WEATHERVANES.

“Hm,” David replied, his words tumbling through an exhale. “You’re doing a real swell job there, Champ.”

His eyes drifted from Mal to the Tabby and he frowned. The cat was just about out of view, but just as its tail disappeared behind a garbage can, another one slid up to them. “This is why you don’t feed strays.” He spat, pointing the toe of his expensive shoe towards the newcomer’s belly. “They’re not friends when they’re suckin’ you dry.” The cat hissed and he shook his foot again for good measure, shooing it further. 

The joker always seemed to make his appearances when he wasn’t summoned; like a bad omen, David Crane clung to the fringes of Colby’s daily life. Mal held out his palm, trying to lure the cat closer-- though their friendliness seemed to evaporate at the other male’s presence. “You’re a fucking dick,” the barkeeper sighed, finally standing as the last of the beasts when diving for the dark places that they had come from. It was no use trying to change David, instead he switched gears, smoothing his hands over his threadbare sweater. “Did you see that statute in town? I can’t believe it’s been ten years.”

He blinked a few times, trying to bring himself back to reality. The voice reverberated inside his skull, calling upon a sense of familiarity he grasped onto to come back. “Malachi.” He acknowledged, the shadow of a smile creasing into his lips. “If they take the books, I would allow it. Don’t tell the owner.” The confession was adorned with a tilt of the head. “It’s called In Darkness. Would you like to check it? If you are not en route to Red Hook, of course.” 

Wordlessly and with little grace, Laura accepted the invite- she slouched onto the other half of the bench and propped boot-clad feet up against the wall of shelter, leaving muddy footprints against the scratched and scuffed plastic. What a mess. It sounded like more of a sigh than a statement. “Which part?” she countered blandly, before the edges of her lips curled up like singed paper - there was a sharpened point to the question, barely blunted by the humor she seemed to find in it. A beat later, she looked at him and flicked some cigarette ash onto a clump of weeds sprouting from the pavement, coating their leaves like the ugliest kind of snow. “Are you going?” 

Violet was on the fringes of the crowd leaving the half-assed official unveiling of the memorial, the whole affair half-assed in true Colby style. She would stay in the background, the presence of the local mad girl brought no one comfort. The pain radiated by the collection of elders fading into anger, the structure already marred, another bruise on the town. Her head was ducked down as she left, boots sticking in the mud of the path. It made her stop, someone else’s memory with that same black mud pressing all around stopped her own throat, the remnants of a dream so vivid it haunted her into the morning. She gasped, pressing her hand to the chest, shaking off the memory of the dream. Unable to catch her breath she reached forward, desperate, clutching the shoulder of the person in front of her.

The cop had come to their door the night before. 

Sunday night brought a warm heavy rain, one that told the first real heat of the year was on the way; Monday morning came up with the promised heat. Laura had felt its oppressive weight from the moment she’d woken up, her body slick with sweat, her limbs tangled up in bedsheets. It was the kind of day where even naked skin felt too heavy to wear. In a pair of tattered denim shorts and a shirt two sizes two small, she’d applied red to her lips and thundered down the stairs, leaving the house with the quick succession of a turned lock and a slammed door. She didn’t have to look to feel the kitchen curtains twitch behind her.

The morning was sticky, and swampish. There was the rotten-vegetable stink of compost and grass clippings left to stew in rainwater, and the air was faintly salted by the distant ocean; it was a smell of vital decay, she thought with a bitter smile. Well-suited to the occasion. She hadn’t made up her mind yet, about the mood of the day, about the direction in which her feet were taking her, and whether they might veer at any point in the direction of the muddy waste that was soon to be a memorial. The cop had been soft-spoken, and he had eyed the streaks of egg yolk clinging to their vinyl siding with something akin to guilt. The climate is just a little tense right now, ma’am. It might be best if you didn’t attend. Her mother, unsmiling, had nodded. But Laura had made no such promises.

This residential stretch of Colby was still in the process of waking, without even the sound of sprinklers to interrupt the quiet. The heat dampened and deadened everything; even the birds hid in the cool shade of the trees and kept silent. Laura smoked through half of a breakfast cigarette before the sidewalk finally culminated at the beginning of a road that could be considered a main one, even at this abandoned early hour. There was a bench a few feet away, fixed into the sidewalk with bolts and sheltered by a dirty plastic awning. The bus schedule plastered against its side was a mess of bled ink and sun-faded time tables that no longer meant anything to anyone. Knowing this, seeing someone actually sitting on the decrepit bench felt like a bitterly unfunny punchline.

