MiniLeena

ten minutes later, you get a second one right after you cross the turnstiles into the subway. this one has a weird blurry dark figure in the corner, posed against the wall of the subway entrance. strange as fuck. the third picture is the same blurry figure outside your office. you're starting to get a little bit anxious about it now, to be honest. you tell building security about it, and they say they'll start double-checking anyone who enters the building's ID, just to be sure

you packed a lunch today, and you eat while your software analysis is running. cold leftover spaghetti. yummy. great. over the course of the day, you get three more photos from various places, all with the same blurry figure in them. what the fuck is going on. when you get home, you triple-check your doors and windows are locked before you go to bed. god, your house is a fucking mess. you need to deep clean it, you just don't have time

you don't hear from your stalker again until the next day, when you realize you forgot to pack a lunch and you can't afford going out again until the next paycheck - your damn rent eats your wallet. right as you mutter a curse about it under your breath, one of the building's security guys walks into your office with a pizza and tells you someone left it outside with your name scrawled on it. you open it up and it's literally your exact order from that place. your phone buzzes, and you look at it, rolling your eyes. this time, it's it's a text - the first one you've gotten from this freak:

"heard you forgot to grab your lunch. wanted to help out <3"

ok, what the fuck is going on?? whoever is stalking you somehow knew you forgot lunch before you knew you forgot lunch. god, the pizza's good as hell, though. small consolation, at least

after you eat, you remember there's normally a photo. you open the text, and there is! this one's from in the pizza place, and sitting in a booth in the background is... well, some kind of creature. honestly, it looks sort of like a fursona, but instead of a face it has a grimy dog skull. it's creepy, but also sort of endearing? its head is tilted to the side, and her hands are making a heart shape at you. someone is fucking with you so hard, man. what the hell

you get home. you know you should clean, you just can't bring yourself to do it. you step over a bunch of soda cans to get to your bedroom and fall asleep

the next morning, your phone chimes again. you pause the program you're running and look at it, and the picture is from inside your apartment. hell no. fuck that. you KNOW you locked the door when you left because you took a picture of it with the key in it, because you feel like you're going insane. you call the cops immediately, and tell them some lie about a doorbell camera, and ask them to go check your apartment out. they do, and call you back to say there's no one there and the door was locked when they got there

what the hell

you get another picture like an hour later. it's that thing from the pizza place again, posed with your vacuum cleaner. you're trying so hard to stay calm but you feel a bit like you're going insane. you go to the bathroom and splash your face with cold water.

you get the next picture just before you leave work. it's your house, but it's clean. it's so clean? the text accompanying it reads, "figured i could tidy up for you while you were at work. let me know if i put anything in the wrong place, ok?"

great. your stalker is able to avoid the cops, but at least they want your house to be clean. that's a huge fucking relief. thank god. problem solved, really

you haven't told anyone about this because who the hell would you even tell? honestly, you're not sure you aren't hallucinating the whole thing. you are the age where people start being schizophrenic, and maybe your depression symptoms are something else. but you know for sure you aren't hallucinating it when you get home and your apartment actually is just as clean as your stalker claimed. someone has been in your house.

you go buy a gun.

you can't stop the anxiety. you sit down to watch a movie to try to take your mind off it, handgun sitting just a few feet away, just in case. you've been routinely checking the locks every ten minutes for the last hour. you know no one else is in here with you.

the movie ends. you turn the tv off, and then you scream so loud you hurt your throat and just about piss yourself. for like a half second, that thing was sitting on the couch next to you in the tv's reflection. you grab your gun and turn back to it, and there's nothing there. no reflection in the tv screen, either. fuck, you feel like your heart is going to explode. you need help. something is wrong with you

your phone chimes again

"oh my god i am so sorry i didn't mean to scare you like that :( are you ok?? i'm sorry"

the accompanying image is that thing again, sitting crosslegged on the floor a few feet away from you, looking... reasonably shameful. you didn't know a dog skull could be so emotive. you look where it's sitting. there's nothing there.

you speak into thin air, voice shaking. "what the fuck do you want?" you get another text.

"you seemed like you needed help."

you roll your eyes. "well, i don't." jesus fuck, you're talking to your hallucinations. you have to schedule yourself for therapy tomorrow. you look into the empty darkness of the room.

"fuck you."

you make it to work the next day before the texts start:

"i'm sorry about last night"

"please don't freak out"

"you aren't going insane. you don't need to keep googling hallucination treatment"

"i'm real i promise" (you scoff at this one a bit. of course your hallucination would say that)

"please just hear me out. there's a sign language book on your shelf. i can learn this. please."

you ignore the texts. you are not texting back whatever the fuck this thing is.

just when you think things can't get worse, your girlfriend dumps you over the phone. you knew it was coming, your relationship had been pretty bad for a while, but why now? whatever. won't matter anyway if the entity stalking you murders you tonight

when you get home, the sign language book is on the dining room table, along with a compact from your bathroom and an "OPEN ME ->" sticky note pointing to the latter. you're not stupid. you know when you look in the compact mirror that creature is gonna be in your reflection. you sigh and shrug, and still flinch a bit when you flick it open and it's there. it lifts its hands and starts signing:

I DON'T WANT TO HURT YOU-

you snap the contact closed and jam it in your pocket. you're not in the fucking mood. you try to go to your bedroom, but you trip over your own feet and go down hard. you just lay there. whatever. who cares

your phone buzzes against your leg.

"i know about your girlfriend. i can read your texts. i'm sorry."

"it's not your fault." you have no idea why you feel obligated to reassure this thing. "it's been going downhill for months."

"would it help if i held you? you seem sort of starved for affection." your stalker calling you out sort of stings, but it's right. you haven't been held or kissed or loved in a really long time. you shrug.

"sure, whatever." if this entity is gonna murder you, a hug first certainly wouldn't hurt.

you just lay there uselessly as it lays down with you, warm body curling against yours as it drapes an arm that you can't see over your body and pulls you close to it. you can feel warm breath on your neck. it's... really soft, actually. you're sort of disgusted to admit it but this is kind of nice. you dig the compact out of your pocket and flip it open to see its massive bulk pressed up against you, dirty skull pressed against your neck as it holds you close. it moves a hand to sign at you

SEE? NOT HURTING YOU

despite it all, you laugh

***

it's been a week since she held you. your life is still pretty rough, but you're trying to clean things up one at a time. your research is going well. Viola comes to work with you now. sometimes when you need something from across the room, it just gets tossed to you.

oh, yeah. you call her Viola now. the day after you spent the whole night cuddling, she read a book off your shelf while you were at work with a protagonist named Viola, and she fell in love with the name. you're letting her stay with you, but only on the condition that you make her shower so she doesn't grime up your apartment. with her skull cleaned and polished and her matted fur brushed out, she looks like a much more respectable eldritch stalker creature.

you get home from work and kick your shoes off, laughing as powerful invisible hands scoop you off the ground and a tapered tongue you can't see playfully licks one of your cheeks. you'll get dinner in a little while. you both have needs to attend to first. you hadn't had sex in like half a year because of your failing relationship, and she'd never had sex ever, so you're both trying to make up for lost time.

Old Igor Egorov’s eyesight had never been particularly sharp, and it was simple to slip into the back of his cart under the rye, what little of it there was. The only moment her heart froze was when the cart’s ox startled at the smell of her. She could not blame it all on the scent of the beast—animals always startled easily at Yara.

Pulling closer the hide the beast had given her as a disguise, Yara dared a peek at the trees as Igor and the gate guard made small talk. Somewhere back there, the beast lay in wait. Hungry and eager. And when she came, the voices ahead would turn to screams and then fall silent. Volkova, she said she'd been called, as she dropped Yara at the edge of the Egorov farm. She-wolf. And she was. The memory of foul, yellow eyes was almost too much to bear, never mind… the rest of her.

Yara shivered. She still couldn’t believe this was happening. Yet, she could not bring herself to feel bad.

With a gentle lurch, the cart passed beneath the wall and through the gate. Like the wall, the houses were made of larch logs, though they were older and weather-worn to silver. Smoke rose from their chimneys against the pale, early morning sky. There were a few young trees within the wall, but not many—still, Yara had to use cover where she could get it. When the cart rolled past a well, she slipped out from the rye and ducked behind the nearest evergreen.

Slowly, Yara made her way back to the gate. Wrapping the hide to shield her face, she swallowed and rapped at the gatehouse door.

