#c max

Siobhan had been here before. Not on the same spot on the stage—why did they call it a stage?—or with her back so straight or her face dry but she had been here before. She’d been down in the audience, she’d been tossed bloodied into center stage—wasn’t it strange to call a feature of justice a stage?—and she’d begged there just as she’d once cheered from the sides. The younger banshees wouldn’t know, but entertainment was hard to come by when you were in an insular community of screaming women. No, “hard to come by” was the wrong turn of phrase, wasn’t it? Siobhan couldn’t look up, the sun was bright and just the quick glance she’d given them had pinked her vision and turned every blink into a lightshow. Everything was different: the stage used to be angled the other way, there used to be a roof, the skeletons still had skin, and Siobhan wanted to be here. Even that day—she wouldn’t think about that day—she had wanted to be here; she thought that was where the tragedy lived. All her life, all she had ever wanted was to be here. She had been here, she wanted to be here, she was here.

It was just that some fraction of her mind was doing this odd thing—it wasn’t so odd, she’d been doing it all her life—but it was such a tiny piece. An insignificant portion—no part of the brain is insignificant to the function of a creature—would occasionally interject. Siobhan was certain, however, trying to adjust her rosy vision of the court, that it wasn’t really her. She smiled over at Anita. She turned and waved and smiled at the crowd—audience. She wasn’t nervous; why would she be nervous? Because she had directly disobeyed Putrecia’s wishes? Because she wasn’t prepared? Because the last time she was here, they—no, she wasn’t thinking about that. There was no good reason to be nervous and because Siobhan was logical, and never—rarely—emotional, she wasn’t worried at all. 

They would take her back, because that’s what family did and everyone here was some extension of her family—not by blood, she’d sooner be a snail than be related to any of these women. She noted the moment she was led to the stage that the only person in attendance she did share blood with was Orla, her cousin. She did not look at Orla. Her mother once said these court proceedings were childish drivel—she didn’t seem to find anything so childish when she…

The old door creaked open and murmurs rose from the crowd-audience. Banshees didn’t hope, but something like it sat in Siobhan’s stomach when she turned around. Her pink, sun-devoured vision couldn’t decipher the form until she joined her. No, it was too short to be her—Oh, but maybe it’s—instead, it was Regan. Maybe the stage was apt after all, Siobhan’s deflating body was almost theatrical. “...Regan?” she asked, carrying the broken corpse of hope that somehow the sun had made her see spectors of annoying banshees. But that wasn’t true, the sun couldn’t do that—or maybe it could, she wasn’t the one that was the doctor. Why was she here? Was it not enough that she had their respect? Their need? A grandmother who wanted her? A lifetime of worthiness to earn, easily laid in front of her? What was it that Regan was trying to rob her of now? On the higher side of the stage, Siobhan looked unflattering beside the woman. Now, their incompatible heights were on display, and Siobhan was made to look like a giant; the tight, low-cut dress seemed like the tacky venture that it was. Now, her glamour was stupid. Now, Regan was here, and the world was a little less pink. 

———

Putrecia's legacy could be felt in every cruelty of the court. The skeletons (human, mostly) hanging on the walls of what was essentially their town hall, the uneven stage, the way the audience had nothing holding them back to keep them from climbing right up next to those on trial, the array of knives available at the judge’s podium. Most telling was the Ciorcal na Cinniúint – a big, spinning wheel that could make or break a case. With possible outcomes such as “witness to the stand” and “closing arguments” alongside “human sacrifice” and “mushroom dance”. When Regan lived here for years, she never came to watch these cases. She had no interest in seeing banshees turn their daggers on each other (on anyone; no, don’t think about that right now). Her absence seemed like a mistake now that she had little idea of what to expect, other than what she had heard from others, and what she was seeing on the wheel. And though Regan knew she was not about to die, banshees preferred to be far more inventive, anyway, so it meant nothing. (Elias had wished he were dead. Maybe that would have been better.)

Her grandmother wasn’t about to die, either. She would suffer for decades, the banshees providing palliative care, because banshees simply did not kill each other. That she facilitated the death of her grandmother – someone she should have revered – made her crime especially heinous.

Fae needed nothing but words to bind each other, so Regan wore no cuffs as she was led up to the stage – she had promised not to escape or try to harm anyone while court was in session. (Like she was someone who would harm others now. Was she? The blood on her shirt seemed relevant.) Her obedience was not rewarded. When was it? Trudging through the crowd that made her skin catch fire, she was positioned on the lower half of the sloped stage, which made the judge’s podium look a full foot taller. And there, above Regan glittering like the proud, golden statue of Talamh-Ithe, across the stage was… “Siobhan?” A wave of disgust rippled through Regan, but also confusion. The other banshee couldn’t be exiled a second time. Was this some sort of second chance? There had to be something Regan wasn’t seeing yet. There always seemed to be.

Her eyes searched for the tiniest amount of reassurance in the crowd, but no banshees would look at her; it didn’t matter how many times Regan had patched them up at the clinic, had dressed their wounds and kept infections at bay – what she had done to her grandmother was unforgivable. (Was this what Siobhan had felt when they first arrived here? Probably not. That hag thought being despised was better than being forgotten.) One of the banshees had even dusted off the band-aid dispenser and set it in the middle of the audience, a reminder that she, too, was disposable. Regan shivered at the sheer overwhelmingness and uncertainty of the situation. Just when she was about to pull her eyes away in favor of staring at her own feet, twisting her ring endlessly around her finger, she saw Wynne’s curly head of hair, and Metzli standing taller than most of the others (a hallucination?), and behind all of the banshees, a small-eared bear with sooty fur. 

Regan had wanted to leave. There. She thought it. She had come so close, so close to– but those rolling jade hills shriveled black and flattened, and the endless highway, tantalizingly close to Saol Eile, coiled and became a noose around her neck. Her grandmother was no longer an obstacle to leaving, but every single banshee packed in here was. Regan had people here who would and had fought for her, people who traveled across half the world to find her – which was stupid; humans were stupid and full of hope, though perhaps those two flaws were synonymous – and now they would watch what happened when lesser beings tried to dismantle and disentangle the threads of fate, what happened when they got their mediocre fingers jammed into the knot and were pulled inside of it instead of unraveling it.

———

“Scread go ciúin while we are in session,” Eithne reminded everyone. It was inappropriate to tell banshees they were not allowed to scream, so the best she could do was remind everyone to do so quietly. “Court will be held in English today.” Whenever that was decided, it never needed an explanation. Banshees all inherently knew it was so that the humans watching the proceedings might have a mental breakdown (they were just so fragile). And most of the banshees here, by now, realized that the aos si now had a few extra humans than they used to. They were eager to take advantage of that, a payback for humans thinking they could sneak in here and walk among them without being caught. 

“Siobhan Dolan is here for a re-trial. Do you remember her? You may not. Her disobedience of Fate led to the death of seven of our sisters. She was exiled four decades ago and has earned a re-consideration today.” A few of the banshees in the crowd did not scream so silently. “Putrecia has determined this.” That stopped the uproar. “We will know her fate first, and then move on to a new trial for Regan Kavanagh, the leanbh who pushed Cliodhna Caomhánach, her own grandmother, into Farraige na Buanachta.” Now the other banshees seemed solemn. Cliodhna was not nice, no one would call her nice, but she was respected. 

“Siobhan comes to us with her own lawyer, devoid of experience. Regan does not have a lawyer. We have issued her a pubic defender.” Eithne placed the pubis on Regan’s podium. The pubic defender did make compelling arguments sometimes, but Eithne did not think Fate would smile upon Regan Kavanagh today.

“If anyone has questions for Siobhan Dolan and Regan Kavanagh, save them. We will see if the wheel allows it. We first join Putrecia for keening and the judge selection.”

———

Putrecia wobbled onto the stage as quickly as her old legs and hunched back could carry her. Her pendulous breasts swayed with each step. Her mouth was opened in a giddy, toothless gape. She wasn’t the judge anymore, but this still filled her with a juvenile kind of excitement, bringing back fond memories of wings being plucked from the backs of exiles and knives carving up traitors. When she scuttled up, she squinted at the taller banshee on stage with foggy eyes. Who was that? Clare? Odd. Out of her old, dry throat erupted a sharp but melodic keen. Respecting Putrecia and the tradition, other banshees joined in, and the town hall filled with the sound of a hundred wails. The sound droned for about fifteen seconds before Putrecia’s mouth snapped shut. She was hungry now. And tired. Every time she came up here she was reminded how much her knees creaked and why she stopped doing this. 

The non-banshees became evident, as if they were not already. When the keening stopped, Putrecia’s eyes glazed over the audience. From behind her cataracts, everything looked like a blur. Even so, she could pick out a hare from a field of foxes. Her crooked finger pointed straight ahead. “Ár breitheamh.” Putrecia did not know English, but the meaning was obvious.

The judge had been chosen.

Putrecia’s skeletal fingers beckoned the judge up to the podium.

———

The aos sí had been abuzz with one of the most horrible sounds it could be. It wasn’t the corpse flies, though Wynne didn’t like those. It wasn’t the screams, which made their ears and head hurt. But it was the news that spread like wildfire, the whispers of Nora and Regan arrested, that had been truly terrifying. That, combined with the fact that Elias was recovering from multiple stab wounds in a dusty attic after mediocre if not bad first aid, left Wynne in a strenuous position.

They weren’t sure if there were any banshees that would petition for their friends’ release. They weren’t sure if there was any feasible way to get Elias out of this place with all this happening, either. Wynne had considered calling Emilio, but they didn’t want to alarm him too much — because this was a situation to be alarmed about, wasn’t it? Somehow they were the only person they knew not restrained or injured gravely, and responsibility was pressing on their shoulders. How were they supposed to solve this, though? They didn’t understand human law, let alone banshee law. They knew how to run away from a place like this, but only by themself, and there was no way they were running by themself. (They wondered if that was what Emilio would want them to do. To just leave now that they still could.)

Unsure of what to do, they had ventured to where all the banshees were gathering, clutching a phalange in their hand and keeping their head low. They had Elias left behind after checking his injuries, promising him that they’d return and trying not to cry at the sight of him. They stood among the crowd, somehow having ended halfway through it and stared at the stage throughout the proceedings. They had only looked away to stare at a bright white bear, vaguely in the distance, and they had wondered how Nora had gotten out, or if they were simply losing their mind.

There was only one other familiar face there — Siobhan. From the coffee and the sometimes good advice, who Emilio had warned them about. There was a spinning wheel that had them very concerned as the words ‘human sacrifice’ were on one of the options. There was Regan, eventually, and then the two women who seemed to be in charge. They knew how to look at these kinds of people with respect, but Wynne found it very hard to look anything but afraid.

So they looked afraid all through the words the tall, curly haired banshee said. They were feeling a kind of dread that was bone deep, that was not dissimilar from the dread they had felt for all of their life — but acute again, rising to press on their chest. The kind of dread that forewarned disaster, if not death. They did not know how to save Regan now.. They did not know how to save Elias. If Nora would be okay, if she appeared as a dangerous beast. They saw no road out of this.

The wheel was spun and told the crowd that a judge was to be chosen. Wynne wasn’t sure how this was done, wondered if there was some kind of ritual — but it was as simple as an old lady pointing a finger into the crowd. Around them, banshees scattered and an opening parted. Like Moses and the sea, a story they’d been taught when they’d been younger. The old lady was pointing at them.

Wynne felt the dread in their stomach grow even larger and they were frozen. The women around them, though, started pushing them towards the stage, nails and fingers pricking in their back as they started moving. Legs as heavy as lead, their stomach sinking through the ground and into the earth. They moved up on the stage, eyes piercing through Regan with quiet panic. 

———

Throughout her life, people had always told Anita that she had a unique way of fitting into any situation she found herself in. Some called it delusion, others called it confidence. The lamia never really thought much about it, until she found herself in this aos sí. Agreeing to be Siobhan’s lawyer seemed like an easy thing to do - she used to be infatuated with those Shonda Rimes legal dramas. It seemed like a lot of grandstanding and moral righteousness which were things she could feign with ease. But the reality of what was unfolding before her was beginning to set in. This wasn’t some silly thing that Anita could just put the bare minimum effort into. This was important to Siobhan so that meant it should be important to her, too, didn’t it? Seeing Regan come into the courtroom felt surreal, hearing that she would also be on trial was baffling. But Anita had to focus. She had a job to do. 

———

Metzli didn’t know what to expect at a fae trial, but everything seemed just about right. It smelled as if despair and defeat had a scent, and it was foul in a way that made the vampire shudder. Moreover, there was a bone defender. It all made sense, felt natural, even. It just wasn’t the kind of boning Metzli was looking forward to.

———

Things in that silly American town hadn’t gone quite as Max had hoped. She had killed only an insignificant few, had failed to dismember the woman Regan seemed most fond of or the child who lived in her apartment. But things here, she thought, would go better. Things were always better here; things made sense. In Wicked’s Rest, things had been so disjointed, so nonsensical. But Saol Eile, things were right. Everything fit together exactly as it should. The stupid judge who thought they were important, the wheel that gave everything a place and a purpose, the banshees on trial who would get whatever Fate delivered to them. And Max, standing beside her sister with their mother hovering behind them. Saol Eile was right. Saol Eile was home. And Saol Eile would return to her all the little things that Wicked’s Rest had taken — shard by shard.

———

Tina figured that maybe she hadn’t done the best job ever in Maine, in dumb stupid America, but she’d tried (not that trying meant anything unless there was success). She was here now with her sister and her mother, and that was where she was meant to be. It was home, it was Fate, it was where she and Max belonged. Besides, she got to watch Siobhan and Regan have all that they deserved handed to them and that made her belly warm in a sort of way that could’ve been confused for being a feeling of one sort or another if she weren’t above that. She straightened up, trying to seem as tall as she could (which, of course, wasn’t very tall) and grinning over at her sister, watching their mother, admirably stone-faced (one day Tina would be like that, she knew it), eager for the trial to begin.

