reapergia

[reapergia]

ok i just got this thought out of nowhere but blog divers (people who scroll through a blog and reblog things that were posted YEARS AGO) are actually a super important part of the tumblr ecosystem

With people going inactive and deactivating, a lot of classic tumblr posts and also missed gems get lost because those connections get broken. Even on my own blog I forget about posts I made until I see someone in my activity reblog one of them- which then inspires me to reblog it myself because it was a good post and I want my new followers to see

do not feel bad about diving through someone's blog and reblogging shit from years ago, it keeps dashboards alive

(and if anyone has a problem with that, they can just block you or they can delete the root post ¯\_(ツ)_/¯, two things that have absolutely no effect on the grand scheme of our lives)

[reapergia]

It's about devotion and obsession. It's ALWAYS about devotion and obsession. And hunger. It's love with teeth.

[reapergia]

fireflies honestly make me cry a little. out of gratitude and wonder. thank goodness we live in a world with bioluminescence. thank goodness we live in a world where it can fly.

[reapergia]

cd in a microwave

[reapergia]

I've been dead for quite a while.

But I was recently possessed by a duck.

And I turned said duck into stickers.

And now my hand hurts but like- B I L L

Do I know how to make stickers? No. But I tried-

[reapergia]

From the Dirt, pt 1

Death was a game, as far as Daisy McGowan was concerned, and she figured she was winning as much as any mortal could.

Some people took it a little more seriously.

Mist swirled over the dead man, coiling through the ritual ingredients strewn over him.

Daisy's phone pulsed in her pocket; her lips curved. She liked to imagine the ringing was as outraged as the person on the other end. Pilar hated losing.

"Too late." Mud and honey dripped off her hands.

The man sat up with a gurgling gasp. White petals and tea slipped off of him.

"Welcome back."

[reapergia]

By its cover - part 3

(part 1) (part 2)

“Call me Reese.”

“…Okay.” Dan squinted at him suspiciously over his glasses.

Reese just smiled benignly and gestured to the all-night diner they were standing in front of. “Shall we?”

Dan nodded and moved to enter the diner with the look of someone riding into battle.

Reese smothered a laugh. It wouldn’t do to piss him off too much. His peers were counting on him.

Dan had picked a seat with his back to a wall and was opening a briefcase he’d produced seemingly out of nowhere.

Reese moved to sit across from him. “Hey, can I borrow a pen?”

[reapergia]

By its cover - part 3

(part 1) (part 2)

“Call me Reese.”

“…Okay.” Dan squinted at him suspiciously over his glasses.

Reese just smiled benignly and gestured to the all-night diner they were standing in front of. “Shall we?”

Dan nodded and moved to enter the diner with the look of someone riding into battle.

Reese smothered a laugh. It wouldn’t do to piss him off too much. His peers were counting on him.

Dan had picked a seat with his back to a wall and was opening a briefcase he’d produced seemingly out of nowhere.

Reese moved to sit across from him. “Hey, can I borrow a pen?”

[reapergia]

Ten Things We Hate About Trad Pub

Often when I say “I’ve started a small press; we publish the works of those who have trouble breaking into traditional publishing!” what people seem to hear is “me and a bunch of sad saps couldn’t sell our books in the Real World so we’ve made our own place with lower standards.” For those with minimal understanding of traditional publishing (trad pub), this reaction is perhaps understandable? But, truly, there are many things to hate about traditional publishing (and, don’t get me wrong - there are things to love about trad pub, too, but that’s not what this list is about) and it’s entirely reasonable for even highly accomplished authors to have no interest in running the gauntlet of genre restrictions, editorial control, hazing, long waits, and more, that make trad pub at best, um, challenging, and at worst, utterly inaccessible to many authors - even excellent ones.

Written in collaboration with @jhoomwrites, with input from @ramblingandpie, here is a list of ten things that we at Duck Prints Press detest about trad pub, why we hate it, and why/how we think things should be different!

(Needless to say, part of why we created Duck Prints Press was to...not do any of these things... so if you’re a writer looking for a publishing home, and you hate these things, too, and want to write with a Press that doesn’t do them...maybe come say hi?)

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1. Work lengths dictated by genre and/or author experience.

Romance novels can’t be longer than 90,000 words or they won’t sell! New authors shouldn’t try to market a novel longer than 100,000 words!

A good story is a good story is a good story. Longer genre works give authors the chance to explore their themes and develop their plots. How often an author has been published shouldn’t put a cap on the length of their work.

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2. Editors assert control of story events...except when they don’t.

If you don’t change this plot point, the book won’t market well. Oh, you’re a ten-time bestseller? Write whatever you want, even if it doesn’t make sense we know people will buy it.