“Yara?”

Oh, thank the gods.

The guard was Mikhail Baranov. Once upon a time, he’d fancied himself her husband, before Father Antonov started to condemn her every move. Mikhail had lost interest in her pretty quickly, then. Yara hoped he still had some left.

“Mikhail,” she breathed, and pushed into the gatehouse, out of the village's sight.

“You—?”

“Shh,” Yara put a finger to his lips as the door closed.

Big, hazel eyes looked her over in confusion. He almost looked innocent. “But we—”

“I came back.” Yara pulled herself close to him, grabbing his hand and putting it on her hip. She flashed a wanting look up. “I came back… for you.”

“For me?” Mikhail blinked, but did not pull his hand away.

“Yes.” Quickly, Yara kissed him, burying one hand in his dirt-brown hair. He gripped her hip with a surprised but appreciative noise. Her other hand wrapped around the hilt of the dagger at his side.

“Agh—!”

With a shove, Mikhail fell against the wall and stumbled to the ground. In shock, he pulled the blade out of his own stomach; blood began to pool on the barren floor. His eyes shot up at her, wide with accusation.

“Don’t look so betrayed.” Yara told him bitterly, clutching her hide. “You all betrayed me first.”

Mikhail watched, trembling, as she knelt to take his bloodied dagger and then climbed the rafters to find the winch. With a grunt, she cut the rigging to the big wooden crank. Men would come to open it, she was sure of it—but the heavy metal gate would not rise again.

Her feet hit the ground with a gentle thunk. Wiping blood on the hide, Yara pocketed the dagger. Shuffling through a dazed Mikhail’s pockets, fingers grasped a set of keys to the two doors of the gatehouse. One to the village, which she locked, and one to the outside world, which she also locked. The only way in or out of Kolokolov.

Tucking the keys into her other pocket, Yara climbed the ladder to the gatehouse’s roof. She spared a moment to look down at Mikhail, slumped against the wooden wall’s interior. She couldn’t tell if he was still clinging on, or if he was already dead. He laid as limp as a shot deer, but this was nothing like that. This was death to feed a different hunger. One without respect or reverence. Dead or soon to be dead, she reached for the hatch to the gatehouse’s roof.

“Goodbye, Mikhail.” She curled her lip. “Be grateful I’ve spared you what comes next.”

The sun had broken over the trees—the she-wolf should be here any moment. But the ground didn’t tremble. The wall didn’t shake. Crouching behind the wooden fence atop the gatehouse, Yara looked for movement in the tree line. Nothing. Anxiety twisted in her stomach. Sooner or later, one of the other—

“What the—hey!”

A hand grabbed her shoulder.

Yara recognized this guard, too—Boris Vasilov, dark haired, bearded, in his forties. He’d hoped to father children, but Lesnik bore no more after the girl with blood-red hair.

“Yara?” He turned to yell. “Hey!”

Shit. Yara debated pulling Mikhail’s dagger from her skirt, but even if she caught Boris by surprise, the footsteps were already coming. A second guard rounded the wall and her stomach curdled like spoiled milk—Fyodor Baranov. Mikhail’s older brother.

Boris pulled her to her feet. “Fancy this.”

Fyodor was puzzled. "What is this?"

“The gods released me,” Yara declared, struggling against Boris’ grip.

Fyodor gestured to her hands. “That why you’re still in chains?”

She glanced at the cuffs around her wrists; the short links of chain dangling against her skirt, broken where the beast had snapped them with her teeth. “Okay.” Yara reached into her pocket. Fingers wrapped around something small and metal.

“Watch it!” Boris yanked her hand out.

Fighting for control, Yara jerked her arm and hurled one of the keys over the side of the wall. It flashed in the sunlight and disappeared in the bushes below.

Boris shook her. “Cursed wretch.” He dug into her pocket, producing the second key, and shared a look with Fyodor. Yara held her breath when he reached into her other pocket and produced the dagger.

“Where did you get this?” Fyodor’s voice spiked. “That’s my brother’s knife!” He looked her over again, spotting the blood on her hide wrap. Flashing a panicked face to Boris, who gripped both her arms, Fyodor yanked the hatch door open and flung himself down the ladder.

“Mikhail? Mikhail! You—oh, you little bitch! Mikhail—!” There was a pause of despair. “Boris, she killed my brother! Get down here, I’m going to fucking kill her!”

“He better be wrong,” Boris muttered to Yara, then shoved her down the trap door. Fumbling, she tried to grab one of the rungs, only to tumble to the dirt floor. Her cheek burned. Winded, Yara gasped and pushed herself to her knees.

Boris climbed down next. “Don’t touch her—she’s not ours to kill.”

Fyodor was on the floor too, crouched beside his brother’s still body. His face was red, and big, angry tears ran down his cheeks. “She killed my brother.” He repeated, hatred boiling over in his voice. His hand was on the dagger on his own hip.

“The father will know what to do,” Boris affirmed gruffly. He held out the key. Yara prayed it was the one to the outside world. Not Lesnik. Not that horrible village; that tiny, restrictive little world of misery.

Her prayers fell on deaf ears. Again.

Boris shoved her past the larch log houses. Fyodor seethed behind her and gripped his dagger. People gathered in the street with wide eyes and suspicious glares as she was paraded to the oaken church, the oldest and tallest building in the village.

And then there he was.

Hair had turned salt and pepper. A well-groomed beard curled around his face. Dark robes swept to the ground, embroidered with florals and sigils, like her sacrificial red gown. A matching headdress sat upon his head. A round pair of wire spectacles decorated his nose. A handsome, otherworldly face was set with high cheek bones and calm blue eyes.

They darkened as they laid upon her. Lips pressed into a fine line. Strong arms folded with displeasure, in the same manner they always did when he saw her, but now the air around him was chilled.

“Yara,” Nikolay Antonov greeted, in that horribly disapproving tone, the one that made her soul shrink inside her chest. She’d been expecting him to spit anger, fury, hatred—he gave her none of those things. With shame, Yara realized those feelings were her own, from looking at his face. She wanted him to meet fire with fire, but the father only looked at her with a frown. Just as it was at the cliffside, his face was still that of a godly servant, benevolent and good, as he gazed upon one of the world’s evils. His virtue made it worse. Her resentment flared.

The father tilted his head, eyeing Boris’ tight lips and Fyodor’s furious face, still wet with grief. “What are you doing here? What have you done?” His tone was chastising, like an upset parent. Like a father. “Yara, what have you done?”

“She killed Mikhail!” Fyodor spat on the grass. “She stabbed my brother to death, and left him to rot in the dirt!” He tossed the dagger on the ground. Though she’d wiped it, blood traces remained. She shuffled, trying to hide the red stain on the hide.

Shocked murmurs rippled through Lesnik. Father Antonov spied the dagger with arms still folded, lips pressed further in disapproval. His jaw flexed. “Did you do this? Did you kill one of the gods’ servants?”

Yara could only turn her face to the sky with a heavy sigh. Gods—Beast, where are you?

“Yara, did you kill Mikhail?”

Yara closed her eyes, brows drawn. The intense burning of dozens of stares seemed to bore holes into her. Face hot, she could nearly feel skin catch fire.

Yes. And I would have done the same to any of you, if it had been you instead.

Yara breathed in, long and stiff, then let it go with a ragged exhale. She looked back down to earth, at the larch log houses and the suspicious villagers and the fuming guards and the disapproving clergyman. She couldn't keep the venom from her voice. “You strung me up for the gods, so that a messenger would come. And one did.”

Murmurs grew.

“The gods sent a beast?” Father Antonov’s voice was doubtful. “And yet here you stand before me, accused of a treacherous crime.”

“The beast released me.” Yara insisted.

“Why would it do that?”

She wavered. Her heart thundered in her chest, and though her fury had flared, she was alone.

Volkova had not come.

Perhaps the beast thought it more amusing to let the village eat her alive instead. Maybe this was her judgement. Whatever the case, Yara could only stare at the priest, so hard her eyes watered. She blinked, and something warm and wet ran down her cheeks. And then she could not stop it.

An ugly cry ripped through Yara; her knees failed and she collapsed with a sting. Her lungs hiccuped and she wheezed, grasping at handfuls of trampled grass, but nothing came to her. She was alone. Her Baba was dead, her friends had left her long ago, and now this monster had abandoned her, too—the gods had abandoned her. At the foot of a holy man’s wretched wisdom, they abandoned her. Yara hated them all, too.

