girls will have a great time.” 

Marella’s not quite sure she agrees. 

-

Usually, her dreams go like this:

Marella is positioned among the trees, staring out toward the lake. Perched on a rock beside the water is the creature, facing away from her, dark hair billowing around its body—and for a few minutes, everything will be silent, save for the sharp winds ringing in Marella’s ears. Despite the real world melting in the heat of late July, her dream world is frozen in an eternal winter, and she will shiver in the white linen she’s been clothed in. 

She’s never thought about why her mind chose such a strange outfit to put her in. Now, she wonders if perhaps it wasn’t her mind at all. 

After an unsettling silence, the creature will speak. Truthfully, Marella doesn’t know if it is the creature speaking or something else, as the voices that echo come from all directions at once. Oftentimes, she can’t quite make out the words being said over the wind, but it is always a plea: Come closer, it says sometimes. Or: Marella. Approach. That it knows her name should probably have been a sign, Marella thinks, as she can’t recall a time where her regular dreams have used her own name. After all, those dreams were entirely her, and she doesn’t make a habit of referring to herself in the third person. 

As the voices chant their plea, Marella will grow a sense of unease. The dreams always play out the same way after this: first, the tragedy begins with a single drop of water dripping onto Marella’s cheek, and she can’t move to wipe it away. Perhaps it’s a blessing that she’s frozen in place, because she never sees the flood when it comes. 

The water rolls in like a tsunami, rushing and roaring, weaving its way through the trees. Marella’s learned to close her eyes and hold her breath in anticipation, as the wave crashes and she’s submerged for a moment. She has the fortune of not being carried away by the current, but not all are so lucky. 

It is always just as she has blinked the water out of her eyes that she sees the flood approaching the creature. Then a wave rises again—like a puppet pulling the strings of the water—and it keeps rising, and the creature still does not move. 

Every time, Marella tries to scream. 

Every time, it is futile. 

The water carries the creature away, a quiet casualty. As it recedes, Marella catches a glimpse of a floating body in the lake, face down, dark hair billowing around it. 

She wakes with the image burned into her eyelids. 

-

“You’re very sweet, but we can drive ourselves,” Biana says, staring with wide eyes at Tiergan’s beat-up truck. 

Linh spins the keys around her finger. “Please, it’s our pleasure,” she says, tone artificially bright. “You’re our guests, after all, and we’d love to show you around our town.”

Truthfully, Marella can’t imagine something she wants to do less right now. She’s changed into some of Linh’s clothes, which are clearly too long on her. Her jeans are comically cuffed, and her blouse keeps slipping off her shoulder, but she’s putting on a forced smile in order to investigate these guests. 

Cyrah’s right—they’re definitely around Marella and Linh’s age, though maybe a few more years out of high school. The boy, a broody brunet, seems a little older, and he hangs in the back with suspicion trained on both of his hosts. Marella isn’t too offended; she’d act the same way if she landed up in a strange, haunted town. 

Of the two girls, only one has introduced herself—Biana, dark-haired and perfectly polite. Marella can guess at the kind of family she grew up in: everything, from her posture, to her actions, to her manner of speaking, are perfectly poised. That kind of training only happens in certain households, and Marella’s definitely hadn’t been one of them. 

The last girl is blonde, and just as suspicious as her friend about the world surrounding her. She hangs just behind Biana’s shoulder, staring Linh down with narrowed eyes as though she can read her mind. 

“Do y’all have anything specific you wanna see?” Marella asks, trying to sound cheerful even though she’s been up for eight hours already and it’s only noon. She directs her question specifically at the blonde, not liking the way her gaze is trained on Linh and Linh only, trying to unravel her secrets. 

“No,” the blonde girl says, noticing Marella’s raised eyebrows. “We’re just interested in the history.” 

“It’s a fascinating place,” Biana offers, casting a glance at the boy behind her. “My brother and I have always wanted to visit.” 

