#; threads

The phrase ‘follow your nose’ had always bothered Jackie. When had following their nose ever done anyone any good? A year into having that bite on his side and he still wasn’t used to the face that he could follow his nose. Everything smelled so much more. The world was so damn smelly. Everything was much more than it had ever been before and more often than not lately, a nagging curiosity led him along rather than any sense of self-preservation. That and a whisper of a phrase on a downtown street that seemed to reach his sharp ears and no one else’s. A whisper that led him to a place in the woods with a smell he couldn’t place.

Somehow, he Toucan Sam’ed his way in front of a washer-dryer set that had seen better days. The building it was in probably had too. Jackie huffed. Flexed his hands by his sides. Who was he to judge? The machine looked unassuming enough. Just some buttons and knobs. Old as shit. What was the worst that could happen? He already felt foolish just being there. Pressing a button wouldn’t realistically make it any worse. The sound of a door hissing open startled him and he clutched a hand to his chest.

“Jesus.”

“Not that kind of place, sorry to disappoint,” a gruff voice mumbled. “Jumpy, ain’t you?”

And then a man Jackie had never met before in his thirty-six years of living sniffed him. He hesitantly sniffed back. Was that what he was supposed to do? The man looked at him, sniffed again, then cracked a smile that could have been threatening or welcoming.

“Picked a good night, first-timer. Go on in.”

Mmm don’t like that, Jackie thought. He gave his thanks and walked past the man that smelled like…not a dog but a different kind of animal. More woodsy? Walked past him right into a room that smelled strongly of dogs and beer and more dogs and…hot dog water? A room full of howls and laughs and yips that he simply couldn’t relate to himself. Yet it sounded like him. The him of before and the him of now.

Jackie all but ran to the bar top and sat down heavily in a spot away from the crowd. Right now wasn’t the time for a crisis, he urged himself, then ordered a whiskey neat. Stared into it because he wasn’t sure where else to look. There were too many smells, too many sounds, and sights he couldn’t make sense of. Velvet and steel and teeth and snakeskin. He just needed a breather. Just a minute and he’d be fine. Maybe another whiskey too.

—

The one downside of The Chimera was the parking. To say it sucked would have been an understatement. Sure, it made sense not to have a bunch of cars lined up outside the decrepit old building. For a place that did its best to remain under the radar, a veritable car show parked outside would have been a flashing neon sign that not all was what it seemed. Viv glowered down at the mud that caked her boots as she stomped down the stairs into the basement. 

Grizz had mentioned the place to her. When the circus had packed up, and taken her whole life with it, the old bear had done his best to provide her with some friendly faces, and to provide himself with some small shred of comfort in knowing the lamia had placed she could go. Viv had become a frequent face over the course of two years— shit, almost three years. Had it really been that long already? She did the math in her head again, knowing the answer even before she’d finished counting how many months had passed. How could she not know. Viv woke up every day with the exact number of days it had been since she’d seen her family last, and entered into this inescapable prison sentence of an existence. 

Viv pulled off her helmet and raked a hand through her hair, shaking it out as she jammed a finger into the dryer button. “Yeah, yeah, it’s just me.” The bouncer snorted, shaking his head exasperated as the lamia started to head inside. “One of these days, I’m going to lock you out.” He called after her. Viv laughed, shoving a crumpled ten in the man’s hands as she pushed past him. Blowing a kiss, Viv raised her middle finger with a wink to the bugbear. “Nah. You’d miss me too much.” 

The woman made a beeline to the bar, hoisting herself up onto an empty stool. “— Stevie, when I tell you today was a fucking bitch and a half,” Viv called to the bartender, slumping forward onto the bar as her fingers raked up into her own hair and she massaged her temple. “I had this one lady insist she ordered a different order five different times. No I ordered chocolate chip pancakes, no I ordered waffles with blueberry compote, god you’re incompetent, how do you have a job? Jesus fuck.” She groaned, relieved to finally be in a spot where she didn’t have to mind her tongue. 

A pint glass sloshed as it was set down in front of her, and Viv flicked her fingers at the bartender in a salute as they shook her head at her antics. She took a long sip, the tightly wound coil of tension she’d become unwinding ever so slightly as she sipped her beer. But the more she relaxed, she couldn’t help but notice the stranger she’d parked herself next to was radiating nervous energy in waves. Her brows raised, narrowed eyes taking in the sight from head to toe. 

Probably not a siren… they always struck Viv as a proud lot. She couldn’t blame them. If she’d been born with wings, she’d think she was hot shit, too. He didn’t have the feline grace some of the balam she’d known carried themselves with… no, the poor guy looked like a shaky dog, scared shitless and alone in a new place. “First time?” She asked, shifting in her seat to look at him. 

—

The sheer noise of the world had been the first of his changes to startle Jackie. It was all just so much louder, crisper, shriller. Dog whistles? Actual hell. The sound of the bar was, needless to say, a lot but it was…familiar. Reminded him of the Lion back home. He tried to focus on that feeling. Hold it close to his rapid heartbeat as he slowly spun his whiskey glass on the coaster. A soggy homage to The Slaughtered Lamb sign eyed him through the amber.

Through the sound of pool cues and laughter, a new one entered. Rolled up to the bartop like a gathering storm and Jackie couldn’t help himself but to glance over. One of the first rules of bar going was to never glance over. Julian had taught him that. And to hell with Julian. He lowered his eyes and listened. She was at this strange bar, same as him, but the way she talked about her job, they could have been anywhere. It was normal. She worked a job she didn’t seem to like all that much and after a rough day, went to the bar to raise her spirits. Like anyone would. The bartender knew her.

Not so different. 

Jackie’s brow furrowed. He worked a job he semi-liked, more out of convenience and an inhuman reluctance to just give up on the one thing he was ever good at, and he had found his way to a bar too. Or it had found its way to him. He wasn’t so sure how he felt about coincidences anymore. He listened to her tale and fought off a smile. Once, when he had wanted to piss off his dad, he had taken up some shifts at the Morning Glory off of 10th St. A favor to his friend, mostly, but also a moment to get away and not be in the gloves. He hadn’t been there long but the experience seemed universal.

Again, not so different.

The feeling clung to his gut like a burr and Jackie shifted uneasily. Someone howled in the corner. He was different. As far as he knew, irrevocably. The white noise drowned out the rest of the bar until he heard the shift of barseat leather and felt eyes on him. He tapped his fingers against the rim of his glass, then looked over. Her hair was pink. Sometimes, if a bout got messy, his hair would turn pink from all the blood. These days, it felt like he was always dyed with it. Another long moment and he registered her question.

“Me?”

A strained smile. One quick sip of his whiskey. He held it like a buoy.