———

As relieved as Clare was to be home, she was disappointed to leave before she had finished righting Siobhan’s wrongs. There was so much to clean up that she considered going back to that horrid town once this was all said and done. Those worries were an ocean away and for now, she was meant to present in the crowd to view the trial. Well, trials, apparently. It appeared that while she was away, the leanbh had come out to play and had been almost as awful as the wingless wonder. Almost. To remind Siobhan and everyone else there what it was she had done, how far she had fallen, she had borrowed Orla’s garish hat. It was hideous, something she wouldn’t want to be wearing when she received her glao cinniúint, the one announcing her own final Fate, but it felt appropriate for the occasion. The black and red spotted patterns were impossible to miss atop her head, even among the crowd of various wings and what not. She hoped Siobhan enjoyed her fashion choices. 

She noticed a handful of unfamiliar faces gathered near the wingless wonder herself. That familiar feeling of death turned on his head and gut open clawed down her back again. Another undead. What, was Siobhan collecting them, now? Every time Clare was certain she couldn’t get worse, she found a way. Disgusting. She’d have to make a note to help steer Fate back on course once the dust was settled. Again. 

———

Nora sat in the back of the crowd, a bear among banshees. The additional height made for a great advantage in the crowd, she could see clearly over the banshees heads as they gathered like little ants waiting for carnage. Every now and then a banshee would take too much interest in the bear and the back, and the bear would display her teeth. She meant it as a threat each time, but the banshees always took it as a delightful display. Freaks. A numb nervousness spread over her as she saw Wynne center stage, Wynne who just wanted to leave. There was also a shock to see Metzli here. She hoped Metzli, Wynne and Regan would all escape with ease, but was settled in to watch the show. 

———

There were few surprises in human courts. The idea of “discovery” tried to keep things fair between the two opposing sides, however fair irrational humans were capable of pretending to be. Court here was different; that had become immediately clear. And Eithne surely relished Regan’s shock (however muted) at seeing Siobhan when she had walked up here. Eithne spoke of a retrial, which made… some sense; it lined up with her initial thought. Even though Siobhan had fetched Regan and brought her here like a dog wishing to please, they turned her away, because there was more, always more, whenever there was space for it. And with how desperately Siobhan wished to return, there was plenty of space. 

Elias was insistent behind her eyes, even when they were open; her grandmother still screeched in her ears; the ring on Regan’s finger begged almost compulsively to be squeezed. Jade had said she had the soggiest, wettest heart. Right now, she couldn’t slow it. Regan knew her best chance of getting out of this was to maintain composure and prove to the other banshees that she was one of them. The thought of that lie coated her stomach in iron. She was not one of them. She had never been one of them. Never had that been more obvious than when she almost watched Elias die.

She glanced desperately at the pubis. It was lovely, but offered no advice. It was really more pubic than defender.

Regan stayed silent during the keening, certain that if she attempted it, a shrill scream would come out instead, and such an embarrassment would not help her right now (actually, she’d prefer to never scream again). But when Putrecia lifted her finger toward the crowd, long, dirty nail pointing at someone she knew, Regan was paying attention. Wynne. She pointed at Wynne. Regan fished for their eyes, but the look she gave was anything but reassuring. It begged Wynne to listen, to obey, which came with a guilt all its own; she knew how many years of Wynne’s life had been spent doing just that. But nothing could change the course of things now, and Wynne was pulled up to the platform, ushered to approach the wheel. To Regan’s relief, Wynne listened. 

———

In the years Siobhan was away—exiled—they must’ve developed a new form of comedic justice: a bone-rattling Shakespearan imitation of a court-room tale. All the world’s a stage, and so on. But Regan wouldn’t agree to do something like this because Regan wasn’t fun, and comedy was supposed to be fun. Siobhan wasn’t having fun; Regan didn’t seem like she was having fun; the banshees were serious insofar as they could be with the big wheel and the nonsensical pick of judge who—was that Wynne? Siobhan bit her lip to keep herself from laughing. Reality came to her with new tidings: dead magpies rattling out the news. So, Regan did push her grandmother into Farraige na Buanachta. The pubic defender was silent. Wynne was here. Wynne was the judge. Wynne was going to do a terrible job. When life happened on a stage, it was easy to abstract; when it happened because of Fate, when it happened to performers, when it happened and one was not meant to feel anything at all. They didn’t care. Why would they care? When had they ever cared? 

That was her life, her greatest shame, that Eithne had just shared like the morning update on which humans had sunk more into Farraige na Buanachta overnight. Her face burned as she glanced around, hoping to find at least one face that wasn’t horrified. Most had no real expression at all. Of course, this was her life, not theirs. She was on a stage. Why did she care? Why had she ever cared? 

Had Regan’s childishness ruined what would have been an easy reunion? Or had it never mattered? Finally, Siobhan turned to Orla, and…who was that there? Those neat strands of blonde hair under a…hat? A very familiar hat? Who gave Clare the hat Orla made from her torn wings? Orla, probably. Orla who grinned at her in a sea of solemn faces, holding two thumbs up in a gesture for something that didn’t exist. Siobhan turned back to the judge’s podium, shaking off fantasies of murdering Clare, and held two thumbs up for Wynne; no matter what they did, it wouldn’t be right. Siobhan had been here before—now she understood why they called it a stage. There was only one thing to do when on one. She didn’t care if Regan understood that when all that mattered was if Wynne did. 

———

Eithne paid the human ushered onto the stage little mind. They were nothing if not a tool to spin the wheel. They could be replaced by a humerus or femur. It was nice to spin the wheel with one of those, to push the little rods with the tip of the bone. She preferred it, because it meant she got to hold a bone and wave it around as she spoke. It added weight to her words. But a human would do, too, and she could just use her hands. So she gestured to the wheel and said in her accented English, “Spin the wheel.” She looked at the human for a moment, wondering if they needed to hear the instruction repeated. Sometimes they were a little slow to process a banshee’s demands. 

They had been raised obedient. Wynne knew nothing of what was happening around them but they knew what was expected of them. They knew how to act on a stage like this, how to hold themself and how to keep their mouth sealed. How to obey those that stood above them – which were no longer Regan or even Siobhan, but a strange woman who held herself like an elder would. 

How many times had they stood like they stood now back at home? Looking over the people that made up the community they belonged to? There was no altar here, but there was sacrifice. There was tradition. There were people to make an example out of. They had done that too, at home, though not in a way like this. In subtler ways, behind closed doors. Not with a large spinning wheel that they had seen only once before. They realized with a pang that it’d been at the renaissance fair they’d attended with Elias.

They moved closer to the wheel and gave it a hefty tug, the noise of the wheel clicking echoing in their bones. They held their breath as the various options passed, their eyes constantly following the portion of the wheel reserved for human sacrifice. It didn’t land close to it, though. Instead the yellow wedge slowly passed over ‘bring out the worms’ before it eventually landed on the next thing: ‘opening statement’. They didn’t say anything.

Eithne glared daggers at the mute human. (This was one of her favorite expressions, if only she could make her glowers send daggers.) It was the judge’s duty to speak the words for those in the crowd who might not be able to read what the result was. Her voice was a cold hiss, “Announce it,” she instructed. It was a very courteous thing for her to do. The humans couldn’t help that they were slow to understand their very logical ways. It was only their shortcoming nature.

Wynne cleared their throat. “Opening statement.” A beat. “Please.” 

———

Once the judge? Yes, they seemed to be the judge. Once they asked for an opening statement, Anita quickly rose to her feet and made her way up to the stage - the gentle clack of her stilettos echoing throughout the room muddled only by some faint whispers undoubtedly regarding her aforementioned lack of experience. Surely she didn’t look like she lacked experience. None of the clothes she had brought with her were sufficient for a fae courtroom so she had gone out to the city one day and found a white pantsuit that she looked devastatingly sexy in. After all, that did seem to be a crucial part of the lawyer thing according to Siobhan. 

“Go raibh maith agat,” Anita offered as she got to the stage and stood beside Siobhan, but the looks of confusion and disdain that she received from the audience informed her that she had likely butchered the Irish thank you beyond recognition. “Lucanidae - commonly known as stag beetles -are the rarest beetle species in the world. Because of how rare they are, many cultures believe that they symbolize strength and power. Those who collect and preserve beetles will pay several thousands of dollars to acquire a stag for their collection.” Gesturing over towards Siobhan, she continued, “The woman before you is a similarly rare specimen. And I am not just talking about how long her leg bones are.” Anita paused for a laughter that never came. Clearing her throat, she shrugged off the slight awkward silence. 

“She is the kind of person you want to have in your community. Like the stag beetle she brings with her beauty, value, strength, and power. I can say from experience that life is never boring when Siobhan Dolan is around. Cheek bones that could draw blood and probably have. Today you will see things like I do, to deny Siobhan would be to deny Fate.” Anita didn’t know a whole lot about the banshees relationship with Fate, but from what she had gathered it was a significant one. Maybe it was a bit of a hail mary, but hell, it wasn’t like she couldn’t tell a lie. 

———

Everyone has to die. Some people live longer than others, but every person comes into being and then ceasing. It is the cycle that everyone knows, and the one that banshees revere and forewarn. To Metzli, for a while, it did not matter what choices you made, but the commands you obey. 

As long as you follow those, as this supposed Fate wills, all will be right. There is no room for one’s existence outside of what duty calls of them. Metzli would make the argument that that was simply surviving in worship. But they had no voice to give at that moment. They had their own obligation in love, staying silent in a courtroom that looked nothing like the ones on television. That alone felt like a freedom that could only derive from escape. Was that possible for all of them? All Metzli could do was hope, silently, with a reassuring nod to Wynne. 

———

It was starting. It was starting and Max, like so many of the banshees here, craved the sense of it. The wheel would spin, the cards would fall, and Regan Kavanagh and Siobhan Dolan would each get exactly what they deserved. Max shot Tina a pleased look. This was what they’d been waiting for. This was what they’d wanted since the first day Regan dared step foot in the same classroom as them, since she’d had the audacity to pretend herself an equal. Whatever justice Fate decided. 

———

Clare was certain her eyes were going to roll out her head before the trial was over. A human sacrifice for a judge? What was Putrecia thinking? Clare knew her eyes were going but was her mind gone with it? At least the “lawyer” in question was pitiful. She didn’t know the first thing about Fate or how it worked. And her Irish was dreadful. “Booo,” she hummed under her breath once the statement was finished, one hand obscuring her mouth as if it would help disguise where the sound came from. The daggers Putrecia shot her way was enough to make her stand a little straighter, her fingers lacing together as her hands dropped down towards her waist. Fine, she had enough respect for Fate to play nice. For now.

———

They understood what needed to be done once the lawyer woman was done. The wheel was spun again. Instead of Siors or an absent demon deciding how the proceedings went, it was a spinning wheel of fortune. Wynne spun it again. Once more, the option ‘human sacrifice’ was skipped. They wanted to ask the tall banshee who had instructed them before if judges could be human sacrifices, but instead opened their mouth to announce the result: “Statement from leprechaun.” 

Once they’d addressed the crowd their eyes fell on Metzli. That didn’t make sense — why would Metzli be here? Why was Metzli watching them on this stage? Wynne blinked viciously as they stared at their employer and friend. They gave them a look of reassurance and they wondered what that meant — was Metzli here as a savior again? They didn’t dare hope like that and thus averted their gaze, lest they give something away to all the other banshees eyeing the stage.

———

It was a good idea to have Anita as her lawyer. Wise Anita, who would always wear the correct outfits. Smart Anita, who would always praise her appropriately. Ireland so far had been a series of mistakes, but assigning Anita as her lawyer had not been one. Siobhan had enough sense to keep from praising Anita vocally, and in front of several banshees who, for all they cared, probably thought Anita was human. (And Clare, who she knew she heard booing, and whom she didn’t want to do anything in front unless it was stabbing her) Anita’s Irish could use some work though. 

It took a moment for her to realize that the wheel had been spun again, and to the only option she had been dreading (she would’ve taken ‘human sacrifice’ any day). “There will be no leprechaun.” Siobhan tried to keep her voice steady despite the rattling inside her chest. The audience erupted into gasps and murmurs, as if she’d conducted the sound out of them. She wouldn’t talk about how she’d kidnapped the one she found (because she couldn’t ask a friend to lie for her) and then how she’d let it go (because she couldn’t ask a friend to endure trauma for her sake; a friend that couldn’t even attend the trial). That was the sort of thing the stage might like, but it was her life. Also, extremely embarrassing. And, they didn’t care about all that, anyway. They hadn’t cared when she tried to explain herself forty-two years ago, they wouldn’t care now about the way she felt concerning lesser creatures—her friends. She was a shameful banshee; had she learned nothing? 

The rising whispers were burning her ears. A banshee wouldn’t lie in court but who would expect whole honesty from an actress? Wasn’t the truth elastic? Taking a cue from Anita (also a friend), she channeled the woman’s confidence and bolstered herself. “Why must we bother the leprechauns?” Siobhan straightened up, giving one coordinated boob jiggle. Putrecia didn’t look happy, but Siobhan didn’t care—wasn’t that the point? 

She raised her voice carefully, speaking over the din. “How would you feel if you were taken away from your important business to speak on the affairs of some other fae?” The murmurs rose; she was leading them the wrong way. “If you were cleaning your bones, or watching a body decompose, would it seem urgent to abandon your obligation to appreciate Death? To speak to strangers?” She could hear the room split; grumbles of agreement against groans of disapproval and the banshees that didn’t understand English who just wanted to start screaming. Siobhan turned and greeted them, boobs and all. “This court is for us,” Siobhan switched to Irish, “what we want is more bones, more blood, more screaming…not to hear the leprechauns. When have they ever said anything good?” Or comprehensible. 