“Just so you know, the bus is about six years late.” Laura approached slowly, and stopped a cautious distance away; she leaned the length of her body against the rusted metal pole that still proclaimed this to be BUS STOP RT. 182, in the same way that a plaque marks a gravesite, or a monument marks a tragedy. “You’re better off walking at this point.”

Suki sat, pensive, on the old swings in the Phillips park, the creaking of the old chains cutting through the dead air of the park. No children were out to play today. She had been one of the first to arrive at the memorial and one of the first to leave. At the sound of approaching footsteps, she glanced up, her lips bent into a small frown. “Did you see the monument?” she murmured in discontent. 

“I thought the horses were a nice touch,” Mal replied, finding a place on the bottom of the slide. His words were mumbled around the end of a cigarette, the cherry end glowing before he exhaled into the cool, spring air. “Don’t see how they were relevant, but they were nice.”

His feet slammed into the ground one after the other, again and again, the rhythm something close to meditation. Cold air ran off the surf, up onto the beach and ripped at his jacket and through his lungs. 

He ran until it burned, muscles straining and screaming so loud he almost can’t remember all the things that went wrong today. When he can’t take it anymore, when it feels like his body might rip itself apart, he slowed to a walk. Wiping sweaty hair out of his face, he watched the surf, trying to imagine everything he’s holding in retreating with every crashing wave, running back out to the sea. 

When he hears footsteps marring the peaceful night he stopped walking, instinctively clenching his hands, and turned to look at who’s walking towards him. 

Mal didn’t do exercise. He was already skinny as could be, his body stretched long and lean, like the byproduct of one of Willy Wonka’s machines. Now, his walk down the beach was one with purpose; in evening the crash of water against sand changed the atmosphere-- in the morning, it was energizing, now it made his walk even faster. 

Secondhand Books was not supposed to be open this late. But after years of continuous work there, it felt like Roman was a second owner. He had the trust of the proper one, so he could close up whenever he liked under the stern promise that he would not stay overnight reading and getting lost inside his own head. He broke the rule three days after it was set. The owner didn’t have the energy to protest. Now, stars blinked bright from outside the front window, whispering stories he knew all about, and others he had yet to discover. Three books layed open against the counter, one above his knees, but his gaze was set on some point by his far left, numbers and letters floating up and around in his thoughts, creating facts, skills, just waiting for him to use them. 

When he heard footsteps aproacching him, he grasped onto whatever story was demanding his attention, mouth soflty open to deliver the words. “The sea, he realized, was not foreign at all; it behaved like humans. It took things — the driftwood, the drowned — and loved them, but always, like a person who dies and leaves behind his possessions, it ultimately abandoned them, moving on.” Finally, his eyes moved and focused on the costumer, still a little dazed. He wasn’t entirely sure of the nature of the words he had spoken. “How may I help you?”

Mal had only intended to poke his head inside the store, the glow of the light inside on an otherwise dark street had attracted him like a moth to a flickering flame. It was Roman’s silhouette from within that made him smile, stepping within. The other male’s voice was oaky, deep and weathered, as though he had lived a thousand lifetimes before this one; as he grazed his fingertips over old volumes, the barkeeper eavesdropped. It wasn’t until he was nearly a breath away from Roman that he stirred, retracting from the novel and sliding back into the present.

“No, she really doesn’. She hardly believes in much of anything at the moment,” Suki snorted, locking the nearly empty register before placing her hands palms down on the worn counter, lazily leaning forward with a sly grin. “We both know when I read the cards, there is no promise the future I see will come true. Old Mrs. Flecher came in to have a reading and a pulled a the death card. When I told her someone close to her may be leaving her soon, she started to tear up saying she was terrified her cat was going to runaway.” Suki flashed her teeth in a quick smile. “It took all of my self control not to giggle in front of her.”