Sometimes, a beta or an editor will point out that an aspect of a story doesn’t work - because it’s nonsensical, illogical, Deus ex Machina, etc. - and in those cases it’s of course reasonable for an editor to say, “This doesn’t work and we recommend changing it, for these reasons…” However, when that list of reasons begins and ends with, “...because it won’t sell…” that’s a problem, especially because this is so often applied as a double standard. We’ve all read bestsellers with major plot issues, but those authors get a “bye” because editors don’t want to exert to heavy a hand and risk a proven seller, but with a new, less experienced, or worse-selling author, the gloves come off (even though evidence suggests time and again that publishers’ ability to predict what will sell well is at best low and at worst nonexistent.)

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3. A billion rejection letters as a required rite of passage (especially when the letters aren't helpful in pinpointing why a work has been rejected or how the author can improve).

Well, my first book was rejected by a hundred Presses before it was accepted! How many rejection letters did you get before you got a bite? What, only one or two? Oh…

How often one succeeds or fails to get published shouldn’t be treated as a form of hazing, and we all know that how often someone gets rejected or accepted has essentially no bearing on how good a writer they are. Plenty of schlock goes out into the world after being accepted on the first or second try...and so does plenty of good stuff! Likewise, plenty of schlock will get rejected 100 times but due to persistence, luck, circumstances, whatever, finally find a home, and plenty of good stuff will also get rejected 100 times before being publishing. Rejections (or lack there of) as a point of pride or as a means of judging others needs to die as a rite of passage among authors.

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4. Query letters, for so many reasons.

Summarize all your hard work in a single page! Tell us who you’re like as an author and what books your story is like, so we can gauge how well it’ll sell based on two sentences about it! Format it exactly the way we say or we won’t even consider you!

For publishers, agents, and editors who have slush piles as tall as Mount Everest...we get it. There has to be a way to differentiate. We don’t blame you. Every creative writing class, NaNoWriMo pep talk, and college lit department combine to send out hundreds of thousands of people who think all they need to do to become the next Ernest Hemingway is string a sentence together. There has to be some way to sort through that pile...but God, can’t there be a better way than query letters? Especially since even with query letters being used it often takes months or years to hear back, and...

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5. "Simultaneous submissions prohibited.”

No, we don’t know when we’ll get to your query, but we’ll throw it out instantly if you have the audacity to shop around while you wait for us.

The combination of “no simultaneous submissions” with the query letter bottleneck makes success slow and arduous. It disadvantages everyone who aims to write full-time but doesn’t have another income source (their own, or a parents’, or a spouse’s, or, or or). The result is that entire classes of people are edged out of publishing solely because the process, especially for writers early in their career, moves so glacially that people have to earn a living while they wait, and it’s so hard to, for example, work two jobs and raise a family and also somehow find the time to write. Especially considering that the standard advice for dealing with “no simultaneous submissions” is “just write something else while you wait!” ...the whole system screams privilege.

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6. Genres are boxes that must be fit into and adhered to.

Your protagonist is 18? Then obviously your book is Young Adult. It doesn’t matter how smutty your book is, erotica books must have sex within the first three chapters, ideally in the first chapter. Sorry, we’re a fantasy publisher, if you have a technological element you don’t belong here…

While some genre boxes have been becoming more like mesh cages of late, with some flow of content allowed in and out, many remain stiff prisons that constrict the kinds of stories people can tell. Even basic cross-genre works often struggle to find a place, and there’s no reason for it beyond “if we can’t pigeon-hole a story, it’s harder to sell.” This edges out many innovative, creative works. It also disadvantages people who aren’t as familiar with genre rules. And don’t get me wrong - this isn’t an argument that, for example, the romance genre would be improved by opening up to stories that don’t have “happily ever afters.” Instead, it’s pointing out - there should also be a home for, say, a space opera with a side romance, an erotica scene, and a happily-for-now ending. Occasionally, works breakthrough, but for the most part stories that don’t conform never see the light of day (or, they do, but only after Point 2 - trad pub editors insist that the elements most “outside” the box be removed or revised).

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7. The lines between romance and erotica are arbitrary, random, and hetero- and cis-normative.

This modern romance novel won’t sell if it doesn’t have an explicit sex scene, but God forbid you call a penis a penis. Oh, no, this is far too explicit, even though the book only has one mlm sex scene, this is erotica.

The difference between “romance�� and “erotica” might not matter so much if not for the stigmas attached to erotica and the huge difference in marketability and audience. The difference between “romance” and “erotica” also might not matter so much if not for the fact that, so often, even incredibly raunchy stories that feature cis straight male/cis straight female sex scenes are shelved as romance, but the moment the sex is between people of the same gender, and/or a trans or genderqueer person is involved, and/or the relationship is polyamorous, and/or the characters involved are literally anything other than a cis straight male pleasuring a cis straight female in a “standard” way (cunnilingus welcome, pegging need not apply)...then the story is erotica. Two identical stories will get assigned different genres based on who the people having sex are, and also based on the “skill” of the author to use ludicrous euphemisms (instead of just...calling body parts what they’re called…), and it’s insane. Non-con can be a “romance” novel, even if it’s graphically described. “50 Shades of Gray” can sell millions of copies, even containing BDSM. But the word “vagina” gets used once...bam, erotica. (Seriously, the only standard that should matter is the Envelope Analogy).