Marella realizes the matching teal eyes should’ve been a sign. “You’ve wanted to visit Mysterium?”

“Our mother had a few friends in this town,” the boy says. 

Linh opens the backseat door, motioning for the three to get in. “Oh, what’s her name? Or her friends’? I’m sure we’ve heard of them; it’s not a big place.”

But the boy only sucks in a breath, and Biana places a hand on her brother’s shoulder in comfort. “Fitz,” she warns, then turns back to them. “She’s…not friends with them anymore.” 

Marella can’t help herself. “Ooh, enemies? You don’t see much of that around here. Well, not overtly.”

The blonde snorts. “If only our city was like that.” She doesn’t elaborate as she slides into the back of the truck, bringing Biana and Fitz with her. 

Marella and Linh share a wary glance before stepping in behind them.  

They’re approaching Main Street when Linh decides to break the silence. “So, what are y’all actually investigating?”

Marella shoots her a look of alarm, but it’s nothing compared to the way their guests sit up straight in the back. “What do you mean?” Biana asks, and Marella is impressed at how her voice only wavers slightly. 

Linh glances over at the passenger side, and Marella sighs. “Cyrah said you were supernatural hunters or somethin’.” When she gets no response, she adds, “You’re not telling us our town’s haunted, right?” 

“No,” Fitz replies, just as Sophie says, “Probably.” Biana simply lets out a deeply-held breath. 

“Well, that’s reassuring,” Marella replies, locking eyes with Sophie in the rearview mirror. The girl’s piercing gaze makes her feel uneasy, as though she’s tearing Marella open and reading the insides of her mind. 

“We’ll investigate,” is all Sophie says in response. 

Linh takes a sharp turn and mutters an inaudible apology. “Well,” she says, “if you want our help, you’ll have to give us more information than that.” At that, she chances a longer glance directly at Marella, as if Marella might possibly have misunderstood Linh’s intention behind the statement—the longer they play as clueless civilians around them, the more answers they might be able to achieve as to Marella’s predicament. At some level, Marella is flattered that Linh would go to such lengths to fix her issues, especially knowing that Linh doesn’t have the full story. But Marella can’t bring herself to relive that creature’s death. Not again. 

“It’s not a regular case,” Fitz offers them, and Marella is surprised that he’s even considering the offer. “I’m not sure it’s safe to involve regular people.”

Marella snorts. “And how else do you plan on getting around town? Got a map?”

“You both seem surprisingly calm at the idea of the supernatural,” Sophie says, frowning at Linh once again. 

Keeping her gaze carefully focused on the road ahead, Marella replies, “Everyone knows Mysterium’s a little haunted. You ever been out to the lake after dark? You’d believe in any ghost story then.”

“Lake?” Fitz repeats, attention caught. “Where would that be?”

“Too far,” Linh says. “We’re checking out the main part of town, first. May as well see all the sights.” 

“Could we see it later?” Biana asks, and it doesn’t escape Marella’s notice that they still haven’t explained what they’re searching for. Clearly, however, the lake fits into the mystery. 

Marella shrugs, trying to maintain nonchalance. “Gotta see what Tiergan says. He hates it when Linh drives his truck.”

“He’s gonna kill me,” Linh mutters under her breath, and Marella can’t quite disagree. 

They end up at Livvy’s café after exploring the few buildings on Main, and Marella finds herself waiting with Fitz and Sophie as Linh and Biana place their orders. It’s not Marella’s preferred situation—she finds Fitz’s eyes oddly unsettling, and Sophie is still staring at her as though she knows all her secrets. She’s overcome with the desire to hide herself from either of their piercing gazes, to shield herself from whatever truths they might already have uncovered. 

Marella’s fears are somewhat soothed, however, when Sophie asks, “Are you and Linh close?”

And isn’t that the impossible question? At times, yes, and at many other times, no. Most times, unknowable. Linh is why Marella knows love and closeness are not necessarily the same. 