The audience was stirred, if they agreed with her—and Siobhan had just enough self-esteem left to assume they did—they needed a place to go. If she pulled them into a crescendo—and she assumed she did—she needed to deliver them to a final. “Worms,” she said, “péist.” She pointed at Regan (why did she get the more flattering, shorter side?). “Her worms are gray. And tiny. I saw them!” Siobhan pointed at the dispenser, who had been standing in the audience all this time; a little dented from being tossed around, she thought. “Has our old doctor ever pushed any grandmothers? I only want to know how we can trust this leanbh not to push my grandmother?” 

———

Regan had been in courtrooms before, many of them, actually, as a distinguished expert witness discussing her autopsy determinations. It was routine, easy, with no surprises. She dressed crisp and conservatively and had an answer for every question. There were no wings on her back or mousey-blonde roots in her hair, and she was so deeply, richly in her element that she didn’t have a spare second to consider the flawed, human stage fright lighting up her brain. She could always defend her work more than she could defend herself. That was a world away. Never before had she felt like some child in front of a jury – awkward, scrawny-limbed, with no nametag (,MD) or lofty introduction. It was Siobhan, it was the stage, it was a hundred looks of reproach, like she was back in school belting out the poorly-pitched notes of Oklahoma, trying to disappear beneath the bare, cardboard branches of her Tree #2 costume. 

She had never been able to hit any of the notes, even then, and this presentation was immeasurably worse; she had not even been given the script. Were they supposed to bring leprechauns? Bás síoraí, that must have been customary. Wynne… was pretty short. Maybe they could all pretend they were the leprechaun. No, she had told more than enough lies these last few weeks. They came pouring out of her stomach at least twice a day, mixed with blood and bile. At least she wasn’t on trial for those. No one seemed to know about the lie she’d told to save the ham child’s skin, even if it all fell apart, or the lie to buy Wynne and Elias some time – even though the selection of Wynne had a judge had her worry she might be wrong about that. Well, her grandmother might have known about Wynne, but that seemed– that wouldn’t come up here. No, it seemed to be the lies she told herself that were most apt to get her in trouble. So Regan let Siobhan carve out the path of disappointment, not lying but also not willing to tell the audience just yet that she didn’t have a leprechaun either. 

Siobhan seemed to have no such anxieties. Of course she didn’t. She was a banshee, proud and true, on a literal pedestal, here for forgiveness instead of punishment. Her poise made sense. She could roar with the same pride she had when they’d first arrived here, before she realized her name had been forgotten and Putrecia sent her packing (somewhere, presumably). She could work all of this in her favor where Regan could not. Except Siobhan was spinning off in some other direction (as were her breasts) and… what was this, some fae form of veganism? Banshees were not going to see anything wrong with taking something and dragging it here if they thought it belonged in this place. Regan knew that. She knew that down to her shaking bones – every one other than the noble pubis her thumbs smoothed over in her hands. Siobhan did belong here. If others agreed with her, they, like her, were thinking about this backwards – how wrong it would be to be anywhere else.

Despite this, Regan thought this would work for Siobhan. Anita made a strong case for her (sort of… also, why was Anita here?). Siobhan wouldn’t have been receiving this retrial if a return was off the table. This was being handed to her. 

And she was using it, her power, her time to appeal, to turn everyone against Regan. Those hundreds of eyes, now sharpened like iron daggers, were set on her again, and her flesh crawled with oppressive fae presence like an army of ants pinched at her skin. Regan flashed Siobhan a sharp look that said are you kidding? They weren’t even on trial against each other. This was not a debate. Why did Jade like this foul banshee? Why did Anita and Metzli? Regan was able to ignore everyone for just as long as it took to snipe at Siobhan. “They were good enough for your worms to lay with, weren’t they?” Siobhan wouldn’t appreciate her speaking of this. So she was. “How embarrassed you were by their tubes of sperm and wriggling affection. How coddled yours were, as if you were used to living in such a manner yourself. I was not the one leaking at the sight of them. Your tear ducts are defective. They work.” Regan crossed her arms, chin pointed up. She had just cried for three days straight. No one had to know that.

It was the mention of the old doctor, of pushing grandmothers, that shot a bullet through Regan’s moment of confidence. The worms in her mind scattered. Was her pubic defender not supposed to do something here? Did it work without the ilia and ischia? When Regan heard the word leanbh, it had not come from Siobhan, but from the tar pit across town. And predictably, the coward that she was, Regan shrank back. That voice said banshees do not fear, do not cower, just as often as it called her a child. It was right on both counts. Regan was no banshee. A banshee would not have pushed her grandmother to her inevitable death. Whatever she was, it did feel fear. Maybe not for Siobhan. She didn’t care very much about Siobhan. But the banshees in the crowd were full of spite, and it was no longer for Siobhan.

———

The pubic defender did not say anything about how Siobhan’s statements against its client were unfair, or irrelevant to the matter at hand. It did not say anything, because it was a bone.

———

The arguments regarding worms caught Anita off guard, she wasn’t expecting her actual area of expertise to come up. “Objection!” She said and stood up from her seat, channeling her inner Elle Woods. “The claims of leaking are, uh, hearsay.” After receiving some unwelcome stares, she quietly sat back down. 

———

The phonies did well to block out the noise of the room, but they couldn’t do much more than that. No tool could dull out a banshee’s scream, nor could it block it. A few seconds alone could tear the flesh away and turn Metzli into dust, but they found that outcome far preferable to losing people they cared about. Having to exist in a world where love and freedom were ripped from their friends and replaced with obedience and rot was worse. Time and distance had given both Regan and Siobhan the chance to experience what it meant to connect and love and care. Even as it no longer remained the priority in the Aos Sí, Metzli could see how their time away affected them, changed them to be who they were meant to be as they sat at their podium. 

They weren’t sure if they believed in Fate, but for all intents and purposes wasn’t that Fate, too? Weren’t connections a direct cause of Fate? Wasn’t that why the distance between Metzli and their loved ones only made the pull in their chest stronger? As if each connection wound itself tightly like a string and grew taut with each step away. Metzli didn’t understand why that didn’t matter to the crowd that despised their abhorrent existence, but they found they didn’t care anymore. Why would they listen to loveless and cruel creatures that reminded them of their clan? If Metzli deserved to be dead, so did they. But they had to behave. Be better. 

———

The human was good at making the wheel spin, though that was hardly something to compliment. A child could do it. As could a gust of wind. As could a bone. Eithne watched them swing at it again and hoped for a little bit of respite. A nice sacrifice or a dance break. She was tired of hearing Siobhan talk of worms, as if her having girthier worms was (though admirable) in any way relevant. It was kind of amusing to see the two banshees argue, though. “We all know by now Regan Kavanagh has no regard for Worms. It is not yet her turn, though, is it?” Eyes flashed at Siobhan. She was no fan of big displays of emotion but plenty of banshees cried over worms. Especially on worm remembrance day, which the leanbh had made all about her. “Spin.” 

———

Wynne watched with a weary look on their face how Siobhan and Regan argued about worms. All of the words were white noise, jumbling together like the clacking of the wheel that would come again. It all seemed like filler. Like the air bubbles that formed when you baked sourdough bread, trapped and surrounded and at the end of the day, not all that important. They were there because of a process but they added nothing when you cut the bread. They released hot, baked air and when you put jam or butter on a slice of bread, you had to maneuver around it. They thought this was like that. Baked air.

But who were they to protest? Who had they ever been to protest? Even when they had ran they had not left a long letter, even when they had returned they hadn’t offered a great speech. They looked at Regan with wide eyes but remained quiet and eventually just spun the wheel again, the clicking and clacking as monotone as the words that had been spoken. They wondered how long this would go on. If this really was all a charade and how long this postponed would take until a judgment was passed.

Because if what they were saying was true — if Regan had killed her grandmother, then what did it matter? She would be punished. What did this stage offer? Why were they there, if not to be looked at with a kind of mirth, and not the reverence they had once been used to. Maybe it was a blessing they were all focused on Siobhan now, who Wynne knew less well. Who they were slightly afraid of. Who had been unkind to them, at times, even if she had also offered them a kind of clarity way back when. 

Wynne stood very still, afraid that any wrong move might reveal the way they were teetering on the edge of collapse. If regression had given them anything it was composure. They shot into action when they were told to spin again, waiting with baited breath as the wheel clicked around and watching it land on ‘sketch artist’ with a sense of dull relief. 

———

She’d gotten a totally dope (that was an American word that she could maybe get on board with) role in this trial, and she wasn’t going to disappoint. She’d spent the whole time carefully observing everyone, her pencil hardly ever leaving the page. Tina might have not killed the child and Regan’s woman back in Maine, but she could do a good job here and now.

So when the scared and beautifully sacrificial human spun the wheel and it finally landed on her, she nearly leapt up (but that would’ve been showing too much emotion, so she didn’t) and held up her drawing. She’d been paying attention so much, and her drawing showed – well, it showed something. Regan, drawn extremely lifelike, being nibbled on by an army of worms, bits of her flesh being consumed. It was delightful and gruesome and her mother had to be proud of this. “It’s something. It’ll be a good and solid memory to have.” Her lips twisted with a certain sense of pride. Tina couldn’t help herself. 

———

Eithne moved off the stage for a short moment to approach Tina. She held an important role, as it was good to freeze these kinds of moments in time. The community hadn’t really gotten the hang off backing up mobile phone pictures in the cloud yet, so drawings were still preferable. And so she considered the drawing with an expert’s eye and nodded approvingly after a few beats. “Great, yes — it is certainly a good start. It requires more anguish, though. Keep at it.” 

With a swish she turned around, back onto the stage. She cleared her throat just once, which was enough to kick the human in motion.

———

Wynne thought of spinning a bottle with their friends back at home in a game of truth or dare as they pulled at the wheel again. The urge to cry rose and disappeared and they continued to be as they had once been. In control of their emotions, exuding a level of calmness that had been called a gift back at home. The wheel turned. They hoped for a finale.

———

The Ciorcal na Cinniúint clicked and clacked. The yellow wedge it stopped on indicated that it was time for what the crowd clamored for: Siobhan’s judgment. Eithne was a generous soul. She would help the human judge out once again, because humans did not always respect the roles they were meant to fulfill. It was a grand kindness, she thought. She was having a very kind day, so far. “You must decide.”

Everyone looked at Wynne for the verdict, hundreds of eyes staring at the pitiful, trembling human who was clearly trying very hard not to tremble. Eithne offered a little more help, because she was very gracious that day, “Tibia, or fibula?” 

———

Wynne blinked at the banshee. They wanted to ask what bones had to do with the so-called judgment, but then remembered where they stood. They turned their head to look at Siobhan and wondered if the next word out of their mouth would determine the course of her life. She already hated them because they hadn’t promised their bones to her, and now they also had to cast judgment. 

They thought for a moment, scoured their mind in an attempt to remember what they knew of tibias and fibulas. They were in the lower leg, that was simple enough — one of them was thicker and more supportive, the other was for … stability, something of that sort. They tried to remember which was which, as if this was one of those exams outsiders had to take. Tibia, yes, tibia was the stronger one. The more prominent one. The fibula? Sometimes it was merged with the tibia, in some animals, they remembered that too, from the cattle skeletons at home. Horses barely had a visible one. But did it matter? Was it even a metaphor? Siobhan had once thought their idea that femurs were good for spontaneity was ridiculous, after all. Bones were bones. Bones here were seemingly treasured for rarity and quality, not for function. (Though femurs did seem to be favored.) 

And Emilio had said Siobhan was bad, so where did that leave them? Did that mean they should be malicious and choose what they figured to be the worst option? Or should they extend mercy in the face of this court? Their mind was spinning with considerations, with fears of what might happen if they said tibia or what might happen if they said fibula. What Siobhan might do if they chose wrong. 

They didn’t want to choose, that was where the dread in their stomach mostly came from. They did not want to participate in a place like this, to once again be a cog in a machine that took part in human sacrifice and other cruel methods. They didn’t want to say either of the two words. They didn’t want to know what would happen once they moved onto Regan or what would happen if they made the wheel land on ‘human sacrifice’ and most of all they did not want to be here, they had never even wanted to be here, even if it had felt like the right thing to do. They didn’t want the banshees to look at them any longer but all of them did, and all of them grew restless with every second the judge did not cast their judgment.

They were no longer feeling calm. They looked away from Siobhan and said, “Tibia.”

———

It took the human long enough. Eithne was pretty sure they would start crying even though she had asked them a very simple and straightforward question. She could have made it harder! She could have asked them the average circumference of a fox’ third rib, after all. She could have asked them to stand on their head while delivering the judgment. It was always very disappointing when she was faced with the frailty of humans, though it was never surprising.

No matter. The human picked tibia, which was a good answer. There were bad answers, of course — like um, or what do you mean, or please let me off the stage, I don’t know what I’m doing and I am going to have a mental breakdown! — and so she was satisfied. Not that it mattered very much, how the human ruled.

As if banshees would let a human decide their verdicts.

Eithne took a step forward and announced the verdict: “Siobhan Dolan will be allowed to return to us. After today, there will be no further stipulations.”

———

Metzli gasped quietly and whipped their gaze toward Siobhan. The verdict had been what she longed for, regardless of some failure. Since they’d arrived, Metzli had prepared themself for the possibility for her illusion to become reality, and still, they found themself mourning. They were supposed to be relieved and happy for her, but they couldn’t fight the sorrow inside. Despite this, Metzli offered yet another lie, and smiled. 