Eyes were still on her. Yara faintly wondered what they would do with her now. String her back up, maybe. Or leave her to rot in a cell. Both futures made her chest hollow. She had killed Mikhail, the crowning jewel of all her sins.

Weakly, Yara gripped the grass tighter. It quivered beneath her. With a snivel, she focused on the dead blades between her fingertips. The father was saying something over her silent loss. Reciting a speech of guidance; the village’s next steps in these unprecedented times; after unexpected events; how to interpret the gods’ signs… Yara wasn’t listening to the priest. She was listening beyond him. To the rumble across the earth. To the distant thudding. To the snap of wood.

Perhaps the gods had not abandoned her. Perhaps she did not hate them, after all.

It took only a moment for the other villagers to notice it, too. A scream sounded behind her, somewhere on the other side of the village. A thick tension settled over the tiny town of Lesnik. Apprehension. Fear. Uncertainty.

The earth quivered again, violently now.

Swallowing a tattered breath, Yara peered up at Father Antonov as he watched the wall with a deepening frown.

“The gods released me.” She choked, glowering at him. “The beast released me.”

Father Antonov tore eyes from the wall, perplexed, then some wicked understanding spread through his calm blue eyes. He yanked her up by the arm, pulled her nose to nose. “You brought it here?” He hissed.

Yara spat in his face.

He threw her to the ground. With a flurry of his robes, Father Antonov sent the guards hurrying to their posts and the villagers scurrying to their homes. Yara twisted in the grass to catch a glimpse of her work, but the father yanked her to her feet again, forcing her roughly towards the oaken church. He shoved her past pews, past the preparation table and the altar, up the stairs to the bell tower, but he truly didn’t have to force anything. Yara scurried up them, because desperately, she wanted to see it. She wanted to see for certain the beast had come.

The tower’s platform was small and circular, with just enough room for the pair to squeeze in front of the bells. They dangled from the conical roof, each one the size of a milk bucket and just as metal. The father pushed her to the ledge of the platform, so close the wood creaked as her toes went over the edge. She gripped his robes with sweaty fists. They had a perfect view of the village. Of the beast.

And gods, she was a beast. At least a hundred and fifty feet tall, the trees groaned and bent in submission as her clawed feet parted the forest. Sharp ears swiveled. From the knee down, her legs turned into an animal. Her unruly mane bunched around her shoulders in rough layers, shining umber, gray, and tan under the sun. Fur of the same colors clung to her forearms before disappearing below the patchwork of hides she wore, more skins than Lesnik had seen in decades. A long tail lifted as ochre eyes latched onto movement atop the wall. The great wooden wall that only reached her shins.

Yara couldn't tell who it was from this distance—maybe it was Boris and Fyodor, back at the wall already—but two guards approached the invader, spears in hand. Volkova tensed as they approached, but not in fear. In interest.

She crouched, her waist still higher than the gatehouse’s roof where Yara had just been caught. As the beast loomed, the first guard panicked and hurled his spear. It landed in the dense fur of her leg at a sad, downward angle. Volkova made an amused face and leaned in. The guard realized his mistake and turned to run, but he was too slow. The beast took him head-first into her mouth.

Little legs kicked frantically, drawn in by a tongue as black as her lips, then disappeared. A slight shape poked against Volkova’s cheek and it struck Yara this is how she must have looked, struggling in the beast’s mouth. Except the wolf woman did not spit the guard out.

Even from here, Yara could hear the swallow. All of Lesnik could hear it. In a second, the lump slid down her throat. Just like that.

Hungry eyes set on the second guard; perhaps it was Boris. With nothing else to do, he hurled his spear. The beast pounced. Gigantic, sharp teeth snapped—something cracked. Wood between incisors. Half the spear clattered off the wall and the other half Volkova spat aside.

Father Antonov hissed desperately in her ear. Yara almost fell from the tower as he lunged for the bell pull. His headdress flew off as he threw his entire weight into the tug of rope. Still clutching his robes, Yara fell back against him as across the village, the second guard disappeared behind jaws.

Another quick swallow; this time with her head tossed back as the bells began to toll. Tongue ran over lips and Volkova turned her gaze to the village proper—to the bell tower. The metal was deafening in Yara’s ears, rattling her skull so hard, her teeth hurt.

“That’s right, come get her,” Father Antonov muttered. “Come take my sacrifice.”

But for the second time, the beast did not come. Her interest was elsewhere.

Yara had thought with so many people, it would have been hard—but it wasn’t. Not at all. Volkova was a wolf in the hen house, hungry as a vulture and nothing to fear. The tiny people fanned out as she stepped over the wall, but it didn’t matter. Swift hands snatched fistfuls of squirming bodies and guard and gardener alike went down together. She didn’t chew a thing—Yara didn’t know if it was because it was faster to swallow them whole, or because she knew Yara was watching. She doubted the beast cared that much, but she preferred it this way—whole and awake. No blood, though what awaited them was worse. Far worse.

They went down fast. One, two, even three at once—thick, round bulges pressed against the gigantic throat with rough swallows. She didn’t eat like a person; it was animal. Slobbering over her prey, no moment was spared to talk, or grin, or do anything human at all. Teeth were bared. Sights were set. Atop the bell tower, they were witness to a monster in a feeding frenzy.

“No!” Father Antonov shook with effort, sweat rolling as he rang the bells with fervor. But no matter how furiously he worked, he was ignored.

Volkova slammed her fist through a door. The wood splintered and tore free from its hinges. She pulled a wriggling woman out and tossed her into her black mouth. Then she smashed through window shutters and caved in the roof so she could rifle through the ruin with her nose. She pulled people from the rubble like a fox pulls hares from a burrow, always hungry for more. It was incredible.

Finally, Father Antonov seemed to remember Yara was there.

“You,” he roared. Seizing her red ritual gown, he flung her halfway from the bell tower. With a scream, Yara just barely kept her tip-toes on the ledge. Her arms flailed as her heart fell out her chest, floundering like a bird without wings.

That got the beast’s attention. Unnatural eyes pierced the distance, and she dropped the snapped roof beams from her clutches. She rose like a storm on the horizon, and moved just as swiftly.

Father Antonov shifted, fixing his stance and clutching the back of her dress so tightly, Yara was terrified the seams would rip.

The bells swung absently while the beast crawled to the tower, a woodshed crushed underfoot as she reared before priest and heretic.

“Messenger,” Father Antonov called, in a tone of practiced control, the voice he used to collect his congregation. “You do not belong in this realm. Take the red curse back with you, and spare the gods’ sacred servants of Lesnik.”

“Vol—Volkova,” Yara blubbered. The name was foreign on her tongue. Humiliation and horror was hot on her face. Her pulse was so wild, she felt she was a frantic hare in the talons of an eagle. Still, she held herself together enough to shake her head.

The giant weighed the sight. “Are you the holy man?”

Yara felt him freeze at the monstrous rasp of her voice, then nod. “I am.”

Volkova grinned, dark lips pulling up almost like a snarl. “Good. I’ve looked forward to this.”

One, gigantic foot kicked the church in. The structure screamed as it died, oak logs splitting and bells bellowing with the collapse of the tower. Father Antonov let go of Yara as they toppled, free falling towards the dirt.

A wall of flesh rose to meet her. Lungs seized as Yara slammed into the huge palm, and for a long, horrible count, she couldn’t breathe.

Fingers big as trees turned her over and her face to the sky, Yara sucked in a gasp. She blinked the threat of tears away. Volkova’s enormous face blotted out the sun. It was even bigger up close than she remembered.

“Eat her!” Father Antonov yelled from Volkova’s other palm. He was doubled over on his knees, trying to lean onto one arm while he held his side. He’d lost his stupid spectacles. “Eat her and begone! Take her to the gods!”

Evil eyes watched them both. Canines curved into another smile, like Volkova was about to tell a cruel joke only she knew.

She flung the father into the air. His robes flared as he sailed. Claws snagged the fabric and Volkova lifted him to her face. He looked so tiny, Yara had to push herself up to make sure she saw properly.

The wolf woman hummed a tune, like a man about to sit at his dinner table. She cocked her head. “You can thank your gods I’ll not use teeth. Unless the little lady would like me to.” Volkova winked down at her.

