eyes yet to open – 22.6

Content Warnings

Discussion of child death/murder of children



Previous Chapter Next Chapter

“It started thirteen years ago. February 2006. So, more like thirteen and a half years ago, I guess. Feels like a whole different era now, world’s all different, struggling to be born, time of monsters and all that. I remember it was February, because that was when I washed up in England. I’d never been there before. Your collection of rainy little islands are cold and dreary in February; I can deal with both ‘cold’ and ‘dreary’ like nothing, but I didn’t understand the place. Thought I’d come to the edge of the world. In a way, I had, I just didn’t know it yet. Two years and a handful of months, between when it all started and when it ended. By ‘ended’ I mean when you and your twin sister got spirited away, Heather. For you that was the start. But for me? For me it was the end of a nightmare, and the end of a vigil. A vigil I failed to keep. A self-imposed quest that I fucked up. Two years, wasted trying to do something I wasn’t made for, because the problem was more complex than just burning out an infection and incinerating the corpses to hide the evidence. And then, when I had finished fucking up, two innocent kids paid the price of one adult’s total failure and cowardice.”

Taika spoke slowly and carefully. Her voice was like a camp-fire, crackling away to itself in the middle of a deep, dark, dangerous forest, the flickering flames keeping the night at bay. She smelled of wood-smoke and coal, heated brass and sun-kissed steel.

She stared at the ceiling as she spoke, with her head rolled back to rest on the rear of her ruined white leather sofa. Her frozen-flame hair lay still and bright against the ripped leather, glinting like molten rock in the dawn light which poured through the bank of windows in the opposite wall. She nursed her beer in her lap with both hands.

I swallowed, and murmured: “Maisie and me?”

“Mmhmm,” she grunted.

Taika nodded, still staring upward at the white-cream ceiling of her penthouse apartment. She raised her head, took a sip of her beer, then leaned back again, miles away and years in the past.

Evelyn growled: “‘Washed up’ in England?”

Taika gestured by tapping her fingertips against her beer can. “Figure of speech. I came through Heathrow, like everyone else. Fuck the sea, fuck swimming.”

Evelyn frowned, unimpressed, but she stayed silent, clutching her walking stick in both hands, bone-wand over her knees like a firearm on display; she’d spent the first couple of minutes of Taika’s story sending text messages back home, to let everyone else in the house know that I was alive, intact, and a very bad set of seven squid-girls. Praem stood just behind Evelyn’s shoulder, looming over the white sofa, hands folded, looking like she would rather apply herself to the unenviable task of cleaning up the rest of the mess that Taika and I had made of the expensive penthouse apartment. Lozzie was peering at Taika with far too much interest, sitting much closer to the ‘witch’ than the rest of us, but I didn’t begrudge Lozzie; I totally understood, even under the circumstances — Taika was still dressed in tiny white shorts and a white tank top and nothing else, sprawled back on the opposite sofa, legs wide, the hem of her tank top riding up to show the kind of toned abdominal muscles that one could only obtain through lots of hard work.

Raine sipped her own beer, pistol hidden in her waistband, shooting me occasional looks to make sure I was doing okay.

I was not.

The aftermath of my emergency transformations and the ensuing cacophony of rapid-fire brain-math had left me drained and wobbly. I had dried blood crusted around my eyes, despite the effort to wash off the worst. I was vaguely nauseated and felt the beginnings of a headache throbbing at my temples. Without my bio-reactor I would have been aching for sleep. All our tentacles were limp and tired and ready to coil up and stop moving for a few hours.

But we were quivering with the need to know, in a way we had so rarely felt.

“Taika,” I prompted after a moment of silence. “I am — perhaps understandably — a little anxious and impatient to know the truth. Please?”

Taika laughed softly, without raising her head. “Thirteen years is a long time ago, kid, even for things like you and me. I don’t want to miss any details or get stuff wrong, not if you need closure, and certainly not if you need accurate info to go Beyond and punch out a titan. Give this old lady some time to think.”

Raine said: “You don’t look a day over thirty, ‘old lady’.”

Taika silently toasted Raine with her beer. “Flame is always fresh. So. February 2006. England. I ended up there because … well.” Taika pulled a rueful, melancholy sort of smile. “Because of a woman. My very own little island monkey, to whom I am still technically married, I believe. I know, I know — how is that relevant?” Taika sneered at herself. “It’s not, but I’m trying to give you context for what happened, why it happened, why I let it happen.”

We nodded, squeezing ourself with our tentacles. “That’s quite alright. Yes, please, do give me the whole thing.”

Taika rolled her eyes at the ceiling, tapping her beer can with fingertips again. “The ‘whole thing’ would take hours, and most of it is none of your business. Most of it has nothing to do with any of you. There was a … an ‘incident’, let’s say, involving me, my ‘wife’, a kid … uh, unrelated to either of us, kind of — and a vampire, though the vampire was just sort of in tow, not really important—”

Evelyn hissed under her breath: “For fuck’s sake. Vampires, again.”

Lozzie did a snort-giggle.

Taika ignored all that, carrying on “—and a series of unexplained deaths.” Taika raised her head from the back of the sofa and looked at us again; her goat-like orange eyes glowed with inner fire. “Any of you ever been to Tolchester?”

She received a series of blank looks in return. I shook my head, though I’d heard of the city. Evelyn just shrugged. Lozzie didn’t seem to care, tilting her head from side to side. Praem didn’t respond.

Raine said: “Never been there myself, but Tolchester’s a rough place, even for the North.”

Taika shrugged. “North, south, whatever. Can’t remember the geography of your rainy little island half the time, anyway. Do you remember the Tolchester serial killer case, around about then?”

Raine squinted. “Vaguely. Not really, though. Where you going with this?”

I raised one tentacle and spoke up: “I actually don’t remember that, no. I don’t make a habit of reading newspapers from thirteen years ago, or upsetting myself with wikipedia pages on serial killers.”

Taika pointed her beer can at me. “Smart, calamari. Stay away from that shit, it’s bad for your digestion. And the reason you don’t remember it is because they never caught anybody. Police made a couple of arrests, but that was just for show. Four dead, all in Tolchester, all between February and May 2006. All four died in weird, isolated places. And they weren’t the sort of victims that serial killers usually pick, right? That’s sort of why I was there. Your British newspapers didn’t get most of the truth, either. Police were right quick at cleaning up the scenes and making sure nobody took photos. Weird, ritual shit. The kinda thing you pretend doesn’t exist on television.”

Evelyn snorted. “A mage.”

Taika smiled a sudden burning smile. “Oh, you wish it was a mage. No, much worse, this was something that had wandered too far, wasn’t supposed to be here.” Taika shrugged. “I would say I dealt with it, but that would be a lie. The kid I mentioned dealt with it, but hey, that’s another story. The important bit is that I enlisted help — help I came to regret. A man — a mage, I suppose, for all that fucking word means anything — by the name of Darren Dole.”

Taika took another sip of her beer. She was sitting up straight now, seemingly warming to her subject. She raked her long, frozen-flame hair back to keep it out of her face.

“You have to understand,” she said. “We couldn’t find this thing that was doing the killings. It moved in ways we couldn’t handle, not even the vampire. Hunting it was almost impossible. You’d see it out in the open, in the middle of a crowd, and it would just look like a man. A really tall man with no face. And you’d forget it was there, your brain would slide off it, even when you tried to look directly at the thing. Nearly got one of my companions back then, just because we couldn’t see the damn thing properly, couldn’t keep it in our minds, couldn’t ‘observe’ it.”

A shudder went through me when Taika said that word — observe.

“Oh,” I murmured. “Oh no.”

Taika shot me a pained smile. “Yeah, you get where this is going, calamari. We needed better eyes. We needed ways to see.”

“You contacted the Eye,” I said. “You made a deal with it.”

Taika winced and held up a hand. “Mm, not quite, slow down. Let me get there. We needed help. The kid I mentioned, she didn’t need eyes to hunt. Followed her nose instead. She eventually solved the whole thing for me, but I screwed up at first. I didn’t want an eleven year old girl getting involved, not any deeper than she already was. I was getting desperate, because the thing that was doing the killings, it was coming for me and mine next. I could probably fight it off, but none of my companions could. But, Mister Dole? He swore up and down and left and right that he knew of an entity which could grant us sight.”

“No,” I hissed, tentacles flexing with sudden need. “You mustn’t, you—”

“I didn’t,” Taika repeated, a little harder, trying to get me to ease off. “Slow down, calamari. It’s more complicated than you think. I didn’t make any deals with the ‘Eye’ or anything like that. But I have to explain why I did what I did. Okay?”

Slowly, we nodded. We took several deep breaths. We lowered our tentacles. Raine put her beer to one side and slid an arm around my shoulders instead, to hold me steady. Taika was not the mage who had done all this, she was not responsible for everything that had happened to me.

“Okay,” we said. “Sorry. Please, go on.”

Taika nodded a guarded thank you. “So,” she said. “Dole, he had this book.” She smirked without any warmth, her fires banked. “Mages do love their books, don’t they? A lot of problems would be solved with a nice big bonfire for all those rotten old tomes.”

Evelyn hissed between her teeth, tutting out loud. “Book burner.”

Taika smirked. “It’s my nature, English rose. It’s how I deal with problems.”

A wave of disgust knocked the horror right out of me, too. “Taika!” I said. “That’s vile! I don’t care what’s in them, burning books is never the right answer.”

Taika raised her eyebrows at me. “You really think that? I’m not talking about cultural symbolism here, calamari. I’m not talking about restricting knowledge from the masses. I’m not talking about no Disco Demolition. I’m talking about magic. Would you burn a single book, to rescue your sister?”

“Well … yes, of course we would,” I admitted. “But that’s not the same principle.”

Taika waved that off; this part of her philosophy was irreconcilable with my own. “Dole had this book. Asrar almajalat ghayr almaryiya, Geheimnisse der unsichtbaren Sphären, both in Medieval German and Classical Arabic.”

Secrets of the spheres unseen?” Evelyn translated, frowning with sudden interest. “That’s apocryphal. As far as I can tell, the book never existed, only references to it. You’re telling me it’s real?”

Taika shrugged. “Real enough when I saw it. Only copy in existence or something, Dole was proud of that. Parts of it couldn’t be copied without lethal complications, reading certain passages also performed the contents of the passages.” Taika snorted. “Typical mage bullshit.”

“Huh,” Evelyn grunted in grudging agreement. Taika nodded at that.

“Anyway,” she said. “To cut this part of the story short, Dole said there was a way to borrow perfect sight, perfect observation, from a specific Beyonder titan.”

“The Eye,” I said.

Taika nodded once. “We called it something else, but ‘The Eye’ is better.”

Evelyn said, “What did you call it?”

Taika cleared her throat. “At the time? ‘Mister Telescope’.”

Raine laughed. Lozzie giggled. Evelyn rolled her eyes.

“Mister Telescope,” Praem repeated. “Sees very far.”

“In my defence,” Taika said. “We — me and my other companions — were mostly teasing Dole. We didn’t think it would work. His ‘Mister Telescope’ was bullshit as far as we were concerned. We were all too worried about fighting the thing hunting us down.”

I said: “But it did work. Didn’t it?”

“Nope.” Taika laughed softly. “Dole vanished. Right in the middle of all that shit with the ‘serial killer’, he vanished.” She clicked her fingers.  “I thought he’d skipped town, left us to ‘face the music’, as you English say. After that whole incident got resolved, I had to take a few weeks to tidy up the loose ends. Then I went looking for Dole. His corpse hadn’t turned up during all the commotion, nobody could account for him, and I figured out he was still alive. I wanted to find him, kick his arse, maybe kill him. I hadn’t decided yet. I was angry. Stupid of me.”

Evelyn snorted. “Don’t blame you.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Raine added. She reached over and sipped from her beer again.

I said, “He hadn’t run though, had he? He’d contacted the Eye.”

Taika shook her head. “He had run, actually, but not because he was a coward. I spent about a month tracing the guy’s steps before I caught up with him. First thing I found was the place he’d done a ritual, right there in Tolchester, where he was supposed to be when he was helping. And it wasn’t a small piece of magic, not something a baby mage could do. Dole was in his fifties, experienced and principled, he knew what he was doing. I don’t know a lot of magecraft, but he had protections and wards and bullshit enough to stop anything. The whole room was plated with mirrors looking inward, as if to confuse the sight of whatever he was calling.”

“Fool!” Evelyn snapped.

“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, the Eye … that’s not … that’s not how it works … it … it … ”

Raine squeezed my shoulder.

“Mm,” Taika grunted. “He even had a pair of animals in there. Bulls. Very traditional mage stuff, sacrificial animals and that. The bulls were supposed to act as heat sinks, take whatever damage was directed at Dole. By the time I got there they’d been dead and rotting for weeks. The bulls had exploded during the ritual, worst mess I’d ever seen. Something had gone badly wrong. And the book I mentioned? It was burned.” Taika blew out a long, long breath and took a deep swig of her beer. When she spoke again the fire in her goatish eyes seemed a touch dimmer. “After that, he’d fled the city. I traced his steps, but it was weird. You know what he did? He’d spent weeks going round all these different hospitals in England. Broke into them, but he didn’t steal anything, didn’t hurt anybody, didn’t set up any magic traps or tricks or anything I could find. And I wasn’t trying to figure out what he was doing, I didn’t care. I just wanted to kick his face in.”

“Twins,” I said. “Twins, right? He was looking for twins?”

Taika winced, slow and painfully, as if this was an old, old wound in her fire-backed hide. She nodded slowly. “Yup. Didn’t figure that out at the time, but—”

“Then I was right!” I cried out. A great shudder went through me, a unfolding of an emotion I’d been holding onto for so very long. “It was a mage! It was a mage, all along! Maisie and I were taken on purpose, it—”

“Nuh uh,” Taika said, shaking her head sadly. “Nope. It was no magecraft that took you and your sister, Heather.”

“But— this Dole person, you said—”

Taika lifted her eyes and looked right at me, eyes burning with quiet flame; something in her expression stopped me, some unspeakable horror that she had seen, something that had convinced her, utterly. “Dole wasn’t in control anymore.”

I nodded, numbed by that look; Taika was like me, wasn’t she? She’d been to the abyss, or her version of it, she’d come back changed, transformed her body to fit, yet this memory left her shaken?

Evelyn spoke in my place: “He was possessed?”

Taika shrugged. “Something like that. I caught up with him in Scotland.” She spoke almost without affect, flat and distant. “He was renting a sort of cabin, some kind of holiday place, one of those fancy houses full of decorative junk. It was out on some distant mountainside, nothing else around for miles and miles and miles, just rolling hills, no neighbours. Great views. Ha.” Taika almost laughed, but the attempt died as soon as it was born. She took another swig of beer to steady herself. “He’d filled the place with eyes. Drawn them on every surface. And I do mean every surface. Every single inch of every surface and object and … everything!” She hissed, like petrol squirted onto a bonfire. “You couldn’t look anywhere inside that cabin without those eyes looking back at you. When he’d run out of ink, he’d used shit, and semen, and then blood. I didn’t get close enough to investigate in detail, though. The eyes were everywhere, at every scale, inside each other, painted on the inside of the windows, scrawled in miniature scale on every angle of every door and wall and object and everything. Everything. Everything!”

We nodded. “We understand, Taika. We’ve seen—”

“No,” Taika said, “maybe you understand, Heather — or Heathers. Maybe you do. But your friends here probably don’t. It wasn’t just a creepy house full of mage bullshit. I’ve seen creepier houses full of much worse mage bullshit, some of it still alive and bleating. But this?” Taika stared at me and raised one hand, then pointed downward with all her fingers, indicating something coming from above. “I could feel it,” she said. “Looking down at me.”

“Oh,” I breathed. “The Eye.”

“The Eye,” she echoed. “‘Mister Telescope’. Whatever. Didn’t seem so funny anymore. It was like Dole had cracked a door open, or shunted a window aside, by just an inch, so something could peer through. And I didn’t see it, nothing like that. Nothing so simple. But I could feel it, feel this presence watching me from every surface and angle and object in that house. Worst creeping stalker feeling ever. Like Dole had broken reality within those walls.”

We let Taika finish. She trailed off, took a deep breath, and sipped her beer again.

I said: “I’ve looked into it for real, into the Eye. I’ve looked back at the Eye. I know what it feels like.”

Evelyn cleared her throat. “Raine here and myself, we’ve also seen it. Due to a similar stupid mistake on my part.”

Taika suddenly stared at Evelyn, sharper and faster than I liked.

I quickly said, “And I fixed the mistake. Taika, Evelyn is fine. I made the Eye go away, that time.”

Lozzie chirped, “I’ve seen it too! Wasn’t fun!”

Praem intoned: “Rude to stare.”

Taika simmered down and gave Lozzie a much more indulgent look. “That’s alright for you, Miss. But most of us aren’t your kind of robust. Even things like Heather and me.”