“Oh, uh, yeah, first time. Clear as day, huh?” Jackie finally answered. “Heard about it, sort of, and thought, what the hell, why not? Beats going to…” He searched for the name of the place she probably worked at. Couldn’t grasp it in his hands. “...Waffle House? Nah, the pancake place. Pancake Hut? Palace? I got nothing, but y’know...”

A slight rise and fall of his shoulders.

“This a regular place for you?”

—

Viv snorted. “No, the other guy sitting here looking like a lost lamb. Yeah, you.” For all the bite her words could have contained, the exhausted, lopsided smirk of a smile on her face had her sounding more playful than pissed. The poor guy muscled out a smile like it was causing him physical pain to do so. He was holding on to the rocks glass like it was the single thing in the bar keeping him from crawling out of his skin. He seemed new, new. Definitely not a siren. Sirens weren’t made. He seemed like he’d been drop kicked into the fucking deep end, and was just barely treading water. 

She took a sip of her beer as she nodded, turning to kick one leg over the other as she really looked at the guy. She’d had years of feeling the safety that came in numbers. In a place like the Chimera, Viv felt a little bit closer to home. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend Andrej and Luka were playing darts across the way, bickering about who was the better shot of the two, or Eva was sat next to her, trying to convince her to dye her hair some other color than the faded out pink. This man didn’t seem to share that comfortability. This didn’t feel like a living room to him. Not yet. 

As easy as it was to feel safe in the chimera, the woman could remember a time when she was coiled and ready to strike at any given moment. It hadn’t always been safe. Once she’d been a scared kid who hadn’t had anyplace she’d belonged. Grizz had been the one to really bring her into the fold, and make sure Viv could start to live instead of just survive. The man in the bar wasn’t a scared kid like she’d been, but he sure as hell was in survival mode. 

“Flipped.” She supplied, taking another sip. “Local diner. But if you’re going there for anything other than the pancakes, you’re fucking insane. The foods good, but the pancakes are one of the few things keeping me from finding a different gig.” Viv sighed as she set her beer back down on the counter, stretching her arms overhead before settling back in her chair. “Regular enough. I can get more comfortable here than I can at the Wormhole. Y’know? Can’t get past the front door if you’re not a part of the club.” The woman held her glass up in a salute. “Viv. Welcome to the party.”

—

Jackie huffed through his nose and nodded his head. Yeah, she had him there. The room felt full of a familiarity that he couldn’t touch, only observe. The outsider. But he had been let in, for a reason that didn’t sit right under his skin. He tried not to think about that so much. To stay present as she talked to him, looked at him. Saw him. There wasn’t any flash of recognition, a look that started with ‘hey, aren’t you…?’ He was glad for that. That didn’t stop the way he tensed when she turned and fully looked at him. 

It was just a conversation at a bar, it didn’t have to be anything more than that, but it was. Jackie had passed a sniffcheck at the door and got an okay that he wasn’t sure he felt okay about getting. He had gone in anyway. Sure, he worried, but part of him held off any sense of self-preservation or caution. Reckless. That yawning beast in his chest turned over at the thought of it. He lifted his eyes from the bartop and looked back at her too. An easy smile, comfort, confidence. He’d had that once too. It fit her. It didn’t feel like it fit him anymore.

“Right, Flipped,” Jackie agreed. “They’re that good, huh? Guess I should probably try it. Beats the Jimmy Dean breakfast shit I throw together every morning.” He lightly tapped fingertips against the bartop as he listened. Questions jumped up as she spoke but he withheld them. God, he had so many. “Yeah, I think I get what you mean. The Wormhole’s, uh, interesting. D’you know what’s up with the guinea pigs?”

The club. The party. She spoke about it all so casually that it made Jackie’s jaw ache with how tightly he pressed his teeth together. What was it like for her? Was she like him? He couldn’t tell. There were too many smells in the room and his heart thundered in his chest.

The smell of hot dogs overruled everything as one, fully dressed with mustard wolf ears and onion teeth, was slid in front of him. The bartender nodded at him. He didn’t nod back.

“...Jackie,” he said as he half-raised his glass. “Right, the, uh, club. What is it?”

—

Whoever he was, he didn’t like having all eyes on him. Viv ignored the impulse to lean closer to see what might have been hiding below the surface. She didn’t know his life. What was more, she knew what it was like to suddenly be surrounded by a world she hadn’t known existed. At seventeen, she’d felt safer than she had in her entire life when she fell in with the Cirque de L’ours, but she’d still been a coiled little corn snake, playing at being a viper and ready to strike at a moment's notice. It had been hard to give up a defense mechanism that had been decades in the making. 

She leaned back on her stool, draping herself across it like she owned the damn place as she took another long sip from her beer. “Listen, this town and I have no love lost. But when I do get the fuck out of here, I will miss the pancakes.” Viv snorted, rolling her eyes. “It’s a shithole, you can say it. But it’s a good one. The owner Harvey’s a good guy. And do not gamble with those bitches— those fuzzballs are sharks if you’re not careful. Won three hundred off me once in a poker game.” She paused a beat before continuing. “In case it wasn’t clear, they’re not really guinea pigs. Not really sure what they are, but they love to gamble.”

The man sat across from her was wound so tight, she was practically waiting for his head to pop off his shoulders. She wanted so badly to write it off and just enjoy her drink, but the voice in the back of her mind that sounded far too much like a grouchy old bear had something that vaguely resembled a kind smile settling on her lips. “Fuck, you are green. The not quite human club.” She shut her eyes, and when she opened them again the deep brown of her irises had been replaced with a vivid red, serpentine slits dashing the place human pupils had once been. “No one here bites. Unless you’re into that sort of thing.” She winked before leaning onto the bar and flagging down the bartender. “Stevie— can I get a dog too? That smells good. And a round of shots for me and my friend Jackie, here, before he passes the fuck out.” 

—

“Ready to leave town, huh?”

His head tipped to the side at her statement. Jackie wasn’t sure how to feel about Wicked’s Rest, let alone himself. The town felt off and strange, incredibly dangerous. And who was he to judge it for being all of those things? He couldn’t have before, certainly not lately. If this was the place for him, he didn’t know. In truth, he didn’t want to say that it was. What that would say about him. What it would mean for him to accept those parts of himself that had fangs and claws. If he could burn it out of himself, he would have with little to no hesitation. 

How freely she spoke, how she carried herself…A strange shame crawled along Jackie’s skin as he listened to her, softly laughing at the way she talked about places he had come to be familiar with. Desperately, he wished he could be that way too, to breathe and be that easy. But he couldn’t. He didn’t even know what to do with his own fucking hands anymore and they were what he had always felt certain of. He didn’t want to think of that, to wallow. He wanted to just be Jackie. Sitting in a bar full of people that smelled like him, that could smell the sickness on him, was a strange place to try that. 