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8. Authors are expected to do a lot of their own legwork (eg advertising) but then don't reap the benefits.

Okay, so, you’re going to get an advance of $2,500 on this, your first novel, and a royalty rate of 5% if and only if your advance sells out...so you’d better get out there and market! Wait, what do you mean you don’t have a following? Guess you’re never selling out your advance…

Trad pub can generally be relied on to do some marketing - so this item is perhaps better seen as an indictment of more mid-sized Presses - but, basically, if an author has to do the majority of the work themselves, then why aren’t they getting paid more? What’s the actual benefit to going the large press/trad pub route if it’s not going to get the book into more hands? It’s especially strange that this continues to be a major issue when self-publishing (which also requires doing one’s own marketing) garners 60%+ royalty rates. Yes, the author doesn’t get an advance, and they don’t get the cache of ~well I was published by…~, but considering some Presses require parts of advances to get paid back if the initial run doesn’t sell out, and cache doesn’t put food on the table...pay models have really, really got to change.

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9. Fanfiction writing doesn't count as writing experience

Hey there Basic White Dude, we see you’ve graduated summa cum laude from A Big Fancy Expensive School. Of course we’ll set you up to publish your first novel you haven’t actually quite finished writing yet. Oh, Fanperson, you’ve written 15 novels for your favorite fandom in the last 4 years? Get to the back of the line!

Do I really need to explain this? The only way to get better at writing is to write. Placing fanfiction on official trad pub “do not interact” lists is idiotic, especially considering many of the other items on this list. (They know how to engage readers! They have existing followings! They understand genre and tropes!) Being a fanfiction writer should absolutely be a marketable “I am a writer” skill. Nuff said. (To be clear, I’m not saying publishers should publish fanfiction, I’m saying that being a fanfiction writer is relevant and important experience that should be given weight when considering an author’s qualifications, similar to, say, publishing in a university’s quarterly.)

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10. Tagging conventions (read: lack thereof).

Oh, did I trigger you? Hahahaha. Good luck with that.

We rate movies so that people can avoid content they don’t like. Same with TV shows and video games. Increasingly, those ratings aren’t just “R - adult audiences,” either; they contain information about the nature of the story elements that have led to the rating (“blood and gore,” “alcohol reference,” “cartoon violence,” “drug reference,” “sexual violence,” “use of tobacco,” and many, many more). So why is it that I can read a book and, without warning, be surprised by incest, rape, graphic violence, explicit language, glorification of drug and alcohol use, and so so much more? That it’s left to readers to look up spoilers to ensure that they’re not exposed to content that could be upsetting or inappropriate for their children or, or, or, is insane. So often, too, authors cling to “but we don’t want to give away our story,” as if video game makes and other media makers do want to give away their stories. This shouldn’t be about author egos or ~originality~ (as if that’s even a thing)...it should be about helping readers make informed purchasing decisions. It’s way, way past time that major market books include content warnings.

Thank you for joining us, this has been our extended rant about how frustrated we are with traditional publishing. Helpful? No. Cathartic? Most definitely yes. 🤣

*

Have a question about writing? Drop us an ask!

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[reapergia]

From the Dirt, pt. 3

The séance room was beyond the foyer and to the right, labeled with a wooden plaque that read Tea Room.

Daisy snorted.

Warm light spilled into the hall from the part in the wine colored curtains in place of a door.

She flung them aside.

Pilar’s head snapped up; her dark eyes shot sparks. She was at the head of the table with her hands resting open-palmed along the edges, and though anger tightened her face, her voice came out smooth. “We are in a meeting.”

There were three other chairs around the table; a tired, older man who sat slumped and a younger woman with bloodshot eyes and tangled hair sat on either side of Pilar. Directly across from her in the third chair was the ghost of Richard Duncan.

“Ha.” Daisy pointed. “He was my client.”

Pilar’s nostrils flared. “I believe his brother was your client,” she said evenly. “And right now, his sister and father are mine, so if you would kindly wait outside-”

“So you can shoo him on? Absolutely not.” She marched to Richard’s spirit, but he didn’t look at her—or anyone aside from Pilar. The dead could only communicate with mediums—in this form. Daisy didn’t mind waiting until she reunited body and spirit to talk.

“But-” the woman hiccuped. “But he needs to move on. To rest.” She glanced at Pilar. “Right?”