“I know!” Lozzie chirped. She smirked like she was flirting. “You’re delicate! Just like Heathy!”

“My point is,” I said before this could dissolve into flirting, “I know what it’s like.”

Taika laughed softly, dispelling the tension. “Yeah. Not a good feeling. Understatement of the century.”

Raine said: “What’d you do with it? The cabin place, I mean?”

Taika smirked. “Burned it to the fucking ground and pissed on the ashes. After I was done with Dole, anyway.”

“Good answer,” said Evee.

Taika cocked an eyebrow at her. “Now you approve of burning stuff?”

“When it comes to the Eye,” Evelyn said. “We’ve seen our fair share of what happens to mages who try to contact it. We happened to burn down a building too. Same answer, same solution. Don’t be smug because you think you’re the only one bold enough to commit arson, you overstuffed goat.”

Taika laughed, looking Evee up and down. Evelyn glared back at her, smouldering almost as much as Taika did. “Spicy kitty,” Taika said with a smirk. “What did I do to piss you off, Miss Saye?”

“Nothing,” Evelyn grunted back. 

“You jealous because I was playing chase with your girl?” Taika indicated me with a jerk of her thumb.

“Maybe,” Evelyn ground the word out.

I cleared my throat before Raine could join in or Lozzie could start rolling about. “Can we stick to the subject, please? Taika, how does this end in me and Maisie getting taken by the Eye?”

Taika puffed out a big sigh. Her breath smelled of hot iron. The brief amusement went out of her. “Darren Dole, when I found him, had stripped off most of his own skin and taken out his own eyeballs.” She shrugged. “Hate it when people do that.”

Raine said, “Happens often, in your line of work?”

Taika eyed her. “You don’t know my line of work, bulldog. Let’s keep it that way.”

Raine toasted her in silence.

Taika went on, “Anyway, Dole was a mess. And I made a big mistake. I could have kept him alive, could have questioned him. There wasn’t much left of his mind by that point, but I could have gotten something out of him, probably. But that fucking house. Those eyes. That feeling of being watched. I burned him and the building together, the whole lot of it, all up in smoke. He didn’t even resist at that point, I think he welcomed it. He was still trying to draw more eyes even as he burned. All that survived was the stuff in his car, in the house’s driveway. Part of me wished it hadn’t. He’d left extensive notes, but none of it made sense to me.”

“Notes,” Evelyn grunted. “From a mage. Great.”

“Mmhmm,” Taika agreed. “Most of it was huge lists of dates and times, star charts, spreadsheets of numbers, reams and reams of mathematics. None of it made the slightest bit of sense to me.” She shrugged. “After that house, I just wanted to forget all about it. I didn’t want to think about it ever again.”

“I don’t blame you,” I said. “I wish … I wish I’d had that luxury.”

Taika snorted, without any real humour. “Well, I blame me. I spent a month getting blind drunk, mostly in Stockholm, which is a shit city in which to get drunk all the time. Nice girls, though.” Taika pulled a smirk, but her heart wasn’t in it. “When I came out of the binge I relit my fires and went back to Dole’s notes. Terrible fucking idea. Stupid idea. Lovecraft protagonist level idea. But I needed answers, I needed closure, needed to understand what I’d witnessed.”

Evelyn snorted with derision. “Typical mage behaviour. Just have to know. Don’t we?”

Taika eyed her with those goat-like slits. “Told you once, English rose, I’m no mage. Nah, the curiosity, that’s all on me.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes. “Typical Lovecraft protagonist, then.”

Taika winced. “Ouch.”

“You said it first,” Evelyn drawled. “No offense meant.”

Taika’s turn to snort, like sparks and flame kicked up from the edge of a bonfire. “Whatever you say, English rose. Anyway, I went back to the notes. That’s when I found the list of names.”

“Twins?” I said.

Taika nodded. “One hundred and four names. Fifty two pairs. Hand-written on notepad paper. All twins, all born in the hospitals he’d been breaking into. That’s what he’d been doing, copying down their names from official hospital records, birth certificates and stuff. Twins born in a specific date range, so they were all the same age.”

“Maisie and me … ?”

Taika nodded. “You were on the list. Heather Morell, Maisie Morell.”

A strange feeling settled into my chest — a cocktail of relief, catharsis, violation, and dissociation, all piled on top of each other. We had to share the emotion among all seven of us, unfolding it down our tentacles for a crumb of release. There we were, hearing about a part of our life which we had never known about before, inflicted upon us by people we’d never met, or even heard of before that moment. It was like being told the source of a scar one had carried for one’s whole life, which had become an abstract and personal thing, and discovering that some alien hand lay behind the mark upon one’s body.

Taika was carrying right on: “No other commonality between the pairs of twins, not that I could figure out. Some rich, some poor. Some healthy, some not. Some disabled, some not. White, Black, from the continent, whatever.  Two of the sets of parents were … what do you call it? ‘In The Know’? But that was all. Thought it might be something to do with them at first, but I checked them out and they were clean, no prior connection with Dole, no knowledge of ‘Mister Telescope’, nothing.” She took a deep breath, staring into space with those goat-like eyes. “At first I thought he’d been planning to sacrifice all those kids somehow, but that made no sense. Dole was never that kind of man, I wouldn’t have worked with him if he was. Maybe under the influence of some Beyonder titan, maybe, but even then his actions didn’t line up. He never visited any of the kids whose names he’d written down. Never went anywhere near them.” Taika blew out a long breath and pulled a weird, sad wince. “I’m not exactly the world’s greatest detective. Usually I just find things and set them on fire.”

“Wheeeey,” Raine cheered softly. Lozzie went ‘oooooh’. Evelyn rolled her eyes.

“Arson,” said Praem.

“Arson with good cause,” Taika said, raising her beer in a silly toast. “So, well, I went through Dole’s notes. All the numbers, the star charts, all these equations about times and dates. Most of it made no sense at all. The dates and times were impossible, they referred to points too far in the past or in the future to be useful. But … but I worked out what he’d done. Or what I thought he’d done.”

“A deal with the Eye,” I said.

Taika shook her head. “No. There was no deal there, no exchange. It was all one way. He fed it those names, the names of all those pairs of twins, but he had no control by that point. All he did was give it the information. Gave it options, fifty-two different pairs of options. The dates and times, those were the key, even though ninety percent of them were impossible. Little windows of time where the mathematics lined up. Sounds like nonsense, right? Told you I wasn’t good at maths.”

Raine said: “This mage gave the Eye a list of times it could reach in from Outside, to kidnap a pair of children? Is that what you’re saying?”

Evelyn ground her teeth with strange anger.

Taika squinted. She didn’t like that explanation. “No, it wasn’t that simple. It was more like by doing the maths on paper, he’d shunted something to the side, just by a crack. That’s what I’d felt in that fucking cabin, like something huge was peering through a tiny crack and down at me, through all those drawings of eyes. It consumed him in the process, but he opened the way. He just didn’t know where or when exactly it would happen. Just that it would happen to one of those fifty two pairs.” She rolled her shoulders in a shrug, trying to seem casual and relaxed, but even this roiling fire-witch, this Homo abyssus from other waters, she could not hide her horror at this notion.

My mouth had gone dry. I felt vaguely sick. My tentacles were coiled around me in a protective self-hug; Top-Left and Top-Right were repeating comforting mantras. Middle-Left was squeezing our tummy, trying to hold onto our nerves. We needed this, but we didn’t like it.

Raine tightened her grip on our shoulders. Evelyn poked us in the leg with her walking stick. Lozzie got up, fluttered over, and hugged two of us — two of our tentacles. A glass of water appeared over my other shoulder, held in Praem’s perfect hand. I murmured a thank you, drained the glass, and felt a tiny bit better.

Taika watched all this with an impassive smoulder, a banked fire behind her glowing orange eyes. She sipped her beer and waited for me to recover.

“Sorry,” I murmured. “I just … ”

Taika laughed softly, a single humourless puff of air through her nose. “Yeah, it’s alright, calamari. This is some fucked up shit.” She straightened up on her ruined white sofa and shrugged, a little less stiffly. “As for why any of that happened, search me, I’ve not got the foggiest. That is how you English say it, right?”

“Actually,” I said softly. “We have a … rough, basic, estimated idea of what the Eye wants. Sort of.”

Taika’s eyes froze, like fire caught in a bottle. “Fuck me. Good luck with that.”

“Do you want to know?” we asked.

Taika eyed my companions, all four of them, lingering especially on Raine, and then Evee.

Raine smirked back at her. “Scared?”

Evelyn hissed: “She’s terrified. Yes. Scared, goat?”

I tutted. “Raine! Evee! Both of you, my gosh, stop it! Taika, the information isn’t dangerous or anything, I swear.”

Taika ran her tongue over her teeth, then knocked back the rest of her beer in one long, upturned gulp, her perfect white throat bobbing as she drank. She finished with a little burp, then crushed the empty can between her palms. She held up the flattened disc of aluminium between thumb and forefinger. The metal started to glow red-hot where she touched.

“Hit me,” she said.

We told Taika about the book from the Library of Carcosa: A full and true account of the disappearance and return of the twin sisters Jane Doe and Mary Doe, their subsequent alienation and alienism, their mathematical skills and strange habits, and their eventual transition into the weft between worlds. We told her a condensed version of the tale, of the vegetable twins who had endured a similar ordeal to Maisie and I, how they had come back from Outside, changed and different to the others of their strange alien race. We told Taika that this had happened before, somewhere far beyond human understanding in both space and time, probably somewhere Outside, far beyond even my comprehension.

But it had happened before, to another pair of twins. Maisie and I were not alone.

We did not tell Taika where we’d gotten the book, and she didn’t ask. We didn’t mention Heart, or the King in Yellow, or Carcosa. Neither did Evelyn or Raine, and even Lozzie just returned to her spot on the sofa and let us halt and stutter through our little story. We all silently agreed not to complicate this meeting any further by trying to explain The Yellow Court and the Library.

We also told Taika about the secrets which Mister Joking had gleaned from the Eye-ridden corpse of Alexander Lilburne, the cryptic words about two-in-one, about missing one’s other half, about twins, and the pain of being incomplete.

Taika relaxed as she listened, probably because she realised this wasn’t the sort of mind-searing mage secret which would require her to burn the knowledge out of her own mind to protect herself. Eventually she stopped making the crushed can glow with heat, then tossed it onto the sofa once it cooled down.

By the time I was finished, she was leaning forward, elbows propped on her knees, frowning in thought.

“Does that … does that make sense?” I asked.

“Mm,” Taika grunted. Her goatish, fire-lit eyes bored into me. She must have been thinking very hard indeed.

“Does it help you formulate any more detailed theories, when combined with the notes you found?”

“Nah.”

I blinked. “Oh. Um.”

Raine snorted. Lozzie giggled. At least somebody found this funny.

Taika straightened back up and smirked. “The less time you spend dwelling on the motivations of Beyonders, the better off you’ll be.” She glanced at Lozzie. “Present company excepted. You’re a real rarity, like me and the calamari here.”

Lozzie flashed her a toothy grin.

Evelyn said, “Hear hear. The less the better.”

Taika raised her eyebrows at Evee. “Good choice of friends, calamari. Even your mage has got her head on straight, whatever I did to piss her off.”

“Noooope,” Lozzie said. Taika frowned at her, missing the joke — but Evee didn’t. She blushed faintly, tutting and huffing.

Raine spoke into the increasingly silly moment, a voice of reason for once, cutting deeper than the rest of us could: “You did have theories though, didn’t you, Taika? Else we wouldn’t be here. Heather wouldn’t have followed any leads, ‘cos she wouldn’t have had any to follow, right?” Raine raised an item in one hand, an item she had taken from my tentacles — the business card Taika had left with my father, ten years ago.

Taika turned slow-burning eyes toward Raine, then winced at the sight of the business card.

“Ah,” she hummed. “A little token of my guilt. Right. Well. Yeah, I did have theories. The Eye, whatever it was, this thing that took Dole and piloted him like a parasitic fungus, I thought it might be trying to propagate itself. Or maybe it was making a gateway into our reality. Didn’t know why it needed twins, never guessed it might be trying to study them or something, never guessed it was missing another half, nothing like that. I lacked all that. I was on the lookout for more direct problems.”

My turn to let out a weak little laugh. “In a way it did propagate,” we said. “In a way, I’m its adopted daughter.”

“Mm,” Taika purred. “But not in the way I was worried about.”

“Is that why you contacted my parents?”

Taika leaned back again and puffed out a big sigh, rolling her head back on the sofa, her long body and longer hair gleaming in the sunlight which bathed the apartment. “Fuck, I could do with another beer. A whole fucking crate of beer. Pity I had to send my nice friends off earlier, Heather. I could use a cuddle buddy right about now.”

Raine grinned at me. “Heather, what’s this?”

“Um.” I cleared my throat and blushed a little. “When I arrived, Taika had several … ‘friends’, in her bed.”

“Guilty as charged,” Taika chuckled. “I like a bit of variety.”

Evelyn sighed a great big huff. “So you’re as bad as Heather. Is this a thing that abyssal returnees do?”

“E-Evee!” I squeaked.

Lozzie tilted her head sideways so Taika caught a hint of that wispy blonde hair. Taika looked up and squinted at her. Lozzie was smiling with obvious mischief, fluttering the edges of her poncho back and forth.

“Uhhh,” Taika said. “Lozzie, right? Right. No offense, but how old are you? And not in Beyonder terms, in human terms, like when were you born and that?”

“Nearly nineteen!” Lozzie chirped.

Taika pulled a pained grimace. “I’m flattered. And I know you’re technically not nineteen. But … ”

Lozzie let out a giggle-snort. “I’m just looking at you! Whaaaaat?”

Praem intoned: “Down, girls.”

Taika grimaced harder. Raine grinned, silently egging Lozzie on. Evelyn looked away, unimpressed, and said: “Now is not the time. Heather doesn’t need this rampancy right now.”

I cleared my throat: “Actually, that is helping to take the tension off. Thank you, Lozzie. I’m just … this a lot, for me.”

Lozzie nodded her head up and down. “Mmhmm, mmhmm!”

“But also yes,” I added. “Please, Taika, what happened next? Why did the Eye select Maisie and I?”

Taika let out a huge sigh, up at the ceiling, her breath carrying the sound of crackling wood and roiling flames. “There isn’t a great deal else to tell, sad to say, and most of it just my failures. I decided that this was my responsibility to follow up. I’d killed Dole, after all. I’d felt that presence watching me. And I was looking for something new to sink my teeth into.” She shook her head. “But I’m bad at that kind of work. Give me something to burn, and I’m golden. But this … ” She trailed off and sighed, then ran a hand over her face. “I went back to England, started watching all those pairs of twins, you and yours included. Thought maybe I could pre-empt whatever was going to happen. I kept going over all those equations, trying to figure out where and when the window would open.” Taika sat up again and pulled a grim smile. “But guess what happened, every time I spent too long thinking about the equations?”

“The Eye,” I said again.

Taika nodded. “Yeah. That crack in reality was still open, and I’d been under it long enough to get recognised. Trying to hold the mathematics in my mind, that was just inviting it to pay attention. That feeling from the cabin would creep over me again. But I kept trying. Started to gather intel on all fifty two pairs of twins, all those kids, but I couldn’t be everywhere at once. It was impossible.”

A lump formed in my throat. “Is that … is that when you … stole the photograph of Maisie and me?”

Taika smiled — not a smirk, but something warmer, a cosy fire in a brick hearth. “Yeah. I wanted physical, photographic proof of every kid, every pair of twins, just in case that thing looking through reality was going to use them for anything. And yeah, I know how fucked up that sounds, breaking into people’s houses to steal photos of their kids. But I can’t do remote viewing, I didn’t have any other way.”

We winced with sympathy, but also the ghost of discomfort. Had this goat-woman stalked through my childhood home one night to steal a photograph of me and my twin sister? Disquiet and violation stirred in my chest. Half of us — half us tentacles — tingled with suppressed offense.

“Did you actually break into houses?” we asked.

Taika shook her head. “No need to.” She waved a hand toward the big table, where her black iron blades were lined up on the tabletop, so still and silent compared to their earlier swift violence. “My girls over there have more talents than cutting up squid. They did the hard parts.”

I blinked. “Your … girls? I’m sorry, I must have missed something.”

“Bad girls,” Praem intoned.

Taika smirked. “They’re not so bad once you get to know ‘em. You and them might have gotten off on the wrong foot, though.”

Lozzie went up onto her knees on the sofa, peering across the wrecked apartment at the dozen big black knives, eyes widened with sudden interest. She made a little ‘oooh’ noise, clambered up, and padded over to examine them closer. “Ohhhhhh, right!” she whispered. “Hello! Hi!”

Everyone stared at her for a moment, even Taika — though Taika looked more pleased than confused.

“Taika,” I said, almost afraid to ask the question. “The … photograph, of me and Maisie. Do you still have it?”