He refocused on Viv and nodded in agreement.

“It is a little, yeah, but every town’s got their beloved shithole, right? One of those places where the quirks of it all are part of the appeal. What makes it feel okay,” Jackie said. The most he had said since he sat down. She talked about the guinea pigs like they had the wherewithal to make complex decisions, let alone rob people of their money. Given the way he was less human and more of a beast lately, maybe a guinea pig could be more human than he thought. Or something else, like she suggested. New fear acquired. “I’ve heard good things about him. Not so much the…not guinea pigs? I’ll keep that in mind, I guess.”

One moment, her eyes were like his, and the next they were a shade of red too bright to be blood. And inhuman. Jackie sat back a moment, blinked, then leaned forward the slightest amount. Curiosity widened his hazel eyes by a fraction.

“Were…Were you bitten by a snake?”

He felt silly asking it, no sillier than he already felt. Like an imposter no matter where he went in town. Her wink threw him off and his skin burned as he returned his attention to his drink. My friend Jackie. It felt rude to ignore the hot dog. Out of politeness, he waited until another one was slid in front of her before he started to pick at his own. And then their round of shots arrived.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” he said as he eyed them. Then he looked at her again. “Well, should we cheers to something?”

—

“That’s the understatement of the century.” She snorted into her beer. “Gets to a point where you’re gnawing at the fucking bars of your enclosure.” Viv had been rattling the bars of her invisible cage for nearly three years. She could never go to a zoo again. She understood what the poor bastards felt like. Locked in, pacing back and forth, and never able to get to that spot just behind the glass. It was enough to drive anyone— man, beast, or both— to the brink.  

He was coming out of his shell, little by little. Viv was pretty sure he hadn’t said more than four words in a row to her since she’d opened her mouth, so the complete sentences were a nice change of pace. “Yeah, Harv’s great. Won’t find a nicer guy. He’s pretty much the only reason I go in. Those fucking furballs, however. There’s some restaurant in town that flips to a casino at night. Little bastards will bleed you dry if you’re not careful. I really don’t want to find out what the Godfather version of a Not Guinea Pig is.”

She was expecting the surprise on his face. The curiosity that lit up something in those hazel eyes reminded her a bit of the kids who’d press their squishy little faces against the glass when they were looking at the ‘snake ladies’. The wonder and amazement, and the mommy, can I be a snake mermaid of it all. And then nostalgia of the moment popped like a soap bubble as Jackie asked what was possibly the funniest fucking question Viv had ever heard. 

Viv was laughing— a sharp, bright bark of a sound cut through the cacophony of the shifter bar and had the lamia doubled over. “No— fuck, sorry, that was funny. No, I wasn’t bit by a snake. I was born this way. Or hatched? Shit, did I hatch out of a fucking egg? Not important—” Viv sighed, shaking her head as she giggled. “Bit by a snake, like I’m fucking Spider-Man.” At least now she knew he wasn’t exactly like her. “I’m a lamia. We’re either born this way, like yours truly, or cursed by a witch or some shit. I’ve never met anyone who fell into the latter category though.” The embarrassed flush that was rapidly taking over the man’s face had Viv wondering what she could do to speed him along to looking like a bashful tomato. “Basically Medusa but sexier.” She continued, an impish glee lighting up the snake’s eyes. “But I can’t turn you to stone. At least, not like that.” 

Viv went right back to her game of process of elimination as she waited on the food and drinks. “Alright, I give up. I can’t sniff you out like the doorman. Not a lamia… and you don’t reek like hard boiled eggs, so probably not a hellhound. So either you’re literally spider man, or you're a wolf.” 

The shots were set down in front of them before she could lock in her guess, and she waved off Jackie’s protestations. “I had people help me out when I first found a community. Only fair I pay it forward.” Viv shrugged. She slid a shot his way before grabbing the other for herself. She raised the glass in a little salute. “To finding yourself a community?” She offered. 

—

Jackie bit the inside of his cheek, tasted blood. Gnawing at the bars of your enclosure agitated that fever beast in his chest. The monster had him caged and he had the monster in the saddest excuse of a grapple this side of the fucking river. The monster laughed at the idea of an enclosure and he frowned, trying to push down that flood of panic that seemed to rise every time he focused on where he was. She seemed so comfortable, confident. Everything about her said that and he mourned for his ghost that used to be that too. He looked at Viv and tilted his head.

“You can’t leave? Is it, uh, family or…?”

The mention of a guinea pig casino brought a brighter, lighter smile out of him. One that almost showed teeth until Jackie caught himself and made it something smaller. Dimmer. Covered the moon. Viv was easy to talk to. Nice. It had been hard for him to find words. Afraid of how inhuman they might come out. But sitting there, laughing about card shark guinea pigs and sharing a drink…He almost felt human again. In the most inhuman place he could have been. He sat with that for a moment.

He felt sick. Knew he was.

“I don’t think I do either, just watching the Godfather stressed me out enough for a lifetime. Y’think one of ‘em is named Vito? The biggest one maybe…”

Jackie turned his drink around in his hand thoughtfully. And then her laugh pulled him out of his own head. He felt eyes on them as people glanced over at the sudden sound and he felt his skin burn even more, but he didn’t feel embarrassed. Not necessarily. Maybe a little when she looked at him and giggled and he couldn’t help but smile back. Return her bright laughter with a soft, unsure laugh of his own. He barely knew what the hell was up with werewolves. Snakes (weresnakes?) were years beyond him. Then she talked and it wasn’t weresnakes and he was riveted.

“So…not Snake-Woman, Marvel trademarked, then…” 

He went to tear off a piece of the hot dog, heard basically Medusa but sexier, and froze in spite of it all. Centered himself to make another attempt but then the follow-through hit of being turned to stone caused his half-assed attempt to piece the hot dog apart to turn into a mess of condiments and mystery meat. He frantically reached for napkins and swore at himself under his breath for what felt like a lifetime, sure that she enjoyed this, and wanted to fade away into the floorboards. He wasn’t a boy, he had objectively heard worse, but this was different.

“Jesus,” he huffed under his breath. And then she continued on like he wasn’t suffocating and he tried to pretend for her sake that he wasn’t. “Spider-Man wouldn’t be so bad, maybe…”

He glanced down, a mess of a man, at his mess of a werewolf hot dog. There he was. He didn’t look up when he answered.

“Uh, wolf I guess. I was bit by one so now I guess I can get into places like this. Neat, right?”

Community. Help. Could Jackie be helped? It didn’t feel like he could but then he was at a bar with Viv being kind to him, with her bright laugh and her warm smile, and he wanted to believe that. Yet he still felt cold as he took the shot glass in hand and angled it towards her. Tried to find a warm smile in himself to share with her but it was buried deep.