Yara managed a shake of the head. Her throat was dry. “Too quick.”

“Too quick!” The beast cackled. She looked the little clergyman in the eye. “You see? I like her. We’re in tune.”

“Gods save us—devils—the both of you!” Father Antonov breathed. Despite his hardy nature, he was scared. It did not take supernatural skill to sense it.

Ochre eyes glinted with twisted amusement. “Maybe; you are going to hell, after all. Yara, anything before you bid him farewell?”

There were so many words she thought to say to him. Years of things to say; a lifetime of contempt. To curse him for each and every comment and accusation, every damning look, every punishment, every shame—would take her another lifetime yet. So many, Yara couldn’t grasp a lone target. She held too many rages to single one from the rest.

“Yara, please.” Father Antonov reasoned. His feet dangled like a hanged man. “The village…”

Yara watched the strong, ever resourceful priest; a helpless little thing in the big beast’s grip. He looks just right there, she thought. It was almost a pity the moment had to end, and she couldn’t watch what happened next.

Yara twisted lips grimly. “Down the hatch.”

Volkova laughed, booming and boisterous. She tilted her chin up and opened her mouth below the father’s kicking legs. To his credit, he did not scream as he fell. It only made Yara hate him more.

“Let me see.” She urged the beast, turning to grip the clawed thumb. Her living landing jostled as Volkova dipped her chin, holding Yara level with her mouth.

Hot breath washed over her skin, and Yara realized with a shiver that she was cold. The black muscle of Volkova’s tongue danced as the father struggled for balance on his knees. Ropes of drool pooled atop his salt and pepper hair. She remembered how it felt, dripping down her head; running down her back; lubricating her skin with hot, starved slick. Tasting. Savoring.

For a moment, she met Nikolay Antonov’s calm blue eyes. He did not utter insults, or cry out curses. He just held her stare, a man of virtue to the last. Then the thick tongue thrust him to the back of the titan’s throat.

Glk.

Yara held her hand to her own neck as the beast swallowed. It was the loudest one yet. She could almost feel the father slide down her throat.

Volkova let out a deep, spirited sigh of satisfaction that tousled Yara’s red hair. “Oh, he was good. Not as good as you, but good. I can feel him kicking. He’s on his way down, now.”

Yara’s breath shook. She touched her cheek, and realized it was wet with tears, though she did not know when she had started crying again.

“Do you regret it?”

Startled, Yara met the beast’s stare. It felt like a test. Trembling, she wiped the last of her tears. The shadow stretched over her. “No.”

“Good.”

Old Igor Egorov’s eyesight had never been particularly sharp, and it was simple to slip into the back of his cart under the rye, what little of it there was. The only moment her heart froze was when the cart’s ox startled at the smell of her. She could not blame it all on the scent of the beast—animals always startled easily at Yara.

Pulling closer the hide the beast had given her as a disguise, Yara dared a peek at the trees as Igor and the gate guard made small talk. Somewhere back there, the beast lay in wait. Hungry and eager. And when she came, the voices ahead would turn to screams and then fall silent. Volkova, she said she'd been called, as she dropped Yara at the edge of the Egorov farm. She-wolf. And she was. The memory of foul, yellow eyes was almost too much to bear, never mind… the rest of her.

Yara shivered. She still couldn’t believe this was happening. Yet, she could not bring herself to feel bad.

With a gentle lurch, the cart passed beneath the wall and through the gate. Like the wall, the houses were made of larch logs, though they were older and weather-worn to silver. Smoke rose from their chimneys against the pale, early morning sky. There were a few young trees within the wall, but not many—still, Yara had to use cover where she could get it. When the cart rolled past a well, she slipped out from the rye and ducked behind the nearest evergreen.

Slowly, Yara made her way back to the gate. Wrapping the hide to shield her face, she swallowed and rapped at the gatehouse door.

“Yara?”

Oh, thank the gods.

The guard was Mikhail Baranov. Once upon a time, he’d fancied himself her husband, before Father Antonov started to condemn her every move. Mikhail had lost interest in her pretty quickly, then. Yara hoped he still had some left.

“Mikhail,” she breathed, and pushed into the gatehouse, out of the village's sight.

“You—?”

“Shh,” Yara put a finger to his lips as the door closed.

Big, hazel eyes looked her over in confusion. He almost looked innocent. “But we—”

“I came back.” Yara pulled herself close to him, grabbing his hand and putting it on her hip. She flashed a wanting look up. “I came back… for you.”

“For me?” Mikhail blinked, but did not pull his hand away.

“Yes.” Quickly, Yara kissed him, burying one hand in his dirt-brown hair. He gripped her hip with a surprised but appreciative noise. Her other hand wrapped around the hilt of the dagger at his side.

“Agh—!”

With a shove, Mikhail fell against the wall and stumbled to the ground. In shock, he pulled the blade out of his own stomach; blood began to pool on the barren floor. His eyes shot up at her, wide with accusation.

“Don’t look so betrayed.” Yara told him bitterly, clutching her hide. “You all betrayed me first.”

Mikhail watched, trembling, as she knelt to take his bloodied dagger and then climbed the rafters to find the winch. With a grunt, she cut the rigging to the big wooden crank. Men would come to open it, she was sure of it—but the heavy metal gate would not rise again.

Her feet hit the ground with a gentle thunk. Wiping blood on the hide, Yara pocketed the dagger. Shuffling through a dazed Mikhail’s pockets, fingers grasped a set of keys to the two doors of the gatehouse. One to the village, which she locked, and one to the outside world, which she also locked. The only way in or out of Kolokolov.

Tucking the keys into her other pocket, Yara climbed the ladder to the gatehouse’s roof. She spared a moment to look down at Mikhail, slumped against the wooden wall’s interior. She couldn’t tell if he was still clinging on, or if he was already dead. He laid as limp as a shot deer, but this was nothing like that. This was death to feed a different hunger. One without respect or reverence. Dead or soon to be dead, she reached for the hatch to the gatehouse’s roof.

“Goodbye, Mikhail.” She curled her lip. “Be grateful I’ve spared you what comes next.”

The sun had broken over the trees—the she-wolf should be here any moment. But the ground didn’t tremble. The wall didn’t shake. Crouching behind the wooden fence atop the gatehouse, Yara looked for movement in the tree line. Nothing. Anxiety twisted in her stomach. Sooner or later, one of the other—

“What the—hey!”

A hand grabbed her shoulder.

Yara recognized this guard, too—Boris Vasilov, dark haired, bearded, in his forties. He’d hoped to father children, but Lesnik bore no more after the girl with blood-red hair.

“Yara?” He turned to yell. “Hey!”

Shit. Yara debated pulling Mikhail’s dagger from her skirt, but even if she caught Boris by surprise, the footsteps were already coming. A second guard rounded the wall and her stomach curdled like spoiled milk—Fyodor Baranov. Mikhail’s older brother.

Boris pulled her to her feet. “Fancy this.”

Fyodor was puzzled. "What is this?"

“The gods released me,” Yara declared, struggling against Boris’ grip.

Fyodor gestured to her hands. “That why you’re still in chains?”

She glanced at the cuffs around her wrists; the short links of chain dangling against her skirt, broken where the beast had snapped them with her teeth. “Okay.” Yara reached into her pocket. Fingers wrapped around something small and metal.

“Watch it!” Boris yanked her hand out.

Fighting for control, Yara jerked her arm and hurled one of the keys over the side of the wall. It flashed in the sunlight and disappeared in the bushes below.

Boris shook her. “Cursed wretch.” He dug into her pocket, producing the second key, and shared a look with Fyodor. Yara held her breath when he reached into her other pocket and produced the dagger.

“Where did you get this?” Fyodor’s voice spiked. “That’s my brother’s knife!” He looked her over again, spotting the blood on her hide wrap. Flashing a panicked face to Boris, who gripped both her arms, Fyodor yanked the hatch door open and flung himself down the ladder.

“Mikhail? Mikhail! You—oh, you little bitch! Mikhail—!” There was a pause of despair. “Boris, she killed my brother! Get down here, I’m going to fucking kill her!”

“He better be wrong,” Boris muttered to Yara, then shoved her down the trap door. Fumbling, she tried to grab one of the rungs, only to tumble to the dirt floor. Her cheek burned. Winded, Yara gasped and pushed herself to her knees.

Boris climbed down next. “Don’t touch her—she’s not ours to kill.”