Taika nodded. “You want it, right?”

My throat was so dry. My palms were clammy. My heart clenched inside my chest. Raine squeezed my shoulder.

“In a minute,” we managed to say. “Not right now. We need to hear the rest, first. We … might find it difficult, when we see … her.”

Taika nodded and carried on, talking right over my emotional distress; perhaps she was a little bit like Raine in that regard, knowing when to deflect and pretend.

“Like I said,” she carried on, “I tried to watch all fifty two pairs of kids, but it was impossible. I was running up and down the length of your rainy little island every day, trying to keep tabs on everybody. And that wasn’t the only thing I was dealing with at the time, I got pulled away for a few weeks by an incident in late 2007, something unrelated. But every interruption made me worry that I would miss the window. And then I really fucked up. Do you remember the Old Brown Road kidnapping case?”

We all glanced at each other. Evee shrugged. Lozzie looked up from the swords — she’d been whispering to them — and fluttered her poncho in a negative gesture. Raine said, “Can’t say I’ve heard of that one.”

Taika cleared her throat, oddly embarrassed. “Pair of twins went missing from their suburban home in North Yorkshire, January 6th, 2008. Oliver Pendown and Jace Pendown, pair of boys, nine years old. The reason you probably didn’t hear about it is ‘cos they were only missing for one day. Turned up on January 8th, alive and untouched, well-fed and gift-wrapped, hand-delivered to a police station in the city of York.”

Evelyn said, suddenly dark and hard: “And how did those boys fare?”

Taika smirked. “Confused, but perfectly fine. Hadn’t seen the face of their kidnapper, nor heard a voice. They’d been blindfolded for a bit, then kept in a big dog cage for a while, with a blanket over it. They’d had snacks, books, even a little video game console in there.”

I blinked several times. “ … you don’t mean … ”

Raine laughed. “You kidnapped a pair of kids?”

“Mmhmm,” Taika nodded. “I tried to cheat, you see. I held the maths in my head for too long.” Taika reached up and tapped her temple. “Until I felt that presence start to look at me. Then I tried to look back.”

“Oh,” I said. “You didn’t, how could you—”

“Wrapped myself in flame and took a dip in the pits to escape. Burned out the connection, burned everything that might lead it back to me.”

“You mean the abyss,” I said.

Taika shrugged. “Whatever you call it. But it worked — or I thought it worked. I got just enough information to finish the equation on my own. And I thought it pointed to those two boys, on that night. Even thought I had the hour right. So I broke into their home, kidnapped them, and then … ” Taika broke into a weird smile. “I put them in a cage of flame. Special flame. Not the kind you can see, not the kind that burns matter. Flame from the pits, from the molten places under our feet. The boys never saw any of it, under a blanket in the middle. And if that presence came round to look at those boys, I was going to burn out its sight. Or at least try. Only thing I could think of.”

Raine was nodding along to the story. I felt only a terrible sense of inevitability.

Evelyn grunted with odd respect: “The right thing.”

Taika laughed. The awe slid from her words again. “But the wrong sodding target. Nothing happened that night. Nor the next. I’d screwed up, gotten it wrong. Or more likely, the Eye got just as much from looking at me as I got from looking back at it.”

I hunched my shoulders. “So it was your fault.”

Taika stared at me. “I’m sorry, Heather.”

The others didn’t follow. Raine tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. Evelyn frowned and grunted: “Eh?” Lozzie looked up and bobbed from foot to foot in a curious little dance.

Praem intoned: “It was not.”

Taika shook her head. “It was my fault. When I tried to return that gaze, to figure out which pair of twins it had selected, I believe it read my intentions. Saw me, ‘observed’ me. So it changed targets. The specific target didn’t matter to it, there was no special reason it had selected those boys. Any other pair of twins would do just as well. I’m sorry, Heather. It was my fault that you got taken.”

I was shaking slightly. “I … I mean … if it wasn’t Maisie and I … ”

Raine squeezed my shoulder, then pulled one of my tentacles into her lap and hugged me. “Then it would have been some other kids, Heather. Hey, it’s alright, it’s alright. You can feel bad that it was you, you don’t have to feel guilty.”

I sniffed hard and scrubbed at my eyes; not yet, I could not collapse yet, I needed it all.

“Why did everyone forget my twin sister?” I demanded. “Why did everyone forget Maisie?”

Taika looked me dead in the eyes, and said: “I don’t know.”

“You have to know!”

I exploded with anger I had not expected. My tentacles bunched, flailed, and went stiff with frustration. Taika held up a hand. Raine held my shoulder and said my name; Evelyn cleared her throat, while Lozzie bobbed back over and hovered next to Praem, gesturing like she was going to catch my tentacles.

But something had snapped inside me.

“Taika, you still have that photo! And you remembered! You questioned my father about it. Why did everyone else forget, everyone except me, and apparently you?! You’re telling me you had nothing to do with that?”

Taika waited until I was just panting with frustrated fury, no longer shouting at her.

“I remember for the same reason you do, calamari,” she said slowly. “I wasn’t in reality when it happened.”

“ … p-pardon?”

“I ran away,” Taika said. She wasn’t smirking or smiling now, just sad and cold, like a fire in the rain. “I remember the night when it happened, the minute it happened, and exactly where I was sitting when I felt it start.”

“About four in the morning,” I stammered out. “T-that’s when my father heard me crying and screaming, that’s when I got back, that’s when it was.”

Taika shook her head. “Two fifty six. In the morning. I was in this shitty little bedsit in Croydon — London’s a hell-hole, by the way, but that’s beside the point. I had two girls in the bed behind me, asleep by then, all fucked out. I was sat at this tiny little desk with a glass of vodka, my third, I think. And that’s when I felt it — felt that presence, that watcher, that observer, staring through that crack written in the equations, with so much greater clarity than ever before.” Taika gulped with the weight of memory, breathing harder than I’d expected. “And I didn’t hang around to see what was going to happen. I dipped.”

“Into the abyss?”

Taika nodded. “Into the pits, down into the molten fires, where that gaze couldn’t see. Actually, I jumped off that chair and slammed into my coat and bag, then I dipped. Didn’t want those girls in my bed to go rifling through my stuff, you know?” She tried to smile. “Not that I cared, but I didn’t want a pair of uninvolved to hurt themselves with my shit. I think that’s why that photograph survived, it and all the others were in my bag. Anyway … ” Taika stared at the floor. “I stayed down there for hours, burning and burning and burning. Hours in reality, you mind. Felt like forty fucking years. But I wasn’t going back, not if that gaze might see me.”

“I … I don’t blame you,” I managed to say — but part of us did. Part of us wanted to hate Taika, for failing to rescue us, for failing not to make this happen to some other pair of twins instead. “Nobody deserves the Eye.”

Taika smiled, but there was no joy in it. “Yeah, whatever. I ran like a coward, instead of trying to save the kids like I’d told myself I would.” She cleared her throat. “Long story short, I came back to reality about six hours later. Took me another few weeks to track down which pair of twins the Eye had taken, made more difficult by all records of your sister vanishing.”

I shook my head. “You truly have no idea why that happened?”

Taika shrugged. “I wasn’t here. Neither were you, you were out there, Beyond. I think that’s why we were missed.”

We stared at each other for a long, long, long moment. I felt tears rising into my eyes, which we had not expected. Why this? Why was this so frustrating? Why after all this time did she not have the answers we needed?

“Heather, hey,” Raine said softly, rubbing my shoulders. “Hey, it’s okay, it’s gonna be okay.”

“We don’t understand,” we said between clenched teeth. “Why did I survive and come back, when Maisie got trapped out there for ten years? Why erase the fact she existed, but not me? Why? It doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t. Still! Even now, I don’t get it! If— if we could just understand, maybe we could use that somehow, maybe … maybe … ” I sighed a sigh I had kept in for ten years. Then I hiccuped, once, loudly and painfully. “Fuck.”

“Heathy!” Lozzie said.

“Oh, Heather,” Evelyn sighed.

“Fuck,” Praem echoed. “Yes.”

Raine hugged me. Lozzie hugged me too, a soft and warm weight on my back. Evelyn reached out and touched one of my tentacles. I believe Praem touched my shoulder, I could feel her hand there, and smell the gentle scent of lemons. I wondered if she still had any, kept in reserve for me.

When the hug disentangled, I was still wet in the eyes, but I felt a tiny bit better.

“Pardon,” I croaked. “Pardon my language. Sorry about that.”

Taika was staring at me, burning inside like the innards of a forge, fires contained and controlled. She said: “You alright to go on, calamari?”

We shrugged. “We … we suppose, but what’s more to say?”

Taika smirked. “Actually, I have a question for you, the very same question you just asked yourself. Couldn’t ask you when you were a kid, of course. How did you come back, when your sister didn’t?”

We shrugged again. “I don’t know. The memories are … confused and painful. They don’t make sense. All I remember is falling back down a well, but that was probably metaphor.”

Taika nodded slowly. “What was it like, when you and her were taken?”

We squeezed our eyes shut and tried not to think about the answer to that question. Even after all this time, all this strength and power, all these tentacles, all these trips to Outside, all these skipping skims across the surface of the abyss, that question still made us feel like we were nine years old again, screaming in madness on our bedroom floor, bleeding and frothing and losing everything.

“Like … like a rabbit hole,” we squeezed out. We squeezed ourselves too, tight with our tentacles. “Beneath the bed. A rabbit hole, to lead Alice to Wonderland. That’s what I call the dimension where the Eye lives. Wonderland.”

Raine was murmuring my name softly. Lozzie was rubbing my shoulders.

Evelyn said, “Let’s drop that question, goat.”

“Sure thing,” Taika replied.

Slowly, I came back, panting softly. I unclenched my eyes and my tentacles alike. Raine’s hand slipped into ours, interlocking our fingers. Taika was leaning back against her sofa again, looking relaxed but haunted, her fires conserved for now. Evelyn was watching me with frowning concern. Praem had walked over to the kitchen, apparently unable to resist the siren song of all the lightly damaged appliances.

“I’m sorry for what happened, Heather,” Taika said. “Sorry I didn’t fight harder.”

We nodded. “It wasn’t … really your responsibility. Not really.”

Taika shrugged. “Things like you and I, when we get big enough, it feels like everything is our responsibility. Takes a while to unlearn that. Or maybe that’s just something you and me got in common.”

We nodded along with that too, then glanced around the apartment, using the surroundings to drag our mind back out of a past we had never known. The blazing sunlight was pouring in through the wall of windows, drenching the city beyond in shafts of dawn — and probably ruining the circadian rhythms of myself, Raine, and Evelyn. I could see spirit life here too — clinging to the other skyscrapers, wandering along the little roads so far below, riding atop some of the tiny buses and cars down in the streets. We suddenly wanted to get a better look at the spirits here, and I almost got up from the sofa and wandered over to the windows, but that could wait for a moment.

Instead I cast my eyes across the wrecked apartment, across my friends, and Taika.

Speaking with my parents had given me real catharsis; that truth had mattered. But this truth? What was this? An explanation, but with little meaning to me; it all felt distant and alien. Raw information, from which we might extract useful details, useful things about the Eye, things we could use, if only we could piece it all together. 

Evelyn and I needed to talk about all this, in detail, as mage and abyssal squid-girl, to see if all this information would affect our plans. Maybe Taika could provide further insight if provoked; I was not sure how to go about that. But there was little true satisfaction here, thousands of miles from home, digging through ashes from a decade past. And more importantly than any of that, in order to do this, to come here, to meet Taika in the way I had, I had made stupid mistakes — I had hurt Seven-Shades-of-Sunlight very badly, by ignoring her, by treating her pleading and her advice as nothing. My tentacles quivered with urgent suggestions as soon as I thought about her; we needed to hurry home, we needed to speak with her, apologise — or more.

But we were not done here, not just yet.

There was a true catharsis, and we were going to break down the moment we touched it, the moment we saw that long-lost photograph.

“Taika,” we began to say — began to ask her for the photograph of Maisie and I — but then we veered away into a strange curiosity, stalling for emotional stability, to ask a question which we thought did not matter. All we wanted was a few more moments to steel our heart against the image of Maisie that would soon be in our hands. “Taika,” we started again. “Why were you keeping an eye on me, after I came back from Wonderland? I know you went to speak with my parents, my father recalled it, that’s how I got your business card. Was it guilt?”

“Oh, that.” Taika smirked, her inner fires flaring with sudden throbbing heat once more. She crossed her legs and leaned back, arms wide on her sofa. When she flexed her shoulders I felt a brief pulse of heat. “Come on, you can’t be that naive. Seriously? After our mutual lesson earlier? We gotta have another one? This one won’t be practical, won’t be no fight, and it’s gonna be a lot darker.”

Raine stiffened, Evelyn frowned, Lozzie bobbed up onto her feet. Even Praem turned from the kitchen and stared at Taika.

They sensed it too — not hostility, but dark and sardonic amusement. While speaking about the Eye, Taika had seemed almost vulnerable, her guilt and pain over old failures all too real. But all that vanished, vulnerability rolling off her like burning through a layer of shed skin.

“Um,” I said. “We don’t … we don’t follow, no. Why were you checking on me?”

“To see if I had to kill you, calamari.” Taika purred through a fire-glow in her throat, like she’d swallowed a slug of molten iron. “After all, it’s a lot easier to burn up the corpse of a nine year old girl than kill a fully grown squid-god.”

Previous Chapter Next Chapter



The world is so much wider than Heather can fathom, with mages and monsters and mysteries aplenty, and she is just one little squid. And sometimes, knowing all the details does not actually help, at least not right away. But it seems like Taika isn’t through with her just yet.

No Patreon link this week, because I actually want to shout out somebody else’s work! (But if you’re desperate to subscribe to the patreon right now, you can still find the link in all the usual places.)

Quill and Still started as a web serial on Royal Road a couple of years ago now; the author is a big fan of Katalepsis and my other work, and I think I’ve actually shouted it out before. However! It’s now getting published as a series of novels on Amazon, nicely packaged up after the serial has concluded. That’s right! It’s a finished story! (Though if it’s really successful there might be a Book 3, I hear?) Anyway, Q&S is a slow-life isekai fantasy, set in a surprisingly grounded and realistic world, all about alchemy and civics. It’s also very queer, which I suspect might be of interest to my readers! I enjoyed it a lot, back when it was first being serialised, so I can highly recommend it!

In the meantime, back in Katalepsis, you can still:

Vote for Katalepsis on TopWebFiction!

This helps so very much! A lot of readers still find the story through TWF, which still surprises me. It only takes a couple of clicks to vote!

And, as always, thank you for reading! Thank you for reading Katalepsis, for being here, for commenting, or just for following along, however you are enjoying the story! I couldn’t do it with you, the readers! Katalepsis is for you!

Next week, roasted goat takes a darker turn, but perhaps she can lead our little squid-girl out of the shadows and into some self-reflection, at long, long last.

eyes yet to open – 22.5

Content Warnings

Fire
References to burns, wounds made by flames, etc



Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Taika Eskelinan — a goat-eyed ‘witch’ with hair like a pyroclastic flow and the voice of a volcanic caldera in her throat, with the molten core of an industrial forge roiling beneath her pale skin, with a dozen black iron swords levitating in a protective cage around her body — had just proven that she could counter-equation my hyperdimensional mathematics, that I was not the sole abyssal dredgling to walk the confines of reality, and that there were more things in heaven and earth than dreamt of in my philosophy.

We did not, however, have time to sit down and digest those implications over a cup of tea and a biscuit (both of which I could very much have done with right then), let alone discuss them — not only because I was halfway around the world, thousands of miles from Sharrowford, England, and everything I had ever known, minutes after committing a home invasion upon the most expensive dwelling I had ever set foot within, but also because Taika was now trying to turn me into a char-grilled calamari kebab.

I spluttered an incoherent noise, something highly inelegant, probably ‘buh?’ or ‘weh?’ But Taika didn’t care. Two of those black iron blades separated from her protective sphere and whirled toward me, their enveloping black flames flickering like ghostly fire.

“Don’t!” I squeaked. “I— hic! —don’t want to fight! I—!”

“Too late, calamari,” Taika purred through an ember-glow smirk. “Fight or flight time. Decide.”

Her strikes were lazy and showy, relaxed and slow, just like the blow she’d used to prove her initial point; Taika was more interested in showing off and intimidating me than in actually trying to kill. But the blades were still heavy and sharp, more than capable of putting a mortal wound through my chest or gut; we might regrow our tentacles at will, but we did not wish to experience the pain and horror of such a separation.

My back was almost to the kitchen wall, with nowhere to run — but Taika’s penthouse apartment was a wide open space, with very high ceilings, lots of empty air, and plenty of room to move.

Fight or flight?

How about both?

Instinct guided us. We rocked backward, caught the surface of the wall with all our tentacles, and then launched ourselves sideways like a grasshopper. Barbs and hooks gouged fragments of plaster and paint out of the wall, flinging them behind us in a shower of grit; we didn’t feel too bad about the damage, not in this temple to minimalist modernity, this show-piece home of chrome and cream.