“Sure, yeah, to that.”

—

“Ah— no.” Viv rolled her shoulders, trying to shake herself loose of the tension that seemed to creep in when she remembered that, given the opportunity, she’d leave the small town behind and never look back. “No, my family’s on the road… long story. Be careful before you promise anyone in this town anything, that’s all I’m saying. Real fucking careful.” 

The devil-may-care gleam in her eyes dimmed as she imparted the advice. It was as serious as she was willing to get that evening. There were nights that she’d stay up and watch the clock, counting the seconds that passed by as she grew older, and nothing changed. She’d sit in the dark of her apartment, a neon haze from the window casting the room in a purple hue, and rot in the anger until she was a shriveled, bitter husk of a thing. Nights like this one were the opposite. Viv shed that old skin, and embraced the one underneath. The one that chased pleasure as a distraction from the hell that she’d found herself in. 

Distractions like watching Jackie’s face turn a delightful shade of red as her lack of decorum kept him on his toes. “Probably. Wonder if offering them some cannolis might do me some good.” Viv watched the flush creep up his face as the boisterous persona she’d adopted for the evening had the spotlight of attention creeping onto them. Another uncouth joke fell from her lips, and the poor man nearly choked to death on his hot dog, that proceeded to fall apart in his hands. She pressed her lips together in a thin line as she lost a battle with herself to not let the corners of her mouth curl up in a smile. “I’m no Spider-man. I’d need a filter for that. Closer to Deadpool, if anything.” The turn the conversation was taking had her missing a different wolf entirely. She wanted Jackie to agree to her toast just so she could take the shot and burn away the ache she could feel in her chest. 

“Neat, sure… terrifying at first though, I’m sure. Remember the first time I grew a fucking tail… thought I was the devil or some shit.” Viv gave the man a sympathetic glance. “Especially if you don’t know any of this exists… like being shoved in the deep end and not knowing how to swim. Once you find your people…. It helps, is all I’m saying.” She shrugged, lifting her glass. “To that.” she echoed, before hastily taking her shot. 

—

“You’re okay,” Jackie said as his eyes flitted around Viv’s face. Maybe it was discomfort he detected. Maybe it was discomfort at himself. Who was he to ask after anyone’s story when he kept a tight lock on his own most days? Anything prior to the last year could be read in the Inquirer. The last 365 days were the first that he could keep to himself. He hated and welcomed that. “Happy to hear it whenever you wanna tell it. If you do, y’know.”

Jackie didn’t want to assume, jump to any conclusions. The world he had assumed to be one way had turned out to be another. He wondered if that had happened to Viv too. Whatever it was, he wouldn’t prod at it any further. They were at that shared bartop for a reason. Two hot dogs, a few shots, and a loud silence between them. He took in a quiet breath, then showed Viv a quiet smile. A tired one.

“So I…shouldn’t promise you that I won’t promise anyone anything? Gotcha.”

He laughed low in his throat and rubbed at his knuckles to ease the flustered tension that gathered along his skin. Jackie was out of practice. Talking, being comfortable. Being himself. The mention of cannolis warmed his smile further. The mention of copyrighted characters that the Mouse would side-eye reminded him of home. Of arguments between rows of comics decades older than him. Hardly arguments but more playful excuses to talk for hours and hours about people that weren’t themselves.

He could spend a lifetime doing that.

“Well, glad you’re not really Ryan Reynolds, tryin’ to sell me fuckin’ Cricket mobile or whatever the fuck.”

It wasn’t neat. It was awful. It was soul-rending hell but over a hot dog wasn’t the place to dump all that. Time and place. Jackie thought about what she said. Thought of how placid and calm snakes always seemed when he crossed their path. They weren’t monsters, weren’t beasts. He didn’t see Viv that way. She wasn’t a devil. They didn’t come to him as kind strangers in bars with nice smiles and skin-warming humor. They came to him in more familiar shapes.

“I’m sure they’re, uh, nice. Pretty? Your scales and stuff.”

Jackie wasn’t sure of himself in that bar. Surrounded by a new familiarity that felt suffocating and life-ending. That made the creature under his skin turn over and over, furious that it wasn’t out. But he was alive and looking at Viv and he was okay. As much as he could convince himself that he was. Later on, when he was alone, that’s when the scaries would creep in.

“...Thanks for this, Viv,” he said to her, sincerity wrapped tight around his words. “For, uh, helping me figure out how to swim.”

—

Viv gave him a tight little nod. She was not about to dump her baggage on some guy in the bar. She hadn’t had anywhere near enough to drink to open up that can of worms. And besides— She had people to talk to. Sure they were only accessible to her through a screen in her pocket, and were all a thousand miles away, but she had people… 

The casual conversation was enough to drag her mind back to where she liked it when she was in a place like The Chimera. Light and casual, nothing too serious. Just enough to forget, for a few minutes. “Fuck— not Mint Mobile.” She snickered, shaking her head. “I’d have a way cooler side hustle than selling fucking phone lines.” This was why she went out. Conversations about bullshit that didn’t matter. Things that weren’t a constant reminder that she was stuck in the few dozen square miles that made up the town of Wicked’s Rest.

Rosemary stood in the corner of the courtyard with a glass of champagne she’d stolen off a passing tray. The young woman didn’t think anyone would give her too hard a time for it. It was a wedding, after all. 

Finn Mattison was the eldest son of the Mattison spellcasting family. They were a talented bunch of alchemists- very well respected, and from a family nearly as old as the Kane’s. Of course, the Mattison’s didn’t have to play pretend in public. Being an alchemist was niche, but it wasn’t taboo. Publicly, the Kane’s were known as a talented and old family of casters, particularly adept with elemental magic. Her cousins all practiced it- they had an affinity for ice, primarily. Rosemary probably would have as well, if she ever really pursued it. She didnt attempt much magic outside of the basics. It wasn’t what she cared about. What she wanted was bigger than little tricks with snow and ice. But there were always whispers in casting circles, about just who was capable of what. 