But she’s here to dig for information—her special talent, some might say—so she shrugs and lies, “A little, I guess.”

Fitz stares at her. “You two seem like…best friends?” 

It’s as reassuring as it is disheartening. “I mean, we hang out from time to time,” she says, trying to uncover their intentions with this strange line of questioning. “She’s not, like, my closest friend or anything.”

“But is she your favorite?” Fitz asks, and she prays that he cannot tell how Marella’s stomach drops, and her traitorous cheeks become warm. 

She forces herself to look away. “I don’t have favorites,” she lies. 

Sophie hums, glazing between them with raised eyebrows. “I was only asking what you knew of her families. The Songs, right?”

How had she guessed that? Well, Marella considers, it isn’t exactly a secret around these parts, and it’s not as though Linh has changed her name. But it’s a known fact in Mysterium that nobody brings up the Songs. 

“They don’t talk,” Marella states simply. “She stayed with Tiergan and Cyrah all throughout her boarding school days, and now she’s in town for good.”

“Oh, Foxfire’s right here, right,” Fitz says, mostly to himself. Then, directly at Marella, “Did you know her brother, then? What was his name, again?”

Tam Song. The last time Marella saw him was at the Foxfire graduation, and he’d only tossed her a polite nod in the crowd. Despite her and Linh’s deeply complicated relationship, Tam had only ever had one thing to say to her: Don’t hurt her, or else…well, I know you, too. 

“No,” Marella lies, and wonders when that became a habit. “Why do you care so much about her family, anyway?”

Sophie and Fitz share a glance for so long that Marella almost wonders if she’s lost them in each other. Carefully, Sophie replies, “Hunters know of certain family lines that are…predisposed, I guess, to demonic, supernatural activity. It’s usually a result of curses, but it’s a bad omen to have them around when a demon’s activity is spiking.”

“A demon?” Marella can only stare at them, trying to process their implication. “You think Linh’s gonna be, what, possessed?”

“Yes,” Fitz states simply. “It’s more likely that she already is. But that’s why we’re here, regardless: sources indicated that demonic activity was at its all-time high in this town, and we figured we could try and stop the demon before it destroys everything once again.” 

Marella slumps back against the wall. “God,” she mutters. “I guess you guys are well-versed in demons, then.” Could it be the creature that Marella’s been seeing is actually demonic? She can’t believe she would be that unlucky. 

“Extremely,” Sophie replies, with admirable confidence given that she doesn’t look a day over twenty. “But we have to keep Linh safe. That’s who our demon is looking for—though Fitz is right, it might already have her. Just to be safe…don’t trust her.”

That’s like asking Marella not to breathe. But, again, she lies: “Yeah, sure. Okay.” Privately, she wonders if she can gather information on the demon in tonight’s dream; perhaps she can try and find info on how it plans to find Linh. “Is that why y’all wanted to go to the lake?” she asks. 

“The Song curse is water,” Fitz explains simply, “or so Tam believes. That’s how it will try to seize her.”

Marella curses under her breath. “So how the hell do you stop a demon? Lock her in the church?”

“It’s not easy for them to possess humans,” Sophie replies, but even she seems unsure. “From what we’ve seen…it requires someone already in line with its ideas. Someone suffering, someone whose pain the demon can weaponize against them. Someone who understands it.” She glances back at Linh, who is waiting patiently for her drink to be made. “It doesn’t seem like she’s in immediate danger.”

 Marella supposes that Linh often emits a false sense of happiness. She’s good at smiling, and small talk, and playing the part—she had to be, after surviving all those years in which questions and rumours about her family followed her. But Marella knows better than anyone that Linh’s mind isn’t as simple as it seems. Part of the reason they work so well together is that they both live with irrational, incurable anger, burning deep in their stomachs. Sometimes, they use it on each other. Usually, it’s saved for the rest of the world. 