We rolled through the air, ungainly and awkward, and landed ten feet away in a skittering heap of tentacles, upside down and facing backwards. We tore a massive gash in the plush sea of the carpet as we landed, a teeth-grating riiiiiip sound from our tentacle-hooks biting deep. I got my feet back underneath me, wobbly and unsteady with a bucket-load of adrenaline in my veins, panting with panic and surprise.

Taika’s black swords cut the empty air where I had stood.

“Tssss-hey!” I screech-hissed at her. “Stop!”

Taika just smirked; fire glowed behind her teeth like magma through a row of stalagmites. Her swords whipped back into position around her body. Dawn sunlight poured through the long bank of windows along one wall, haloing her from behind, blotting out the city beyond the glass.

“Nice trick, calamari,” she purred, looking me up and down again with new interest in her goat-like eyes. “Thought those tentacles might just be for show, but you’ve got real muscle packed into those tubes. You’re for real, huh?”

Two swords detached from her sphere again, rising into the air, preparing for a plunging attack.

“Wait!” we yelped, raising both of our human hands. “I don’t want to fight! I don’t actually want to fight you! I just wanted to talk, to ask—”

“Hahaha!” Taika laughed, big and open-mouthed and full of joy. The swords shot out of the air like falling spears.

We dodged again, tentacles bunched like a giant spring, pushing off the carpet with a squeaking yelp. We misjudged the angle and smashed into the side of a sofa, tentacles flailing everywhere. But we managed to catch ourselves, clinging onto the sofa like an octopus wrapped around a rock in a storm, digging into the plush pale leather and ruining all the cushions.

The swords went thunk-thunk into the carpet behind us.

Taika laughed again. “Then leave!”

Those two swords had not only penetrated the carpet — their tips were buried six inches deep in the concrete floor beneath. Taika had gone from showy intimidation to a killing blow; she wasn’t just not pulling her punches, she was willing to put a sword right through me.

My heart was going a thousand miles an hour. Flash sweat had broken out on every inch of my skin. We were panting, fast and hard and rough.

Worse — we were starting to change, provoked by danger and threat and real violence.

Abyssal instinct flowered upon my skin, blossoming in blooms of chromatophores, plating my tentacle-tips with extruded bio-steel, strengthening my muscles and tendons with substances and enzymes which had no place in a human body, at least not on this side of reality. My bio-reactor shuddered and seized down in my abdomen, squeezing out the control rods, ramping up energy production. We were not supposed to change so deeply, not if we weren’t Outside; such transformation placed a huge strain upon my body and soul.

“Hey,” Taika said. She clicked her fingers three times, a noise like the snapping of fire-hardened branches. “Hey, calamari. Kid? Hey? Heather.”

We looked up from the swords buried in the floor. They began to withdraw, lifting into the air again.

“What?!” we hissed at Taika. “What?!”

She nodded at my body. “Nice light show.”

“Tsssss!” we hissed at her — our throat was rapidly leaving behind any semblance of human shape, our teeth sharpening and lengthening, our tongue getting longer too. This was very bad.

“You can leave, right?” Taika asked. “You can teleport out, the same way you teleported here? You’re not stuck on a cool-down timer, or need to pound back five thousand calories before you can do that trick again? You don’t need to sketch out a magic circle on the floor? It’s just something you can do with a thought, right?”

The two swords circled back toward Taika, going the long way around the apartment’s main room, keeping well clear of me. They rejoined her orbiting sphere of protective iron. She stood half-naked inside that orb of blades, barefoot, utterly relaxed, dressed in tiny white shorts and a tank top like she was ready to go back to bed.

I tightened my grip on the sofa, tentacles hard and tense.

Taika chuckled. “Damn, you really are like a cuttlefish.”

“ … w-what?” I could barely think through the changes to my body. I needed to go Outside, or move, or withdraw. I could not stay like I was, not for long.

“Just staring like that,” she said. “You gonna answer my question or not? Can you leave, at will?”

“What? I— yes,” I said. “I mean, yes, of course. It’s just … it’s hyperdimensional mathematics.”

Taika raised her eyebrows. “Maths, huh? Creation as numbers? Not my style, but fair enough, if it works for you.” She grinned wide, showing all her teeth beneath those fire-glow eyes. “Then leave. Go on. Run. I won’t follow. Shit, I don’t think I can follow. You don’t wanna fight? Then now’s your chance. Any time is your chance, right?”

“I need answers!” I screeched at her. “And the photograph of Maisie! And I said I’m sorry! I apologise for bursting into your apartment, I just—”

Six swords detached from Taika’s sphere, a full half of her blades. They spread out either side of her and pointed their tips toward me. She grinned like a maniac arsonist amid her own flames. The orange of her eyes was brighter than the heart of a bonfire. I pursed my lips in frustration and gave her quite a look.

“But you won’t fight for those answers?” she purred.

“I’ve killed mages before! I’ll fight, I’ll fight for a lot of things, but there’s no need, there’s— this is absurd, it’s—”

Taika snorted. “That’s not the same, and you know it, calamari. Killing’s easy. Anybody can do it. Fighting? Fighting is a skill.”

I huffed. “And I’m no good at fighting!”

Taika looked me up and down again. “You don’t look it.”

“This is just— just me! I’m sorry, you’re frightening me and I’m reacting! And I can’t stay like this for long, not without going Out—”

Six swords slammed through the air without warning, missiles aimed at my heart and brain; the black flames around the blades sizzled and hissed, whipping back like arrow feathers in flight.

We lost our collective temper.

We ripped Taika’s stupid leather sofa off the floor with all six tentacles and hurled it toward her. The cushions caught two of the blades, edges slicing into the fabric, stuffing exploding like pale entrails. Four blades got through, jerking to avoid the sofa. We sprang from the floor again, going left, rolling in a ball of tentacles like an octopus on the ocean floor, scrabbling for purchase on the thick carpet, wishing we could dig into it like loose sand. Two swords slammed into the ground at our heels. One hit the wall just after we scrambled past. We heard the almighty crash of the sofa smashing into the floor on the opposite side of the room, scattering other furniture. We hoped Taika had caught the falling sofa with her stupid face.

My shoulders slammed into the skirting board. One sword was still in the air, still aimed at my ribcage, about to slice into my flesh and end the fight right there.

I whipped out with a tentacle, barbed and hooked and armoured, coiled for weight and width, and slapped the sword away like a persistent hornet.

And I tried again.

Out!

Again came that flash of blue, like metal hitting metal, as Taika’s own magic — or maths? — cancelled out the familiar old brain-math equation. That time I witnessed more details: a layered halo of concentric circles, like the glittering rings around a planet in deep space, like the glare of the sun on bronze, spreading outward from the point of impact. My own equation was negated, folded back into zero by an equal and opposite counterpart. Nothing went Outside except a few unlucky molecules of nitrogen and oxygen.

I scrambled to my feet, tentacles spread in a protective cage of my own, panting hard, body racing with adrenaline — and with less nameable, more esoteric substances. I was streaming with sweat now, panting harder than I should have been, bio-reactor pounding away in my gut. My vision was blurring, senses aching, head growing fuzzy; I was not meant to be like this in reality, not for long, not without consequences.

Taika’s swords yanked free from the floor and walls and raced back to their mistress.

The sofa I’d thrown now lay upside down against the far wall. I’d knocked over a bunch of chairs and shoved the big table off-centre.

Taika herself was untouched, but she had been forced to step or dive out of the way. She was breathing a little harder, presumably with the effort of countering my brain-math a second time. Her own skin was running freely with sweat on her exposed shoulders and belly. She whipped her flame-coloured hair back out of her face and smirked at me.

“Not good at fighting, huh?” she purred. “Telling lies?”

“No!” I screeched back. “I’m not! I’m panicking, thank you! This is what panic looks like! And I don’t want to kill you or—”

“Are you good at thinking?” Taika’s voice filled the air like the crackle of a bonfire too close to my face.

I blinked with four sets of eyelids; that was a very bad sign. “W-what?”

“Are you good at thinking?” she repeated. “You’ve got the knack, calamari. You’ve got true magic, the witch’s touch, the head-jack to reality’s back doors. Whatever you wanna call it, however you came by it. You just showed it off, twice, when you tried to throw one of my girls here out into the Beyond.” She gestured at her rotating knives. “That’s how you did the teleport in the first place, isn’t it?”

“That’s hyperdimensional mathematics, yes,” I said. “Isn’t that what you did to stop me?”

Taika laughed softly. “Maths? Nah. I’m terrible at maths. Can’t even remember my times tables. You know what I am good at?” She wiggled her fingers. “Sticking my hands in a fire.”

I huffed and shrugged. “Fine. So? What does that mean?”

“Whatever you call it, I don’t care.” Taika said. “You’ve got the keys to the universe, calamari. Just like me.” She nodded at me, up and down. “And I like your look, I like what you’re doing with yourself.” She eyed my abdomen. “You’re not cooking your insides with radiation, are you?”

We blinked at her in shock. Could she see the reactor? “I’m … I’m immune,” we said. “Sort of.”

“Mm, very cool. Very cool.” Taika nodded. “But you’ve got tunnel vision. Doesn’t take a mage to guess where you’re going, if you’re looking for info on your sister, on your own past. I remember your case well enough now, and I can guess where you’re going, and it’s fucking insanity to even try. You can’t fight? You’re gonna have to do a lot more than fight. A scrap like this is easy mode. You’re gonna try to out-think a god, aren’t you?”

“I … yes,” I said. “I’m going to Wonderland, to where the Eye took me and Maisie. I’m going to bring her back.”

Taika sighed. Her twelve swords orbited around her body, slow and stately. A melancholy ghost passed across her face for just a moment.

She said: “You don’t need info, calamari. You need to learn to walk.”

I huffed, panting, rapidly losing my temper, feeling the heat glowing inside my core; if I didn’t stop this or go Outside soon, I was going to pass out or collapse, or worse.

I said, “If you’re proposing to help me, then stop trying to dictate to me. I do need information, that’s the whole point, then we can—”

 “Things like you and me, calamari, we either learn fast or we die young.”

Taika’s brief melancholy flash-boiled from her face like steam beneath a blowtorch. She smirked. Three swords detached from her sphere and lined up in front of her, like a trident, pointed at me.

I squeaked, “Don’t-!”

The makeshift trident separated outward with a flicker of motion, the blades going wide, flanking me from both sides. The swords shuddered, jerked, and slammed forward.

Taika wanted a fight, with hyperdimensional mathematics, with no holds barred? She wanted to push me to the edge, to see how far I could go?

Fine.

Out!

We bounced off the surface of the abyss like an anvil thrown at a lake of mercury — then burst back into reality ten paces ahead of where we’d been standing. The three swords were already behind us; they slammed into the wall of Taika’s apartment, slicing through the plaster and brick. Our body quivered inside with brain-math aftershock, but we shunted the pain and the nausea down into our tentacles, and ripped all the control rods free from our bioreactor.

No limits, no safety, nothing off the table.

Taika roared. “More teleport tricks?! Come on, cala—”

Out!

We flickered across the surface of the abyss once again; this time we dipped pieces of ourselves into the oceanic dark, dumping heat into the void, like trailing rearward fins in super-cooled water.

I exploded back into reality a few paces to the left, clouds of steam roiling off my skin. We grabbed another one of Taika’s sofas with all six tentacles, pulled it from the floor, and hurled it at her smirking face.

Out!

Another dip, another dump of heat into the abyss, another bounce-bounce-bounce like a flat stone skimming across the water’s surface.

We landed back on the right side of Taika’s apartment, before the sofa had even finished falling. Taika was diving out of the way, finally forced to move properly, her fire-bright hair whipping out behind her like a waterfall of magma. Her swords were still pointed at where I’d been standing, not where I was. Now we were right next to her ridiculous table. We picked up a wooden chair which probably cost more than the entire contents of Number 12 Barnslow Drive.

“Throwing shit is so 90s, girl!” Taika laughed as she found her footing once more, skidding across her carpet on bare feet. “Come on, try something—”

Out — and we took the chair with us.

We flickered twenty paces across the apartment, a skimming bounce across the surface of the abyss, soaking our super-heated cooling fins in the endless dark.

We dropped the chair halfway, shoving it back into reality a half-second before we popped back out into Taika’s apartment.

We appeared right next to the massive bank of windows.

Taika almost fell for the chair trick; if she was less athletic and muscular, she may have gone flying, tripped up by the object I’d dropped into her path. But she turned the stumble into a kick, slamming the chair aside with one foot, laughing at the top of her lungs.

“Now we’re getting somewhere!” Taika cheered. “Look at you, calamari!”

At first I thought she was congratulating me on my silly little trick, my octopus-level mischief of trying to trip her with a chair. But then I realised she wasn’t looking at the chair, she didn’t care about that — she was looking at me, at my body. At us, Homo Abyssus.

I did not look very human right then, and I felt wonderful about it: tentacles plated and spiked and hooked, skin blooming with warning colouration in strobing bands of yellow and orange and red, teeth made sharp and gleaming, eyeballs covered with protective membranes, leg tendons made strong and stretchy, with a voice like something dredged out of an ocean trench. The end of my spine had even sprouted into a bladed tail. I was streaming with sweat, steaming gently in dawn’s light, my bioreactor making my abdomen pulse and glow.

None of this was possible to maintain for long in reality; I was only achieving this by dumping heat into the abyss with every Slip. My head and tentacles ached with the backwash of brain-math pain and a constant quiver of nausea. My legs were shaking and wobbly and weak. I could not keep Slipping forever — but I would probably vomit the moment I stopped.

Taika was changing too. She looked less and less human with every passing moment, though her transformation was more subtle, less squirmy and meaty. The colour of her hair deepened like melted rock beneath the earth’s mantle; heat haze rose from her skin, the pale flesh of her legs and arms threatening to bubble like super-heated mud; a terrible light glowed behind her teeth and tongue, like she was a dragon ready to breathe flame.

I paused for a moment, suddenly worried. “Are … Taika … are you going to trigger a fire suppression system in here? If you, uh, keep going?”

“It’s alright, calamari. It’s not that kind of fire,” Taika purred. Her breath smelled like smoke and cinder. “Not unless I want it to be. And I don’t think I need real flames to kick you up the backside.”

Taika’s swords twitched, as if mocking me.

I stuck all my tentacles to the window, ruining the glass with scratches and gouges, and pulled myself back like a spring.

Taika’s face ripped open with a grin from ear to ear. “Losing your temper?” she purred in a voice like a welding torch.

Her swords whirled open to cover her front, step-spaced to fill the air for meters in either direction, daring me to pincushion myself on their black iron points.

“Yes!” I hissed — and leapt.

Out!

I ignored the blades, the spaces between the blades, the narrow gap behind the blades, everything to do with the blades — and just Slipped back in right on top of Taika, my face inches from the glowing firelight coals of her goat-like eyeballs.

She’d figured out what I was trying to do a second before I grabbed her with half my tentacles. She smirked, teeth like red-hot knives.

I plunged all eight of my metaphorical hands into the toxic black ooze deep down in the sump of my soul. The Eye’s machinery, the levers and flywheels and ratchets of hyperdimensional mathematics, clicked and whirred and spun beneath my touch, burning my fingers and paralysing my tentacles. But I held on and ran the equation over and over, repeating it like a musical refrain — or like a series of punches to Taika’s head.

Out! Out! Out! Out!

Each time a flash of blue halo-light flickered around Taika and I, bound together in this combative embrace, with her frozen flame-tongued smirk right in my face. I could feel her own mind working to push back against mine, her own ‘hyperdimensional mathematics’ writhing and flexing like a free-flowing flame, eating at the edges of my own equations, negating each attempt to send us Outside, together.

“Nuuurgh!” I hissed with frustration; time resumed with a jerk. I considered just biting into her nose at close range, but that would be the height of rude behaviour.

Taika panted as well, fast and hard and rough, just like me, sweat pouring down her forehead, soaking the front of her thin tank top and running down her exposed abdominal muscles. She smelled like burning oak and high-quality coal.

“Keep going, calamari,” she moaned. “I’m almost there.”

“Hisssss!” I went.

I tried something different: I tried to define her with hyperdimensional mathematics, see her with my abyssal senses, pin her down with definition and observation until I could finally understand what exactly I was fighting.

Folly.

At first she was the dancing and flickering of a live flame, always moving, always changing, impossible to outline, slipping away from my attempts at definition. But I pushed the equations further, increased their complexity, used them to predict and pre-configure every possible angle of that dancing flame, every shape it might take, every angle from which to observe Taika, the woman, the mage, the witch, whatever she was, whatever she—

Abyssal senses blossomed; flame was defined.