“Garfield is probably the crappiest name you could give a cat–it looks more like a Jeremy anyway,” said Callum with a discerning squint, mostly criticizing to give Malachi a hard time. Callum dispassionately watched Malachi pet the cat, torn between joining him and staying as far away from the mangy animal as possible. It was cute, but it probably had worms, or something.

Still inside Callum after all these years was that kernel of insecurity that he’d felt growing up, burdened by the need to impress others, to please them. That desire to puff up and appear cool still echoed when he was around Malachi, who once seemed so indomitable back when they were both in school, though it was severely diminished from getting to know him a little better. A younger him might’ve been so excited to hang out with Malachi, once.

“Yeah, sure, I’m always ready to die,” Callum replied to Malachi’s offer, walking in the direction of the aforementioned stall. They got fast food at one of the various food stalls on the boardwalk from time to time, a never ending taste test to see which place had the best–or worst–fast food. It was their weird little pet project, but they never reached any conclusion and they weren’t in any real hurry to find out, mostly just using it as an excuse to go out and eat. “What did you think of the hot dog?”

“I could of called him Socks or Boots or Mister Sweetie,” Mal corrected, his grin twenty-four karat. He liked animals, they seemed to always know when someone’s attention was genuine. Having a dog in his household was an impossibility, in Colby not even the weeds thrived and the blonde didn’t put it past his parents to fill a water dish with Jameson. The strays would have to do.

His pace was long legged, a side effect of his stature, everything was always done a touch too fast-- in high winds it looked as though Mal was tumbling like dried leaves. He reached into his back pocket as they made their way towards the wafting smell of rancid oil and the sickly sweetness dripping candied apples. “I’ll get you one with sauerkraut then,” Mal crowed cheerfully, finally finding a crumpled bill-- the last of his evening’s tips, closing his fingers around it. “I can guarantee that it should be refrigerated, but Chris really doesn’t give a fuck.”

Like every cat owner on the face of this beautiful green earth, Pearl had wished she could be a cat. Many times. When she was supposed to get up early during high school years and painfully stepped out of bed while leaving a cozy Katyusha purring behind, or when her shift at The Quick Stop was coming up but Anastasia was spreading her kitten paws in the sun and doing nothing else all afternoon. The reason she wanted to the this tabby had nothing to do with laziness and sleeping, though.

“Mutual adoration and hot dogs do seem like solid pillars to build on.”

Pearl kept her tone lighthearted, but her mind was sailing, thinking if his father had ever offered his mother a hot dog, when she was alive. If it was the way Dean had charmed his new boyfriend. If anyone was ever going to offer her a hot dog. What’s with hot dogs anyway, bozhe moy, stop.

“I’m sure she’ll come back, when she realizes that the seats of your car are comfy. And especially dry. She probably can’t stand rain even more than me.”

She commented, staring at the tabby’s tail as she sauntered away from them. Again, she tried to be light, because there was a whole black hole there, made of cars and unwelcome homes, and she didn’t wish for either of them to fall in. Not on an afternoon like that, surprisingly warm for Colby standards. Pearl wanted to tell Malachi that he could step inside her house whenever he wanted, but she couldn’t find the words. Words that she had already said, anyways, and that he already knew.

So she simply accepted Malachi’s hand and let him pull her on her feet. Pearl noticed that there was a tiny lick of flame on her fingers, that she willed away before actually touching him— one of the things she had never understood about her ability. Why does it burn others even if I don’t want it to?

“I’m being a doting little sister all the way to the post office.”

Pearl looked behind her, where a tote bag was sitting on the pier’s wooden planks— inside, there were boxes for her brothers, ready to be shipped on the shores of another ocean. Then she added, with a surge of courage.

“You know how dedushka gets, he thinks they’re both going to starve if we don’t send them proper food. Want to join me?”

“If I was a real gentleman, I’d get her some hamburger,” Mal teased, his smile curving to match the tip of the tabby’s tail. “But Chris offered me a bargain, a dollar a dog--” He patted his stomach; so skinny that it was a wonder it wasn’t concave, “If I end up with food poisoning, it looks like we’ll have yet another charming trait in common.”

The blonde stretched, joints popping noisily before settling back into place. Eventually his body would punish him for the way that he treated it; the alcohol guzzled down and the cigarettes that seemed permanently attached to the seam of his lips would come back, paired with his spine’s twisted penance for years of being pent up in uncomfortable sleeping positions. He didn’t jump away at the spark, in fact, like a child his eyes widened, feeling the warmth before it sank back into Pearl’s flesh.  