“Yes. It was his time. You’re too late,” she added, looking at Daisy. “Richard is at peace. He’s letting go of his life, because it was over.” She set her hand on the woman’s arm.

Richard was fading from sight, still gazing up across the table. His expression was calm, peaceful.

Daisy gritted her teeth. There really wasn’t anything she could do now except tell her client that it was too late and she couldn’t bring his brother back. It was almost worth it though, when she held up her muddy hand and said, “I’ll need help with the body, then. He’s in your foyer.”

Pilar’s eyes went wide. A flush moved up her throat to his cheeks, and fury turned her eyes molten. “Miss McGowan, you will see yourself and your-” Her gaze flicked to Mr. Duncan- “work out of my home.”

“I was just thinking that myself.” She left another handprint on the wall outside the “tea room”.

It didn’t make up for the loss, but it helped.

From the Dirt, pt 1

Death was a game, as far as Daisy McGowan was concerned, and she figured she was winning as much as any mortal could.

Some people took it a little more seriously.

Mist swirled over the dead man, coiling through the ritual ingredients strewn over him.

Daisy's phone pulsed in her pocket; her lips curved. She liked to imagine the ringing was as outraged as the person on the other end. Pilar hated losing.

"Too late." Mud and honey dripped off her hands.

The man sat up with a gurgling gasp. White petals and tea slipped off of him.

"Welcome back."

[reapergia]

From the Dirt, pt. 2

Norwood manor had always been an unofficial sight-seeing spot in Rhodesburge. Even in the rain, the place held a quiet dignity on its little hill.

Daisy shouldered through the half-closed gate, grunting from the weight of her cargo. The mud on her pink sneakers left smudgy prints on the unnaturally green lawn. Rain rolled down her face, trickling under the collar of her shirt. She smacked her hair out of her eyes and heaved her load up the yard. There was a paved walkway, but she was too annoyed to bother.

The ornate double doors were unlocked but heavy. Daisy threw her shoulder against it to get one open. A blast of cold air hit her when it swung inward. Thunder growled at her back.

She had only been inside once before during a party. With the foyer lights dimmed, it was a whole different space.

She dropped the corpse with a splat; grave mud and petals scattered all over the marble. Her hands were sticky with wasted honey. She smacked her palm against the wall, leaving a splotchy handprint on the clean paint. She smiled, satisfied, and marched away. She had a bone to pick with Miss Pilar Norwood.  

From the Dirt, pt 1

Death was a game, as far as Daisy McGowan was concerned, and she figured she was winning as much as any mortal could.

Some people took it a little more seriously.

Mist swirled over the dead man, coiling through the ritual ingredients strewn over him.

Daisy's phone pulsed in her pocket; her lips curved. She liked to imagine the ringing was as outraged as the person on the other end. Pilar hated losing.

"Too late." Mud and honey dripped off her hands.

The man sat up with a gurgling gasp. White petals and tea slipped off of him.

"Welcome back."

[reapergia]

By its cover - part 2

(part 1)

“Since we’re supposed to be showing goodwill, you can call me Dandelion-,” he stopped when he saw the look on the vampire’s face.

“Really? Now you’re the one who’s fucking with me, dude!” The vampire could barely hide his mirth.

Dandelion pushed his glasses up with a finger. “Flower names are actually common in my culture. I’m named after my great-grand-uncle, who-“

“Cool, my man, but I will not be calling you Dandelion in front of the humans!” The vampire was outright laughing now.

Dandelion held back from erasing him from existence.

“Anyway, I’m calling you Dan!”

Dandelion blinked. “What?”

[reapergia]

I sometimes see people argue about one of these circles as though it were all three circles.

Sometimes something can totally make sense in-universe, and fit with the themes of the story, the characters, etc... And you just don't like it for whatever reason. Maybe it wasn't done well in spite of that, or touched a nerve, etc.

Maybe you loved a story, and it was an excellent exploration of a character, but it would be totally fair to call out the technical nonsense, and how, even in-universe, it doesn't add up.

And maybe you thought this episode of a show was GREAT! But it was non-canon, nothing made sense, and, ultimately, it was UTTER NONSENSE.

And so on, and so forth. Heck, you could fairly add more circles to this. I'm keeping it simple with three.

My point is mostly that there's nuance to opinions, and sometimes, someone not liking something in a story has nothing to do with whether it made sense, or complimented the narrative.

Those things can be separate points. Stories don't have to be a failure at everything to be disliked, or succeed at everything to be liked, and arguing as though that were the case is silly.

[reapergia]

Leave me and my weird names in peace

[reapergia]

By its cover - part 1

"Shouldn't you be more whimsical? You look like a lawyer." 

The fairy squinted, crow's feet spreading around his eyes. "Shouldn't you be less whimsical? You look like you sell candles at the farmer's market."

The vampire laughed brightly. "How'd ya guess?"