‘Taika’ towered over me, seen through abyssal senses. Twenty feet of shaggy woman-goat hybrid, furred in flame and breathing with the mouth of a volcano, with hooves and horns of obsidian and a tail of lava, coiled around a hydrothermal vent in the very depths of the abyss.

Homo Abyssus. But not mine.

However, this Taika, this truth behind her body, dared not touch me directly, dared not reach out and make contact, for I was a sharp and venomous little cephalopod. I was alien and dangerous and weird and nasty in my own ways.

Taika’s flame caught the black toxin in the sump of my soul and burned away the fumes, scouring the protective oil and gunk from the machinery, forcing me to submerge the parts once again.

We gave up with another hiss, snapping back to physical reality, out of abyssal senses, still clinging to Taika. Here, she was just a woman with goat-like eyes and a fire raging inside her body. But what I’d seen, that was abyssal truth for her, as much as tentacles were for me.

She was also smirking again. “Like what you see, calamari?”

“You’re like us!” we screeched, more excited than afraid or shocked. “Like me! Like all of us! You—”

She slashed at my back with a pair of her black iron swords; I smashed them both away, not with a tentacle but with a flicker of brain-math itself, turning mathematical potential into kinetic energy. She could block the brain-math against herself but she couldn’t negate pure force. The swords went flying; one of them pinged off the granite kitchen counter tops.

The air around the witch was growing thicker with heat haze. Her hair and eyes were smouldering with flame. It was like having my face pressed to the mouth of an open oven. My tentacles were stinging where I touched her, even through the armoured scales and toughened skin.

The other ten swords turned inward, ready to skewer me. I let go of Taika and shoved myself backward, stumbling over the carpet and halting myself with a pair of tentacles.

Taika opened her mouth wide and drew air into her lungs, to breathe fire.

Before she could, I reached out and defined the oxygen molecules in a six-foot bubble around her body.

Out!

No blue flash, no trick of negation; the oxygen was not hers, it just happened to be nearby.

Taika gasped in surprise; her inner fire dimmed like a candle trapped beneath a bowl. Her hair darkened, her eyes dulled, the heat pouring off her dialled down from ‘burning building’ to ‘open forge-mouth’. Her swords rushed to her sides, their own black flames guttering and flickering.

She hurled herself backward. Her flames reignited the moment she hit oxygen-rich air. She needn’t have bothered, since the molecules were already rushing back into the space I’d cleared in the first place.

“Nice trick, calamari,” she said with a little bob of her head. “Now that was something new. Can you breathe in a vacuum? Gonna find out?”

“Air doesn’t work like that!” I snapped, almost laughing. “Are we done yet?! You’ve proven your point, you’re like me! I’m like you, whatever!”

Taika smirked again, slender and hot, eyes narrowed in pure pleasure. “Not yet, calamari. Come on, think harder.”

From there the fight descended into a kind of madness I had never experienced before; I bounced myself off the surface of the abyss at least two dozen more times, sustaining my physical changes by dumping reactor heat and stress and reality-shock itself into the dark waters, as if all three were physical constraints and the abyss was a physical place, which was pure absurdity. Taika flung swords at me with no care for the damage she was inflicting upon her own apartment; I threw objects at her in return — chairs, bits of furniture, appliances from her overstocked kitchen. But the physical contest was not the real fight. Her greater athleticism would have won out eventually, even with my six tentacles and my reactor, for she had an abyssal well of her own, rooted in the subterranean heart of a volcanic chamber.

She goaded me into brain-math experiments I never would have considered before: I observed her from new angles, turning over her abyssal fire-goat form inside my mind, trying to see my way into her thoughts, her past, her present, her next move; I tried to freeze her flames solid; reached out with abyssal senses to grab her ankles and plunge her into the dark waters below; cut her out of reality without touching her flesh; reach into her definition and smother her flames. I tried to peel back her layers with pure observation and cut to the heart of what she was.

She countered every move, sometimes skilfully, sometimes clumsily, but always with a heave of effort and a flare of the fire inside her flesh, her own form of ‘hyperdimensional mathematics’.

I leapt around that apartment like I was eight years old again and had just discovered the concept of a bouncy castle. She hurled swords and I hissed and smacked them aside.

And slowly I came to realise.

This was play.

I’d never done this before. Not with something or somebody similar to myself. Certainly I could fling myself bodily at Zheng with all my tentacles, but she couldn’t counter the brain-math. I could define anybody I liked and examine them with abyssal senses, but nobody else could confront me with a similar hybrid of abyssal potential. All seven of me ran together in a riot of something very close to joy.

Taika and I were a pair of apex predators, bumped into each other in the night. With no territories to defend and no prey to fight over, here we were, testing our strength.

And she was so much stronger than me. She made it obvious in every casual dismissal of my brain-math, every side-swipe with her blades, every burning smirk and fire-choked laugh.

We finally stopped, days later, by silent mutual agreement.

In reality only twelve minutes had passed. Dawn was still pouring through the windows.

Most of the non-tentacle muscles in my body were quivering with overexertion — and our tentacles weren’t feeling so good either, like big rubbery tubes. I was coated in sweat from head to toe, hair wet with perspiration, panting for breath. I had a nosebleed from the repeated brain-math, something I had not experienced in months and months — and I could feel a sticky moisture around my eyes. Blood! I’d pushed myself right to the edge.

Twenty feet away, across the now terrible mess of her apartment’s main room, Taika looked much the same. The sweat sizzled on the heat of her skin. Her hair was the colour of clean, fresh flame, like it had burned away layers of soot, but it was soaked with damp at her scalp. She kept wincing and huffing, her own aftermath of deflecting my hyperdimensional mathematics so many times. Her swords floated in the air, all at different angles, their perfect symmetry shattered by all the effort.

We both stared at each other, folding away our inhuman modifications. I wiped my nosebleed on my sleeve. I couldn’t keep this up much longer, not without burning out. Taika was much the same, or so I assumed, her flames dimming slightly within her body. Seconds passed and she looked a tiny bit less like a piece of cinder wrapped in burning cork.

She was smirking, though. I felt like pouting.

“Are you done yet?” I rasped, my throat decidedly non-human. “This is absurd. I can’t keep up with you. I can’t do this forever!”

Taika straightened up and ran a hand through her flame-bright hair. She shook her head. “You joking, calamari?”

“Ahh?”

“I’m the one who can’t keep up with you,” Taika said.

I shook my head slowly. “I … don’t … understand?”

“Hey, kid,” she said, so much more gently than before, her voice the hiss of a gas fire turned low. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

Any lingering anger turned to wet ashes in my mouth. “What do you mean?”

But I knew what she meant.

Taika sighed. “After you came back from Beyond. Sorry I wasn’t there to hold your hand or whatever. I’m real bad at staying in one place for a long time. I’d make a shit mother, surrogate or otherwise. Never been a good mentor either. Tend to just leave a trail of sad women behind me. And you were a kid. I mean, a real kid, not like you are now. I thought you wouldn’t last a year, not after a trip back from Beyond. Not at, what, nine years old, was that it? I forget.”

“ … yes,” I murmured. My throat tightened. “Nine … nine years old. Um. I’m not looking for an apology. Unless you … unless you were the one who sent Maisie and I to the Eye?”

Taika shook her head. “Nah. Just too slow to help. Hesitated too much. I’m sorry about your sister.”

She sounded like she really meant it. A lump grew in my throat. “I … thank you.”

Taika sighed again; heat rolled out of her mouth. “But I can’t save every single dead kid in the world. I’d go mad if I tried. Care too much and the guilt will eat you from the inside, worse than any flame. Couldn’t hang around to make sure you grew up. Your parents didn’t want to hear it anyway.” Taika straightened up to her full height, lowered her swords at last, and stuck out one hand. “I respect you, Heather, even if I don’t agree with what you’re doing here. But I don’t have the right to judge. I left you for dead. Probably shouldn’t have done that.”

I stared at her hand — not because I didn’t trust her, or because I thought her words were a trick — but because those words hurt more than any sword. They hurt in a good way.

“I … um … ” I blinked and found tears in my eyes. “I … you didn’t have to … ”

“Sure, I don’t have to,” she said. “But you’re grown into something scary. And I can’t take responsibility for that. Don’t think I could put you down even if I tried.”

I snorted a little laugh, the best I could do under the circumstances. “Really? I think you could. You know, with the swords? The swords that you’ve been throwing at me? I don’t know about you, Miss Taika, but I am not immune to sharp objects going through my body.”

Taika frowned, vaguely amused. “Really?”

“Really,” we said, and could not decide if she was being serious or not.

She smirked though. “You would have gotten better.”

My turn to sigh. “What would you do if this was really a life or death situation? If I was set on killing you? I get the feeling you’re holding back.”

Taika chuckled. “So are you, Heather. You want a serious answer?”

“Yes.”

Taika said: “I would set myself on fire. For real. You ever seen fire that burns without oxygen? You ever seen white phosphorus burns?” She pointed at the floor. “I’d burn right through the whole building, down to the ground, into the soil and then the bedrock. It’s not a nice trick, but you wouldn’t be able to follow. I’d light the air itself behind me. Boom-boom-boom. You wouldn’t even be able to touch me.”

“Okaaaaay,” we said. “Okay. That sounds plausible.”

“And what about you, Heather? I’m sure if you really wanted to kill me then you’d be trying something else.”

We chewed our bottom lip and considered the question. Then we nodded slowly. “We could blast you through the back wall of the apartment with pure force. Same with your blades.”

“We?” Taika asked.

We shrugged, with both shoulders and all six tentacles. “There’s seven of me in here. Cephalopod neurology.”

“Cool stuff.” Taika smirked. “We’d still stalemate.”

“Mm, probably.”

She nodded to me, as if we finally understood each other. “And that’s why we don’t burst into other people’s apartments without warning.”

We sighed. “And what would you have done if I’d not let your companions leave first? I don’t think you’d burn the building with them inside.”

Taika’s expression darkened, just a little. She didn’t like that line of thought. “You and me, out the window together. Melt the glass. Falling comet style. Put you through the side-walk. I’d take some wounds, real wounds, but we’d be outdoors. I’d try to burn your eyes, your face, your windpipe. I assume you can regrow those, but it might slow you down enough. Then things get messy. Lots of bystanders. Lots of cops. You can deflect bullets?”

“Sort of. Um. Sorry for asking. I wouldn’t want to hurt innocents. Really.”

She smirked. “Glad you didn’t try. I sort of like living in this city, don’t wanna move any time soon.” She stuck out her hand again. “Come on. Make peace, squid girls. We’ve got lots to talk about.”

I tried to smile. “Okay. But you have to tell me—”

With a floof and a floff of pink-white-blue, four familiar figures materialised right between me and Taika.

Lozzie was in the middle, with her pentacolour poncho flaring out like the skirts of a jellyfish, her long blonde hair floating downward as if caught in the updraft of an ocean current. Holding her right hand was Raine, booted and jacketed, pistol tight in her other fist. Holding Lozzie’s left hand was Praem, wearing her full maid dress, impassive and alert. And clinging to Praem’s arm, eyes crammed shut, was Evelyn, with her scrimshawed bone wand clutched tight to her chest.

“Lozz-!” I managed to blurt out.

Then everything went badly wrong.

Taika reacted much as anybody would to four additional strange women appearing in the middle of her apartment. She raised her swords once again, points outward, her skin roiling with heat haze and caged fire, her hair flaring like flames beneath the bellows.

Raine lurched away from Lozzie, blinking and shaking her head, coated in cold flash-sweat — the aftermath of Lozzie’s uncomfortable teleport. But her gun came up, held in both hands.

Taika responded in kind — she jabbed a sword toward Raine.

Praem shoved Evee into Lozzie’s arms, then whirled on the spot, the skirts of her maid dress flaring outward, ready to intervene, but a second too late.

Raine pulled the trigger of her handgun three times — bang, bang, bang!

Taika’s swords bunched and whirled. One bullet went ping, ricocheting off the black iron and thumping into the floor. But two bullets got through.

Taika flicked her fingers; a wave of furnace-heat slammed across my face. Two melted blobs of bullet-lead dropped at her feet.

“Raine, stop!” I screeched.

To Raine’s great credit she did exactly as I ordered — she stopped pulling the trigger of her pistol. But Taika was already reacting, already slinging a pair of those black iron swords back toward Raine, to cut off her wrists or bisect her hands, to stop her from shooting.

Praem stepped neatly in front of Raine, hands out, and caught both swords mid-flight.

The swords twitched and jerked in her fists, cutting through the delicate fabric of her lace gloves and snarling in the smooth linen of her sleeves. But Praem ignored them, staring straight at Taika.

“Bad girls,” said Praem.

The other ten swords leapt upward, as if eager to free their sisters. Taika’s eyes had gone wide with alarm. I bunched my tentacles behind me, to fling myself forward; I could not knock all those swords aside but I would not let Praem or Raine come to harm, not because of this misunderstanding, not because of my own stupid mistake. I would put myself between the participants, as penance for my stupidity.

But then Lozzie opened her mouth and sang three notes that made everyone stop.

High and light and more than sound, a trilling, tripping, transcendent one-two-three. Beyond language, beyond thought, a gut-meaning impulse of stop-now, all-friends, or-worse.

Taika snapped a hand toward the floor. Her swords dropped, point down, and went inert. She stared at Lozzie in surprise.

“I’m done,” she crackled like a dying fire. “Yeah. Okay. We’re cool.”

The two swords in Praem’s fists stopped fighting; Praem gently placed them on the floor as well, then straightened up and dusted herself off. I uncoiled my tentacles and let out a shuddering breath. Evelyn straightened up, still half-leaning on Lozzie for support, clutching her bone-wand in a white-knuckled fist. Lozzie beamed at everyone, flapping the sides of her poncho.

“Hello!” Lozzie chirped. “Hello Heathy!”

“H-hi,” I croaked. “Um. Lozzie. Hi. Yes.”

Raine still pointed her gun at Taika, but she addressed me without looking away from the witch: “Heather, you okay? You hurt?”

“I-I’m fine, Raine! I’m fine! Please, I’m— this is all my fault. Please, stop. Yes, I’m fine.”

Taika pointed a finger at Raine without looking away from Lozzie. “I’ll melt that gun right out of your hands, bulldog.”

Raine laughed. “Bulldog?”

Evelyn snapped: “Raine, lower the fucking gun! For pity’s sake.”

Raine hesitated.

I spoke up too. “Raine, please. It’s fine. We’re … friends. Sort of.”

Raine took a deep breath and finally stopped pointing the pistol at Taika.

Before anybody else could say another word, Evelyn drew herself up, winced at the pain of her kinked and damaged spine, and barked at the rest of us: “Are we actually still in a fight here? Is this still going? Miss … ?”

“Taika,” Taika said, still locked in curious eye-contact with Lozzie. Lozzie was wiggling her eyebrows.

“Taika, thank you,” Evelyn said, as if gratitude felt like a kidney stone. “And Heather, you as well. Are you both going to start fighting at any moment? Or are we done here? Yes or no, do not bother explaining.”

Taika smirked. “Somebody’s in the dog house.”

Evelyn snapped: “Answer.”

Taika said, “Sure. We’re done. Heather and me, we’re friends now.”

“Y-yes,” I hurried to add. “Yes, Evee, yes, we’re definitely done. I’m sorry, I—”

“Stop,” said Evee, in a voice that made it very clear we were all to shut up. She huffed and winced like she had the world’s worst migraine. Lozzie went ‘oh!’ and rummaged under her poncho for a moment, then produced Evelyn’s walking stick and pressed it into Evelyn’s free hand. Evee straightened up, stood on her own two feet, then turned and stomped right over to me.

Apparently she was completely unintimidated by the fact I still looked like a swamp monster, plated with armour and bladed all over, my eyes the colour of moss and my skin a toxic rainbow. I had not yet quite finished folding all of myself away.

“E-Evee—”

She exploded in my face. “Heather, what the fuck are you doing?! What is this?! What the fuck is this—”

“I—”

“No.” Evelyn’s eyes blazed. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“I—”

“You run off alone. You don’t call home to let us know where you are. You make Sevens fucking cry—”

My heart lurched. “I-I did what? Hic! Oh, oh no. Hic— ow.”

“—and then we come to help and find you fighting a mage—”

“Witch,” Taika supplied.

Evelyn ignored her. “—by yourself! I should have Praem feed you cod liver oil and make you sit in a corner reflecting on your actions. I thought we got past all this months ago, but no! You always have to run off and put yourself in danger. I don’t even care what justification you give it this time—”

Taika cleared her throat and said: “She was never in real danger.”

Evelyn whirled on her too. “She doesn’t know that. And don’t butt in on this, whoever the fuck you are. This is between Heather and me. Shut up.”

Taika smirked and raised her hands. Lozzie giggled. Evelyn turned back to me.

“Evee,” I said.

“Don’t you dare, Heather. Don’t you dare. This is the last time you ever put yourself in danger alone.” Evelyn ground her teeth so hard I could feel it — but suddenly she whipped away from me and jabbed her bone-wand toward Raine instead. “And you! Since when do you start shooting without asking questions first? What the hell was that?”