So Marella only shrugs, in response, because she can’t bring herself to propagate the lie. Linh is kind, yes, but she is cunning, too. It’s what drew Marella back to her after all those ridiculous fights of their childhood. 

 “Come with us,” Fitz is saying, and Marella realizes she was lost in thought. “To the lake tonight. We can’t bring Linh, and although I’d rather not risk an innocent…we need a guide.”

Marella regards him for a moment, then turns her gaze to Sophie. But the blonde just nods grimly. “He’s right,” Sophie says. “We need you, Marella. You can help us.”

She’s only slightly ashamed of how quick she is to agree. 

-

The man is shrouded and he holds the creature by the neck. It is still facing away; it is still unmoving. 

It was stupid to bring hunters here, Marella. This voice is a clear, low drawl, and it does not echo like the rest. I thought you were smarter than this. 

Who are you? Marella asks, and she realizes that she has been suspended in place much closer to the lake, now. She is only a few feet away from where she had woken up, just that morning. 

 The man tightens his grip on the creature, and Marella’s heart leaps to her throat. Is this a new, worse way to watch it die? Can it die like this, since it doesn’t seem to breathe or have lungs?

I am a part of you now, it tells her cryptically. You know this. I control you. 

Marella tries and fails to shake her head. I don’t know you, she protests, though she knows it is futile. 

And yet, I know you. The man turns toward the creature in his grip and laughs. I know that you have grown to love this…this thing, despite never knowing if it has a face. I know you have wept for its demise, though I have trained you to expect it. And yet—you care.

Because it doesn’t deserve that fate, Marella replies, though her head is spinning at all the new details being provided. Just tell me who you are, she repeats, earning another quiet chuckle. 

Your hunters already know, it says, and the first few pieces start falling into place. You already know, but you lie to them. It’s remarkable. 

Marella stares at him. But you want Linh. 

The man practically snarls. Water. It’s a coward’s game. Do you know how I died? They burned me. Just as they’ll do you, Marella Redek. They burned me for the truth of what I was. You will not escape my fate. 

I know, Marella admits, and even the vague admission feels like the full confession, making her sick to her stomach. I’ve accepted that I’m living on borrowed time. I don’t do it for me.

Your love will not save you, the man tells her. This kind of love can only take lives, not preserve them. I know you know this. I am you, remember? Since your first taste of fire, I have been you. Now, you are old enough to set me free. 

The statement unlocks an ancient memory of Marella’s: when she was thirteen, she’d woken up to the distinct scent of smoke, and found that a candle had fallen onto her rug while she slept. The stranger element of that story had always been that she hadn’t lit that candle before bed, though no-one believed her. The flames must have been her fault, they said. She was lucky they hadn’t spread further. 

And now, hearing the demon’s confessions, Marella realizes that they were right. 

I have helped you control it, the man continues. But I cannot do so forever. If I stay here, I will burn up and bring you with me. You must set me free if you wish to survive.

And what will you do with your freedom? Marella asks. Burn the world down?

The man shakes his head. I will do what is necessary to right the wrongs done unto us. I am all of your anger, your sickness, your guilt. I will make it all into a weapon and fire it, and you will be absolved of the blame. Just promise me you will light the flame, Marella. 

Perhaps it’s the frigid air, or the sickening sight of the creature hanging limply in the air over the water, but Marella somehow finds herself saying, Fine. I’ll let them burn. 

Smart girl, he says, and his grip loosens. Remember not to tell your new friends, or they will find their ways to end us both. Hunters are rarely forgiving, especially of creatures so filled with sin. 

They won’t, Marella wants to say, but she knows she does not believe the words. Truthfully, she knows Biana, Fitz, and Sophie are sworn to their mission above all else. They are as devout to their job as Marella is to Linh, and she knows she would let the world burn to keep her safe. 

Before the man can explain anything further, Marella is being shaken awake in the backseat of Fitz’s car, Biana’s concerned eyes looming over her. “It’s time,” she says, and Marella feels sick. 