"Wait, really?"

"Nah, can't be in the sun, would make it difficult." The vampire winked. "I teach midnight yoga classes."

The fairy pinched the bridge of his nose, dislodging his glasses. "Are you fucking with me right now?"

The vampire smiled. "No, sir! Shall we get on with this meeting? By the way, what's your name?"

The fairy sighed.

[reapergia]

From the Dirt, pt 1

Death was a game, as far as Daisy McGowan was concerned, and she figured she was winning as much as any mortal could.

Some people took it a little more seriously.

Mist swirled over the dead man, coiling through the ritual ingredients strewn over him.

Daisy's phone pulsed in her pocket; her lips curved. She liked to imagine the ringing was as outraged as the person on the other end. Pilar hated losing.

"Too late." Mud and honey dripped off her hands.

The man sat up with a gurgling gasp. White petals and tea slipped off of him.

"Welcome back."

[reapergia]

Alone They Fought the Devil

A direct sequel to A World on its Knees and also available on ao3

The sky was the pale blue-gray of dawn, scored with tar black fingers still writhing from a central point directly over the cabin. Paxton could smell the heated coppery scent of magic still, could feel the vibration under his boots.

Allard stood stone still beside him, staring at the sky. His wavy, dark brown hair was disheveled, his face clean shaven for the first time in years. His hands flexed at his sides, his next breath noisy and uneven.

Paxton’s gaze dropped involuntarily to his right wrist; it looked so bare and vulnerable, almost, without the spiky white curse mark that had branded him for years. The skin looked the same, deep, warm sepia, which struck him as odd. It seemed something so life changing should have left some mark, maybe left the skin paler than the rest of him, but it had lifted as easily as it had burned into his flesh.

The trees around them groaned, wind pulling restlessly at their clothes.

Allard’s hands flexed again. The black lines in the sky pulsed in time with it. He shook his head hard. “I can’t.”

“Yes you can.” Paxton’s gaze drifted beyond the thick-trunked trees surrounding their cabin, their home, to the ghost choked roads that lay just out of sight. “This is just the curse breaking,” he said calmly. “It wasn’t meant to break so easily. Its power and ours colliding.”

Allard looked at him then, finally tearing his eyes from the sky. Guilt pulled his mouth down, curved the broad line of his shoulders.

“I need your help,” Paxton said clearly, desperately. “No one will question your decision.” He wouldn’t give them the chance. They both had battle experience, but Paxton was the better fighter, and he would ensure no one made Allard regret his decision.

His magic was powerful, and together they could win, they could stop this.

Allard nodded curtly, looking once more at the scarred sky before turning his attention to the woods. Wind tore through the trees, sending a storm of blue-green leaves hurtling into the air. They swirled up the muddy path Paxton had staggered along the night before, rustling like the wings of a hundred birds.

Paxton stepped into the whirl of them, arms held out. They caressed his cheeks, slipped along his palms, skimmed down his nose and shoulders before abruptly tumbling to the ground. He turned.

Allard frowned at his hands, squeezing them into fists and relaxing over and over.

“You-”

He flicked his fingers out.

The tree closest to the cabin bent with a ground-shaking roar, curving toward them with its branches outstretched.

He exhaled.

The tree snapped upright, flinging bark and leaves at them.

Paxton deflected them with a finger twitch.

“I need practice.”

“Yes.” He looked up and caught his breath. The tar black lines had faded, only slightly but with a visible difference. “You know how to use it. You just need to…stretch.” He felt the forest around them like an arm draped over his shoulders.

Allard nodded. “Take me somewhere no one can get hurt.” Fire crackled at his fingertips.

Paxton held his hand out. “I know a place.” When Allard’s palm slid into his, he flipped it over, pressing his lips to the heel of his hand. “Thank you.” His voice was barely audible, mouth still pressed into his skin, but he felt in the twitch of Allard’s fingers that he had heard.

“You don’t have to thank me for this.” There was a break on the last word, nearly undetectable, but Paxton knew his voice well, better than anyone, and he heard it.

This, their common fight, their shared enemy, destroyer of lives, families, and, potentially, the world.

Paxton straightened with a grin. “Then let’s go remind them what we can do.” The sky grumbled as magic ripped at the air, pulling apart seams that should not exist. He held tight to Allard’s hand, automatically searching for the familiar rough surface of his curse mark as they stepped through the torn air. He held his breath instinctively but forgot to warn Allard.

He stepped out and choked, tearing his hand free to cover his mouth. His light brown eyes widened and watered, skipping from piles of debris to piles of bodies and back. He dropped his hands, turning in a slow circle.

Smoke rose from the rubble in coiling, shimmering gold wisps. The stench of death and burned meat still hovered months after the attack, thickening the air to an unbearable haze.