Raine shrugged. “Always ready to back up my girlfriend. And hey, no harm done.” She winked at Taika. Taika bowed her head toward Raine.

Evelyn looked like she wanted to beat both of them to death.

We attempted a peace offering, swallowing another hiccup. “Evee, may I say something?”

Evelyn glared daggers at me. “The first word out of your mouth better be—”

“I’m sorry,” we said. “I made a mistake. A foolish one. I should not have done this alone. You are correct and I am wrong. I … I keep doing this. I believed I had extenuating circumstances, but … I didn’t.”

Evelyn made a face like she was chewing a marble, but the rage behind her eyes simmered down a little. Praem stepped over to us and produced a trio of lemons from somewhere within her maid dress.

“Oh, Praem, you shouldn’t have,” we said. “Thank you.”

Evelyn tutted. “Bloody right she shouldn’t have. Eat those. Calm down. Fucking hell!” Evelyn cast her eyes at the huge glass windows and the view of the city beyond. “Where the hell are we, anyway? Lozzie? Raine?”

“Chengdu,” we answered around a mouthful of lemon flesh.

“Cheng-what?” Evelyn snapped.

“China. Apparently.”

Evelyn boggled at me. Raine laughed. Lozzie made an excited little ‘ooooh!’ noise.

Taika said: “Yeah, in the middle of my apartment.” She shook her head and took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Let one English rat in and suddenly you’ve got a whole pack living in your walls. I am on the other side of the planet and you inselaffen manage to turn up uninvited anyway. Don’t suppose Gabs sent you, then?”

Evelyn shot a very tight, suspicious look at Taika. “Who is Gabs?”

“That’s a no, then,” Taika said. She shot me another smirk. “Looks like I misjudged you, Heather.”

“A-ah?” I said.

Taika rolled her neck from side to side, making bones go pop and crack, like sticks in a bonfire. She pointed at Praem. “An unbound.” Then at Lozzie. “A Beyonder titan, crammed into human skin.” (Lozzie did a little flutter-bow with her poncho, quite delighted.) “And apparently having a great time with it,” Taika added. Next she gestured at Evee. “A mage who appears to give a shit about your health and well-being. And … ” Her goatish eyes slid to Raine. “Fuck me, a human.”

Raine shot her a dangerous grin. “That’s me, goat-face.”

Taika chuckled, low and soft. “Looks like I got the wrong end of the stick. I thought you were scrambling up the metaphysical ladder, straight to megalomania or serial killer, or worse. It’s usually worse. But, well, you don’t need friends and lovers to do that.”

“Oh,” I said softly. “Uh. Y-yes. We have a whole … ‘found family’, I think it’s called? I … ” I sighed, blushing terribly, suddenly embarrassed. “I just didn’t want them to see, if it turned out I had to kill you or something. And I was all fired up, I … ”

I trailed off because Evelyn was giving me a look which could have shattered granite, frozen the shards, and then ejected them into space.

Taika raised an eyebrow and said: “Is that right? Not because you didn’t want them to see you looking like that?”

She indicated my body with an up and down flick of her eyes — my tentacles covered in barbs and hooks, my skin glowing and shifting and changing colour, the nictitating membranes over my eyes, the bladed tail poking from the bottom of my spine, my sharpened teeth and strengthened bones and springy joints, the heat rolling off me as my bioreactor churned away inside my gut. Homo abyssus, as fully summoned into reality as I had ever achieved. Much of it was vanishing now, folded back into my flesh, but I still looked mostly inhuman.

“No?” I said, slightly confused. “We don’t—”

Evelyn turned her death glare on Taika instead. “Is that meant to be an insult? Are you insulting my— insulting Heather?”

Taika chuckled, raised one hand in surrender. “Far from it. I’m no different.” She gestured at her own heavily altered body, at the glowing flame inside her flesh. She was doing the same as me, slowly returning to looking more human, as she had when I’d first appeared in her apartment. “And I think I look fucking great.”

Lozzie chirped: “You doooooo! Ooooh! And your eyes are so pretty. They go waaaaaay down.”

Taika raised her eyebrows at Lozzie, as if surprised by the compliment.

Evelyn sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Alright. Fine. Now, Heather, what exactly is going on here?”

“Um … ”

Raine cleared her throat and said: “Don’t worry, Heather, love. Sevens filled us in, sort of.” She jerked a thumb at Taika. “Goat girl here knows stuff about your sister, right?”

Evelyn hissed: “And what the hell were you fighting over?”

Praem said: “Bad girls. Naughty girls.”

Mortified almost beyond words, sore from head to toe, and beginning to shake with the aftermath as I slowly stepped down my bioreactor, I explained what had happened, speaking through rapid, desperate mouthfuls of lemon-flesh. I briefly introduced my friends and lovers, as best I could under the circumstances. Taika did not help, she just stood there, watching and listening, sharing occasional little smirks and odd looks with Lozzie.

Evelyn did not look any more impressed by the time I finished. When I completed the process of folding away most of my pneuma-somatic additions, Raine came over and squeezed my shoulder.

“And— and then you turned up,” I finished. “Taika and I were done. I think? And … and Taika, will you … will you tell me … ”

Taika shrugged. “Already said I would.” She glanced around at the absolutely atrocious mess we’d made in her sitting room, furniture all over the place, carpet and cushions absolutely ruined, walls scorched and gouged and ripped and dented. “I’d invite you to sit down, but … ”

We blushed again, wishing we could roll up into a ball and roll away. “I’m so sorry.”

Taika laughed. “Don’t be! This place looked like shit anyway. Minimalism makes me want to burn things down.”

“Oh!” we lit up. “Me too. I mean, um, maybe with less burning?”

Praem intoned: “Sitting is good for naughty girls. Naughty girls will sit.”

Taika peered at Praem. “Why are you in a maid dress, unbound?”

“Praem,” said Praem.

“Praem,” Taika corrected herself. “Why the maid dress?” She pointed at Evee. “You mum there make you wear it?”

Evee went wide eyed and pale with embarrassment. She spluttered: “I— you don’t— how did you—”

“Family resemblance,” Taika said. “Seriously. Why the maid dress?

Praem intoned: “Maids are unstoppable.”

Taika nodded as if this made perfect sense. “Cool.”

The six of us spent a few minutes trying to put Taika’s apartment back into some semblance of order. Praem, Raine and Taika herself flipped the sofas back over and placed them in roughly appropriate positions around the now very broken coffee table; I couldn’t even remember when we’d shattered that. Everyone else kept their shoes on in case of broken glass, but Taika didn’t care, staying comfortably barefoot. The sofas had suffered quite badly, punctured by blades and torn up by tentacle-hooks, but they would still suffice for sitting on, if only for a little while. I was too shaky and weak and burnt-out to help with that, but I pottered around the edge of the room picking up the objects I’d hurled around earlier, and did my best to put them mostly back in the kitchen. Lozzie kept staring at Taika from different angles, then helped me tidy up a bit. Praem plugged in the extremely dented air fryer, did something to the inside with one hand, and the appliance beeped back to life.

Evelyn scowled out of the windows the city beyond. “This is the most stupid thing,” she hissed. “China. Really?”

There was a single tense moment when Taika made all her swords float into the air again, but she only did so in order to put them on the big table, all lined up, neat and spotless. She touched them one at a time, with a single fingertip, whispering something to the swords.

Evelyn gave that display a very sour look, lips pursed, vaguely disgusted for some magical reason I didn’t understand.

Eventually there were enough places for everyone to sit down. Taika threw herself down on a sofa and put her feet up on a chair, then gestured broadly at the room. “Make yourselves at home, girls. Long time since I entertained anybody I wasn’t fucking, so sorry if I’m a bit rusty.”

Raine said: “Does that mean I can raid your fridge?”

Taika narrowed her eyes. Raine stared back with one of those shit-eating grins she reserved for a certain type of person. Then Taika smirked back. She said: “Sure. If you bring me a beer as well. ‘Hair of the dog that bit you’ and all that. That’s what you English say, isn’t it?”

Evelyn cast a disapproving eye over all the empty alcohol bottles, some of which I had hurled around during the fight. Then she frowned at Taika, perhaps at her general lack of clothes or her ostentatious muscles, but she didn’t say anything.

Raine went over to the absolutely massive standing fridge in the kitchen. One shelf appeared to be nothing but beer. Raine extracted two cans, peered at the label, and raised her eyebrows. “Tsingtao? Never heard of it.”

“Provincial,” Taika drawled. “You should get around more.”

Raine smirked right back at her, then tossed Taika’s beer across the room, just too hard and too fast for comfort. But Taika snatched it out of the air, somehow without having to get up from her seat.

“Raine!” I tutted through a mouthful of lemon-flesh, finishing up the last of the trio Praem had handed me earlier.

“Yes,” Evelyn hissed. “Please, stop the dick-measuring. Not now.”

Raine flashed me a grin and then winked — at Taika, who was busy cracking open her beer and taking a long swig.

“Ahhh,” Taika sighed. “Nothing like a beer after a sparring match. You want something too, calamari?”

I shook my head. “Lemons,” I said, almost done eating.

The rest of us started to sit down too; Praem helped Evelyn into a seat and Lozzie fluttered around before sitting surprisingly close to Taika. Raine and I took up position on the sofa opposite the witch. Praem did not sit, but began to cast her gaze over the still-messy wreckage of the room.

“Don’t clean for free, Praem,” Evelyn told her.

“I can pay,” Taika said.

“Don’t,” Evelyn repeated. “And you, ‘Taika’, I doubt that’s even your real name. I looked it up before we left. It just means ‘magic’. Whatever you are, you are ridiculous, by choice.”

Taika toasted her with the beer can. “Same to you, English mage girl.”

Evelyn ground her teeth. Something about Taika had her on edge, even more than the situation warranted. It wasn’t awareness of danger, or caution of a strange being, or any of Evelyn’s usual attitudes.

Then I realised. It was jealousy.

Raine leaned back on the sofa and said: “Got a question for you, Taika. If you don’t mind.”

Taika raised her eyebrows. She looked so utterly relaxed now, leaning back on her sofa, beer in one hand. Like we hadn’t just been having an all-out, no-holds-barred, knock-down, drag-out fight. She said, “Heather’s the one who gets to ask questions.”

I cleared my throat. “Please?”

Taika nodded.

Raine said, “Like Evee said, what are you?”

“Goat!” Lozzie chirped. “Like Heathy! But bigger? Or smaller?” Lozzie tilted her head back and forth at Taika, like she couldn’t quite decide. She closed one eye, then the other, then gave up with a shrug.

“She’s like me, yes,” we said. “Homo Abyssus.”

Taika took a long drag from her beer, thinking for a moment. Raine copied the gesture — until Lozzie silently pestered her for a sip. Raine obliged, handing Lozzie the can. Lozzie tried the tiniest little sip, smacked her lips, and pulled a squinting, pinched-face look of distaste. No beer for Lozzie.

Taika finally answered.

“Homo Abyssus?” she drawled. “Weird terminology. But you’re not wrong. I’m like your Heather, here. She’s been down in the pits, too, hasn’t she? Swallowed by the flow, just like me. Swam back to the surface, unburned, unconsumed.” She smirked. “But you don’t wanna hear about any of that. That’s not what you’re here for. Heather came to hear about the Reading Twins, the Morell case, her case. One of my many, many, many screw-ups. Yet another time that I failed to save somebody.”

“Actually,” I said softly. “Taika, I’ve never met somebody else like myself. I do want to know what you are, as well.”

“Huh,” Taika grunted. “You already know, calamari. You saw, straight up. What more is there to say?”

I hurried to add: “But, yes, mostly I want to know about the Eye, about my sister, about what happened to us. And if you have the photograph you showed my father, ten years ago. Anything. Please, anything at all. What happened? Tell me what happened to me and Maisie.”

Taika let out a little sigh, wetted her mouth with a little sip of beer, and began to tell us a sordid, sorry, sad little story.

Previous Chapter Next Chapter



Fire-goat-lady danmaku fight passed successfully; introspection queued; exposition(?) incoming.

You know, Heather was really, really, really lucky to run into Taika here, somebody who could make her slow down and think for a minute, mostly by having a bullet hell battle in the middle of a fancy penthouse on the other side of the world. Let’s hope that not all Heather’s emotional and psychological mistakes require such expensive and destructive lessons. Especially not how badly she’s probably hurt Sevens; that’s going to be some major fallout for both of them, and hopefully some hard self-examination from Heather. But in the meantime, Lozzie sings the fight to a stop, Evelyn is justifiably pissed off, and Raine is trigger happy. Praem just wants to maid.

No patreon link this week, because this is the last chapter of the month! If you do want to subscribe, feel free to wait until the 1st. In the meantime, maybe go check out the Katalepsis fanart page, over here; there’s been a bunch of new stuff there lately, including a full set of comedy stick-figure illustrations of the opening arc, this incredibly cute mini-Heather hiding in a pile of laundry (by skaiandestiny), and this sketch of Taika (by Cera) drawn within hours of me posting this chapter to the patrons, and this full pixel art of Taika (also by Cera!) And there’s also the memes page, absolutely crammed with esoteric jokes. I do actually have a shoutout recommendation pending, but the author in question has asked me to wait until after the 1st of December, so!

But! You can still:

Vote for Katalepsis on TopWebFiction!

This helps so very much! A lot of readers still find the story through TWF, which still surprises me. It only takes a couple of clicks to vote!

And thank you! Thank you so much for reading Katalepsis, and spending your time on my little story; I often say this, but it’s still true that I could not do this without you, the readers. Thank you so much!

Next week, Taika tells tall tales of teasing titans. What really happened, all those years ago? Heather needs to know.

eyes yet to open – 22.4

Content Warnings

References to sex work (it’s like one sentence)



Previous Chapter Next Chapter

A clever, cunning, and crafty little cephalopod does not expose herself in open waters, relying solely on the protective colouration of her shifting skin and the dizzying dance of her many arms; neither does she lurch into view with tentacles outspread, beak snapping a challenge like a painted braggart demanding a duel. No, those are the ways of passivity or recklessness, both equally likely to end in ruin and defeat. Instead, if she is smart and swift and sharp, she will squeeze herself into cracks and crevasses and tight little caves in the undersea rocks, coiling her softly pliant body into the stony embrace of the dark corners and unseen recesses. She sinks into the darkness, hides in the shadows, silent and still and studious.

“Kitten.”

The cephalopod does this not to escape the searching eyes and razor teeth of sharks and rays — for she is a heavyweight cephalopod now, no easy morsel for a passing predator, more than capable of warning them off with flashing stripes of red and yellow on the canvas of her skin. She is flush with toxins and poisons and paralytics. She has sharp claws and hooks and barbs of her own, reinforced with iron and steel. She hisses to ward off unwanted interest. She wishes no interruption in her hunt.

“Kitten, I strongly advise against doing this by yourself. Kitten. Kitten. Heather.”

Hunt! Yes, oh yes, that is why she is tucked away in the shadows — to stalk prey of her own.

“Kyahaha! She’s right out in the open! Look at this! Look, I can see the road through those railings there. Maybe you should shake her shoulder or something, Sevensy? Some teenage weed-head out for a kebab to slake the evening munchies is gonna spot our little squid through the park railings, and then make a five thousand word post on a paranormal image board! Hehe!”

The abyssal cephalopod creeps through the thickly clouded waters, tentacles reaching forward in uncoiling silence, dragging their own stealth behind them in gossamer layers of unfolding cobweb, sheets of silence slicing through the dark.

“Kitten—”

“Heatherrrrr, shouldn’t you be doing this on a lonely windswept moor or something? Isn’t that where fair maidens are meant to brood like this? Pfffthahaha! I can’t believe this, Sevensy, she’s lost it! She’s gone over the edge! Sorry, but this one is not my fault!”

Her beak is sharpened to a razor’s edge, hard as a diamond-tipped drill. No human science could match the cracking, crushing, constrictive power of her maw. She will snap it shut on skull and bone, then slice through both to the crimson meat within.

“Kitten, you cannot — must not — do this by yourself. There is no rational reason for this self-isolation. Go home. Seek assistance. Ask for help and it shall be granted, you—”

“Sevensy, don’t be daft. She doesn’t want help. She wants revenge, and it’s gonna be ugly! You think she wants Raine and Evee to watch her splatter some mage like a balloon full of cow guts? She’s here because she’s gonna do biiiiiig vi-ooooh-lence.”

The clever cephalopod does not spring prematurely. She waits until she sees confirmation — the ghostly sheen of a crab’s shell slipping into the dark waters ahead, thinking it is alone and unobserved, primitive eyes missing the octopus coiled within the rocks.

“You need not be involved, Aym.”

“Haha! You think either of us are gonna be involved? Maybe if I can stay in a fucking bomb shelter while Heather goes bananas!”