Someone was clinking a knife against a crystal champagne flute, and there was a round of cheers as Finn planted a kiss on his new bride. There was a version of that day, in some alternate timeline, where Rosemary was the one in white, instead of the lilac silk that fluttered in the salty breeze that promised a warm summer that came in off sound. She shuddered at the thought, wrinkling her nose as the bubbles from the quick gulp of champagne burned her nose. She barely knew Finn, aside from brief conversations at weddings and funerals, and yet, Benedict Kane had been insistent that Rosemary should have pursued him. He’d been furious when the engagement was announced, and he’d watched the opportunity to use whatever leverage he’d had slip down the drain. Rosemary had been relieved. She had no interest in marrying herself off to someone she barely knew. None whatsoever. She wasn’t going to jump to merge the Kane’s with some other respected casting family just because her father said so. She may have craved his approval, but she simply could not force herself to bow to that demand. She wanted him to respect her as his equal- his heir. And if he couldn’t do that…

Rosemary slipped out of the courtyard where the cocktail hour was being held. Doing her best to avoid being seen, she crept through a passageway to the back of the old mansion, out to the rose garden by the cliffs that overlooked the water. She sucked in a deep breath of ocean air and closed her eyes, basking in the late May evening. The girl kicked off her heels as she wandered away from the party, relaxing more with every step away from the pageantry she took. She could be herself out there, away from her father’s scrutinizing gaze. Her moment of blissful calm fractured as a twig snapping under foot sounded from not far behind her. She jumped, champagne sloshing out of the coupe glass and landing on her skirt as she whirled to see who was behind her. “Oh shit,” she hissed, watching a the light purple of her gown grew dark purple in spots. She glanced up at the young man who’d crept up on her. “Do you always walk so quietly?” Rosemary asked, the peaceful bubble she’d found herself in utterly popped. 

—

Kalabhiti was bored. Despite the fact that the wedding had brought together spellcasting families from all over the globe, his included, it felt too… impersonal. Plastic. Fake. He had known Finn since he was young, having spent a year with his younger brother at a secluded boarding school hidden away in the deep forests of Connecticut. He had always preferred Christian’s – Finn’s brother – company. Maybe it was the lack of pressure to perform a specific role – Christian had embraced, from an early age, the role of the family’s black sheep – or the fact that they could have actual, profound, and honest conversations. Maybe both. Unlike Christian, though, Kalabhiti was also the first son, the heir of the Pretayan-Blackwood dynasty. Finn was a mirror of what was expected of him by both his parents, and maybe that was the reason he felt a strange sense of resentment toward the other man.

After the wedding ceremony had passed, and Kalabhiti deemed it prudent to disappear from the social scene, he stole a bottle of champagne from the bar and headed toward the gardens, seeking to be alone. America was different from his home country, and the novelty of the first few days in New York City had worn off as soon as they had moved to Long Island. Despite having been born into a wealthy family – one with multiple properties scattered around the world, a personal vault in Switzerland, and multiple trust funds under his name – the ostentatious display of money nauseated him.. It was all about money and status; it angered him in a way he had yet to understand. No one spoke about what truly mattered: the capacity to achieve great things.

He was standing near the cliffs, overlooking the water crashing onto the rocks, when he heard someone making their way toward his spot. He ducked behind a rock, refusing to be nice to another stranger. Kalabhiti only ventured out of his hiding place when he saw a woman who appeared to be his age standing near the cliff. He was trying to get a better view of her when he accidentally crushed a twig beneath his foot. He cursed under his breath as the blonde woman turned around in surprise, spilling champagne all over her skirt, and reproached him for walking so silently.

“Sorry,” he said, a sheepish smile creeping onto his lips as he extended both arms in a sign of surrender. “I did not intend to startle you. I apologize.” His eyes then fell on the woman’s face, and his head tilted slightly to the right as he realized he didn’t know her. Curiosity spiked as he watched her. “Here,” he said, taking off his jacket and offering it to her, “you can wipe the champagne with this. I don’t mind.”

— 

He was about her age- maybe a year or so older? And he was offering her his expensive looking jacket as a napkin to mop up the champagne she’d spilled. That was… unusual. Rosemary let out a surprised laugh, shaking her head gently. “It’s alright. It probably won’t stain. And if it does, we’ll, it’s just a dress. Not the end of the world.” 

The witchling frowned at her now mostly-empty glass, and glanced at the boy with the perfectly good bottle of champagne in hand. “I’ll tell you what,” Rosemary shot him a sly grin. “If you share that bottle with me, and don’t tell anyone you saw me back here, we’ll call it even.”

It wasn’t really like her to hide from a party. But the world that existed up at the party- the world of old money, an egos the size of small planets- felt wrong. Like a shirt three sizes too big that she was trying desperately to grow into. Rosemary tried her best to make it fit her- she styled it differently, took different approaches. But she still couldn’t get her father to look at her like she wasn’t insane. Stuffy, dignified laughter echoed from back in the courtyard. She took on a deep breath, letting the rose scented sea air draw her back in.  “I’ll never hear the end of it if it gets back that I’m hiding out here.”

—

Kalabhiti looked down at the bottle he was holding loosely in his hand as the witch mentioned it, having forgotten about it. “I didn’t bring any glasses, though,” he apologized sheepishly. “I can go and get one for me, so we can share the bottle” he offered, always the gentleman. Kal was used to spending time with women who were taught from a young age that their most important attribute was to be an accessory: shiny, perfect, and well-mannered. Women who would never in their life think of drinking champagne straight from a bottle. There was no reason for him to think of the blonde woman standing in front of him any differently. They were, after all, at a Mattison wedding secluded in Long Island. Her comment about her dress caught him slightly off guard, but he figured she was trying not to make him feel embarrassed for being the cause of the stain.

“I’m actually hiding from my mother,” Kalabhiti said, flashing the woman a sly grin. “So your secret is safe with me, as long as you don’t tell on me either.” He cocked his head slightly to the right as he observed the witch. She was beautiful — that wasn’t in question — but there was something off about the way she held herself. Kal wouldn’t say she was trying too hard to fit in, but rather the opposite. Maybe he wasn’t the only one uncomfortable with the artificiality of it all: the calculated laughter, the political seating arrangements, the way everything had to be a way to prove something instead of just existing. He wrinkled his nose at the idea of going back to the party.

“I’m Kalabhiti, by the way,” he said, realizing he hadn’t introduced himself before. “But you can call me Kal. Everyone back home calls me that.”

—

The witch let out a laugh, shaking her head. “Just pop the bottle. I genuinely could care less if we just drink straight from the bottle. I’m a big girl, I haven’t worried about cooties since I was eight.” He seemed incredibly polished around the edges. Maybe that was like to be born and bred and expected to be a part of the family legacy, instead of being an unfortunate disappointment that could at least have its uses, no matter how small. “You can relax. There’s probably not anyone scrying on the outside of the party to make sure there aren’t champagne theives. Unless you come from a strict anti-theft family with a penchant for divination.” Rosemary teased, setting herself down to sit in the sun-warmed grass, dropping her heels beside her in a careless heap. 