Fyodor was on the floor too, crouched beside his brother’s still body. His face was red, and big, angry tears ran down his cheeks. “She killed my brother.” He repeated, hatred boiling over in his voice. His hand was on the dagger on his own hip.

“The father will know what to do,” Boris affirmed gruffly. He held out the key. Yara prayed it was the one to the outside world. Not Lesnik. Not that horrible village; that tiny, restrictive little world of misery.

Her prayers fell on deaf ears. Again.

Boris shoved her past the larch log houses. Fyodor seethed behind her and gripped his dagger. People gathered in the street with wide eyes and suspicious glares as she was paraded to the oaken church, the oldest and tallest building in the village.

And then there he was.

Hair had turned salt and pepper. A well-groomed beard curled around his face. Dark robes swept to the ground, embroidered with florals and sigils, like her sacrificial red gown. A matching headdress sat upon his head. A round pair of wire spectacles decorated his nose. A handsome, otherworldly face was set with high cheek bones and calm blue eyes.

They darkened as they laid upon her. Lips pressed into a fine line. Strong arms folded with displeasure, in the same manner they always did when he saw her, but now the air around him was chilled.

“Yara,” Nikolay Antonov greeted, in that horribly disapproving tone, the one that made her soul shrink inside her chest. She’d been expecting him to spit anger, fury, hatred—he gave her none of those things. With shame, Yara realized those feelings were her own, from looking at his face. She wanted him to meet fire with fire, but the father only looked at her with a frown. Just as it was at the cliffside, his face was still that of a godly servant, benevolent and good, as he gazed upon one of the world’s evils. His virtue made it worse. Her resentment flared.

The father tilted his head, eyeing Boris’ tight lips and Fyodor’s furious face, still wet with grief. “What are you doing here? What have you done?” His tone was chastising, like an upset parent. Like a father. “Yara, what have you done?”

“She killed Mikhail!” Fyodor spat on the grass. “She stabbed my brother to death, and left him to rot in the dirt!” He tossed the dagger on the ground. Though she’d wiped it, blood traces remained. She shuffled, trying to hide the red stain on the hide.

Shocked murmurs rippled through Lesnik. Father Antonov spied the dagger with arms still folded, lips pressed further in disapproval. His jaw flexed. “Did you do this? Did you kill one of the gods’ servants?”

Yara could only turn her face to the sky with a heavy sigh. Gods—Beast, where are you?

“Yara, did you kill Mikhail?”

Yara closed her eyes, brows drawn. The intense burning of dozens of stares seemed to bore holes into her. Face hot, she could nearly feel skin catch fire.

Yes. And I would have done the same to any of you, if it had been you instead.

Yara breathed in, long and stiff, then let it go with a ragged exhale. She looked back down to earth, at the larch log houses and the suspicious villagers and the fuming guards and the disapproving clergyman. She couldn't keep the venom from her voice. “You strung me up for the gods, so that a messenger would come. And one did.”

Murmurs grew.

“The gods sent a beast?” Father Antonov’s voice was doubtful. “And yet here you stand before me, accused of a treacherous crime.”

“The beast released me.” Yara insisted.

“Why would it do that?”

She wavered. Her heart thundered in her chest, and though her fury had flared, she was alone.

Volkova had not come.

Perhaps the beast thought it more amusing to let the village eat her alive instead. Maybe this was her judgement. Whatever the case, Yara could only stare at the priest, so hard her eyes watered. She blinked, and something warm and wet ran down her cheeks. And then she could not stop it.

An ugly cry ripped through Yara; her knees failed and she collapsed with a sting. Her lungs hiccuped and she wheezed, grasping at handfuls of trampled grass, but nothing came to her. She was alone. Her Baba was dead, her friends had left her long ago, and now this monster had abandoned her, too—the gods had abandoned her. At the foot of a holy man’s wretched wisdom, they abandoned her. Yara hated them all, too.

Eyes were still on her. Yara faintly wondered what they would do with her now. String her back up, maybe. Or leave her to rot in a cell. Both futures made her chest hollow. She had killed Mikhail, the crowning jewel of all her sins.

Weakly, Yara gripped the grass tighter. It quivered beneath her. With a snivel, she focused on the dead blades between her fingertips. The father was saying something over her silent loss. Reciting a speech of guidance; the village’s next steps in these unprecedented times; after unexpected events; how to interpret the gods’ signs… Yara wasn’t listening to the priest. She was listening beyond him. To the rumble across the earth. To the distant thudding. To the snap of wood.

Perhaps the gods had not abandoned her. Perhaps she did not hate them, after all.

It took only a moment for the other villagers to notice it, too. A scream sounded behind her, somewhere on the other side of the village. A thick tension settled over the tiny town of Lesnik. Apprehension. Fear. Uncertainty.

The earth quivered again, violently now.

Swallowing a tattered breath, Yara peered up at Father Antonov as he watched the wall with a deepening frown.

“The gods released me.” She choked, glowering at him. “The beast released me.”

Father Antonov tore eyes from the wall, perplexed, then some wicked understanding spread through his calm blue eyes. He yanked her up by the arm, pulled her nose to nose. “You brought it here?” He hissed.

Yara spat in his face.

He threw her to the ground. With a flurry of his robes, Father Antonov sent the guards hurrying to their posts and the villagers scurrying to their homes. Yara twisted in the grass to catch a glimpse of her work, but the father yanked her to her feet again, forcing her roughly towards the oaken church. He shoved her past pews, past the preparation table and the altar, up the stairs to the bell tower, but he truly didn’t have to force anything. Yara scurried up them, because desperately, she wanted to see it. She wanted to see for certain the beast had come.

The tower’s platform was small and circular, with just enough room for the pair to squeeze in front of the bells. They dangled from the conical roof, each one the size of a milk bucket and just as metal. The father pushed her to the ledge of the platform, so close the wood creaked as her toes went over the edge. She gripped his robes with sweaty fists. They had a perfect view of the village. Of the beast.

And gods, she was a beast. At least a hundred and fifty feet tall, the trees groaned and bent in submission as her clawed feet parted the forest. Sharp ears swiveled. From the knee down, her legs turned into an animal. Her unruly mane bunched around her shoulders in rough layers, shining umber, gray, and tan under the sun. Fur of the same colors clung to her forearms before disappearing below the patchwork of hides she wore, more skins than Lesnik had seen in decades. A long tail lifted as ochre eyes latched onto movement atop the wall. The great wooden wall that only reached her shins.

Yara couldn't tell who it was from this distance—maybe it was Boris and Fyodor, back at the wall already—but two guards approached the invader, spears in hand. Volkova tensed as they approached, but not in fear. In interest.

She crouched, her waist still higher than the gatehouse’s roof where Yara had just been caught. As the beast loomed, the first guard panicked and hurled his spear. It landed in the dense fur of her leg at a sad, downward angle. Volkova made an amused face and leaned in. The guard realized his mistake and turned to run, but he was too slow. The beast took him head-first into her mouth.

Little legs kicked frantically, drawn in by a tongue as black as her lips, then disappeared. A slight shape poked against Volkova’s cheek and it struck Yara this is how she must have looked, struggling in the beast’s mouth. Except the wolf woman did not spit the guard out.

Even from here, Yara could hear the swallow. All of Lesnik could hear it. In a second, the lump slid down her throat. Just like that.

Hungry eyes set on the second guard; perhaps it was Boris. With nothing else to do, he hurled his spear. The beast pounced. Gigantic, sharp teeth snapped—something cracked. Wood between incisors. Half the spear clattered off the wall and the other half Volkova spat aside.

Father Antonov hissed desperately in her ear. Yara almost fell from the tower as he lunged for the bell pull. His headdress flew off as he threw his entire weight into the tug of rope. Still clutching his robes, Yara fell back against him as across the village, the second guard disappeared behind jaws.

Another quick swallow; this time with her head tossed back as the bells began to toll. Tongue ran over lips and Volkova turned her gaze to the village proper—to the bell tower. The metal was deafening in Yara’s ears, rattling her skull so hard, her teeth hurt.

“That’s right, come get her,” Father Antonov muttered. “Come take my sacrifice.”

But for the second time, the beast did not come. Her interest was elsewhere.