But, like the liar she is, she takes Biana’s outstretched hand and follows her like a loyal friend, nodding at Fitz and Sophie as they set up the ritual. 

“It’ll be quick,” Fitz offers, noticing her exhaustion. 

Marella looks out at the lake of her nightmares. Under her breath, she mutters, I doubt that. 

-

The fire is out of their control. 

It doesn’t seem like the hunters have realized yet, but Marella can feel its independent pulse, racing, aching to grow and consume. Perhaps it’s selfish, to let them release that demon just to free her from it. But she’s never considered herself a particularly good person. 

“What does the fire do?” Marella asks Biana, who’s leaning casually against a tree. 

“Keeps demons from getting out,” she replies, staring at the flames. “If you burn their connections to the real world, they can’t come through.”

Marella hums in fake acknowledgement. “What if a demon feeds on fire?” she dares to ask, hoping the question won’t immediately rat her out. 

For some reason, Biana’s gaze darkens, and she scowls so fiercely that Marella almost wants to apologize. “Those demons are rare,” she says, and the venom is clear in her voice. “They’re rare, but they’re powerful. Most say they’re sent from the Devil himself.”

“How do you know this one isn’t one of those?” 

Biana sighs. “We don’t. But based on what Linh’s brother told us, it’s probably a lower-level demon, feeding on a family curse. The stronger ones don’t need curses. They can choose and manipulate any vessel like a puppet. All they need is the smallest seed of—”

“Sin?” Marella completes, knowing she feels sick to her stomach.

“Sure,” Biana agrees. “But don’t worry. This shouldn’t be a difficult fight.” 

But then Sophie screams, and everything falls apart. 

-

Among the ashes, there are only two left standing. 

Marella’s borrowed clothes are ruined, stained and singed, but she remains unharmed; the hunters are hunched over on the ground, clutching blistering skin and desperately trying to get the smoke out of their lungs. Someone’s blood is smeared across the rocks, and she does not dare to determine whose. 

Then there is the man. 

He stands like a mirror image of Marella, clothed in white linen, blond hair pulled into a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck. Unlike her, however, his eyes are black, and his irises glow red and orange like the blaze they emerged from. His bare arms are covered in burn scars, and Marella is reminded of what he had said in her dream: They burned me. Just as they’ll do you. 

“Fintan,” Fitz manages to cough out, and the man squints at him. 

“A Vacker,” Fintan says with raised eyebrows. “How low you all have fallen.”

Sophie scoffs. “Demon,” she spits. “Like you can talk.” She reaches for something in her boot, but quickly scrambles back as a flame emerges beneath her wrist. 

“Hunters are the lowest of the low,” Fintan snarls. “At least I admit my wickedness.”

 “Marella, get back,” Sophie says, her glare trained on the demon in front of her. “We can—”

Fintan chuckles. “I am not the one she should worry about.”

As the three hunters look between her and the demon, Marella can see the realization hit them—she knows she should feel guiltier, but she cannot bring herself to feel anything at the moment. For the first time, she knows she will sleep peacefully tonight. 

“Marella?” Biana asks, her voice cracking. 

Marella shakes her head. “I had to be free,” she whispers. 

“At the price of the world?” Fitz snaps. “You can’t be that selfish.”

“I had to!” she shouts, surprising even herself. “You don’t know what it’s like to live like that. I’m sick. Everything I love burns. Everyone I love.”

“And Linh?” Sophie asks, expression unreadable. She locks eyes with Marella, her gaze unwavering. 

Marella sucks in a breath. “I…”

“Don’t,” Sophie cuts her off. “You’ve doomed her. You’ve doomed us all.”

Fintan cocks his head to the side. “So dramatic. You’re nothing like your sister, really. She was always one for practicality.”

Before Marella fully processes his words, Sophie screams and lunges for him, her dagger snuck successfully from her boot. Fitz jumps after her, but not before Fintan surrounds himself in a circle of flames, and both are forced to stumble to a stop. 