———

Anita wasn’t disillusioned enough to think that anything she said in her opening statements made much impact on this decision, but it still felt like a bit of a victory. She looked over at her “client,” someone who would no longer be her co-worker, possibly someone who she could truly call a friend. The reality of the loss took a moment to settle in but she didn’t let her face betray her and reveal those emotions. Instead, she tried to make sense of the expression on Siobhan’s face. There was little sense about much of what was going on, however, she had figured that much out. What she was able to determine was that with Siobhan’s trial concluded, her role was completed, and it was time for her to exit off stage left and rejoin the crowd for act two. 

———

It wasn’t what Max had wanted, though like many of the banshees present, she was far less interested in Siobhan’s verdict than Regan’s. After all, she’d never known Siobhan, hadn’t been directly affected by her betrayal. Siobhan’s disgusting mistakes had taken place long before Max and her sister were born, and even longer before they were born as things that mattered. Still, she thought of the terrible, undead thing Siobhan had cared for back in Wicked’s Rest. It would be difficult, sharing a community with someone who could stoop themselves to such levels. Max would make sure Siobhan knew, now and forever, where she stood — that Max was the better banshee, and that Siobhan was little more than a failure being given a second chance she hadn’t earned. Max was good at reminding people of such things.

———

Clare could feel a scream boiling her lungs, like oil bubbling and splashing, trying to spill over a burst through her chest. Siobhan was allowed to return? She was allowed to return to the place she had nearly destroyed with her own arrogance even though it was clear she had learned nothing in her decades away. Clare turned to look at Putrecia, hoping that she would intervene, say there had been a mistake, that the sad, pathetic excuse of a human sacrifice was, in fact, not the proper judge, that this was not the will of Fate.

Siobhan had snapped Fate in two the last time she tried to bend it to her own will, she was the reason that Clare lost her mother, the reason why six other banshees fell before their true fated end, too. This time, though, this time Fate bent to shape itself around her, granted her immunity for her crimes and let her reclaim what she had rightfully had stripped away from her. 

It was all she could do not to scream to Fate and ask why it had betrayed her for a second time. Why it favored Siobhan in ways she couldn’t understand. Instead, she pulled the horrendous hat off her head and let a focused, concentrated scream echo within the repurposed wing. It was a more emotional display than she should have allowed herself, Clare knew that, and it almost pulled her down to the wingless wonder’s own level in a way – another way she’d been wronged by Siobhan – but she couldn’t help it. 

It was tempting to storm out right then and there to toss the stupid hat into Farraige na Buanachta so it could join its pair but there was more to witness. Maybe Fate would grant at least some rightful justice today. 

———

How easy it was to sway a room; how simple to thread the lines of their little play. Stories, like life, were commanded by Fate. Could Romeo comment on the inevitably of his end? Or his idiocy in believing Juliet to be dead? In falling in love at all? Could Wynne say anything to the matter between Tibia and Fibula? And did it matter? Siobhan had what she wanted, even if she’d been one word away from something else. Fate favored her today—No, that wasn’t right. What was that about stories? They were written, chosen, made. What had she been thinking about the room? Those were her words about the Regan’s worms, her words about her grandmother. This stage was made at the direction of someone else. The wheel spun because it was pushed. Wynne was the judge because they were picked out; Wynne’s choice wasn’t Fate, Fate didn’t exist in a coin toss. Who had placed the coin? Who was flipping it? Who said it needed to be done at all? What was Fate? Was it Fate that took her wings—no, that was her mother. Was it Fate that pushed Cliodhna—no, that was Regan. 

Siobhan peered down at Regan, staring at her from under her lashes and over the tip of her nose. She was so small but more than just the slope of the stage, she appeared shriveled into herself—thin and sad like her worms. And it was Siobhan that had done that, in some way, not Fate. Regan looked wrong, not because a banshee ought to stand tall and proud but because she remembered the woman that met her with an indignant gaze as she dumped her gray worms out. This was the woman that called her a hag. This was the woman that said she hated her, just the start of this month, and now she was small. It was wrong for Regan, and that wrongness twisted Siobhan’s stomach. Why did she care? She didn’t like Regan; she hadn’t lied when she said she hated her too. She hated her childishness, she hated her lack of humor, she hated how much she envied her. Why did she care? Let the woman feel small. She was, after all. 

Siobhan got what she wanted. She won. She was going home. What had she been thinking before about Fate and stories? Oh, it was nonsense anyway. Fate adored her, Fate was appreciative of her almost-century of dedicated service. She loved Fate. She was so happy—no, she didn’t feel much of anything except the twisting in her stomach. If Siobhan assigned the synonyms in her head, she could author her reality. Happy, gleeful, content, joyous, relieved, jovial, merry—she tried to form herself under those words. She was swarming with cheer as she turned and met Orla’s gaze, who wiped a tear. She could feel nothing but pleasure as she turned the other way and found Metzli, who looked sad. Happiness clawed and tore her innards when she met Anita’s gaze, who she would never see again. It was glee inside of her as she looked up at Wynne, who was probably confused. She could imagine the Siobhan that would’ve felt a thesaurus of contentment, but she couldn’t find her. 

In reality, there was only a short burst of delight as she met Clare’s gaze and blew her a kiss—she ought to feel more remorse, but it was Clare and she had her wings on her head. So, fuck Clare, boo-hoo and so on. Siobhan won! Clare lost! And the thing Clare lost was…her mother, actually. Clare had lost a long time ago. And now there was Siobhan and she should have been feeling something, a particular way, a sentiment less contradictory. She should’ve been whole. 

She was Siobhan and not Siobhan. A shell encased around the woman who carried that name, but also that set of brown eyes and silky brown hair and those memories. And still, the terrible swirling inside and the thoughts that battled and snapped and the expanse of life that couldn’t be put on stage; that words would always fail and that the question of tibia or fibula would never answer. She was haunted by a thousand twins; each of them humiliated by the others and by herself, most of all. The interjecting voice was her. The one who cared was her and she was the one who always had. The woman who berated Regan and would gladly do so again was her. She chose to act on the stage, and she chose to spin the story and she wasn’t happy at all, even now that she’d been given all that she wanted. And she was the one that felt ungrateful and indignant and shamed—why hadn’t her mother come to see her?—and proud and warm—she had friends!—and guilty and annoyed—even at her lowest, Regan could inspire someone to care when no one had ever cared for Siobhan when the stage swallowed her. To be a banshee would mean the rejection of these emotional selves but to be Siobhan meant the acceptance of her own contradictions and confusions; her pain, her life, her words, her mutilated skin, her sympathy for helpless things and her revelry in chaos. 

She’d been Siobhan for so long—whatever it meant to be that undignified, embarrassed, fraying woman. For forty-two years she’d been ingloriously Siobhan. And for all one hundred and six years, shamefully, never anything but herself. She couldn’t be a banshee now. Unlike herself and the most like herself she had ever felt, all she wanted to do now was tell Regan she was sorry, but there was nothing she could do to stop a play in its second act. 

———

Regan’s gan úsáid human fear still kept her feet from moving (more freeze than fight, flight, or fawn, only one of which was correct for a banshee), and she felt like she was being electrocuted on a wire, but Siobhan’s verdict reached her through it. No further stipulations after today. That was distinct from right now. Had Siobhan noticed that part, or was she basking in the glow of finally getting what she wanted, willing to overlook what should have been obvious, and the opaque and subjective meanings of tibia and fibula here? Regan had spent recent years interacting with other banshees, trying not to become tangled in their words, keeping an ear for any attempts to humiliate her more than she already had herself. Siobhan had not. She might have grown up around banshees, but how carefully did she listen, really? It was how she had ended up in the middle seat in the Economy section of a seven hour flight.

The sun had just set over Wicked’s Rest, which meant it was Max’s time to shine. But Dance Macabre had become such a regular spot now that Max had wanted – No. Needed something different. A casual stroll through town. A shopping spree at a local clothing store. Anything that didn’t border on tedious. And she feared that’s what Dance Macabre was becoming. So deciding to play regular townie for the night, to see what kind of trouble she could get into, Maxine put on some more tame clothes and set out on an adventure to see what a so-called “normal” life felt like.

First it started with grabbing a bite to eat at The Black Lagoon, before heading downtown to check out the shops, “Well, Max. You’re well on your way to being a Karen for the evening. How does it feel?” Taking in the sights around her, she knew most places would probably be closing soon, but she had come to quickly learn that this town never fully slept, and when she finally got to where she was going, the young vampire’s eyes lit up at all the people meandering around. Maybe tonight won’t be so boring after all…

—

She shouldn’t have found the night as comforting as she did. It felt wrong, but at the same time, perhaps it made sense. After all, Mackenzie hadn’t been murdered at nighttime, she’d been killed in one of the brightest parts of the day, and so what difference did it make? If night was supposed to be so scary then why was it daytime that had betrayed Xóchitl the most? She hadn’t made sense of that, even with finding out exactly what had murdered Mackenzie.

She’d chosen to just wander around this evening. She’d only had one glass of wine, she wasn’t drunk (though some part of her wished she was), and she was trying to find something to do with herself that wasn’t wallowing at home. That wasn’t a good look, and she wanted to be better than that. Xóchitl wouldn’t have judged anyone else for wallowing, but there was something about looking at herself in the mirror where she quickly became her own harshest critic.

There were a number of other people out and about this evening – which made sense. It was early summer, it was warm, and it stayed lighter a bit later than it did during other parts of the year. So she made her way about, not paying any particular sort of attention to where she was going.

—

Max had found herself perched up against a building trying to plan her next move. The clothing store she had entered had been packed full of people who looked like they had just stepped out of a TikTok video. And while she was an influencer herself; well, her alter-ego for her dark romance novels, all of these people looked too…hipster…for her liking. She liked a little edge. Not a small town soccer mom millennial talking about the healthiest smoothie recipe chocked full of kale and other gross green crap. No. She liked darkness and macabre. So when she spotted something out of the ordinary; a wall that had seemingly moved out of nowhere and then disappeared, Maxine couldn’t help but put her attention on that rather than the people entering the store she had just escaped from.

One after the other, Max watched as people unknowingly ran into an invisible brick wall in front of them, some at full speed and others who merely bumped into it, and everytime their expressions would cause her to cackle. Sometimes she’d tell them there was a wall there, only to get looks of pure disgust, which made watching them hit the wall all the more entertaining, but as they continued to ignore her in droves, one person seemed to catch her eye.

“Hey, there’s a wall there. I’d go the other way if I were you.” Max had been so casual about it, and as much as she wanted to just let it go; there had also been a part of her that was intrigued by this woman’s looks. And then it happened. A plan, just within the blink of an eye, hatched into her dark and twisted little mind. Play the hero. Get the girl. Only assuming this woman didn’t listen to her advice about the invisible wall.

—

What she did need to get better at was her tendency to not always pay attention to her surroundings. It was a problem, and it was bound to get her in trouble one day, and that would probably be a bad thing. Except that she was saved tonight. So maybe some sort of good graces were in her favor. Which she deserved. “I – what?” She did a double take at the warning. There was no wall in front of her, except that she still stopped short and held out her hand, the palm hitting air. Something solid that wasn’t there.

“How could you tell that?” Xóchitl looked around for the source of the voice. “Come down so I can thank you for preventing me from running into a wall that… isn’t there.” It couldn’t be real – and yet, she had encountered a whole lot of things that shouldn’t have been able to be real, so invisible walls were probably pretty high on the ‘oh, maybe it does actually exist’ list. She needed to process it, but there was a time for that and that time wasn’t now. Not in the middle of the street – there were too many distractions.

Except maybe she was just imagining things, and so she took another few steps forward and – as the voice had warned – slammed right into a wall. “Okay. Ouch.”

—

Max smirked at the response from the pretty lady that was totally ignoring her warning, just like everyone else had, so it was no surprise that she had to stifle a laugh when what she had warned the other person about, had indeed come true, “Told you there was a wall there.” 

Sauntering out from the shadows of the building she had been residing at for the past twenty minutes, she used landmarks on the road and building to map out where the wall was, and when she got close enough, just to prove a point, she kicked at the bottom of the wall with her black boot she was wearing.

Feeling a sort of shift and rumbling, Max quickly stepped back to see the wall actually reveal itself to her and everyone else that was nearby before clearing out of the sidewalk to go wreak havoc somewhere else, “Well I didn’t see that coming.” With a shrug, she turned on her heels and stuck out her hand, “Name’s Max, and I just saved you and all these people from more embarrassment. What’s your name?” A grin lay poised across her features as she proudly waited for a reply. Her one good deed for the day was done, and now she wanted her reward.

—

“Yes, and I should’ve listened.” Xóchitl rubbed her forehead. Hopefully it wouldn’t leave much of a mark (or any mark, ideally) and she’d be able to forget the embarrassment of it all. Finally, someone (the source of the voice) emerged from where they’d been hiding, and then they kicked the wall (??) and then all of a sudden an actual wall appeared and she couldn’t imagine that her face looked anything other than absolutely flabbergasted. Maybe one day she wouldn’t have that reaction every time she discovered something new that existed. 

“I – hi, Max.” Xóchitl also knew that she needed to have a better poker face when running into beautiful people. But then again, beautiful people deserved to know that they were beautiful. “I’m Xóchitl.” The woman – Max – did have a beautiful grin. Or alluring, perhaps, would have been the better term. “Really appreciate you looking out for me. I was just thinking about heading back home, and now I don’t have to use an icepack when I get home.” She grinned. It was all in good fun, and it was nice to be able to easily talk to someone without worrying too much about what the consequences would be – not with someone who was close to her. She needed more of that. “Which is good, because I don’t think I have any in the freezer.”

—

Max took pleasure in the look that Xóchitl had given her. In fact, it was fluffing her ego more than it needed to for someone already so vain, “It’s okay. You’re not the first person who hasn’t listened to me, and you won’t be the last.” She shrugged and motioned towards the people around them, “Besides, you seem a lot nicer than these numpties walking around.” Max was far from nice, but it still didn’t stop her from expecting it from other people. Definitely another flaw in her coding, “But yeah, no problem. People say I have an ice cold heart. Maybe you could use it, if you were still looking for one.” She grinned.