Yara had thought with so many people, it would have been hard—but it wasn’t. Not at all. Volkova was a wolf in the hen house, hungry as a vulture and nothing to fear. The tiny people fanned out as she stepped over the wall, but it didn’t matter. Swift hands snatched fistfuls of squirming bodies and guard and gardener alike went down together. She didn’t chew a thing—Yara didn’t know if it was because it was faster to swallow them whole, or because she knew Yara was watching. She doubted the beast cared that much, but she preferred it this way—whole and awake. No blood, though what awaited them was worse. Far worse.

They went down fast. One, two, even three at once—thick, round bulges pressed against the gigantic throat with rough swallows. She didn’t eat like a person; it was animal. Slobbering over her prey, no moment was spared to talk, or grin, or do anything human at all. Teeth were bared. Sights were set. Atop the bell tower, they were witness to a monster in a feeding frenzy.

“No!” Father Antonov shook with effort, sweat rolling as he rang the bells with fervor. But no matter how furiously he worked, he was ignored.

Volkova slammed her fist through a door. The wood splintered and tore free from its hinges. She pulled a wriggling woman out and tossed her into her black mouth. Then she smashed through window shutters and caved in the roof so she could rifle through the ruin with her nose. She pulled people from the rubble like a fox pulls hares from a burrow, always hungry for more. It was incredible.

Finally, Father Antonov seemed to remember Yara was there.

“You,” he roared. Seizing her red ritual gown, he flung her halfway from the bell tower. With a scream, Yara just barely kept her tip-toes on the ledge. Her arms flailed as her heart fell out her chest, floundering like a bird without wings.

That got the beast’s attention. Unnatural eyes pierced the distance, and she dropped the snapped roof beams from her clutches. She rose like a storm on the horizon, and moved just as swiftly.

Father Antonov shifted, fixing his stance and clutching the back of her dress so tightly, Yara was terrified the seams would rip.

The bells swung absently while the beast crawled to the tower, a woodshed crushed underfoot as she reared before priest and heretic.

“Messenger,” Father Antonov called, in a tone of practiced control, the voice he used to collect his congregation. “You do not belong in this realm. Take the red curse back with you, and spare the gods’ sacred servants of Lesnik.”

“Vol—Volkova,” Yara blubbered. The name was foreign on her tongue. Humiliation and horror was hot on her face. Her pulse was so wild, she felt she was a frantic hare in the talons of an eagle. Still, she held herself together enough to shake her head.

The giant weighed the sight. “Are you the holy man?”

Yara felt him freeze at the monstrous rasp of her voice, then nod. “I am.”

Volkova grinned, dark lips pulling up almost like a snarl. “Good. I’ve looked forward to this.”

One, gigantic foot kicked the church in. The structure screamed as it died, oak logs splitting and bells bellowing with the collapse of the tower. Father Antonov let go of Yara as they toppled, free falling towards the dirt.

A wall of flesh rose to meet her. Lungs seized as Yara slammed into the huge palm, and for a long, horrible count, she couldn’t breathe.

Fingers big as trees turned her over and her face to the sky, Yara sucked in a gasp. She blinked the threat of tears away. Volkova’s enormous face blotted out the sun. It was even bigger up close than she remembered.

“Eat her!” Father Antonov yelled from Volkova’s other palm. He was doubled over on his knees, trying to lean onto one arm while he held his side. He’d lost his stupid spectacles. “Eat her and begone! Take her to the gods!”

Evil eyes watched them both. Canines curved into another smile, like Volkova was about to tell a cruel joke only she knew.

She flung the father into the air. His robes flared as he sailed. Claws snagged the fabric and Volkova lifted him to her face. He looked so tiny, Yara had to push herself up to make sure she saw properly.

The wolf woman hummed a tune, like a man about to sit at his dinner table. She cocked her head. “You can thank your gods I’ll not use teeth. Unless the little lady would like me to.” Volkova winked down at her.

Yara managed a shake of the head. Her throat was dry. “Too quick.”

“Too quick!” The beast cackled. She looked the little clergyman in the eye. “You see? I like her. We’re in tune.”

“Gods save us—devils—the both of you!” Father Antonov breathed. Despite his hardy nature, he was scared. It did not take supernatural skill to sense it.

Ochre eyes glinted with twisted amusement. “Maybe; you are going to hell, after all. Yara, anything before you bid him farewell?”

There were so many words she thought to say to him. Years of things to say; a lifetime of contempt. To curse him for each and every comment and accusation, every damning look, every punishment, every shame—would take her another lifetime yet. So many, Yara couldn’t grasp a lone target. She held too many rages to single one from the rest.

“Yara, please.” Father Antonov reasoned. His feet dangled like a hanged man. “The village…”

Yara watched the strong, ever resourceful priest; a helpless little thing in the big beast’s grip. He looks just right there, she thought. It was almost a pity the moment had to end, and she couldn’t watch what happened next.

Yara twisted lips grimly. “Down the hatch.”

Volkova laughed, booming and boisterous. She tilted her chin up and opened her mouth below the father’s kicking legs. To his credit, he did not scream as he fell. It only made Yara hate him more.

“Let me see.” She urged the beast, turning to grip the clawed thumb. Her living landing jostled as Volkova dipped her chin, holding Yara level with her mouth.

Hot breath washed over her skin, and Yara realized with a shiver that she was cold. The black muscle of Volkova’s tongue danced as the father struggled for balance on his knees. Ropes of drool pooled atop his salt and pepper hair. She remembered how it felt, dripping down her head; running down her back; lubricating her skin with hot, starved slick. Tasting. Savoring.

For a moment, she met Nikolay Antonov’s calm blue eyes. He did not utter insults, or cry out curses. He just held her stare, a man of virtue to the last. Then the thick tongue thrust him to the back of the titan’s throat.

Glk.

Yara held her hand to her own neck as the beast swallowed. It was the loudest one yet. She could almost feel the father slide down her throat.

Volkova let out a deep, spirited sigh of satisfaction that tousled Yara’s red hair. “Oh, he was good. Not as good as you, but good. I can feel him kicking. He’s on his way down, now.”

Yara’s breath shook. She touched her cheek, and realized it was wet with tears, though she did not know when she had started crying again.

“Do you regret it?”

Startled, Yara met the beast’s stare. It felt like a test. Trembling, she wiped the last of her tears. The shadow stretched over her. “No.”

“Good.”

Mira didn’t understand what was happening to her, at first. She just thought she was sick, with the appetite that wouldn’t be satisfied, no matter how much food she ordered online; with the sheer amount of fluids she had to intake, always feeling thirsty, and with her loss of most of her sense of balance. It didn’t really interfere with her work, though, which was all she had the time to think about. Technomantic diagrams. Talking to machines and talking to the greater forces that govern the world were fairly different, but she specialized in making sure those interactions went smoothly. It was a job where she could freelance, she could show off some skill, and she didn’t have to leave her apartment.

That apartment was… something of a rat’s nest, at this point. Cables, unfinished projects, empty bags, online shopping boxes… she always said to herself that she’d clean it up, but she hadn’t had a hookup to compel her to do it in a while, so… well. Making rent was the all-consuming drive in her life, and she didn’t have time to make plans, instead choosing to grab what few hours she could with friends.

Maybe if she ever interacted face-to-face for longer than the brief moments it took her to collect her deliveries, someone would’ve noticed before it became too late. When she went to inject her estrogen – lightly shining with the blessing of a cosmopolitan goddess of Feminity, of course – two strange things happened. First of all, her body drank the blessing faster than she could plunge the needle, the magic disappearing into her in a strange way. Second, and arguably more concerning, was how her leg jiggled like a water balloon, in an altogether not unpleasant sensation. It was more… neutral, like being aware that your body was adjusting into a new seating position.

When she pulled the needle out with a shocked hiss, she didn’t bleed, not even a drop. She’d drawn the needle out quickly, and without concern for her own safety – not to mention how her leg had moved. Yet there wasn’t that lingering pain, that sense of her flesh being intruded upon, no matter how much she expected it. It was closer to… well, now that she was thinking about how her body felt, it felt like she was in too-tight clothes, even though her legs were completely naked except for her socks and some underwear.

She set about frantically searching the web. Any self-respecting mage would’ve had a familiar or a colleague to ask for help in this, but she was not a self-respecting mage – and they probably would’ve noticed before it got this bad. Still, this was sort of like troubleshooting, wasn’t it?