Allard looked away from the bodies to the home nearest them, broken down to almost nothing, staring hard at the smoking bricks, shoulders heaving with his unwilling breaths.

Paxton hated this. He hated that he couldn’t do this alone, hated that he had to show him this, hated that this was not the worst of the carnage.

Allard did not belong here. He preferred their home, he preferred them both home. He wanted them to have food when they were hungry and a hearth when they were cold and a place to close their eyes when the world was too dangerous for it.

Paxton wanted that too. He wanted to stop this more. He didn’t want a safe place to hide, he wanted not to have to hide anymore.

“It’s fire you want.” He didn’t look away from the house he was staring at.

“You can’t hurt anyone here. Do whatever you’d like.”

He turned sharply. In his tight, all black clothes, things he had buried deep in their closet after his curse, with that wretched despair on his face, he looked like the boy Paxton met when they were young. He flung his hand at one of the piles of bodies. “They should have been burned. Properly. Why are they here still? Months!”

“There aren’t enough of us left,” he replied calmly. “Not any strong enough for this volume, at least. We’re all busy chasing it, trying to track its movements and evacuate where we think it’s going to strike next.”

Allard bared his teeth, a snarl Paxton hadn’t seen in years. “Fire then.”

He nodded, crossing his arms to keep from assisting.

He wouldn’t need help. The smell wove through the stench, hot copper and clean wood smoke. Heat sizzled in the air.

Paxton’s hands curled against his sides, tangling in his shirt. His breath whistled.

Fire started in a languid roll over the first pile, golden orange flames wrapping over the bodies in a slow embrace.

Paxton’s eyes slid shut. The taste of Allard’s magic, the pure, un-smothered force of it, bowled over him, coated his tongue, sent his heart thrumming in his chest. Seven years was too long. His own magic surged in response, seeking him out, but he held fast. Allard needed to do this alone, needed to feel his own magic again, wield it on his own.

The flames swept the town, the people left to rot here, the homes reduced to ruins. The intense heat barely touched them.

Above, the black leached from the sky, leaving only faint gray marks. The golden smoke faded, overpowered by the fire cleansing the town. The fierce roar was welcome over the silence.

Allard put his hand out and lowered it.

The flames died. Bone ash tumbled along the cracked pavement, black and gray. The odors mingled, death and wood smoke, ruin and hot copper.

Paxton let his hands fall to his sides, watching the bone ash flutter.

Allard put his hand out and lifted it slowly. The ground shook and a gray stone ruptured through the broken sidewalk, wide and rectangular. A crescent curved itself into the top.

The ash swirled into the air, hovering for a moment like flies.

Paxton cupped his hands.

Liquid glass flowed into the cup of the crescent.

Allard’s shoulders loosened and the ash drifted into the glass, some of them still sparking and glowing in the thick of it.

Paxton sealed the glass sphere and watched the ashes of this once-thriving town whirl inside, orange embers mixing in with the gray.

Allard fell back a step, his jaw tight, eyes like flint. He turned away from the memorial and lifted his hand toward one of the crumbled houses, palm out. He ticked one finger.

Paxton shuddered as the blast cracked the air, throwing stone and glass into the sky like hail.

Water burbled to Allard’s fingertips, a glittering, glistening stream before he closed his hand to dispel it.

Paxton stood beside him, watching the debris settle. His own magic was a storm inside, battering his ribs and chest like hammer blows.

Allard turned his head. There was a small cut under his left eye, a single drop of blood sliding down his cheek. He pointed.

The ground was split with fissures in the wake of his blast, wounds dug into the earth.

Paxton held his hand out. “You need practice,” he said quietly. “Last time we were young and had no training.”

“I still have no training.”

He smiled a little. “You’ve got me.”

His eyes narrowed. “I seem to recall that’s what got me in trouble in the first place.” He clasped their hands together before Paxton could retort.

Their magic met and flashed out, like lightning striking the ocean, reunited at last. Hot copper and the smell of burning roses filled the air, mingling with a scent like rainfall on hot pavement.

Paxton hissed through his teeth, clenching his fist until he had it under control. “Watch.” He lifted his arm.

“Careful-”

“Watch,” he repeated. He only lifted a finger to the torn ground.

Green pushed through the fissures, climbing over the debris and the dirt, sprawling in every direction. The dirt visible through the plants went rich, dark brown, fed on magic as the cracks filled with moss.

Allard gasped, his hand tightened. “We did this?”

“Yes.” Paxton felt a flush of pride when he kept gaping at the patch of new life. He had spent many off-duty moments these past few years learning to do this, at least this one thing to show Allard that together they were capable of more than destruction. “We can-”

Allard jerked his arm, turning in place so they were face-to-face, his breath hot and damp on Paxton’s lips.