“Your mother,” she echoed conspiratorially, a manicured brow arching up in interest. “Now what did your mother do that you’re running off and scaring girls in rose gardens to get away from her?” Rosemary didn’t spend a great deal of time with other casters, especially not ones her own age. College was everything she’d ever hoped it would be, but it was always shadowed by the cloud of half truths and lies she told, to keep up appearances. None of her sorority sisters knew. Her ex girlfriend had never had the chance to suspect, nor did her current situationship. Maybe it was because she didn’t give them the chance to- she held the world of brilliant but mundane people at arms length. This change of pace was a welcome one. The only lie she had to uphold was what kind of magic she longed to study. And after years of pretending magic was a fantasy, that would be a cakewalk. 

“Nice to meet you, Kal,” The witch’s lips twisted into a pale pink smile. “I’m Rosemary. ”

—

It took all his willpower not to betray the surprise on his face as the blonde witch instructed him to pop the bottle. As she lowered herself to the ground, Kalabhiti moved swiftly and placed his jacket beneath her, so that her dress wouldn’t get dirty. “Allow me,” he said, flashing her a smile as he took a seat next to her and popped the cork from the bottle with grace, as if it were something he did every day. He courteously offered her the bottle first. “Here.”

“I adore that woman, don’t get me wrong,” Kalabhiti explained to the witch when she asked why he was hiding from Beatrice Blackwood. “But she’s gotten it into her head that I must start thinking about marriage, and it appears that a wedding such as this is a great opportunity for her to introduce me to eligible candidates.” He wrinkled his nose in disapproval at the thought. He was only twenty years old and barely thinking about marriage. Kalabhiti was much more interested in learning about the human body, its decomposition process, and other, much darker processes he could experiment with.

“Apparently, it doesn’t matter that I’m the eldest son trying to keep our family legacy alive and well,” he said, frustration visible at the edges of his words. “It is much more important to discuss marriage and inheritances.” Realizing he was oversharing, Kalabhiti cleared his throat and apologized. “Sorry,” he said, flashing the woman a sly smile as he shrugged, embarrassed. “You don’t need to hear me ramble about such things.”

As the witch shared her name, Kalabhiti nodded. “Rosemary,” he said thoughtfully. “The herb of remembrance.” He smiled as he quoted a line from Hamlet from memory: “There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. People used to carry it at funerals.”

—

The lengths to which the boy was going to uphold decorum had a laugh desperately trying to free itself from the witch. Rosemary wasn’t used to guys practically tripping over themselves to set down their jackets so she didn’t get her dress dirty in the garden. She was used to guys spilling beer on her accidentally at a frat party, or fighting over her to be on their team for beer pong. The man screamed uppercrust spellcaster in a way only Rosemary could understand. Educated, well bred, and with eyes that spoke to the multitudes going on in his mind. She was willing to bet on him being the first born before he’d even admitted to it. 

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” She snickered with a sympathetic smile. “I’d ask if your mother was Mrs. Bennett, but my father is quite literally the exact same way. I’d say the only thing he’s more irate about than having to show face at a social event, is the fact that this isn’t my wedding. Which, thank the fucking gods it is not.” Rosemary took a long sip from bottle, wrinkling her nose at the bubbles. “And at least you’re being allowed in to your family legacy,” she grumbled, taking another swig before handing the bottle back to him. “What kind of magic does your family practice?”

“Also good for protection, purification, mental clarity, and transformation.” She closed her eyes, rattling of the list of other things the herb could be used for. “I’m not much adept at any of them. Not my forte.” Rosemary shrugged.

—

“Jane Austen,” Kalabhiti nodded, rolling his eyes at the thought of his mother as Mrs. Bennett. Some days, it could very much feel that way. “Seems my mother hasn’t read anything from this century.” At the mention of her father, Kal raised an eyebrow. “So it’s not just an English thing, then,” he said with a faint smile. 

He chuckled as she admitted she was glad it wasn’t her wedding. Even after only a few minutes of conversation, Kalabhiti could tell Rosemary wasn’t cut out to be a Mattison — or, more precisely, Finn wasn’t husband material for her. The younger woman he had married, Adelaine, fit much more closely with the sort of women he was used to spending time with than the blonde witch sitting beside him. “So, I take it you weren’t pining for Finn Mattison? That would be a first,” he said lightly. Finn was a coveted heir among the spellcaster families: wealthy, handsome, and widely admired. Kalabhiti hadn’t met anyone who didn’t harbour at least a small crush on the young man.

“They didn’t exactly give me a choice,” Kalabhiti explained, though it wasn’t as if he minded. He was proud to be the heir of a recognised spellcaster family, and he intended to learn and uphold their millenarian necromancy knowledge. He knew that in some families, their line of magic was frowned upon — but he could not care less what others thought. He had seen countless spellcasters arrive at his family home in London, seeking their parents’ assistance, and he had long considered them hypocrites. Working with death was as respectful as any other form of magic — arguably more so, given its precision. When asked about the kind of magic his family practiced, Kalabhiti did not flinch. He sat a little straighter and replied, “Necromancy… and  also mediumship. My mother is well-versed in divination and spirit reading. My father… well, let’s say he prefers to experiment with necromantic practices.”

As Rosemary shared that she wasn’t adept at magical practices linked to the herb she was named after, Kalabhiti raised an eyebrow. “No? With a name like that, I would have thought you’d be a natural,” he said. Kalabhiti smiled and tilted his head slightly, intrigued. “Then what type of magic are you learning?”

—

“It made its way over stateside. Wherever there are old, stuffy families who care immensely about tradition, there will be parents trying to pair their children off with an advantageous match.” Rosemary sighed, stretching out on the grass. There was muffled laughter, and the dim sound of music that echoed up from the courtyard behind them. Rosemary was all too happy to tune it out, focusing on the crash of waves and seagulls circling overhead. 

The witch let out a deeply unladylike snort. She wrinkled her nose, shaking her head as she grinned over at Kal. “Not in the fucking slightest.” Rosemary had barely even known the groom. She could list the things she knew about Finn Mattison on one hand. One, his family was somehow indebted to her father. Two, Finn was a spellcaster. Three, he was now married to someone that was, thankfully, not her. “I’m not about to marry someone I don’t love, much less someone I don’t know, all for the sake of brokering a deal for a magic power couple or something.” 

The grin on her face softened into something more sympathetic. She knew what it was to not be given a choice. Rosemary couldn’t tell if inheriting the family legacy was something he actually wanted, but he didn’t seem completely miserable about it. She didn’t blame him. She’d have given anything for her father to give her just one chance. Kal sat up straighter at her question— unsurprising. Spellcasters had egos. She should know. Her own had been bruised for years every time her father made it clear she wasn’t good enough. With a little more time, she’d make it impossible for him to say no. She was already fluent in Latin, and able to read some Ancient Greek. She was putting herself in a position to go to law school, to better help with the front facing side of the family business. She was smart, and capable, and wanted so desperately to be worthy. 