Not bleeding when cut Not bleeding when cut wet Body directly absorbing magic Skin feels tight Bodily transformations Uninvited bodily transformations

…This site was all about curses, but where could she have even caught a curse? Did she fuck over a client somehow? Even if she had, she was sure in her wards. One of the few things she was sure of in her life were her own skills. 

Unwanted bodily transformations -curse Slimes Transformation into slimes Rights of transformed humans Cure for slime transformation Rights of transformed humans -cured Slime predation profiles

It all matched her symptoms perfectly, and… If she couldn’t stop this, she’d be legally a monster – a ‘being with significant need or capacity to prey on humanity’, with ‘no servile instinct’. She knew about monsters, of course – any mage had to have some protections against the small things that would be able to slip through the sheer number of safeguards in a city – but they weren’t involved at all in her day-to-day. Sure, she occasionally designed interfaces between technology and a binding diagram, but the principles were the same as any other diagram. She’d never really… thought about what that technology was actually used for.

She didn’t think she had time for it now, either. If this was too late-stage to be cured – and well… she was already metabolizing external magic, and her neural signals were being rewired. From what she’d read, the outlook wasn’t the best. She wasn’t the type of girl who got major divine intervention to fix her problems. She’d gotten blessings, sure, but the most perfunctory kind – the kind where you’re not quite showing devotion to a deity so much as you are paying them for a service, even if you say otherwise. Could she design her own treatment? No, of course not. Interfacing with flesh was completely different from interfacing with technology or external magic – the influences within the body, both mundane and not, were entirely different methods of study. She realized that she half-expected herself to be hyperventilating, but she wasn’t. 

What she needed right now was time to think. Time where she wasn’t anxious, time where the thoughts would percolate in her head until she came to some brilliant solution. What she needed… was to talk to her friends and chill out. She sent a DM to one of them, who was online, but… you never knew if she’d just left her computer open to play an idle game or something, with Anne.

t(echnician)girl heeey are u up???? i wanna play Video Games.

lesbianteleportation yah but aren’t u usually working rn?? and you have that big commission, right?

Mira had completely intended to work on that after injecting her estrogen – it’d cover her rent for the month – but the revelation of her potential transformation had completely realigned her priorities. She’d completely forgotten about it.

t(echnician)girl yeeeeah but liiike. im running into a bit of an impass and i got time before the deadline so i think i need to distract myself from it for like, a day. plus its not your job to manage my time 

lesbianteleportation ig your right lol. hop on call?

t(echnician)girl yepyep

Hopping on call with Anne was a balm for Mira’s soul. They played a game that they’d been really into recently – a two-player co-op game where they both played as cool, unspecialized, generalist battlemages and monster-hunters, like from the old stories of the founders of their respective disciplines. They also both got to poke fun whenever the game got details of their magics wrong – a hobby that made the game even more fun.

They were halfway through a quest involving hunting down a vampire when Mira felt her blood run cold – until she realized, wait, she hadn’t. She’d just experienced a deep sense of terror and felt absolutely no feedback from her body. Was she… if… if she kept changing, would she be hunted down like this vampire? The vampire was intelligent, albeit scheming and seeking power. It drank people’s blood, but… well, a slime needs mana to compensate for how inefficient its body is compared to a multicellular organism, and – 

No. No. She needed to not think that. She was a competent technomage! She could just buy magic for her job and eat that. Sure, it’d be pricey, and –

Anne talked and Mira realized she hadn’t moved her character in a minute. Worse still, she’d been muttering right into her mic, a low, burbling thing, like her mouth had filled with spit that she found herself incapable of directly detecting.

Anne’s voice was low, rich, and concerned. She hadn’t done much voice training.

“Hey- hey, Mira, you alright?”

Mira coughed to clear her throat. It came out wrong, more like she was spitting or gagging.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m… I’m fine. I was just thinking… well, if you were turning into like, a vampire or um just hypothetically a slime, and there wasn’t a cure… what would you do about it?”

Mira’s character on the screen was being attacked by an extremely low-level enemy, each strike chipping away a tiny fragment of health. 

“... well, um… I dunno. I mean, I have a girlfriend who hunts nonsentient monsters sometimes, so… maybe I’d talk to her about it? She’s got a license that extends to the sentient type, and well… if a monster can be a familiar, or be willing to be summoned, she said that it can be allowed to exist? So… maybe I could be her familiar? A vampire familiar’s not… completely unheard of, and neither is a slime?”

Immediately, Mira knew that option wasn’t for her. If she wanted to be cared for and allowed to exist for what she was, not the skills she’d cultivated, by someone with legal and social authority over her, she’d have stayed with her parents and never transitioned. 

“...I mean, I guess. I just, um, thought about it because I saw a news story, and, there was…”

Mira’s excuses dribbled out of her mouth, but she could tell Anne didn’t believe her.

“I can… I can give you her contact details? And I mean, if you wanted I could draw her a teleport circle? Like, the reagents are expensive because of the channel but –”

“I – what, no? I’m not looking for anyone right now, Anne. Waaay too focused on work to join your little polycule, y’know? And – if anyone in my life, is uh, going through this hypothetical scenario it’s a friend and not me.”

“Mira, that’s not – I mean – okay. If you… but I, the option’s still open, y’know? If your… friend ever needs help… well, I think I know Harper pretty well. She’d definitely be better than whatever public hunters they have in your city, or whoever your… friend’s landlord hires.”

“I… yeah. I think I’m gonna talk to my friend about this? Please don’t… mention this to your girlfriend, okay? Not – not yet. I’m worried about my friend and maybe she’ll find a cure so maybe it won’t be relevant at all.”

“...Yeah, alright. I won’t… I won’t tell her unless you say okay, alright? But… I’ve already visited, y’know? If you ever need it, I can make her a circle. I’d be willing to pay for it for you, Mira, alright?”

Mira let out a short, nervous laugh.

“For- for my friend, yeah. Th-thaaanks, Anne. I’m… gonna hop off.”

They were in the middle of a mission, so she’d lose out on rewards, and for some reason the fact that was her first thought stuck in her mind for a while as she disconnected from the call and logged off of the game. She… she didn’t… whatever. Whatever! She wasn’t healthy, so she should rest, and…

Her stomach let out a loud rumble – or well, not quite. More like… a bwurble? An overly viscous sound.

She should eat. She should definitely eat. Maybe she could delay the transformation by starving herself, or… it’s also entirely possible that it could accelerate it, cause the slime parts of her body to cannibalize the flesh instead of replacing it, or any other possible bad idea. She should talk to a doctor, but she’d read what literature she could – the prognosis wasn’t good. A doctor was probably a one-way trip to her municipality seizing her as a threat to society – as a monster.

Food. She should eat food.

Shambling over to the kitchen, she discovered a whole roast chicken in her fridge that she remembered ordering a few days ago – she was going to make soup, right? One of her friends was always ranting about how good soup was. Absentmindedly, she opened the plastic clamshell that the chicken was contained in, reached down, and ripped off a drumstick.

She raised it to her mouth.

She placed it in her mouth.

There was a vague sense that she should be doing something else.

She swallowed.

Only then did she realize what she’d done. She’d just eaten the whole chicken leg, bone and all, and she felt… satisfied? She felt satisfied. She thought back to her searches earlier – right. Slimes were gelatinous, joints contained collagen… she mustn’t have been feeding her growing body right. She should feed herself more.

Mira didn’t understand what was happening to her, at first. She just thought she was sick, with the appetite that wouldn’t be satisfied, no matter how much food she ordered online; with the sheer amount of fluids she had to intake, always feeling thirsty, and with her loss of most of her sense of balance. It didn’t really interfere with her work, though, which was all she had the time to think about. Technomantic diagrams. Talking to machines and talking to the greater forces that govern the world were fairly different, but she specialized in making sure those interactions went smoothly. It was a job where she could freelance, she could show off some skill, and she didn’t have to leave her apartment.

That apartment was… something of a rat’s nest, at this point. Cables, unfinished projects, empty bags, online shopping boxes… she always said to herself that she’d clean it up, but she hadn’t had a hookup to compel her to do it in a while, so… well. Making rent was the all-consuming drive in her life, and she didn’t have time to make plans, instead choosing to grab what few hours she could with friends.