They had always been of a height, give or take an inch as they stumbled through adolescence, something Paxton loved, the way their lips lined up, their eyes. The moment stretched like a bow string, singing with tension, before he leaned in, nudging their mouths together.

Allard dropped his hand to grasp his shoulder, his other hand spread wide and hot over the middle of his back, soothing the dull ache of his scar.

The kiss was gentle but electrified as they rediscovered the force of their magic together, familiar and new at once. This, Paxton thought nonsensically as Allard’s teeth grazed his bottom lip, as magic swirled around them. His fingers dug into Allard’s soft, wavy hair, clenching as his heart ached. They still saw each other, but he hadn’t returned often enough, hadn’t stayed long enough, hadn’t devoted nearly enough time to just them together.

Allard pulled away and pressed another kiss to his cheek, then his lips again, sweet soft things. He leaned their foreheads together, eyes shut.

He didn’t have to speak. Paxton could read his mood, his thoughts, the faint curve of his mouth, the swelling heat of his magic.

“The demon dies today,” he said.

Allard straightened. “Or we do.”

“My pessimist.”

“Realist.” But he reached out, tracing a crescent on Paxton’s forehead with his smallest finger.

Cold wind blew through the town, digging icy claws down his back. He clenched his jaw and blew out a breath.

Allard’s nostrils flared. “The cold-”

“It’s a storm blowing in. See?” He gestured at the sky, which was already staining red again.

Allard settled his hand on the center of his back again, landing with unerring accuracy.

Heat seeped through his shirt and sunk into the scar, fending off the chill. “I missed that,” he sighed.

A smile played around his mouth. “The real reason you wanted to break the curse.”

“You caught me.” He held his hand out again. “I think it’s time. Unless you need more practice.”

He raised his eyes to the storm crawling over the sky, eating up the blue. “No.” He took Paxton’s hand.

He aimed more carefully this time, but they still stepped out into the main street of a broken city. This one wasn’t entirely destroyed, caught on the edge of the destruction of another, but hundreds had perished still, and where the demon went, the deaths followed.

“Oh.” Allard stepped back, but there was no escaping the spirits.

“It’s this or where we just came from.”

They stood in a sea of flowing silvery forms, some wandering mindlessly, others wailing or shouting, some simply begging to wake up.

Paxton was used to seeing it; the dead no longer moved on and he long suspected it was the demon’s doing.

Allard swept his hand out almost absently, gaze locked on the path ahead.

The spirits parted smoothly around them like a river flowing around a stone. Some murmured in protest but others gazed at him like people seeing light for the first time, their silver translucent faces desperate.

Paxton swallowed. The spirits unnerved him—they weren’t meant to roam like this, like a creeping fog of misery—but Allard had grown up surrounded by them until the demon had destroyed his home and family.

He was versed in the language of the dead, and it was a soft, gentle thing. “It will end soon,” he said, his gaze still distant. “And you will rest.”

“I don’t want to!” The shout was faint, from the center of the mass of ghostly forms, furious and in denial.

Allard’s head dipped. “As you like.”

The silence that followed made Paxton cough into his fist. The angry ones never knew what to do when he didn’t argue with them.

His gaze cut to the side, and Paxton folded his lips apologetically, but he couldn’t hide his expression. Allard sighed, and the fog of ghosts shifted with it, already fixated on him. They stayed in place when Paxton and Allard began walking, watching them go but unwilling to follow.

“Will you help them? When we win.”

“Someone will have to.” He looked over. “They will come to our home.”

“Right…” He had known that; Allard used to tell him what it was like growing up in a home full of the living and the dead, the smell of both warm food and heated magic pressing into every corner.

Allard’s face cleared and softened. “Right,” he murmured back.

Thunder grumbled overhead as the sky darkened. The temperature dropped; Paxton could feel it like a blade drawn down his back. He kept his stride loose and didn’t make a sound but Allard reached out anyway, spreading heat down his back. “I was joking earlier. We have other things to worry about.”

“I am worrying about both.” He was worrying about more than the demon and Paxton’s scar; his eyes were glazed, turned inward, and magic roiled around them like a stormy sea.

Fat drops of rain struck the road with force, turning into a steady drone, and lightning forked above them, making Paxton flinch, but it didn’t come close.

Allard inhaled shakily.

At the edge of the city, a group of witches stood watching their approach. Their uniforms were dusty and damp, and many of them had bandaged wounds. They were just as Paxton left them a day ago.

The captain stood at the front, the oldest and most experienced in this group, her face like stone. Her ice chip eyes focused on Allard with disapproval while the rest only looked curious.

Paxton bared his teeth, one hand lifting. He would throw them all aside before he let any of them condemn him. “You-”

“Don’t.” Allard, rather than looking guilty, had schooled his features into a remote expression. He set his hand on Paxton’s raised arm. “I’m here to help Paxton.” He met the captain’s icy gaze with one of his own. “You remember what we’re capable of together.”