“Don’t you dare mention her,” Sophie snaps. “You have no right.”

But Fintan ignores her, instead turning to Marella, whose stomach is turning again. “Oh, don’t look so betrayed,” he says. “She burned, like the rest of them. I told you this. I am many wicked things, but certainly not a liar.” 

“He’s the worst of them,” Biana says, scowling. “He’s the reason I became a hunter. And the reason I have these scars.” She points to the faded lines covering her neck and face. “I told you, Marella, they’re experts at manipulation. Whatever he said to you was just to scare you into submission.”

Fintan scoffs. “Fear of the truth is just shame. I have said nothing to you but what is true.”

Marella feels like she’s the ball at a tennis match, constantly bouncing between each side. One the one hand, it is rather annoying that the hunters think she doesn’t already know that Fintan is manipulating her. But the fact that the demon is still here, reasoning with its enemies, tells her that there’s something beyond their deal that he’s waiting for. And she’s sick of being used and controlled like some kind of weapon. “Why are you still here?” she asks Fintan, deliberately keeping her gaze away from any of the hunters. “We had a deal. It’s over. What more do you want?”

Fintan raises his eyebrows. “Our deal was not so simple, child.” 

“I set you free.” Marella frowns. “You’re out of my head.”

“Am I?” Fintan asks, and suddenly, his voice is ringing in her mind: I am a powerful man, Marella Redek. There is a reason hunters do not want me free. The last ones trapped me in an impressive cage, and leave me with very little power here among mortals. 

I’ve helped you enough, Marella replies. 

We have a deal, is Fintan’s response. You have already broken the most difficult of locks by allowing my presence to manifest here. Now, I need only one simple thing from you–

“No,” Marella states firmly, and only realizes she’s spoke it aloud when the hunters frown at her. 

“No?” Fintan repeats. His flames grow with his anger, and they are creeping toward Marella. 

She shakes her head. “I’ve done enough for you,” she repeats. “I just want to be normal. You promised that much.”

“What I promised was to let you be entirely yourself,” Fintan replies. “You think your oddities are a result of my presence? I chose you because you were sick, sinful, and strange. I am not the source of your fire. I merely fanned its flames.” 

“You’re lying,” Marella spits, blinking the tears from her eyes. “Tell me you’re lying.”

But Fintan only sighs. “Where’s your girl, anyhow? I’m sure she could attest to my reading.” 

It sickens Marella that she immediately knows who he’s referring to. “Don’t talk about her,” she snaps. “You don’t get to bring her into this.”

Then Fintan grins, sharp teeth unnaturally radiant. “I think she brought herself into this.” With a snap of his fingers, a blaze suddenly begins among the trees, and a person scrambles out into the clearing, a scream on her lips. The hunters reach for their weapons instinctively, but Marella shrinks back. She should’ve known. They have always been too intertwined for their own good. 

Fintan bends his pointer finger, and somehow Linh is stumbling toward him and his circle of flames like a puppet. The only thing letting Marella know she isn’t entirely possessed is her eyes—wide and reflecting the blue of the lake in the moonlight. It’s an expression Marella hasn’t seen on her since Wylie stormed out of this town. Terror. 

The flames part just enough to let her through, and then Fintan is gripping her by the shoulder, spinning her around to face Marella and the hunters. “I suppose none of you noticed the little spy in the woods?” At their horrified silence, he shakes his head. “In my day, hunters were far better trained.”

Linh tries to speak, but his hand quickly comes down to muffle her. Under Fintan’s control, she is entirely, unnaturally frozen, save for her dark hair that sways in the slight breeze. Perched on a rock, right in front of the lake, she almost reminds Marella of—

Oh.

Marella might be sick. 

“Let her go,” she manages, but it’s a meaningless order. She has nothing on Fintan, and he has everything on her. Marella’s life is in his hands. 