The word Necromancy caught her by surprise. She thought her mind was playing tricks on her for a moment. But no. Kal had just admitted to being a necromancer. That had just happened. The surprise on the witch’s face morphed into an expression of insatiable curiousity. “You’re studying to be a necromancer?” She asked, as though that wasn’t exactly what the boy had just said. “Tell me everything.  My family’s all necromancer’s— well the first born sons are. I’m blocked out of it by some stupid, archaic, antiquated tradition. It’s the twenty first century, and my father’s insisting we follow great great grandpa Cornelius’s stupid rules, so he wants me to get married so he can just skip a generation and bypass me entirely. Even though I’m perfectly fucking capable.” The witch flopped backward to lay in the grass. She hadn’t told anyone that before. It had been bottled up tight for a decades, because there’d never been anyone who’d be able to understand. Rosemary held out her hand for the bottle. “Sorry. What I meant to say was I’m meant to study elementalism. All the casters on my father’s side seem to have an affinity for ice.” 

—

Kalabhiti smiled as Rosemary snorted. “Love. How scandalous. Next you’ll tell me you expect to like the person as well,” he joked. He thought about his own parents and wondered if they loved each other. He had seen them share a look here and there, a passing caress, but he couldn’t quite tell whether it came from love or simple courtesy — more a habit expected of them than a genuine expression of feeling. Then he considered what he himself wanted. He wasn’t certain that love was the only — or even the most important — condition when it came to marriage. Not for him, at least. He imagined his lifelong partner as someone he could respect, someone with whom he could build something meaningful. Affection and care, he believed, would follow in time.

The surprise on Rosemary’s face when he mentioned his family’s craft did not shake him in the least. It was a reaction he was accustomed to receiving whenever he revealed that both his parents practiced and studied necromancy. What came next, however, caught him off guard. Rosemary was not merely surprised — she looked curious before proceeding to reveal what Kalabhiti was quite certain was a family secret. If her family had been open about their craft, as his own had always been among spellcasters, he would have known of them. The Pretayan-Blackwood family maintained close ties with most — if not all — necromancer and exorcist lineages across the world. Rosemary’s reaction suggested something different: not only embarrassment, which he quietly frowned upon, but the fact that she herself had been barred from studying necromancy. What a pity.

“It’s a shame, really,” Kalabhiti said, shaking his head as he looked down at her. “Traditions that suppress both talent and devotion to the craft are precisely why spellcasters are no longer held in the regard they once were.” Not that Kalabhiti particularly cared about reputation. What interested him far more were the limits of magic — how far it could go, and what moral boundaries, if any, should govern it. Where ought the line to be drawn? What moral compass should necromancers — and spellcasters in general — follow as they pursued their craft? Could one truly act under the pretense of doing good or evil? These questions occupied his mind constantly, and he had yet to find satisfying answers.

Then he thought of his father, Samar, and clicked his tongue softly. “My father is one of the most talented necromancers I know,” he said with quiet pride. “His family has passed down their knowledge for generations. He promised to teach me this summer.” Kalabhiti frowned when Rosemary censured herself. He would not have it. She was a force of nature, he could already tell. Her father was a brute for depriving her of such knowledge. 

An idea occurred to him. “Come this summer,” he offered, flashing her a shy smile. “Come to London. Stay with my family. My father could teach us both.” Kalabhiti was quite certain that Samar Pretayan would happily invent a suitable excuse to host Rosemary if it meant passing on knowledge. He was an exceptional teacher, and he suspected he would welcome two pupils rather than one.

“And Rosemary,” he added, lowering himself to lie beside her in the grass, “don’t do that. Don’t diminish yourself.” He turned his head slightly toward her. “You were meant to be a necromancer. It is a sacred form of magic, perhaps the most sacred of all. Uphold it.”

—

“I know. Incredibly modern of me. God forbid I act like we live in the twenty-first century.” Rosemary sighed wryly. She’d been too young to ever be able to tell if her mother had felt anything for her father. She’d known Violet had loved her fiercely, but she couldn’t tell if that same care translated to her father. Her fingers rested on the little gold heart that nestled in the hollow of her throat as she pushed the thought to the side. She knew her father hadn’t mourned. Not really. Not like she had. She didn’t want a life with someone who would treat her departure from the world as just another Tuesday. 

Jealousy coiled like a viper in her gut, ready to strike out. It must have been nice, to inherit the family legacy without putting up a fight. It was just going to be bestowed upon Kal, like a prince inheriting the crown. All Rosemary seemed to be good for was a bargaining chip to marry off to another kingdom. But then the boy was smiling at her, and offering to share the knowledge. The young witch blinked, unsure what to make of the offer. He was just… offering it to her. Everything she’d ever wanted, ever worked for. Right within her grasp. She wouldn’t have to fight for it. She could finally just take it. Her breath caught in her throat at the thought. She could learn alongside Kal— then she could prove she was enough! Her father would have to see reason, then. If she was good enough for another distinguished line of necromancer’s, then she might finally be good enough for the Kanes. 

“You only met me five minutes ago,” she teased, swiping back the bottle with a wry smile twisting on her lips as she stole another sip from the bottle. “What makes you so sure I’m destined for this?”

—

Kalabhiti considered Rosemary’s question. He had only just met her, but he had been taught since childhood that necromancy was not a craft one simply chose. It was a calling — one that very few people were capable of answering. Not everyone had the temperament for it. Discipline, for one. Authority, certainly — the ability to command the dead without hesitation. But to Kalabhiti, the most important trait was something simpler. A lack of fear. Necromancy required accepting a truth most people spent their lives avoiding: that everything was finite. Death was always present, always waiting, and time continued to pass regardless of how one chose to spend it.

“Because necromancy is a call not many people answer,” he replied with a small shrug, watching as the witch took another sip from the bottle. He flashed her a crooked smile, tilting his head slightly as he studied her. “And I can tell you want to honor it. Your father’s a twat for not letting you study the craft.” It was unlike Kal to insult someone so openly, but the thought of a father denying his daughter knowledge she was clearly meant to pursue irritated him more than he cared to admit. “But I’m only guessing,” he added after a moment. “Why do you want to learn necromancy?”

As the question left his mouth, fireworks suddenly burst across the night sky. Kal glanced upward, eyebrows lifting in quiet surprise as streaks of color bled into the stars. “I suppose that’s our cue to return to the party,” he said with a sigh that made it clear he wasn’t particularly thrilled about the idea. “Come on.” He pushed himself up from the grass and offered Rosemary his hand.