Her night had just shifted from trying to act “normal” to possibly having dinner plans. And what a delicious meal Max was looking at. One that didn’t deserve anything, but to keep her entertained for as long as possible, “So, considering I saved you a trip from the ER and all, I think maybe dinner might be in order. Or at least something fun, cause who knows if I’m ever going to see you again. This could be a one and done. Just two people on their way to boring evenings going our separate ways, because we didn’t appease the gods of fate. So what do you say? Spend the night with me or go back to your quiet apartment with no ice cold heart to ease the pain of walking into an invisible brick wall.”

—

“In fairness, I was a bit confused, since I’m not used to walls being in the middle of the street, and I’m pretty good at avoiding the ones that are where walls are meant to be.” That much was true. She may have had a lot of bad luck in her life, but she was decently coordinated most of the time. Which worked in her favor in a few different ways. “Numpties? That’s a new one. Also, unless you want to go straight to second base, I don’t know if I could use your supposedly ice cold heart.” What did a little flirting hurt? Xóchitl grinned right back, and she felt good about coming out, suddenly. Not that she’d felt bad before, but she felt even better now. Better while also wanting to do something to take her mind off of everything else. Off of Emilio, off of Wyatt, off of any number of other things that soured her mood right now.

“I mean, I’m not too hungry, but we could always go back to my place and order in.” She turned her head to the side. “If you’d be into that.” There was also a non-zero chance that Xóchitl might have more in mind inviting someone back to her house, but she wouldn’t force anything. Except that this woman – Max, she reminded herself again – seemed to have something similar in mind. She made a good point. The two of them might not ever see each other again, and wasn’t that the best sort of way to be? It was what Xóchitl was most comfortable with. No connection required, nothing serious. “Want me to show you the way?” She stuck out her hand.

—

“Who is? But this is a strange town after all.” Maxine had been around for a really long time, and this had, by far, been one of the oddest places she had been, which seemed to keep her on her toes, when she wasn’t bored out of her mind. But there had surprisingly been enough people to keep her entertained when she did actually venture out at night, “Just a little endearing phrase I picked up over the years.” She laughed, “But I guess you’re right. I mean, we did just meet after all. And I know how to act like a proper lady when I want to.” Max’s mood could shift on a dime to play whatever role she needed to be for the person she was talking to. An overly huge flirt with a dash of nice, just happened to be the right mixture for her conversation with the beautiful woman standing in front of her.

“Sure, I’d absolutely love to go back to your place. Order some chinese. And you can be the ice cream sundae, and I'll be the cherry on top.” Max let her lips pop on the word top. “How does that sound?” She loved it. Getting invitations into people’s homes had become quite a challenge these days, unless you knew the right things to say, and Xóchitl was making it way too easy, “Lead the way.” The smile on Max’s face was one of a seductive nature, but her hand, now wrapped in her new friend’s, held a firm yet gentle grasp.

—

“I suppose it is.” Strange was putting it lightly. But she didn’t want to think about that. Thinking about that wasn’t fun, and she wanted to have fun. She wanted to have a good time. She could have gone over to Mateo, but he might have been busy, and he knew her too well. He’d see how she was doing and he’d ask questions that she wouldn’t be able to side-step. He hadn’t left her, and she loved him all the more for that, but he also knew her better than she wanted right now. So Max was a perfect solution, and she liked the way that Max looked at her. “I don’t mind it – I just haven’t heard it before, I don’t think. And you seem like a very proper lady, don’t worry, there wasn’t any doubt about that from me.” Xóchitl massaged her hands into the back of her neck.

There was no question in Xóchitl’s mind that she and Max were on the same wavelength. “I can’t argue with that, but I don’t know if I’m so hungry. We could skip straight to dessert. She pulled her friend along until they’d wound up back at Xóchitl’s house, and she unlocked the door and told Max to follow her in. “My dog’s around here somewhere, but she won’t bother us, don’t worry.” Eyebrow raised. “My room? Or did you really want that take out?”

—

Yeah, this was already going to be oh so easy, and Max gladly took the other woman’s hand letting her lead the way, and when they got there, and she was invited in, a sly little grin with a flash of fangs and some red eyes came over her as she shut and locked the door behind them, “Oh, yeah, no, we can definitely skip straight to dessert.” By the time Max had turned back around to face Xóchitl, the fangs were gone and her eyes were normal again. “Also, huge dog fan here. I have one of my own. His name is Norman. We should do a doggy playdate sometime.” If you live long enough.

“Your room or the couch or the shower. Hell, even the kitchen counter could be fun. It doesn’t take much to please me, Baby. You hit all the right spots, and I’ll love you for a very, very long time.” Again, if I don’t eat you first. The expression over her face gave way to a warm smile, but hollow eyes. “Now, lead the way cause Maxy’s gettin’ hungry.”

—

“Good. I’d prefer to skip there anyway.” Especially because, as far as Xóchitl could tell, they both had the same idea that dessert wasn’t going to involve anything from the kitchen. “I’d love to do a doggy playdate. Esperanza needs more friends.” Especially since her number one friend wasn’t so easily around right now, on account of his owner not talking to Xóchitl. So a new friend would be good, and it could give both of them something to do in case she and Max had a repeat of whatever was about to happen.

I don’t really care about love. Xóchitl shook the thought out of her head. “Well, I do like to make sure people are satisfied, and I am a giver, so I have a feeling you’ll be pretty pleased. No. Very.” Xóchitl chewed on her thumbnail for a moment. “Those are all really tempting. You know what, since you suggested it, let’s go with the couch. That could be a lot of fun, and we can always have a round two elsewhere.”

—

Max was liking this stranger more and more. She loved it when people she literally had met less than an hour prior wanted to do kinky things, especially because it didn’t involve feelings. It was all play and no work. And while she was sure this woman’s blood was sweet, the idea of just having a fuck buddy seemed a lot more pleasing. I mean, she did have Teagan. There was no fishy doubt about that, but a girl could have more than one plaything. And who knows, maybe a threesome could be in their future. Two for the price of one. And if they annoyed her, she’d just…fuck. She couldn’t kill Teagan. She had made a promise with the fae. Okay, one for the price of one, but whatever.

“You’re my kinda girl, you know that? And Esperanza. Loving that name. I’m sure Norman and Esperanza would get along swimmingly.” Norman did need more dog friends. Max had loved him more than anything in the world, aside from her son and daughter. Another reason to not go all the way tonight…and by all the way, she meant murder, “That’s perfect then, because I’m a taker.” And on that note, when it was agreed upon about the couch, Max moved in, letting her hands run through Xóchitl’s long dark hair, before leaning in with a kiss so passionate, she was sure the woman’s neighbor’s could feel it.

—

“I like that I’m your kinda girl.” Xóchitl grinned. “Happy to work with a taker.” It was easier to forget things and go with the flow when someone else took charge, and thankfully Max seemed plenty keen to do that. Xóchitl could just be here, engage, enjoy herself, but not have to think too much. Max didn’t know her. Max didn’t know the intense grief that threatened to burst out of her chest. Max wanted to fuck her – ‘sleep with’ was too gentle for what Xóchitl wanted – needed – right now. She could feel her body respond immediately to the other woman’s kiss and she let her take control.

It was important to do things like this. Things that made you happy and made you forget about everything else, even if for just a little while. It worked with alcohol, but sex was a plenty good option too. She still cared about herself, of course, and she still had standards, but doing whatever with strangers felt right. At least for now. Getting too close to anyone else again would just screw her over in the end. So Xóchitl kissed Max back, desperately, hungrily. 

—

Max loved playing cat and mouse. It was her favorite game, besides This Little Piggy (she’s coming for you, Guillermo). And the way Xóchitl just willingly gave into everything she was doing made this little game even hotter. So as she backed the woman onto the couch and worked to remove every single piece of clothing, Max knew that she was going to have a hell of a good time and make it oh so memorable that her new friend would never forget as the night progressed on and everything seemed to fade to black.

“Hold up. Wait, wait, wait…Hey you…my mun, whatever the fuck that means...Raise the lights back up. I’m not done yet.” Max glared up at the ceiling seemingly speaking to no one, before shifting her attention back down on Xóchitl.

“Babe, you are so fucking hot. It makes me want to taste the parts of you I haven’t tried yet.” Looking into Xóchitl’s eyes as they laid against one another flesh upon flesh, Max having not even broken a sweat, the vampire had an idea, “Is it okay, if I try something? I mean, I know I haven’t really asked all night, because you letting me take control was so hot, but…just hear me out…okay?” She wasn’t going to make the same promise to Xóchitl that she had made to Teagan, but if the sex was always going to be this great, then why not keep the woman around a bit longer.

— 

She liked when she drew positive reactions out of others, and to say that Max’s reaction to her was positive would have been greatly understating where they both stood (or, well, lay). “You can try something – do I get to know what you might be trying, or is it a fun sort of surprise for me?” Xóchitl looked up at Max. “Are you already up for round two?” Her grin was teasing, and maybe that was pushing things, but there seemed to be very little (if anything) about her that Max didn’t approve of. Which was nice. She needed the approval. She didn’t enjoy how much she craved it, but especially given how her close relationships were going recently, she needed it. Needed to feel something, and it wasn’t alcohol, right? So it wasn’t that bad.

Xóchitl hated herself for the way she reached up to cup Max’s jaw in her hand and the way she kissed her lips. Still hungrily, still aching for something more. Max’s skin was cold, and it reminded her of Mateo – which was another thought she quickly shoved aside, because he knew her and she really needed to be around someone who didn’t right now. “If you need rope, there’s some up in my bedroom.”

— 

“Now why would I ruin a fun surprise by telling you?” Max hated ruining surprises, especially when the reaction to her almost always horrifying little gifts usually took her victims by complete surprise. But ironically, the kiss from her partner for the evening had taken the vampire by surprise. But more so than that? The suggestion of rope. This woman really was game for anything, and that made Max way happier than she probably should have been, “It doesn’t involve rope, but I think you’ll enjoy it since it seems like pain is your sort of thing.” And it’s absolutely my thing too.

Gently running her hand down Xóchitl’s face to force her eyes shut, Max leaned in close and placed a soft, but firm kiss first on the woman’s lips and then slowly trailed her skin downwards. With her nose nuzzling into Xóchitl’s neck, Max breathed gently on her while quietly slipping her fangs out. And then, without any kind of warning, she bit down with a piercing force and began to suck on the woman’s neck draining the sweet nectar of life from Xóchitl, and remained latched on for a good minute, before retracting her fangs, and using her fingers to wipe off the rest of the blood as she sat back up and seductively sucked the remanants of crimson liquid from each of her digits, “Surprise, Baby! You just invited a vampire into your house! But don’t worry. I don’t plan on killing you tonight, because you’re way too good in the sack…” Max shifted her weight and looked down around them, “Well…couch. But hot damn do you taste good!”

Throwing her leg over and getting up off the couch without an ounce of clothing on, Max padded to the bathroom and slammed the door behind her. She needed a shower after that. With the water running, Max washed off the night’s events while singing, “I Just Had Sex” at the top of her lungs.

— 

“I didn’t think you would, but in the spirit of giving, I wanted to make sure I gave you the opportunity to tell me. Just in case it pleased you.” Max was a bit wrong about pain – at least, Xóchitl figured she was. Though consensual pain was far more appealing and palatable than unexpected pain. So she didn’t pay too much attention to those thoughts. Max could think whatever she wanted to think. That was her right, and who was Xóchitl to question any of that?

She shut her eyes as Max’s hand brushed over them, and she could feel herself leaning into the kiss again (which she probably wasn’t supposed to do, but so long as Max didn’t mind it, she wasn’t about to say anything). Max’s lips found her neck and before Xóchitl could process what was happening, her teeth were in her neck and she felt her whole body tense up, frozen, trying to process the many different feelings that rushed throughout her whole body. Terror, followed by some weird sort of pleasure, followed again by horror, followed by something else she couldn’t name. When Max finally let go, Xóchitl felt her own hand rise to her neck, fingers trembling (though only slightly, thankfully). Emilio would hate this.

But Emilio wasn’t here, and he wasn’t talking to her anyways, so he’d never know.

She hated herself for what she asked next, but the words had left her mouth before she’d realized she’d said them, “do I taste better than other people?” Because she still wanted to be the best, and at least some of her other skills had saved her, but she had to know.

Max got up and wandered off, and Xóchitl sat up slowly, her head spinning. She grabbed a shirt (she couldn’t remember whose shirt it was) and made her way to the kitchen, in desperate need of an ice pack. She remembered that she didn’t have one, and so instead she splashed cold water on her neck, and then made her way back to the couch, spotting Max when she came out of the bathroom. “Does this mean you can come in here any time? Also, I have to ask, does this mean you want us to do round two sometime?” Maybe if she was around a vampire enough, Emilio would have to pay attention to her. Besides, it had been a good time, at least overall. Outside of the blood loss.

— 

The question lingered in Max’s mind as she took her time in the shower. Did Xóchitl taste better than other people? Her blood was nice, yes. The sex was better though. The best tasting blood she had ever consumed came from a family of fae she had devoured many many years ago, before ever coming to Wicked’s Rest. That was like pure magic, and if she could’ve injected it straight into her veins she would have. It’s also one of the reasons she was excited to have come across Teagan, even if it had resulted in attempted murder.

Shutting off the water, she grabbed a towel and wrapped it around herself, before coming out of the bathroom at least having the decency to not drip water all over Xóchitl’s floor. “More questions? What is this? The fucking inquisition?” She sighed loudly as she made her way around the room gathering up her clothes, “Yes, it does mean I can come here anytime. You gave me permission to enter, so I am now your official vampire friend, and I can come and go as I please. Second, you’re actually in luck, because I do want a round two. Normally, I like to dine and dash, but there’s something fun about you, Xóchitl. Aren’t you special?”