That sick, selfish part of her knows that if he killed Linh, Marella would give up her protests. She would let him burn Mysterium; she would watch him burn everything. There would be nothing left to save. 

Perhaps that is why he chose her. 

“She’s an innocent,” Sophie says, still wielding her dagger. “She plays no part in this.”

The demon tightens his grip. “On the contrary,” he says, “she plays every part here. We wouldn’t be here without her, would we, Marella?”

“Stop,” she says. “Let her go, and I’ll help you burn whatever you want.”

He laughs. “You forget that I live in your mind. I hear every sick thought you have.”

The hunters send her confused expressions, but Linh just scowls and bites her captor’s finger, earning her a brief moment of free speech: “Fuck you,” she spits, though she’s still too frozen to meet Fintan’s gaze. “She’s free to think and feel what she wants with you twisting things. Her mind is her own.”

“Is it?” Fintan asks, somehow sounding bored. “I don’t suppose that anyone has true freedom in their minds. It is the place where all you humans have learned to chain yourselves, playing both guard and prisoner.” His gaze returns to Marella’s, eyes burning a violent orange. “You especially. Thoughts and feelings have no power in a person so adept at suppressing them.”

“I have power,” Marella snaps. “You were trapped for all these years in my mind. Clearly, there was something keeping you there.” 

Fintan, strangely, looks almost impressed. “You were much stronger in your youth,” he says. “Though, you’ve lost much of that willfulness now. Look at you here, unable to commit to your own deal.” 

Marella rips her gaze away from his, unable to hold her glare without collapsing into tears. The action forces her to take her scene into account: the skilled hunters, injured, coughing, and hunched over on the grass, weapons aimed pointlessly at the demon; Linh, awkwardly and unnaturally positioned by her lack of control of her limbs; Fintan, looming over them from within his prison of fire, waiting for Marella to finally give in. She has nothing on him. In fact, she has nothing at all. 

So she truly isn’t sure why she takes a few steps forward, right on the edge of his flames. “I changed my mind,” she states, and it must be adrenaline keeping her voice flat. “No more deal.” 

Fintan’s hands drift dangerously close to Linh’s neck. “I don’t like that answer.” 

But Marella only glares. “You can’t be free of me,” she spits. “You make my corruption powerful. I keep your wickedness human. What are we without all that?”

Linh’s eyes widen. “What are you doing?”

“Freeing you,” Marella says, stepping even closer to the fire. Her hair is dangerously close to getting singed, but she doesn’t feel it. “It isn’t worth all this to know me.”

“It’s worth more,” Linh says. “I’d walk into that fire if it meant you’d walk out unscathed.”

“Touching,” Fintan says, his gaze flicking uncertainly between them. “But I’m not sure I understand your proposition.”

Marella scoffs. “It’s not a proposition,” she says, “it’s an order.”

“You think you can order me?” Fintan says, incredulous. 

“You are not yourself,” Marella echoes. “You chose me because we share the same anger. So I know every part of you, too.” 

Fintan can only stare at her as she closes her eyes, and imagines all her terror, her frustration, her hatred, funnelling backward toward her connection with Fintan. These flames are hers. These ashes are hers. 

Of course Fintan’s presence can never be severed. How can she find freedom from herself? 

Marella’s eyes are shut throughout the inferno. Future hunters ask hungrily for details, trying to understand the freak that she is, the girl so corrupted that she could trap the Devil in her own mind. Truthfully, she recalls very little but the light. There had been spots in her eyes for days, and her hair had never fully recovered from the smoke. 

Inquisitive hunters live for details. Every single one that passes through her dingy apartment asks the same thing: Can I talk to Linh Song?

Every time, Marella smiles politely, ushering them into her foyer. Of course, she lies. She’d love to talk. 

She knows she should feel guilty for sending them on a cold trail. But these naïve teenagers deserve to know the truth of the world—nothing ever ends cleanly.