The clever cephalopod creeps closer while maintaining concealment; her skin has turned gnarled and dark to make her just another stone along the sea bed. She waits until the crab’s back is turned, until the claws are pointed elsewhere, until the waters are filled with night’s murk, until the trajectory is perfect. She bunches her tentacles like a massive muscular spring. She opens her beak, ready to arc through the cold void and seize the hot meat.

She tells herself the crab does not see her. The crab is small — with sharp, strong pincers, yes, but too slow to impede her strike. She will not be denied.

She is almost ready; her hand — no, tentacle — no, hand, thumb, right thumb, hovers over the bright green call button, green and shiny enough to bite into, like an apple. But, no, no apples grow beneath the sea. Not an apple, a— The phone screen — the crab’s shiny shell, back turned — burns bright and cheery against the dark background of the park, leaves rustling in the wind — no, against the deep-sunk ocean depths, drenched in night — against the distant Sharrowford skyline of rooftops and streetlights and—

“Kitten. Stop this.”

A soft hand fell upon my shoulder.

I hissed through my teeth, quick and sharp and mostly involuntary, the product of an altered throat; the barely human sound sunk into the darkness which hung above the grass and lurked between the trees. But the hand did not withdraw. Clarity began to leave me.

“Octopus-brain has lost her crackers!” Aym screeched, giggling like she was enjoying this far too much.

“I’m perfectly rational,” we said at last, swallowing hard to force our throat back into human shape. “And I’m— I’m almost there!” I tried to shrug off Sevens’ hand, but she wouldn’t let go. “I’m close! Give me a moment!”

“Close to what?!” Aym screech-laughed again. “Getting absorbed into your phone screen?”

“Kitten,” said Seven-Shades-of-Shrinking-Patience. “We are all out of moments. Look at me. Look up. Look.”

I hissed again — it was supposed to be a sigh, but I was too far gone to retain control — and looked up from my phone.

We — us, seven Heather-like squid girls packed into one adrenaline-filled, panting, shivering body — were sitting on a old wooden bench, just off one side of an asphalt pathway, drenched in the late evening shadows of Lehrey Park, which was situated at the far eastern end of the city of Sharrowford. The park was big, and dark, and deserted at that time of night. Massive trees lined the edges of the park itself, concealing the low wall and high fence which separated it from the quiet suburban roads beyond. The wall and the railing and the trees worked to filter and darken the distant streetlights. The air was filled by the slow rustle of thousands of leaves, tossed gently on the night’s wind.

We were tucked deep in a corner, away from everything and everyone. Thick clouds covered the sky, hiding the moon, hiding us. The smells of summer grass and the sounds of furtive insects in the undergrowth had fled from our own reeking scent — we probably stank of predatory intent, secret pheromones pouring from our body. Even the distant cars on Sharrowford’s roads sounded like scuttling beetles hurrying for less benighted parts of the city.

I was shivering badly, though not from cold. My bum had gone a little numb from the hard bench. My chest hurt.

We held our mobile phone in both hands, palms slick with sweat, the screen glowing in the night. We held the mystery business card at the tip of one tentacle.

The phone number mocked us from both screen and paper: 010456-6754-7777-00-00-2. It wasn’t even a real telephone number, just another mage’s trick, a magic spell encoded in telephone exchanges and numerology. I’d crawled all over the internet trying to figure out where it would point me. The answer? Nowhere.

But that didn’t mean we weren’t going to make the call.

Seven-Shades-of-Sunlight was standing in front of the bench, flanked by Aym. Sevens — with her smart black shoes touching the actual ground, with her yellow skirt and pressed blouse and rolled-up parasol — was lit from the front and below by the glow from my phone screen, and by the slowly shifting rainbow colours of all six of my fully manifested tentacles. She looked like a phantom from a nightmare, glowing with unnatural colours, ready to whisk me off to my punishment in some faerie dungeon.

I’m certain I looked far worse.

Aym had reduced herself to little more than a wisp of bitter darkness, a shadow backed by gloom, almost invisible against the falling night and the omnipresent background glow of Sharrowford streetlights.

Sevens did not look pleased; she looked strict and stern, like she wanted to give me a spanking — and not the fun kind. I could hardly blame her. I was being a very significant fool, in a variety of ways which I did not have the power to express, let alone counteract.

“Sevens!” I hissed — actually hissed, because I couldn’t control the quiver in my voice. “Give me a moment! I’m going to do it, I’m going to do it right now! I need to be in the right frame of mind! Let me hold onto that, please!”

“Kitten, I love you with all my heart,” said Sevens. Her lips clicked on every word. “But you cannot do this alone. There is no reason.”

I hissed and slapped the empty air with three of my tentacles, agitated beyond words, beyond the power to explain myself. I was emotionally exhausted and I knew it, strung-out beyond the edge of rational human decision making. Sevens did not flinch at my wild gesture, not even when my tentacles throbbed and flexed with the beginnings of spikes and hooks and barbs. She did not let go of my shoulder. She did not let me raise anchor.

She stuck to her guns, bless her: “Kitten. Go home. Go to Raine and Evelyn. Take Zheng if you must. Take—”

“That’s not the point!” we hissed in her face. “Not the point! Sevens, let go, let me—”

Aym snort-cackled again, a noise like a rusty saxophone played by a swamp monster. “Some poor evening dog-walker is about to get an eye full of squid juice!”

“It’s fine!” I snapped at her instead. “Nobody is going to show up or walk by—”

“Quite a gamble!” Aym cackled. Her rippling, rotten giggle was borderline hysterical; she was more disturbed by this than she was showing. Another weight on the scales of guilt and madness inside my chest.

“—and if they do,” I went on, “then they’re going to come walking down a path with a torch, or a headlamp, or something like that. I will fold my tentacles up if I have to, yes, but I am tired of thinking about it! And I’m only going to be here a few more seconds! Let me finish, both of you!”

“Finish what?!” Aym squeaked. “What are you even doing?! Shit or get off the pot!”

I took a deep breath and filled my lungs, trying to contain the roiling cauldron boiling away inside my chest.

It was perhaps thirty minutes since Sevens and Aym and I had left my parents’ house, and a little less than that since we’d returned from Reading to Sharrowford, the same way in which we had arrived.

The revelations from my parents, my father’s determination and effort, my mother’s distress and resolve, the aching catharsis of ten long years — all of it had left me drained inside in a way I’d never felt before, both exhausted and refreshed. Before leaving we had gone through almost another hour of tearful goodbyes and repeated reassurances. My parents had both wanted to hug me, to tell me that they loved me, and to mutter half-finished questions about how they’d brought me up. They could not quite deal with the implications of that, not yet.

I’d briefly visited my bedroom — mine and Maisie’s bedroom — but I’d felt nothing there, nothing except a strange and distant alienation from a previous version of myself. There was no personal discovery of secrets left behind by the Eye, or by a mage, or the sudden reveal of a magical gateway just out of sight. I’d even stuck my hands and three tentacles under my own bed, trying to find that dimly-remembered impossible passageway to Wonderland. But there was only carpet and dust. Brain-math probing revealed no secret skein of webs wrapped around my childhood bedroom or the space where Maisie’s bed should have been standing. Nothing was there except painful memories and a few random spirits lurking in the corners. I resisted the urge to chase those spirits off; I even briefly petted one of them with a tentacle, though I suspect it thought it was about to be killed and eaten.

Both my parents had hugged me yet again, hard and desperate for my own safety. My father had wished me luck, clapped me on the back, told me something like ‘good hunting’, and then pretended he was not terrified. My mother had brandished her notebook again, now filled with the names of people I loved, with a detailed description of the things I had told her, with things she did not want to believe — and with Maisie’s name, repeated over and over in big black scrawl, breaking out from inside the neatly ruled lines.

My mother had then extracted from me a twinned pair of bizarre promises: to give her a phone call at the last minute before we embarked upon Maisie’s rescue, whenever it came, and to repeat the call when we returned with my long-lost sister, whatever protestations to unreality that my mother’s mind might impose upon her. I had been unable to refuse, not after her detailed notes and the way she was trying to cling to Maisie’s name so hard.

Maisie, Maisie, Maisie! Don’t forget! She’s your other daughter! Don’t forget!

I had little faith that my mother would remember, but not because she wasn’t trying. It was the most real thing my mother had ever done.

She’d asked if I really did want to stay the night. She’d told me to be safe. She’d said a lot of things that I couldn’t process, or think about, or even recall properly — because the only thing which mattered now was the phone number and the name on that business card.

I was a cephalopod predator, coiled into my dark crack in the rocks, waiting for the unwary prey to pass below.

Taika Eskelinan

At Large In The World, Despite Your Best Efforts

All enquiries please telephone:
010456-6754-7777-00-00-2

We had dragged our eyes across those words over and over, trying to punch through them to the truth behind, desperate to snare or snag some clue in the name or the bizarre little motto. Internet searches had turned up nothing of note. ‘Taika Eskelinan’ was a real name — a Finnish name, though the surname was either a misspelling or a small modification of a more common one. ‘Taika’ literally meant ‘magic’; a mage’s jape? Perhaps. I seriously doubted that any of the internet search results referred to the impossibly tall, flame-haired, sword-carrying figure who my father had described. The little motto or self-advertisement turned up even less.

Whoever and whatever she was, Taika was a mystery.

But I was about to trap her in a corner of rock, pin her to the ocean floor, and suck the secrets out of her skull.

We’d left Reading by teleport, the same way we’d arrived. My course of action should have been obvious: I should have returned to the comfort and security of Number 12 Barnslow Drive, to ruminate on my discoveries with Raine and Evelyn, to seek advice and help, to warm my numbed brain and strained heart. That would have been the sensible thing — to do all that good, emotionally healthy, decompression stuff. But I was not feeling sensible. I was not feeling like a good girl. I was not a good girl — I was seven very bad girls in one body, vibrating with the need to grasp the truth behind the last ten years of my life.

So I had teleported myself, Sevens, and Aym to the heart of Lehrey Park, in the middle of the night, in the dark.

What was I doing? Pretending to be an octopus. Mentally preparing myself to gut a mage.

“I am gathering myself,” we hissed, soft and threatening. “I need a few more seconds, to— to get into the right mindset. That’s all.”

Aym let out a horrible little snort-giggle. Her voice came from inside the twisting pillar of darkness next to Sevens. “Right mindset, she says. What, you gotta envision yourself as a little squid all ready to snap-snap, so you can bite down the moment the mage-bitch answers the call?”

“Yes!” I snapped in Aym’s face. “And stop mocking me!”

“Kyahaha!” Aym giggled again — but she retreated behind Sevens’ back, overwhelmed by my predatory intent.

“Kitten,” said Sevens. “Stop trying to do this alone. You have nothing to prove. There is no special beauty in solitary pursuit, no magical narrative solution when you are alone. Take that from me, my love. What need is this? Go home. Speak with your friends. With Evelyn, with Lozzie. Make a plan to confront this mage. You are losing your temper, you—”

We tried to shrug off Sevens’ hand again, but she wasn’t having any of that. She tightened her grip. One of us — Top-Left — coiled toward her wrist with the implicit threat of force.

“Kitten. Do not.”

“Tssh!” we hissed. “Sevens, I’m not trying to prove anything! I’m trying to protect everyone else—”

“From a mage,” she interrupted smoothly. “Kitten, none of your companions needs protecting from a mage. They have already fought—”

“From me!” I finished.

Sevens blinked, just once. “Kitten?”

I was panting harder, my flesh hot and itchy, my tentacles aching to transform their smooth pale surfaces into sticky dark toxin, studded with barbs and hooks and razor-sharp spikes.

“No holds barred,” I rasped. “Isn’t that how Raine phrases it? ‘Fire-free zone’? I don’t even know what that means but I’ve seen what it means in video games! Raine would understand. No editing, no censoring, no risk of collateral damage! I don’t care if this mage doesn’t want to tell me anything! I don’t care if she’s ten times more well-protected than Edward Lilburne — it won’t matter. I am going to flense her for her secrets. You know I can do that! You know I can’t be stopped, Sevens. And I’d rather not have to hold back.”

Aym peered around Sevens’ flank, a sheet of smoke and lace. “Told you. Octopus brain is gonna go splatter-house style. Doesn’t want her pretty girls to see her pulling broken bones out of dead meat.”

“Shut up, Aym!” we snapped. “Stop it!

“Eek!” Aym mock-squeaked, ducking behind Sevens’ rear.

“Kitten,” said Sevens. “This has shaken you. You are not acting like yourself.”

“No! No it hasn’t! Sevens, I’ve never been so clear-minded before. I know what I want and I know how to do it, and I’m going to do it. You can’t stop me! And this is a mage, it’s not like I’m proposing to break an innocent person. And I will accept a surrender, I will show mercy, I won’t pull her thoughts out unless I have to — but I probably will have to!”

Aym snorted. “Not learned anything about mages, has she?”

Sevens shot a sharp backward look at Aym. The coal-dust demon-spite went silent.

“Sevens,” we said. “Please take your hand off my shoulder. I adore your touch, but I’m not bringing you with me.”

Sevens did not let go. I touched a tentacle-tip to the back of her palm. Would I hurt her, for the sake of this? I almost certainly could not. I would not pay the price of hurting a loved one for this, and she knew it. She held her hand steady and ignored the touch of my tentacle. I started to blush with shame and doubt; even threatening to hurt her made me feel like filth. But I could not let this opportunity go. If I stepped back now—

Sevens said: “What if this phone number is like that of Mister Joseph King? I believe most mages could do far worse than a warehouse full of toilets. You do not know what you are stepping into.”

“Good!” we said. “Then I’ll have a direct line to her, to her head, her dreams, whoever she is!”

“Kitten—”

“Sevens, it doesn’t matter. I don’t care. Every second which goes by, this phone number might become invalid.”

Sevens sighed a tiny sigh, the most exasperated I had ever seen the Princess Mask. “Kitten. It’s been ten years. The number is likely not functional.”

I brandished the little piece of cream-coloured card in one tentacle, narrowly resisting the urge to shove it in Seven’s face. “Look at it! It’s perfect! Untouched! Ten years in my father’s wallet and it’s not even faded! That’s magic, Sevens. She’ll be at the end of this call. I know it.”

“Heather. You are being absurd.”

“I know!”

Our voice ringing out across the park, soaked up by the darkness and the trees. Our cheeks burned, but not with embarrassment. Sevens blinked. Aym peered around her hip, silent and curious.

Sevens was entirely correct. All seven of us Heathers knew that, we weren’t pretending otherwise. On one level we knew we were acting like total idiots. But that’s one of the major downsides of having seven of us — we could reinforce our own terrible ideas against any level of external argument. Well, anything short of Raine and Zheng tag-teaming us into submission. And no, not like that. Well, yes like that, but also not.

Why had I come to the park? Why had I not gone home? Why was I not seeking the support and counsel of my friends and allies? 

Because the moment I unclenched this predatory urge, I was going to have an emotional breakdown.

Everything about my relationship with my parents had just changed. Everything about my own past had just changed. I had cried with my mother and father, yes, and the catharsis was raw — but as soon as I relaxed and rode this high back into the depths, I was going to weep and wail and lie in a numb ball for hours, just to absorb how different my world was now. All that weight was hanging above my head, ready to crash into me, like delayed sleep-debt, or a panic attack, or worse.

If I went home and nursed the need to hunt, I risked listening to the other urge as well — the desire to extend this moment forever, to slip into a dark place and stop thinking, to never truly confront what just happened, or what was about to happen. Given half a chance we would luxuriate in stealth forever.

Either of those paths might lead to never confronting this mage.

So we’d come to the park, because eventually we would get cold and hungry, because we could not unclench here, could not relax. We were an octopus in the cracks; it was nothing more than hunting ritual, getting me ready to do what I must. But it was real, and urgent, and it would keep me moving until I was done, until I had the answers I needed.

“I know, Sevens,” I echoed in a whisper through my teeth. “But either I hunt, right now, or I collapse.”

“Your friends can—”

“Can pick me back up, yes. No matter how far I fall. I know. But what if I never again have this clarity of mind? Right now, I feel like I could take this mage apart atom by atom and it wouldn’t matter. I can’t— I can’t leave this now. If I come down off this feeling, I might never do it. Catharsis will turn sour. I’ll get afraid. Right now, right now nothing can stop me. After that, after my parents, nothing can stop me. Sevens, let me go.”

“Kitten. I love you, so no.”

“A-a compromise, then!” I stammered, grasping at straws. “Sevens, please! Go inform Lozzie, okay? If you think I can’t do this, then call for backup. Call for Lozzie, tell her to follow where I’m about to go. Tell her to bring, I don’t know, Raine and Zheng if she wants. But I won’t need it! You know what brain-math makes me capable of, if I push myself far enough. And now I have my reactor, I have distributed neural structures, I’m … I can’t be stopped. I can’t be. And I have to know. I have to know who did this, and how, and why. And if I have to strip away my entire human body and fillet this mage like a pig, then I will.”