Once Max had gathered up most of her stuff, she plopped down on the couch next to her new BWB (bestie with benefits), and looked over at her, “And finally. Not to burst your cute little bubble, but no, you’re not the best I’ve ever tasted. In fact, you ranked pretty fucking low on the list. BUT…but that doesn’t mean I didn’t hate it, because you’re still a walking and talking meatsack, not a dead one. Plus, no human will ever compare to the sweet, sweet intoxicating hit of fae blood. I’d snort that shit if I could.” Max shuddered at the thought of tasting Teagan’s blood again. Soon, my delicious little lake-bred sushi roll. Soon.

Siobhan got what she had come here for, and Regan hoped it tasted so sickly sweet in the other banshee’s mouth that it rotted her teeth. She did not care, though (hoping Siobhan acquired cavities didn’t mean she had to care). Also, Regan hoped Siobhan lost her balance from being so high up and tumbled off the stage (she also didn’t need to care to hope for that). And, while they were at it, she hoped Siobhan was so enamored with this outcome she choked on it. (Regan still didn’t care.) The umbrella of things she allowed herself to hope for was still large enough to cover those three items.

Her not-caring-about-Siobhan tendencies were quickly overshadowed because there was someone involved in this who she did care about. Wynne seemed okay for now, because they had taken a meaningless guess and Eithne saw some use for Siobhan (enough to keep her around), and the wheel did not land on human sacrifice… but Wynne’s work was not done. Wynne, who held even less of a clue about these proceedings than Regan did. Wynne, who was gifted the “honor” of feeling responsible for whatever happened here (Regan was starting to realize that few honors banshees gave out were actually honors; Wynne was no stranger to honors of this kind, either). And there was more. Did Wynne realize that yet? Or were they only swimming in their relief of Siobhan’s outcome? They were a strong swimmer, but not like this.

This was the crowd’s favorite context to see a human in: clinging to hope for the impossible. Regan knew in her own tibias and fibulas that the impossible, right now, was her leaving this place any time soon. Her friends could give all of the reminders they wished, Jade could write letters until her hands grew callouses; here, sparks were extinguished unless they were birthing a pyre, and in this place of death, hope and want became ash long before they could come alight and spread.

———

Few cared about Siobhan. Banshees lived long lives and had long memories, but even so, the exile was a nobody. She was known more for being gone than being here, with only a few among their community calling for more harshness. Most accepted the tibia determination. Banshees, Eithne found, nearly always accepted what they were told so long as it was left up to a force much larger than them, or appeared to be. Eithne was honored to be a voice for such a force, for humans could not be expected to understand on their own.

She was less willing to leave Regan Kavanagh’s future up to outside determination as she had been Siobhan’s. The doctor was useful. She was undisciplined and wild in the way the odd young banshee could be, and what she had done to her grandmother pressed against the boundaries for what was forgivable… but she was useful, and what greater signal could there be to future generations, that even the worst, most unrestrained banshees among them could be tamed by Fate, if given enough time and a short enough leash?

“We have all had Cliodhna’s cream of bone soup,” Eithne began, reminding everyone of the respected banshee, who nobody really liked, but who everyone had been nourished by at some point (whether in soup or firm reminders to be better). “We all know her. Only the dead can be without flaw, but Cliodhna is among the most rank, the most decomposed among us. Worms are pleased by her skin.” Eithne’s voice had a sorrowful ring now. “Her granddaughter,” she gestured toward the poor welp of a banshee, “failed to take advantage of having such an exceptional teacher. Like a leanbh, she tantrumed against her grandmother’s final, charitable attempt to free her of such pervasive flaws. In response to such a grand kindness, she pushed her grandmother into Farraige na Buanachta, where she remains stuck, and will need our care for years to come. If her grandmother could not accomplish repairing her, what chance might we have?” 

Eithne’s calculated eyes appeared almost soft, sympathetic now as she ensured the crowd followed her, that the determination to come would not be a surprise. “She does not look it… not completely, at least, but she’s only a child. She will never rise above anyone standing here. She is stunted. There is nothing to be done once the bones finish growing. I ask our judge to consider this and take pity. If not for her, then on us, for the band-aid dispenser becomes clogged at least once a week, and fixing it is more difficult than listening to the leanbh’s foolishness for the five minutes it takes her to mend us, and ready us for more shows of our commitment.”

———

Only a child. Max wondered, with a bitter churning in her gut, if she or Tina would have been offered the same consideration. Max and Tina had done everything right, had they not? They were the banshees they were meant to be. Had they done what Regan had, Max doubted exceptions would have been made for them. When you were perfect, you were punished for being anything less. But when you were a mistake to begin with? Achieving even the smallest victory made everyone cheer you on. Max grit her teeth, glaring daggers into the back of Regan’s skull. She hoped the silly, wannabe-human could feel them there. She hoped they ached.

But… glaring wasn’t quite enough, was it? Max had never been the subtle sort, never been one to settle for metaphors when something physical could be offered in their place. She reached beneath her seat until her hands grasped what she was looking for — the plastic knives complementary to trial guests. Max hadn’t had a great deal of practice throwing blades so light and inefficient, but she’d get that practice now. She offered one to Tina before beginning to lob knife after knife at Regan’s head as the trial continued.

———

Clare had to admit that the leanbh was of more use than the wingless wonder had ever been, but that didn’t warrant forgiveness as far as she was concerned. She stood with her arms crossed against her chest, waiting to hear what could possibly justify allowing this disgrace to stay. Hadn’t Fate been cruel enough today already? Couldn’t they just use their words to bind a local doctor to replace her? They would likely cause less destruction than the two disgraces that were on trial that day. 

———

Regan hadn’t wanted to shove her grandmother in a tar pit she’d never be able to climb out of. She hadn’t wanted her grandmother to suffer, to die before the natural course of her life came to its conclusion. But she had wanted Elias to live. (There. Wanted. She would think the dreaded word.) And in that moment, Regan had made a choice. She did not regret it. Even if it had been someone else in Elias’s place, would she have done it? Would she have done it if it meant taking that golden blade and running it over her grandmother’s throat herself? Was there a certain amount of directness that crossed the line of doing harm? (And hadn’t doctors philosophized about this for as long as the Trolley Problem existed?) These questions helped no one but thumped in her brain since it happened anyway.

She had come here for the greater good, because primum non nocere applied to everyone but herself. Do no harm unless it’s to yourself, for the sake of everyone else. What’s one person compared to– now she was thinking about the Trolley Problem again. Jade was far less abstract, and she had written I want you to stop thinking about everyone else but yourself. You are a person too. What would she think about what Regan had done, potentially dooming her future? The consensus here was obvious.

The first knife hit her upper arm. The one already bearing a stab wound, bandage covered in days-old blood. Regan winced because she didn’t expect it, but there was little pain. The knife bounced off of her and landed on her podium. She picked it up and held it in front of her face, though it didn’t take as long to examine as a blade pulled from one of her decedents. Plastic. It was plastic. She looked over the audience (which seemed to be a mistake every time she did it) and understood. Max and Tina (fearg an chinniúint, it was them) were right near the front, sharing a pile of the knives between them, and looking both giddy and righteous as they launched them like darts. Of course. Saol Eile’s fine china consisted of plastic and paper plates. And the paper plates came with sad, bendy plastic knives (and low-quality napkins). It was natural that the banshees needed to find a use for the knives. This was it. Regan wasn’t ready for the fusillade, but the only thing it cut her with was humiliation (it was Oklahoma again). At least she could appreciate that Siobhan was being pelted too, however free she was now (no, Regan reminded herself, after today).

A thought, probably out of place, insisted on forming. Why hadn’t she seen Max and Tina until now? She was unfortunate enough to have spent time around them in the past. She knew what they were like. They should have been tormenting her over the last few weeks, right? But they didn’t. Regan didn’t know what that meant, but it added another layer of iron to the inside of her belly. She had a feeling she would have plenty of time to figure that out.

Regan bore her eyes into Eithne as another knife hit her on the nose, the request she was making was obvious, though she only half-expected Eithne to listen. Spin the wheel. And sympathies to Wynne, who would yet again be burdened with responsibility for any impending tragedy.

———

Wynne listened with both a sharp awareness and growing exhaustion as the banshee spoke about Regan’s grandmother. They hated Regan’s grandmother. They thought she should die. She was like Padrig, if not worse — she’d hurt Elias, taken a knife to him over and over again. She’d made Regan as conflicted and confused as she was. She was evil, like Van and them had already suspected. And so when the banshee asked the judge – which they realized was them – for pity they were not sure if that was what they held for Regan. In a way, certainly. They felt bad for her. They felt bad about the knives being pelted at her. They felt bad about the fact that it had come to this. That if Elias and they hadn’t come, maybe she wouldn’t have shoved her grandma in the tar, and that maybe it would be better for her then. Still bad, but better. They felt so bad that they thought the world should stop spinning for a moment so everyone could assess why things had gotten to this point.

But would they grant pity as a judge? Maybe it wasn’t the right word. They’d prefer to give her grace and forgiveness. To acquit her of all charges like they had with Siobhan — but they weren’t sure if that option would be there once more.

———

Max and Tina were petulant, though in a way that amused Eithne so she said nothing about the constant assailant of plastic knives hitting the stage. When she stepped on one of them it was like stepping on a crunchy, dying leaf and she decided it was a nice addition to the stage. She twisted her shoe on it and gave the human a look. “It is time to spin again.” 

———

Wynne raised their arm and pulled at the wheel again, a motion that they were starting to gain a level of muscle memory for at this point. The sound of it clicking and clacking, too, was getting ingrained in their mind. They watched the words flash by, saw that one of the pie-wedges was dedicated to their role – that of judge – but it went by too fast for them to worry about it. It was about the potential sacrifice they worried, just as they worried about Elias, about Regan, about Nora, about Metzli. 

Wynne watched it click by and wished they could fast forward. They wanted to give someone else control of their body, to make a puppet master move their arm up and down to swing at the wheel. To have that same master make their voice speak the English words on the wheel and most of all, to have that puppet master keep them upright. Would it make much of a difference, anyway? They were nothing more than a doll on this stage, a piece of a production they did not understand. They were not used to this role, but they knew that there was something similar between this one and the one they had played at home. They were a part of a bigger whole, a cog in a machine — but at least they had understood the machine. At least at home, they had understood punishment and consequence. 

The wheel slowed eventually, landing on determination once more. So maybe some wishes did come true — maybe this time they wouldn’t have to keep pulling at the wheel in order to reach a conclusion. Maybe now they could try to do right by Regan. To take pity on her as a judge, to have mercy on her. They wished they could speak, that they were able to form the words that spoke on Regan’s behalf — some kind of convincing statement that backed her up. That condemned Cliodhna for having stabbed Elias, that explained that sometimes these kinds of things happened or had to be done. That Regan would have to live with the weight of this and that would be punishment enough. That it had been self defense, which was something they’d heard about in a movie. But they didn’t say anything.

———

Regan had counted. She had plenty of time while Siobhan pretended to be a good banshee, giving an 8 out of 8 performance on the Bloodworth Scale, lying that she was worthy of the forgiveness she received. So Regan had counted. There were 40 wedges on the wheel. About three quarters of them were outcomes that were nothing but fanciful delays or had the potential to harm – even kill – someone. Of the remaining, 9 of them would move the trial along, and give her a chance to speak up for herself (could she?). Or, like Anita had, someone might even be able to stretch things in her favor, appealing for a lighter sentence. Preferably someone who did not look like a child, because Regan had that covered. 

Then there was that last wedge, which had melded with all of the other wedges as the wheel blurred around and around, that would put an end to all of this in one way or another. The pegs on the wheel clacked. Over “gather in the shape of a skull” and then again over “write an obituary for the judge”. Momentum hit a wall. There was no fake out. The wheel stopped perfectly on the one wedge Regan had counted last, the one that was not as terrible as human sacrifice, but the one that, in a way, rang with more finality: determination.

———

The pubic defender continued to do nothing to help its client, other than be a bone that existed nearby. (Which its client did think was nice.)

———

Eithne was a little disappointed to see the wheel end on determination already. There was a reason there were so many wedges on the wheel, after all — it was to make sure every detail was gone over and to make sure everyone was continually engaged with the trial. It seemed Regan Kavanagh’s case would be over quite fast, though, which was regretful. It would be right to have her stand there for a long while as the banshees engaged in various activities and she was tried and tested through various means.

But she did not express her regret, in stead clapped her hands together. The human had not made their judgment yet. Had they already forgotten how the ruling was done? She cleared her throat and reminded them of the two options: “Tibia or fibula?”

———

Regan was ready, wasn’t she? What more could she do? How much longer could she think around in circles? Someone speaking on her character wouldn’t help. Especially after spotting Max and Tina, she was certain one of them would have stepped into the role, volunteering as if it were a great duty. 

As another plastic knife wapped against Regan’s cheek, leaving a light scrape (and Max’s grin being unmissable), she had to remind herself to stay focused and unbothered. If she invited emotion – now more than ever – things would not be in her favor. Her training hadn’t exactly taken, but this place had at least ironed out the more mild wrinkles. They kept calling her a child, a leanbh, but Regan saw what many others here did not – that whatever was decided here today, it was not up to Fate. Even if Fate did exist, which was something Regan had never been able to be fully convinced of, it would be filtered through Eithne. And Eithne had her own agenda, one that best served the community, but perhaps not one Wynne would speak.

Regan stared at the banshee who served as a pillar to their aos si, who did not think she was a person. Then the flock of other banshees, who thought the same, because a leanbh was not a person, only a half-forged dagger, as dull and useless as these plastic knives. She knew what this show was. And it was a show, wasn’t it? Everything here was, whether it was a show to each other or to Fate. As long as these banshees disliked her, and were reminded of that, as long as they saw her as a witless liability and nothing but a band-aid dispenser that had not yet rusted, it didn’t matter how little they liked Cliodhna– there was nothing Regan could do to avoid punishment. 