“I think the last thing that the rust bucket needs is cat claws tearing up the upholstery, maybe this is for the best.”

The cat didn’t look back, before it disappeared into the darker parts of the boardwalk. His attention fell back to Pearl, reaching for the bag without thought. It was good manners, after all. 

“Maybe he should send a cookbook, too.” Mal grinned wider, “Lead the way, Pearly girl.”

“Looks like you struck out.” A chuckle bubbled past her lips. She really couldn’t blame him. Her strong suit was definitely not making friends. She preferred quiet and being quiet. People and silence usually didn’t line up. Regardless, it was nice to see someone smiling in the turn of May showers.

“What shall I name him?” Mal queried, glancing up at Daphne before drawing himself upwards. “If you’re real nice, maybe we can make this a mutual parenthood.”

“You’d think so, right?” India laughed, “But the pancakes here were just calling my name, so I had to get up early to get some before the morning rush.”

She turned slightly so that she could get a better look at Malachi. The harmless lie tumbled from her lips easily enough. She was long since used to telling simple lies and half-truths, for the sake of sparing feelings and intense conversations. India did what she could to keep things light-hearted. She was loathe to bring up subjects that one would have to trudge through–messy emotions were hardly her thing. Easier to tell a little lie and only experience pleasant conversation with friends and strangers alike.

India set down her mug to avoid any spills and shifted so she was facing him fully. The quiet of the diner was a little chilling–something about seeing a place that’s normally bustling practically empty was odd. She was glad for the company and the chance at a little bit of conversation.

“I only see Colby this early when I’m working, and then usually only the fish market–you’ll have to fill me in on what one does before the crack of dawn.”

His coffee was delivered with a smile and the blonde wrapped his fingers around the warmth of the cup. It was still too hot to attempt a mouthful, but the steam was wonderful, enough to perk up the senses that were still trailing sleepily within him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this place in the middle of a rush, not in the past few years anyways.” As the tourists had slowed, so had the businesses, Mal was just starting to get used to the languid pace that they had all settled into. 

Her eyes narrowed playfully at the familiar boy tumbling into the shop, but the small smile blooming on her face gave her real emotions away. “You know as well as I do that Mama Cirillo does not believe in discounts.” Amusement was plain on her face watching Mal exam the bowl of scrying stones. “Careful,” she laughed with bemusement, “Ma used to tell me half the junk in here is haunted.” She said the comment without a second thought, the memory cutting into her before she had a chance to steel herself. It was a memory of her mother before she had withered away into the woman she was now. Despite the dark fleeting thought Suki’s smile did not slip, and her eyes remained bright.

“You should be careful, I think cats only understand friends as servants. Speaking from experience.”

A corner of Pearl’s mouth lifted up in thinking about Ekaterina, whom she had left curled up on one of her winter scarves blissfully sleeping the afternoon away; Anastasia, who had colonized the armrest of dedushka’s armchair because she knew he always scratched her behind her ears when he was sitting there reading; and Aleksandra, sunbathing on the kitchen’s table. Pets. As if.

Still, Pearl knelt down beside Malachi, because she was a hopeless cat person who was firmly convinced that one of the Thorsens’ cats was a Domovoi, and stretched out her hand to the tabby carefully studying her from a safe distance. When Pearl turned her head to look at Malachi, she knew her smile was widening, showing her dimples.

“I love them anyway, though. So don’t worry, no judgement from me.”

“Not this lady,” Mal insisted, cooing as the creature knocked it’s head against his ankles. “She’s in love with me, I’m sure of it. A mutual adoration, with the occasional hot dog thrown in.” Through dark lashes he studied Pearl’s profile, his own lips twisting upwards like the furled ends of a burned sheet as he noted her smile. 

He’d never had a pet, his home was a place that was barely hospitable for a gangly teenager, nevermind an animal-- so adopting the ones that ran alongside the streets had taken the place in his heart for a beast. “Think I can smuggle her home, have her live in my car?” The cat, as though she had opinions of her own, yowled, making him laugh. “Maybe not.”

Mal stood, offering the blonde a hand. “What are you doing down here today anyways?”