Maybe if she ever interacted face-to-face for longer than the brief moments it took her to collect her deliveries, someone would’ve noticed before it became too late. When she went to inject her estrogen – lightly shining with the blessing of a cosmopolitan goddess of Feminity, of course – two strange things happened. First of all, her body drank the blessing faster than she could plunge the needle, the magic disappearing into her in a strange way. Second, and arguably more concerning, was how her leg jiggled like a water balloon, in an altogether not unpleasant sensation. It was more… neutral, like being aware that your body was adjusting into a new seating position.

When she pulled the needle out with a shocked hiss, she didn’t bleed, not even a drop. She’d drawn the needle out quickly, and without concern for her own safety – not to mention how her leg had moved. Yet there wasn’t that lingering pain, that sense of her flesh being intruded upon, no matter how much she expected it. It was closer to… well, now that she was thinking about how her body felt, it felt like she was in too-tight clothes, even though her legs were completely naked except for her socks and some underwear.

She set about frantically searching the web. Any self-respecting mage would’ve had a familiar or a colleague to ask for help in this, but she was not a self-respecting mage – and they probably would’ve noticed before it got this bad. Still, this was sort of like troubleshooting, wasn’t it?

Not bleeding when cut Not bleeding when cut wet Body directly absorbing magic Skin feels tight Bodily transformations Uninvited bodily transformations

…This site was all about curses, but where could she have even caught a curse? Did she fuck over a client somehow? Even if she had, she was sure in her wards. One of the few things she was sure of in her life were her own skills. 

Unwanted bodily transformations -curse Slimes Transformation into slimes Rights of transformed humans Cure for slime transformation Rights of transformed humans -cured Slime predation profiles

It all matched her symptoms perfectly, and… If she couldn’t stop this, she’d be legally a monster – a ‘being with significant need or capacity to prey on humanity’, with ‘no servile instinct’. She knew about monsters, of course – any mage had to have some protections against the small things that would be able to slip through the sheer number of safeguards in a city – but they weren’t involved at all in her day-to-day. Sure, she occasionally designed interfaces between technology and a binding diagram, but the principles were the same as any other diagram. She’d never really… thought about what that technology was actually used for.

She didn’t think she had time for it now, either. If this was too late-stage to be cured – and well… she was already metabolizing external magic, and her neural signals were being rewired. From what she’d read, the outlook wasn’t the best. She wasn’t the type of girl who got major divine intervention to fix her problems. She’d gotten blessings, sure, but the most perfunctory kind – the kind where you’re not quite showing devotion to a deity so much as you are paying them for a service, even if you say otherwise. Could she design her own treatment? No, of course not. Interfacing with flesh was completely different from interfacing with technology or external magic – the influences within the body, both mundane and not, were entirely different methods of study. She realized that she half-expected herself to be hyperventilating, but she wasn’t. 

What she needed right now was time to think. Time where she wasn’t anxious, time where the thoughts would percolate in her head until she came to some brilliant solution. What she needed… was to talk to her friends and chill out. She sent a DM to one of them, who was online, but… you never knew if she’d just left her computer open to play an idle game or something, with Anne.

t(echnician)girl heeey are u up???? i wanna play Video Games.

lesbianteleportation yah but aren’t u usually working rn?? and you have that big commission, right?

Mira had completely intended to work on that after injecting her estrogen – it’d cover her rent for the month – but the revelation of her potential transformation had completely realigned her priorities. She’d completely forgotten about it.

t(echnician)girl yeeeeah but liiike. im running into a bit of an impass and i got time before the deadline so i think i need to distract myself from it for like, a day. plus its not your job to manage my time 

lesbianteleportation ig your right lol. hop on call?

t(echnician)girl yepyep

Hopping on call with Anne was a balm for Mira’s soul. They played a game that they’d been really into recently – a two-player co-op game where they both played as cool, unspecialized, generalist battlemages and monster-hunters, like from the old stories of the founders of their respective disciplines. They also both got to poke fun whenever the game got details of their magics wrong – a hobby that made the game even more fun.

They were halfway through a quest involving hunting down a vampire when Mira felt her blood run cold – until she realized, wait, she hadn’t. She’d just experienced a deep sense of terror and felt absolutely no feedback from her body. Was she… if… if she kept changing, would she be hunted down like this vampire? The vampire was intelligent, albeit scheming and seeking power. It drank people’s blood, but… well, a slime needs mana to compensate for how inefficient its body is compared to a multicellular organism, and – 

No. No. She needed to not think that. She was a competent technomage! She could just buy magic for her job and eat that. Sure, it’d be pricey, and –

Anne talked and Mira realized she hadn’t moved her character in a minute. Worse still, she’d been muttering right into her mic, a low, burbling thing, like her mouth had filled with spit that she found herself incapable of directly detecting.

Anne’s voice was low, rich, and concerned. She hadn’t done much voice training.

“Hey- hey, Mira, you alright?”

Mira coughed to clear her throat. It came out wrong, more like she was spitting or gagging.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m… I’m fine. I was just thinking… well, if you were turning into like, a vampire or um just hypothetically a slime, and there wasn’t a cure… what would you do about it?”

Mira’s character on the screen was being attacked by an extremely low-level enemy, each strike chipping away a tiny fragment of health. 

“... well, um… I dunno. I mean, I have a girlfriend who hunts nonsentient monsters sometimes, so… maybe I’d talk to her about it? She’s got a license that extends to the sentient type, and well… if a monster can be a familiar, or be willing to be summoned, she said that it can be allowed to exist? So… maybe I could be her familiar? A vampire familiar’s not… completely unheard of, and neither is a slime?”

Immediately, Mira knew that option wasn’t for her. If she wanted to be cared for and allowed to exist for what she was, not the skills she’d cultivated, by someone with legal and social authority over her, she’d have stayed with her parents and never transitioned. 

“...I mean, I guess. I just, um, thought about it because I saw a news story, and, there was…”

Mira’s excuses dribbled out of her mouth, but she could tell Anne didn’t believe her.

“I can… I can give you her contact details? And I mean, if you wanted I could draw her a teleport circle? Like, the reagents are expensive because of the channel but –”

“I – what, no? I’m not looking for anyone right now, Anne. Waaay too focused on work to join your little polycule, y’know? And – if anyone in my life, is uh, going through this hypothetical scenario it’s a friend and not me.”

“Mira, that’s not – I mean – okay. If you… but I, the option’s still open, y’know? If your… friend ever needs help… well, I think I know Harper pretty well. She’d definitely be better than whatever public hunters they have in your city, or whoever your… friend’s landlord hires.”

“I… yeah. I think I’m gonna talk to my friend about this? Please don’t… mention this to your girlfriend, okay? Not – not yet. I’m worried about my friend and maybe she’ll find a cure so maybe it won’t be relevant at all.”

“...Yeah, alright. I won’t… I won’t tell her unless you say okay, alright? But… I’ve already visited, y’know? If you ever need it, I can make her a circle. I’d be willing to pay for it for you, Mira, alright?”

Mira let out a short, nervous laugh.

“For- for my friend, yeah. Th-thaaanks, Anne. I’m… gonna hop off.”

They were in the middle of a mission, so she’d lose out on rewards, and for some reason the fact that was her first thought stuck in her mind for a while as she disconnected from the call and logged off of the game. She… she didn’t… whatever. Whatever! She wasn’t healthy, so she should rest, and…

Her stomach let out a loud rumble – or well, not quite. More like… a bwurble? An overly viscous sound.

She should eat. She should definitely eat. Maybe she could delay the transformation by starving herself, or… it’s also entirely possible that it could accelerate it, cause the slime parts of her body to cannibalize the flesh instead of replacing it, or any other possible bad idea. She should talk to a doctor, but she’d read what literature she could – the prognosis wasn’t good. A doctor was probably a one-way trip to her municipality seizing her as a threat to society – as a monster.

Food. She should eat food.

Shambling over to the kitchen, she discovered a whole roast chicken in her fridge that she remembered ordering a few days ago – she was going to make soup, right? One of her friends was always ranting about how good soup was. Absentmindedly, she opened the plastic clamshell that the chicken was contained in, reached down, and ripped off a drumstick.

She raised it to her mouth.

She placed it in her mouth.

There was a vague sense that she should be doing something else.

She swallowed.

Only then did she realize what she’d done. She’d just eaten the whole chicken leg, bone and all, and she felt… satisfied? She felt satisfied. She thought back to her searches earlier – right. Slimes were gelatinous, joints contained collagen… she mustn’t have been feeding her growing body right. She should feed herself more.