The younger witches shifted their weight, straining to get a better look at him, gazes raking to his bare right wrist. Whispering broke out.

Captain Rosenthal silenced them with a sharp slice of her hand. “You’re going to fight it?” She looked to Paxton for this question.

He raised his chin. “We are going to kill it.”

The witches behind her exchanged looks again.

The red of the sky was deepening, lightning cutting through it like lashes of fire.

Captain Rosenthal looked at Allard again. “Round up,” she said, raising her voice so her entire unit could hear. “We are evacuating the area.” Her gaze cut back to Paxton. “You remember how to track it, I’m sure.”

He could do better than follow its path of destruction now. “Yes.”

“You two will fight alone. I won’t risk their lives needlessly.”

His lip curled at the implication.

Allard just watched her steadily.

The rain picked up as the unit packed their meager supplies, scrambling to get away. Two turned as they were leaving, watching them.

Allard lifted his right hand in a wave, making their eyes widen. Rain went around them as if they were under an umbrella.

“Let’s go,” Paxton murmured. “There’s no need to stay here.”

“Captain Rosenthal hasn’t changed,” he grumbled.

“Sure she has. She’s pretty mad you broke the curse, that’s new.”

He looked at his hand, then caught Paxton’s. “It’s close, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” He could feel it in the cold ache on his back, the gagging taste of lightning and burning hair in the air. “We can go right to it.”

He lifted his brows.

Thunder rolled over them, loud enough to rattle their bones. Rain pummeled the ground around so hard it splashed back up.

Paxton waited it out, reaching into his pocket. “I told you that I hurt it, made it bleed.”

“Ah.”

The next crack of thunder was more like a crash, rumbling and uneven like boulders smashing into each other. Lightning flashed continuously, streaking the sky with white and orange.

He drew out the hilt of the dagger he had driven between the demon’s ribs, observing the melted edges, the sticky, thick gray fluid that had spilled from the wound before it had flung Paxton away. Its blood—or something like it—had melted the blade, but some of it remained. That was enough. He ran his thumb just under one of the droplets, vision blurring for a second. He held his other hand out. “It isn’t far.”

Allard said, “It’s in Rowanhold, isn’t it?”

He looked over sharply.

“I told you I saw some of it. The final stand. I didn’t recognize the city until now.” He nodded ahead of them where the spires of Rowanhold’s famous city hall could just be seen in the distance.

Paxton’s mouth curled in a grim smile. “Let’s stop it.”

Allard took his hand. “What is another city beneath the waves?” he murmured.

“That won’t happen.” His words were drowned by another cataclysmic crash of thunder, and by then Allard was pulling him through the rip. He coughed as they stepped out, sputtering on gold smoke that tasted like rotting fruit.

Rowanhold was falling to pieces too. Blood made the streets tacky, even with the rain that should have washed it away. The sky darkened to the color of wine once more, the storm awakened again.

Paxton had seen a portal to hells only once, but these storms looked like one, turned the whole world red-tinted.

Allard kept their hands sealed together as his breath shuddered once more. “We’ll go home after this.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll make us a meal, and then I’ll show you how to draw the spirits.” He inhaled deeply, chest expanding. “I’ll show you how we help them move along.”

“I’d like that.” Fear pricked his skin for the first time, stole his breath. His fury left him, swept away by one moment of doubt: what if Allard died here, today? What would a world without him feel like? Cold, Paxton decided.

His hand squeezed before he reached around and traced a crescent on Paxton’s forehead. He smiled faintly.

He exhaled and pulled up a smirk, rolling his shoulders back. “It’s there.”

Allard nodded. They walked side-by-side through golden smoke that tasted like rotten fruit, while the wine red storm raged above them, hand-in-hand. Their combined magic flowed between them, heating the air around them.

The ground cracked where their boots touched. Joy raced through Paxton, pure and giddy, a relic from a time when they fought side-by-side with no idea of the damage they could do. The cold ache on his back sharpened, digging under the skin.

The demon stood in the middle of High Street, tearing through something with sharp, double rows of teeth. Its ears pricked and it dropped a hunk of bloody meat, turning to them. Cords of golden lightning flashed out from its back as it straightened to its full height, five bulging, indigo eyes focusing on them. Its blue flesh was marked by burns and scars, a tapestry of the years and witches spent hunting it. One in particular stood out on its left side, white and fresh.

Paxton bared his teeth.

Thunder cracked. Lightning sizzled in the sky.

Allard’s hand grew hot in his.

The demon, backed by golden lightning and the wine red sky, lifted its arms, tail lashing behind it.

The ground split with a groan. Water flooded the street, roiling around their ankles, and the sky roared, black and red meeting above like an oil spill over a sea of blood.

Allard raised his left hand, palm out.

Paxton smiled.