What could they do to her? An exile would come as a relief. For most banshees it would be the greatest loss they could conceive of, but they had already inflicted that on Regan. Physical injury? Little would be new. Her body was a collection of them right now. A daily visit to her grandmother? Fine. Eventually, Regan would stand taller than her (even if only in the most literal of ways as she sank). Clidohna would scream steam. 

So Regan stood, defiant against the plastic knives and fury from those who she had tended to at one point or another, pretending that her heart was beating like a banshee’s and not a human’s. She was ready for whatever came.

Wynne looked far less steady. But they knew what worked last time. Regan was certain the choice between tibia and fibula had nothing to do with what her outcome would be. She looked at her friend, trying to convey that she would not blame them, no matter what words came from Eithne’s mouth. She was not sure Wynne saw the disconnect, how little their spinning of Ciorcal na Cinniúint mattered. 

———

The banshee reminded them of the two options and Wynne nodded in understanding. “I’m considering,” they answered quietly, just for her to hear. They had picked tibia before. The stronger bone. The option that had seen Siobhan released of all stipulations. They didn’t understand what was happening around them, but since they had entered the world outside of their former commune they had grown to understand that precedence was a good way to learn how something worked. Tibia had seen Siobhan released. If this was based in logic, it should release Regan too.

They were gathering up the courage to speak and determine Regan’s fate but it seemed it didn’t matter how hard they worked — someone spoke before they could call out their judgment. 

———

“She killed my son.”

———

Regan was, actually, not ready for whatever came. She froze, overtaken by a cold sweat, as her eyes scanned the audience for the source of the voice and locked with Niamh’s. Declan’s mother. Even with dozens of banshees looking at Niamh, she kept her eyes drilling into Regan’s and Regan’s alone. Silence filled the space. No one dared even open their mouth. It was a rare sight for a group of banshees.

And now Regan was afraid, her legs tangling, her hands shaky and bracing against the stand. Regan hadn’t killed Declan, not really, but it might as well have been true – it was not the loss of Declan’s life that everyone would boil over, but that a banshee did not bloom from his spilled blood.

“You may speak,” Eithne said solemnly to Naimh. Regan saw a hint of well-concealed worry cross Eithne’s cold skin. This was not in the script, hadn’t been accounted for. Regan still didn’t know the script, but this surely was not there.

———

Niamh continued, sorrow pulling at her vocal cords. “My son, my baby boy with the sweet blood, is dead because of a lie.” She was allowed to have grief weigh in her voice, for banshees understood that grief was not below them, though little would be afforded to humans. At the word lie, it was as if an itch fell over the audience. Of course this untrained banshee from some human elsewhere was a liar, too. “She brought the humans with her. We honored Hamstring with our finest, least anemic boy, and she is no more a banshee than she was before she arrived here. She is human.” Niamh pointed at Regan, who shrank back as much as she could; the podium did actually come close to being able to obstruct her whole body. “Her. She’s the one who made us believe Hamstring was one of us. She gave my son a wasted death. He would have given a proper banshee the most beautiful first scream.”

———

Regan was reminded, as the stab wound on her arm flushed years of poison through her veins (how many of your humans will replace these animals you refuse to touch?; such little effort for such strong convictions; one failure begs for more, and yours will fill a cemetery), and her lungs swelled with grief, and her heart tried to race thousands of miles and over oceans to the one person whose touch could stop her trembling… that she was not a particularly good banshee. 

If she were a good banshee, she never would have left Saol Eile to begin with. Actually, if she were a good banshee, the training would have paid off within only a few years, and she would have been allowed to leave Saol Eile but would choose not to. If she had been a good banshee, there wouldn’t be anyone who had been lured here under the impression they could help her. She wouldn’t have lied to her grandmother about one of those people being a duine caillte, which cascaded into the death of a young man – a child – who had done nothing wrong other than having the misfortune of being born here. If she were a good banshee, she definitely would not have pushed her grandmother into a tar pit to save a human. Or for any reason. Banshees did not push each other into the tar pit (though the sheer death of that place was a temptation for some).

Regan hadn’t slit Declan’s throat, or stabbed him through the heart, or however his family had decided to dispatch him to bestow the world’s worst honor on some innocent child. But, how could anyone not see it as her fault? She was a lousy banshee. She was not even a banshee at all. They could point a righteous finger at her and it would mostly be true. And she allowed herself to be overgrown with such human guilt – so how could she not see it as her fault, too? She had tried to pull the brakes before Declan’s death but the trolley did not change course.

Regan knew how this ended, now. This would not be a traditional exile. They would keep her here, because that was what Regan didn’t want (and how dare she want to begin with?), and it was to their benefit. Even Niamh’s fury would be smoothed over, her scream hushed, when the woman realized this was the equivalent of exile to Regan. 

Grief surged through her. It seemed like a year ago when she had asked Wynne for a few days to think about a Worm Remembrance Day escape plan. She needed to figure out how to get all of them out, and then decide if she had enough of what everyone saw in her to leave with them. But then it all blew up in her face. Her grandmother saw her with Elias, the ham child didn’t become a banshee when Declan died in front of her, and here was Wynne, now forced to sentence the friend they’d crossed an ocean for. 

Regan braced herself to hear it, this cause of death marking the end of the life she wanted for herself. She knew their cruelty. It was expected now. She could practically see the words forming on Eithne’s lips. Could Wynne? Would they think this, in whatever permutation it took,  was all their fault? Regan tried to catch their eyes to say she knew, she knew it and it was okay (it wasn’t). It was okay (it wasn’t) because Elias was alive, and even if she never set foot outside Saol Eile again, she would get the others out. Right here, right now, she muttered a promise under her breath, the same she whispered next to Elias’s unconscious body: I promise I will get you out of here alive.

They had been so close. (It wasn’t okay.)

———

It couldn’t be true, could it? Metzli couldn’t imagine Regan pushing anyone, let alone sending them into a pit of tar. And now they were saying she killed a boy in cold blood? It seemed impossible to believe, but then again, impossible situations beget impossible reactions. Blood on Regan’s hands was far more probable than ever, and Metzli wished for nothing but to take that from her. The trial Siobhan and Regan were being forced to sit through was nothing short of torture. Metzli couldn’t help but wonder how fast they could run.

———

Siobhan’s trial had seemed like a bit of a show. Fate and bones left to determine if she could return home to the community she had come from. Anita knew it had been important to her but it had almost felt like going through some sort of procedural motions opposed to a real trial. Regan’s was different. Anita thought she had known her fairly well. The two had bonded over maggot masses. But it seemed they both had a more intimate connection to death than Anita had realized. She wondered if the deaths alleged in this trial had been intentional. She wondered just how much they had in common.  

———

So much seemed to have happened in their absence. Max had known Declan, though only in passing. She’d had little interest in befriending human boys, little need for it after her first scream was finished. Still, a wasted death was a tragic thing, and Regan bringing one about was treacherous. Max aimed another plastic knife, throwing it with all her strength at the back of Regan’s head. She threw one at the human judge for good measure, too, and one at Siobhan. 

———

Mealla watched the human judge spin the wheel. She was excited to see blood squirt from their thighs soon, but for now she was focused on the proceedings. This, too, was interesting. She handed her thermos of tea to her sister as she continued to watch, enthralled.

———

The leanbh had also wasted a sacrifice? For a human? Clare was starting to think that maybe she was more of a disaster than the wingless wonder. She watched the shriveling human “judge,” eyes boring into them as if she could will Fate to dole out proper punishment. 

———

Nora listened as Niamh blamed Regan for Declan’s death. As if the image of Niamh’s knife slashing into Declan’s throat hadn’t been the only thing she could see when she closed her eyes. The fire in her sparked, like the pyre she had just been at. She roared her anger in the form of the bear, causing banshees to step away from her. But the shadow held her in place, there was nothing she could do to save Regan. Fate had taught her that.

———

Honestly, Siobhan was a little bored; it was hard to pay attention when things weren’t about her. Maybe her mother had been right: banshee court was childish drivel. Of course, now that she had what she wanted, what did she have to pay attention for? She’d offered Regan her (mental) apologies and figured it was good enough. Would it be rude to ask to leave now? What was being said? Something about Regan being a child? Yes, of course, leave it to some out-of-touch hag banshee—that’s what Eithne was, right?—to reduce Regan’s identity first to being a child and then to being only slightly better than the band-aid dispenser for double the annoyance. Then Siobhan considered that that was exactly how she thought of Regan. Then there were the knives and it was always hard to think about anything when there were the knives. Siobhan whipped around to see who threw them but she didn’t recognize the faces; she was looking into a sea of strangers. (Shouldn’t this have been home?) Then, there was the rest of it. 

Siobhan took some pleasure in knowing Regan was a shittier banshee than her: Siobhan’s greatest crime, in her biased opinion, was caring for the only family member that had loved her (sure some banshees die but one can’t make an articulated skeleton without cracking a few bones—actually, one should make an articulated skeleton without cracking any bones). Regan’s crime involved pushing a grandmother, deception and…ham? On a string? Siobhan finally turned to Regan. No one was asking her why. That was the only question that burned in Siobhan’s head: why, why, why. Why care? Why try? Why bother running away? Why come back? Why were they standing here? 

And why did the children have plastic knives?

———

They had known Declan was dead. Banshees had brought his body to the clinic a day or two or three (they didn’t know, any more — didn’t know how long it had been since they’d found Elias, since they’d come here, since they’d been beckoned on this stage) ago and not paid them or Elias any mind. Wynne had known Declan had died, they assumed it had something to do with Nora’s disappearance and the subsequent rumors of her arrest. Wynne had known, because they’d shared a building with his body. 

But Wynne hadn’t been prepared to see his mother. To think of that body, that boy that Nora had felt something for as a son. They hadn’t been prepared for that mother to say it was Regan who had killed him. And though more context was added (context that made no sense — because what did Declan dying have to do with Nora not being a banshee) and it was the lie that the mother considered the murder weapon against her son rather than an actual knife in Regan’s hand, their stomach sank. The bones in their legs, their tibia, fibula and femur, had been replaced by jelly. 

A boy was dead, a son was dead, and his mother was petitioning for him. Had their own mother done this for Iwan? Iwan, who had always been favored by her, who had ended up dead on the altar in the end? They felt themself grow unsteady as their worlds blurred, as Moosehead lake and Saol Eile overlapped and meshed together, as they swore they saw paintings of Corwyn Prothero in the corners of the building, the face of Beca and Eirwen and their mother among the crowds. There even was a shadow of the barn here. The wheel they had spun again and again read human sacrifice and though there was no altar, there were enough eyes watching for it to be respectable. Regan was catching their eye and they thought of the vole she’d found at the estate, in another life. If only there was a demon to slay here, rather than hundreds of women who would like to see them bled out, who were eyeing Regan with disdain. If only it were vampires that could be battled with Metzli’s brute force, Zack’s fire and Emilio’s stakes.

If only — if only they hadn’t come. If only Nora hadn’t gone. If only they’d dragged her away a week ago, the first time they’d come across her in this dizzying place. If only they had taken Iwan with them when they’d ran. If only they’d died on that altar. If only love had been enough. Enough to keep Regan in Wicked’s Rest, enough to make their parents run away the moment they’d been told their child was to die, enough to make Nora see reason through the blossoms of Declan’s presence. 

They wanted to slump down and pull their knees to their chin again, but their purpose remained. Tibia or fibula. Guilty, not guilty. Free, trapped. Regan was looking at them and they were blinking back, not sure what their gaze meant any more. If only it was enough. 

———

Eithne stood tall. She knew how to keep herself standing tall even as mothers spoke of their sons being killed based on a lie. She knew how to stand tall when her sisters brandished cold iron against her because she knew it would be her turn soon. She knew how to stand tall, because Fate required it, demanded it, because she was leading a trial that she would see to fulfillment.

Part of her wanted to throttle Niamh. A larger part of her wanted to throttle Regan, though that part had been present throughout. These were parts of her she did not give into, however. She blew them away with a hush of mental air and simply considered this new information as she waited for the human to make their decision.

The human was taking a very long time. The human was not standing tall – though for that they could not be blamed, as humans were simply not built for such things – and Eithne glowered at them. “Judge, we still require your judgment. By now you should be done processing the added accusations.” The wheel hadn’t landed on ‘witness statement’, which was something she’d have to talk to Niamh about. The wheel had to be respected, after all — it too was an instrument of Fate. “Tibia or fibula?”

———

If they were to use precedence and logic to inform their decision there was only one option. To gamble it on something else, something less meaningful, would be irresponsible. Wynne opened their mouth and spoke their judgment — but only a croak came out. A knife hit their face and they flinched, though no blood was drawn. It was only plastic. 

They cleared their throat. “Tibia.”

———

“Tibia.” Eithne lowered her head in respect for a moment, acknowledging the decision that meant nothing. The banshees gasped. Regan looked like she had been struck by lightning, which would have been a shame, because that type of suffering was too fast for what she deserved. She had made a mess of so much. Not only Worm Remembrance Day and Cliodhna’s proximity to her pots and pans to make them cream of bone soup — but now this too. They had all screamed for Declan, had fated his death and believed it would be purposeful, that another banshee would be activated and now this too, was a lie. Other banshees had been excommunicated for lesser, but that was not an option. The band aid dispenser was looking worse every year. They needed their doctor. Whatever was decided had to please the crowd of angry women in front of her, but they could not exchange two eyes for one and cull Regan’s life. She stood tall. She was good at standing tall.