— 

He was right about that much– Necromancy wasn’t a call many people answered. Probably because so many people looked down at all that they perceived  necromancy to be; a perversion of the laws of nature. But wasn’t that most magic? Flames didn’t sputter to life out of nothing naturally. A match had to be struck in order to light a candle. And yet every caster Rosemary knew was capable of causing a flame to ignite on a wick with a snap of their fingers. If that simple task that broke the rules of nature wasn’t a perversion, then why did necromancy have to be? Because of the cost? Rosemary had heard plenty of stories of casters burning themselves up into nothing to fuel a spell, before. Why was the cost only acceptable when the caster was the one on the line? And there was so much good that could be done with necromancy. People could be healed from injuries that would otherwise maim or kill them in a matter of moments, with no trace of the injury that had imperiled them remaining. People, good people, who had been robbed of the long lives they deserved by chance, could be made whole again. People like her mother… 

The witch weighed the words carefully in her mind before opening her mouth to speak. “People like to paint in broad strokes. They want to paint necromancy as something inherently bad. But it isn’t. It’s a tool. So much good could be done with it, if they’d give it a chance.” Rosemary tapped her finger against the green glass bottle before holding it back out to Kal. But there was a part she wouldn’t speak aloud. Not to this boy who was basically a stranger. The boy who was the heir to his own family’s secrets, who had never had to fight to deserve them. She wanted to be good enough. She wanted her father to be proud of her. 

Fireworks sparkled overhead, and Kal was standing up. Rosemary reached up to take his hand, when a deeper voice cut through the evening air. “Rosemary Madeline Kane, what are you doing?” Benedict’s voice was calm and collected on the surface, but Rosemary had pissed her father off enough times to hear the undercurrent as he spoke. “Just catching some air…” The young witch scrambled to her feet, smoothing out her gown in an attempt to make herself the sparkling example of the perfect heir. Benedict’s eyes alighted on Kal, and his demeanor shifted. “Apologies— Benedict Kane. You are?”

—

Kalabhiti’s eyes were set on Rosemary when a profound masculine voice cut through the air as she grabbed his hand to pull herself from the grass. He made sure she was standing properly before turning to meet the man who had spoken, noticing right away how Rosemary’s entire demeanor seemed to change. He knew, even before looking at the man, that it could only be her father. Once his eyes fell on the older man, Kal noticed the resemblance immediately, confirming what he had figured out seconds earlier.

“My apologies, Mr. Kane,” Kal said, his voice proper as he extended his hand for the other man to shake. “It is my fault. I was the one who asked Rosemary to accompany me to get some air. I’m not used to this weather, so I asked if she could join me,” he explained nonchalantly before standing straighter as he finally introduced himself. “My name is Kalabhiti Pretayan Blackwood. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Kal looked at Rosemary from the corner of his eye and gave her a quick wink before adding, “I believe you might know my father, Samar Pretayan.”

Before Benedict Kane could muster another word, a gentle voice called out, “Kalabhiti Pretayan Blackwood!”

Kal’s eyes focused on the figure approaching them. Wearing a black translucent gown covered in golden stars, Kal’s mother made her way toward them with a smile on her face. The gown made her appear as though she were floating, though that was simply the way she walked. Her long black hair was neatly styled into a mermaid braid that framed her face in a way that made her look younger.

“There you are! Your father and I have been looking for you all night. There’s someone we want you to meet…” At the sight of Rosemary and Benedict Kane, Beatrice stopped short, realizing who her son was speaking to. “Oh!”

“Mother,” Kal intercepted before she could say anything else. Beatrice Blackwood was known for speaking her mind without considering the consequences. “This is mister Benedict Kane and his daughter, Rosemary.”

Beatrice snorted softly before saying, “My love, of course I know who Benedict is. He has visited your father a couple of times to discuss important matters.” She gave Rosemary’s father a complicit look before kissing both his cheeks as a greeting. She then turned to Rosemary and flashed her a warm, open smile. “You never said your daughter was this beautiful, Benedict,” she reproached the man before acknowledging Rosemary. “I’m Beatrice. It is lovely to meet you.” Beatrice flashed Kal a knowing look before adding, “I hope my son has been nothing but a gentleman to you.”

Kal rolled his eyes and sighed.

—

Rosemary knew precisely where every strand of her hair was, exactly how every pleat of her skirt fell, how every muscle in her body braced for some withering, yet socially acceptable commentary on whatever new flaw her father could divine as the newest reason she wasn’t good enough for him. She did her best, but there was always some new hurdle to overcome, or some new imperfection she needed to polish in the hope she could get it right. But the attention slipped onto Kal quickly, and the witch was glad to have her father’s attention on someone else for a few moments. She hoped the champagne that still stained her skirt would have evaporated the next time he glanced her way.

Benedict’s hand gripped Kal’s in what Rosemary could only assume was a display of power, watching the way the muscles in the back of her father’s hands flexed as he gripped– perhaps just a bit too tight– the young man’s hand in a shake. Before her father could speak further, a woman’s voice cut through the evening air. The black fabric of the woman’s dress glowed in the rosy sunset as she approached, all smiles. Something in the center of her chest that she thought was long healed over felt like it was bleeding once more, as Kal’s mother swept across the lawn as she made her way across to her son. Her hand drifted absently to the dainty pendant that rested between her collarbones, catching the golden heart between her fingers in an attempt to feel closer to her own mother. 

It was news to her. Rosemary had not once heard of Kal and his family. Part of her wondered if it was because he considered the Pretayan Blackwood family as competition. The rest of her knew it was because her input on family matters wasn’t needed, and it certainly wasn’t desired. Still, she rolled her shoulders back, and offered the woman the same gracious smile she’d developed into her muscle memory. Clever. Smart. Talented. She repeated the three words in her mind over and over as the woman made her assessment. 

She tried to ignore the sound of her own heart fracturing just a bit further. Beautiful. She knew where that road went. She could already see the wheels turning in her father’s eyes as he glanced at Kal, giving him a second glance. No… No, no… Rosemary’s smile didn’t falter. She dipped her head in an attempt at modest bashfulness, while what she really wanted to do was take her half drunk bottle of champagne and take her risk hitch hiking her way off of fucking Long Island. “I’m Rosemary. It’s a pleasure.” The words came out of her mouth like she had been possessed by a version of herself from another timeline– one where she didn’t care so much about wasting all her potential, solely to meet the expectations of her father. “Kal’s been a perfect gentleman. We were just chatting while I caught some air.” Benedict’s eyes narrowed back on her, and she stood taller. She knew what would happen. He’d push for them to get married. He could align them with another family of necromancers. He’d be able to extend his grasp internationally. He could have the Kane legacy strengthened by marrying her off to Kal. But Rosemary didn’t know Kal. She didn’t love Kal. And she was not going to marry someone she barely knew, and had no feelings for.