“It has been decided. The leanbh cannot be separated from her grandmother. Cliodhna will not be robbed of seeing what becomes of her granddaughter. Regan will either wilt or surpass the odds Fate has given her. She will have one hundred years to attempt to break herself, because she will be broken, either into one of us, or something no one in the world, let alone we, have a need for.” To codify the decision, she stated it plainly. “The leanbh will not set foot out of Saol Eile for one hundred years. If she tries, we will cut off her feet for Lá Caillte Géag. Tibia.”

Eithne looked squarely at Saol Eile’s shame that was shaped like a banshee, so far pleased with what she saw.

“That is for Cliodhna Caomhánach. May she rest in tar. We will keep her comfortable until the end.”

Niamh looked indignant. Eithne nodded to her, communicating that she would not go ignored.

“That is not all. For the lies, the humans, and the waste of a sacrifice, the leanbh’s wings will be removed.” Eithne looked to Siobhan. She addressed the exile now. “You know about that. You will do it.”

———

A century here was no surprise. Regan expected it, expected longer. This was a light sentence. None of that made hearing it any easier. Her life dissolved in front of her, and just as she had been starting to discover how many ways it could be enriched, made meaningful. Regan left Wicked’s Rest assuming she would never see her family or Jade again, but even with those knives already lodged in her chest, hearing it said so plainly twisted them, forcing her skin and muscle to shed new blood. Her shirt could not fit another stain. And everyone – especially her grandmother – knew that her body would not be able to shape itself around these knives. They would only continue to draw blood. Regan couldn’t look at Wynne, as much as her eyes naturally wanted to seek them out (this would be the last time she’d see them too, wouldn’t it)– she wouldn’t allow them to feel more blame, more guilt.

But this was done. She now knew what her future would look like (and what it wouldn’t look like, what it would never–). The trial was over. Her friends could go home, she would make sure of it, and she could try to force this place to become that for her. She could try not to think about everyone she loved dying while she was stuck here in stasis, and that she would not even be able to be with them as death would get there decades before she could.

It was awful. She couldn’t process just how awful it was right now. But it was over.

Except Eithne continued to speak.

…wings will be removed.

For all of Regan’s ultimately useless ruminating and brooding, all of her acclimation to every possibility she could consider, followed by her certainty that she saw her future laid out in front of her like a long carpet unfurling itself right into the lake, fit for drowning… she did not see this coming. Had she heard right? 

Regan’s whole body was struck numb. She said nothing. She still did not look at Wynne – whose decision may not have mattered at all – or Siobhan, who was no doubt looking forward to this. Did Siobhan think Fate favorited her after today? That the wins would keep coming? If this was happening because Regan was a flight risk, she wanted Siobhan to fall with her. It was selfish. Petty. And she didn’t care. Siobhan had a knack for drawing that out of her with all of the ease of sucking out aqueous humor with a needle.

It wasn’t the first time such a sentence had been handed down, probably not even the second or third. There was that odd, old banshee, Blinne. She had come into the clinic to have Regan patch up her back after she got a knife stuck in it (a common accident), and the scarring that greeted Regan was both unrelated and extensive. She was not going to comment on it. She had learned by then when to hold her tongue (the first rule of which was no questions), but Blinne heard what went unsaid and didn’t seem to mind. Blinne had spent too long looking into death; she became confused, and in that confusion and blurring of lines, she killed her sister. There was no “by reason of insanity” here (75% of Saol Eile would be eligible) and though the others were capable of acknowledging an accident, the death of a banshee could never go unpunished. So Blinne had been forgiven, embraced back in full, but at a steep cost. And Regan never forgot those four ugly keloids on the woman’s back, where she said she used to have the most beautiful dragonfly wings. 

Blinne had not once complained about the knife in her back. But before she left the clinic, she asked if Regan could do anything about her back pain. Regan remarked that it should cease in a couple of days now that the blade was gone. Blinne had not meant the knife.

Regan grew lightheaded, clutching the podium tightly, her nails denting the wood grain. How ironic that Cliodhna would have done everything in her power to protect her granddaughter from such a sentence. No– not protect Regan. Protect her wings. 

Her wings. The ones that had taken years to adjust to. The ones Jade never got to see. The ones Van and the ham child thought were cool. They lacked bones, which was an insecurity she didn’t know she could have until recently, but Regan did not want to lose them. Regan hated them at first. Hated the change to her body, the feel of them against her skin like something cold and foreign crawling against her back, the wrongness, the constant reminder that she was something else now. She had tried to tear them from her back on more than one occasion, before she understood their musculature, how deeply they married her anatomy. But that hatred dulled – all of her had dulled – and it left room for a simple acceptance, which eventually grew into the expectation that they would be there. She didn’t like them, it would be a stretch to say that (dislike was still closer), but they were part of her. Other banshees thought they were attractive. In fact, it was the only part of her that had ever received a compliment from her grandmother’s mouth, even though she stated it as if it were a consolation prize. 

Regan had almost missed the last part, she had been too stunned. She heard that Siobhan would be doing it. But Eithne said something else– that Siobhan knows about it. What did that mean? Had she done this to Blinne, too? Was that what her role had been here? Removing the wings – perhaps other pieces – of banshees? Eithne had been insistent. It was not a question, or even a request, but a demand. And she could demand it, because as long as that Boneio was dangled on the stick in front of Siobhan’s haggish face, Siobhan’s punishment would continue, too.

———

Tibia had seen Siobhan cleared. Had seen her returned with no more crimes hanging over her head. Tibia was the stronger bone. Wynne’s mouth had formed around those three syllables in the distant, dull hope that it would serve Regan well too. That this would be them being a merciful judge. 

If only they had said fibula.

They hated the word if, now. If spoke of a different reality or one that could possibly come to be, but there was only this one. The one where Elias was lying by himself with wounds scattering his body. The one where Nora was in trouble. The one where Regan was condemned by their judgment. They hated the word when, too, as it was a promise of something coming. When I come back, they’d said. When we return. When — but there was no when like that any more. Regan had to stay here a hundred years and by the time her when would roll around, Wynne and Nora and Elias would be dead. It was only a matter of time for when they’d die. 

They’d lived seventeen months past their time, anyway. Maybe it didn’t matter. But what did matter was Regan, in this place for a century more. What did matter was that Siobhan was going to take off her wings, which they had only started to see as part of Regan recently. Their legs were trembling visibly now and there was no voice in the back of their mind to tell them to remain calm. A wave of panic coursed through them. If only they’d gotten on the altar at home, and hadn’t condemned Iwan to die through their insolence. If only they’d said fibula. 

Their voice mixed with their breath and when they opened their mouth to exhale the air they’d been holding a noise slipped out. An apology, a rejection, a plea. If they were the judge, could they not change the ruling? But the women in front of them were already responding, the crowds that mixed with faces from back home rejoicing. They echoed the word tibia, though that might be in their head, and there was no reality where their voice box was strong enough to overpower them. To correct. To say no. They had never been so brave to say no out loud, after all.

They clutched one of the pegs on the wheel and remained upright, not panicking fully as they felt Regan in their periphery. They didn’t know how to apologize. How to make themself clean of this sin, too. How to beg for forgiveness. They didn’t know how to breathe past this guilt and so they let their vision gloss over, taking hold of the last tactic they’d learned at home — to become separate of their body. 

———

Good banshees showed no emotion. (What was that on Regan’s face? What was it on hers, tugging her lips down?) Good banshees respected their matriarchs. (Regan pushed hers, and where was Siobhan’s mother? Why didn’t she want to see her?) Good banshees followed Fate. (Where was the Fate in any of this?) Good banshees didn’t question. (Why? Why? Why?)

Siobhan had been here before: on this stage—”I was trying to help!”—with her back to the audience—“Please!”—asking why—“My wings?”. Hadn’t she just been thinking about the inevitable quality of stories? Her mother always said that life was cyclical. One banshee bled into the next; under Saol Eile, their lives dripped into roots, feeding the same earth. Were they flowers or weeds? Regan didn’t like her wings, Regan didn’t flaunt them as Siobhan once had. They were not her beauty, they were not her worth. It didn’t matter. No one here cared and wasn’t that the way of a good banshee? 

(A young girl ran through the twisting streets of Saol Eile, red and black wings fluttering behind her. Skipping into the courthouse with her bundle of plastic knives—who had it been then? Siobhan couldn’t remember her name, only the shape of her hunched back as the knives bounced off her quivering wings. That girl would have ripped a million wings out for one hundred years more in her home. Where was she now?)

Good banshees were obedient. 

———

It was something. At the very least, it was something. Some part of Max had been hoping to see Regan banished, but… no. Regan would have preferred that, wouldn’t she? She, with her precious humans an ocean away, would have found comfort in being rejected from a place that had only ever wanted what was best for her. This was better, Max decided. This was good. Regan would stay in a place where she did not want to be, and she would do so knowing that she was lesser than the other people there. Her wings would be torn from her back, and Max would flaunt hers, still intact, every time she saw her. And a hundred years from now, Max would be respected, the way she had earned, and Regan would be nothing. Regan would always be nothing. Regan deserved to be nothing.

Max threw another plastic knife towards Regan’s head, this time in celebration. The trial had gone well. The trial had gone as Fate had intended it to go. Now, there was little left to do but celebrate. Max glanced at Tina, silently asking her sister if she planned to attend the mushroom dance that was sure to follow. She already knew the answer; Tina would go where Max went. She always had.

———

Clare was ready to call the day a wash. 0 for 2. After all that, she would be forced to remain in close contact with the two worst banshees she’d ever laid eyes on. That was, until Eithne continued to speak.

Wings. The leanbh was sentenced to lose her wings. And even better: the wingless wonder would be the one to take them. A familiar smirk spread across Clare’s face.

She was going to enjoy watching them sink to the bottom of Farraige na Buanachta. 

———

The irony of Regan’s punishment wasn’t lost on Metzli. They knew how she wasn’t particularly fond of her wings, but no one was fond of having things taken from them either. It was growing difficult to behave when things were going so horribly, when Regan looked full of every emotion on the spectrum, yet so numb at once. It was cruel, and it was wrong. All of it. The whole damned place operated on cruelty and pain and sacrifice. It felt too much like their vampire clan. It felt too much like torture. It felt too much. The gravity of it was made even more evident when Metzli looked at Siobhan, a woman who despised Regan. She looked no more satisfied than her neighbor. In fact, she looked pained, watching history repeat itself with her hand now on the knife. Their nails dug into their palm as their fist balled up tighter. Could they run? They had only one arm but they would make it work if given the chance. 

———

It was so strange to see these banshees celebrating such a gruesome punishment of one of their own - without a word of explanation or defense as to the allegations against her. Anita knew that the purpose of their secret Irish home was to keep out humans, and part of her admitted that, but it seemed that in their isolation these banshees were not strengthened by their numbers but weakened by their singular thinking. Looking over at Metzli, it was obvious that they were feeling a similar level of discomfort. While neither of them were humans, Anita wasn’t particularly keen to stick around this place for much longer and see how they treated outsiders if this was how they treated their own kind. 

———

Regan had plenty of questions she might have asked, if she wasn’t so busy swallowing down the inevitable like it was spoiled cream of bone soup. At what point had the wheel of Fate – the real one, if such a thing existed – truly stopped spinning (her birth? Her dad’s death? Meeting her grandmother? Returning here? Saving Elias? Dressing poorly for court?) Would her family learn to stop waiting and hoping that she would come back? Would Wynne, Elias, and the ham child be able to figure out a way out now? Could she keep the pubis (even if she was displeased with it at the moment)? Was human court also such a farce (one she may have unwittingly participated in)? And… and was there ever a way out of this? Ever? She had been so close. They had all been so… they had, right? Was that better, or worse? Did any of these questions matter?

No, not even a little. It was a familiar futility. One she had recently seen on Declan’s face. She’d told him something about making it worth it on the way there, filling your life with roadkill (or something). But Regan’s roadkill was not here. It was in Maine.

There was nothing else Eithne or the trial demanded of her. Regan turned her attention away, her vision fixed on the skeletons hanging on the walls, tracing the dark orbitals of their eyes with her own. That was what humans became here. The only reason Regan was not strung up there with them was the wings on her back. And they were going to tear those out, root and stem. Maybe next time it would be her up there. In one hundred years, they would see the same flaws and failures but not the wings to spare her.

Siobhan’s shuffling off the stage jostled Regan into moving. And– shuffling? Not skipping? Shouldn’t the wind be under her wings now that it would never be under Regan’s? But no. There was something wrong with Siobhan, too. She seemed shorter, smaller, and it wasn’t just because she was no longer held up by the sloped stage.

A knife was launched at Regan’s wings and she jolted at the contact, trying to flick the plastic away long after it had already fallen to the ground. The feel of it snaked up her spine, wrapping around each vertebrae. She couldn’t think about what a true blade would feel like in comparison (would it be one of her scalpels? A knife Siobhan already had in mind for the purpose? Now she was thinking about it). But she marched along like she was supposed to, because what else could she do? She would never beg again. 

Eithne extended her hand, and Regan knew better than to think it was for her, some offer of comfort that Regan had only recently re-learned. No, Regan knew what this was about. She glared down at the pubis in her hands, hatred surging at the bone’s lack of intervention on her behalf, but… her gaze grew softer, the longer she looked. She couldn’t stay angry at a bone, even if it did betray her. So she was begrudging when she placed the pubic defender back into Eithne’s hands as she passed by. 

Wynne was glued in place. Nothing held them there other than themself, but that was enough. Sometimes tar came from within. Metaphorically. Mostly, blood came from within, and Wynne looked ashen enough that they might not have had much of that circulating anyway. Wynne would be safe for now, as all attention would turn to Regan and Siobhan. Regan gave Wynne a final glance, trying to tell them to leave when they could, and that she was sorry. Maybe the ham child could drive them forward. She had a mission, after all – she needed to live to do what none of these banshees would do, to remember what they would not, even though they had many more years to hold one’s memories close.