Tears were running down my cheeks. I scrubbed them away in anger, shaking all over, but not with fear. My teeth ached with a desire to grow sharp. My tail bone stung, as if it was trying to sprout a blade. My tentacles tingled and quivered with the desire to plate themselves in bio-steel, to sprout with claw and hook and barb.

“Mages can’t stop me,” I whispered. “Sevens, let me go. Call Lozzie if you must.”

Seven-Shades-of-Suspicious-Surrender sighed deeply, squeezed my shoulder one last time, and then let go.

“We should have brought more lemons,” she said.

“A-ah?”

She straightened up, clacked the tip of her parasol against the asphalt, and raised her chin. She said, “I will seek Lozzie for assistance. I ask that you not engage this ‘Taika’ before she arrives, even if you must make the call. I cannot make you promise. You are too determined.”

“T-thank you, Sevens,” I stammered, burning with sudden mortified embarrassment. I felt like a naughty child who’s parent had finally given up on discipline. I’d won freedom of action, but at the cost of great disappointment. “I love you too. I’m— I’m sorry, I—”

Sevens looked to her side, one hand out. “Aym. Quickly now.”

Aym let out a weird little snort-giggle, then slipped one lace-and-shadow hand into Sevens’ waiting fingers.

As soon as the two of them touched, Sevens took three steps backward and sank into the shadows. At first she was merely stepping away from me, but then she faded as if swallowed up by the darkness, absorbed by the night itself, or perhaps by Aym. She vanished on the third step, going black-on-black, leaving behind nothing but the park and the night and the rustling trees.

Exit, stage rear, very unimpressed with her Heathers.

And then I was truly alone, with only myselves.

Though burning with shame and predatory need in equal volumes we did not waste a second. We raised the phone at last, became an octopus among the rocks, unclouded by interruptions, and pressed the shiny green call button — like bait dangling in the waters.

The call took a very long time to connect. Click-click, click-click, click-buzz-click.

Whoever and whatever she was, Taika was very far away, but not entirely beyond human reach. The call did not drop into an empty silence, or shunt back to a dial-tone, or pipe up with a pre-recorded voice to inform me that the number was unreachable. It slithered and searched, an electrical signal sliding through junction boxes and telephone exchanges, down wires in the dark, crossing human borders and passing through human hands, until—

Ring! Ring-ring! Ring-ring!

An octopus in the dark. Waiting for my prey to pass by. Our tentacles sprouted with hooks and spikes, right there in the open, in the park, in Sharrowford, in reality. We no longer cared about being seen! Our bioreactor ramped up, ejecting chemical control rods from their safe positions. We panted, quick and hard, and realised our breath was steaming in the late summer air. We glowed in the dark, breath pluming in the hot night, skin caked with flash-sweat. We coiled tighter, ready to spring.

Ring-ring! Ring-ring! Ring-click—

Somebody or something answered the call.

A long pause.

Not silence, but a distant sigh, like the falling of a log inside a fireplace. I could hear the sounds of traffic, muffled and far away, like the crackle of burning wood.

A voice reached out from within the flames.

“Hello?” she said. “Who’s calling?”

I was frozen, tentacles coiled tight. I dared not breathe.

Another pause, then the voice said: “I see a UK phone number on my screen. A very expensive call you’re making there, whoever you are. Which means either this is a trick, or I know you very well. Which is it, hmm?”

Her voice was like smoke and cinder, husky and dark, amused and tired, as if she’d just risen from a bed of coals. She spoke with an accent I’d never heard before; it was not a Finnish accent as her name had led me to expect, but a continental hybrid, part Scandinavian, part German, a little bit Eastern Europe, maybe Russia, maybe beyond. My ear was not skilled enough to pick her apart.

But my tentacles would be.

“Taika Eskelinan,” we said. “Is that you?”

I felt her smile — like a lightning-struck tree splitting in the middle to show a crescent of molten sap. Across hundreds or thousands of miles, down an electronic signal transformed into sound by a little piece of plastic and metal, I felt a hot wind like the breath of a live caldera.

Taika said: “An English rose? Mm, good bait. Who’s asking?”

“Me,” we said.

And then we reached into the phone.

We could not use the same trick which we had pulled on Mister Joseph King; there was no lock here to keep me out, no key to imitate with a shape-shifting mechanism of pure mathematics — there was only her voice and the signal which carried it, electrons dancing on the wire, a technological connection between two points in human space, strung out across an unknown distance. A trail to follow, a line of light-poles in the Arctic night, a trickle of blood in the water.

We slammed all eight hands into the black swamp at the base of our soul, ripping the whirling machinery of the Eye’s lessons from the toxic darkness. Hyperdimensional mathematics, naked and raw, burning the air the moment it was exposed. We rammed our limbs into the controls, grasped a lever here and a rod there, searing the skin from our tentacles and fusing the flesh on our fingers. We had to work fast, improvise at speed, build the equation on the fly, ride the wave in the split second before ‘Taika’ cut the call.

Define the connection between here and there, render it down from electrical information and signal and noise, racing through lines in the air and cables under the sea. Ignore the physical, ignore the copper and fibre-optics, strip away that layer of reality, the additional unneeded complexities in an equation of direction and location.

Link the parts, fingers burning down to the bone. Stitch one line to another, in an unbroken chain from my mobile phone in Sharrowford, to another phone, in an unknown place I could not yet picture, where the voice of a mage hissed like the crackle of flames.

We completed the equation. My body was beginning to rebel, despite our distributed nervous system; one moment longer and I would be gripped by a wave of nausea and headache pain. But we could not risk disorientation or damage. We had to arrive fresh, ready to pounce from our crack in the rocks.

The equation was a rough and dirty thing, pieced together from human nonsense and inelegant physics, the racing of voices down telephone lines, the sum of numbers in exchange systems, and the glow of a phone screen so very far away.

We straightened out the equation with a flick of one wrist, like snapping a whip.

The tip of the spear held straight and true, pointing toward Taika.

We grinned, wide and wild, with a rush we’d never felt before.

Then we pounced.

Out.

==

My eyes caught fire.

Light burned; an explosion filled the world, scorched the air, and sucked the breath from my lungs. Light, light light, the brightest we’d ever seen in our life, blotting out all thought and leaving us paralysed, gaping, panting, squinting and—

I’d been a very silly set of seven Heathers; I had spent the last thirty minutes sitting in a park in the middle of the night, psyching myself up by doing image training of myself as a clever little hunting octopus, buried in the rocks, waiting for my unwary prey. This was not the burning all-consuming light of the cosmos, or the roaring flame of an elemental mage, or a surprise nuclear detonation.

It was just dawn. Silly squid.

Dawn, breaking over a city, over the glittering surfaces of towering skyscrapers, over straight-line ribbons of clean grey asphalt, over  brightly coloured electronic billboards and little buses so far below, over the tiny dots of pedestrians all the way down on the ground, like ants on the pavement.

Dawn, bursting in through a bank of very fancy windows, lining one wall of the most expensive flat I had ever seen.

Shiny wooden floorboards squeaked under my trainers as I touched down from the teleport and stumbled sideways. I caught myself on a granite countertop, littered with empty alcohol bottles and decorated with the most gaudy, stupid-looking abstract metal sculptures, all meaningless crescents and swoops and curves, signifying nothing.

I panted, blinking, trying to clear my eyes, straightening up and raising my tentacles, ready to hiss at the top of my lungs.

The walls were all soft cream and the ceiling was twenty feet up; the furnishings were dark wood, plush white leather, and shiny chrome. The kitchen space was larger than my bedroom, the attached ‘sitting room’ larger than some houses. The carpets were thick enough in which to swim. Four sofas were gathered around a television the size of a small car; two of the sofas were littered with discarded clothes — very small discarded clothes, as if something interesting had happened there on the previous night. A low table was covered in yet more alcohol bottles, and also what looked like the remains of rolling and smoking several ‘special’ cigarettes. Two short hallways led off from the main room, their own walls plastered with framed pictures of abstract art.

The air smelled of sweat and sex, expensive alcohol and fried food, strange smoke and thick incense.

One wall was all windows, gazing out across a city that looked like something from a movie, seen from the highest possible point.

A penthouse. I’d arrived in a penthouse.

The hiss died in my throat; I felt more out of place than I did when Outside. I had no context for this; the apartment felt like an alien environment. We were on Earth, yes, but this was not my world.

On the near side of the living space stood a huge dining table in dark wood, perhaps made of oak, with matching chairs which looked like they belonged in an early 20th century detective novel. One of the chairs had been knocked over in the specific sort of way that implied somebody had been having too much fun while sitting down. One end of the table was littered with the remains of several recent meals. The other end was host to what I could only conceptualise as a spy set-up: a massive black briefcase stood propped open, the inside all full of electrical parts and little screens and radio dials. A pair of huge black knives lay either side of the briefcase, double-edged but without any handles, like swords lacking their grips. The sunlight refused to touch the metal of those blades; their surfaces remained dark and unreadable.

And standing by the table, holding a mobile phone to her ear, was—

“Taika!” I croaked. “You!”

She lowered the phone and turned to stare at me.

Taika Eskelinan looked exactly as my father had described. She was six and a half feet tall, with the build of a casual athlete or amateur long-distance runner. Bright red hair fell like a waterfall all the way to the backs of her knees — fire-red, frozen in a moment of flame-tongue flicker. That was an impossible colour to achieve without hours in a salon — but I saw no hint of roots at her scalp, no hair out of place amid the sleep-tousled mess. Her face was pale and angular, with high cheekbones and wide lips, all framing a pair of impossible eyes; Taika possessed the eyes of a goat, slightly too large for a human face, with horizontal pupils on a background of fire-bright orange. Her age was impossible to place, anywhere between early twenties and late forties.

Though unmoving in that moment when our eyes met, she seemed to writhe against the background of reality, like a magic eye puzzle, as if boundless energy was held in check beneath her skin.

She was also half-naked, wearing nothing but a pair of tiny white shorts and a matching tank-top, showing off tight abdominal muscles, strong legs, and well-toned arms.

And she wasn’t afraid.

She was barely even surprised.

She raised her equally red eyebrows at me, more a question than any species of shock. Her strange, goatish eyes quickly took in my six tentacles, barbed and spiked and ready for combat. Her wide lips curled upward in vague amusement. She lowered the phone and killed the call, placing the handset back on the table. I lowered mine, too, fumbling it into my pocket.

“Hey there, calamari delivery,” Taika said with a voice like a burning brand in boiling oil. “English seafood is kinda shit, you know?”

I took one step toward her, my trainers sinking into the plush white carpet. “You’re going to answer my questions!” I rasped. “You’re going to—”

“Hold,” she said. She raised a hand, fingers spread in a lazy ward. “Please?”

“Don’t try some trick—”

Taika thumbed over her shoulder, toward the little corridor which led out of the living area. “I’ve got three … ” She paused, eyes roving over the discarded clothes on the sofas and the fallen chair next to the table. “Four? No, five — five mundane humans back there, all still very much asleep in my bed. You wanna burn this apartment down? Fine, it’s not even really mine. You wanna rumble?” She grinned wider, those goat-like eyes sparkling with mania. “Even better. But I don’t like getting the normies involved. Bad for my digestion. Mind if I let them leave first?”

We stammered to a halt and realised what we looked like. We whipped our tentacles back, making a cage rather than a spear. “T-this doesn’t have to be violent,” we stammered. “I-I’m sorry, I mean, it doesn’t have to go that way. If you just—”

“Yeeeeeah,” Taika drawled. Her voice was like dripping lava, hissing into cold seawater. “I’ve heard that one plenty of times.” She looked me up and down. “I know what happens next, though I’ve never tasted roast squid before. Let my little normies go, or you’re gonna get the angry me, not the playful me. Come on, calamari. You got a conscience?”

We gritted our teeth, hard enough to hurt, all seven of us debating inside. Was this a trick? She was being so reasonable. So humane. But she was a mage, she might be trying anything. Then again, the condition of her ridiculous flat did suggest that she might have a companion or two back there. What if she wasn’t lying? What if I had to Slip this entire apartment Outside and left some random human to die?

I couldn’t do that. We all couldn’t do that.

“No tricks?” I said, my voice just as inhuman as Taika’s.

She nodded, nice and slow. “No tricks, fish and chips. Let me call them?”

“What about my tentacles?” I snapped. “If they’re not In The Know—”

“Ha,” Taika chuckled softly. “That’s a phrase I’ve not heard in a long time. Just stand behind the kitchen counter and look normal. My little friends are probably still riding the tail end of half a dozen different drugs. Plus, they’re used to seeing me and they’ve explained that away. You’re nothing to them. Act like it for a second.”

Despite my better judgement, I did as Taika asked; I stepped behind her kitchen counter, which suddenly seemed like an absurd and inadequate barrier, despite the gaudy counter-tops and shiny taps and expensive-looking mono-task devices. She had all sorts of nonsense back there: a bread maker, a portable grill, some kind of blender for smoothies. Was that an air fryer? It seemed large enough to count as a regular oven. How silly.

I lowered all my tentacles, trying to tuck them half behind my back. Taika nodded a sarcastic thank you, then stepped over to the little hallway.

She knocked on the wall and called out: “Rise and shine, ladies! Qǐchuáng shíjiān dàole! I need you gone! Come on!”

After a minute or two of this — of Taika banging on the wall and calling out in a mixture of English and what I assumed was broken Chinese — I heard several grumpy groans from deeper in the apartment. Somebody called back with a complaint. I did not need to comprehend the language to understand the meaning: ‘Come back to bed.’

Taika did not relent. “Ladies, mama has to deal with a gangster,” she called out, making it sound like a joke. “If you stay here, you might die! Come on, don’t make this hard on me.”

I began to feel absolutely ridiculous. What was I doing? This was no better than what we’d done with Joseph King — no, it was worse! I’d appeared in this woman’s apartment and started threatening her, with no explanation and no introduction; unless she was faking all this behaviour it didn’t seem that she even knew who or what I was.

A gaggle of half-dressed, groggy, glamorous young Asian people emerged from what must have been Taika’s bedroom — and it wasn’t all ladies, it was four ladies and one man, a young man of the kind Raine might describe as a ‘twink’, or maybe a ‘twunk’. I’m not quite clear on the distinction.

None of Taika’s ‘friends’ had the look of sex workers who wanted to go home after a busy night with a wealthy, foreign client. They looked like they very much wanted to go back to bed, with Taika.

My embarrassment climbed to as yet unseen heights as Taika saw them all off; I started blushing, mortified at myself and the situation into which I had unwisely inserted my ugly little nose. The four women voiced playful complaints in Chinese as they passed Taika; she paused to kiss two of them, and ruffled the hair of a third, who let out a loud meow and bit Taika on the collarbone. Taika seemed quite surprised to see the young man there, as if she’d forgotten a portion of the previous night, but then she slapped his backside as he passed her, which made all the women laugh.

None of them spared me more than a disinterested but wary glance as they grabbed clothes off the sofa and sauntered for the other corridor, where I assumed the front door would be found — all except for the girl who had let out a meow. She paused and turned and cocked her head sideways at my tentacles, frowning delicately, long black hair shining in the dawn sunlight.

Taika said: “Huiying, ignore her. She’s organised crime.”

‘Huiying’ snorted, tossed her head, and followed the rest of Taika’s friends, vanishing into the corridor.

Taika stepped back into the living area and peered after her departing companions, until they were gone. She shouted something in Chinese — “shut the door!” I assumed. We waited until we heard a slightly petulant reply, and the sound of a heavy door clicking shut.

Taika turned back to me. The sultry smile she’d used for her ‘friends’ vanished, replaced with a grin like a pot of boiling pitch.

No longer did I feel like a clever little cephalopod who had hunted her prey into a dark twist of rock; we felt like a pathetic wet octopus who had gotten herself washed up on the beach by accident. I stepped out from behind the kitchen counters and raised my tentacles again, though more for show than actual aggression. Taika and I were perhaps twenty feet apart, with nothing between us.

“Alright, calamari,” she purred. “Who you working for?”

“Working for?” We frowned. “Nobody, for us, for— look, Taika, I’m sorry for this, I just want to ask you some questions, I just—”

Taika laughed. She spread her hands; empty-handed, not a single weapon on her, nor any place to hide even a knife. She was too far to dive for the swords on the table. Then again, she was a mage.

She said: “You pull a translocation trick like that, down nothing more than a phone line, and you want me to believe that you just wanna ask some questions? I haven’t seen anybody do shit like that in decades, not since the Homunculus War. No, you’re here for something real. Spit it out, calamari. It’s just you and me now, my closest real allies are a plane flight away. This apartment is fire safe. Shutters will come down the moment we start shit. You want me, come get me. We’ll have twenty minutes before the fire engines get here to flush us out. And hey, you wanna take this rumble into the streets, I’m game. The PAP might not be, though. Hope you’re ready to murder some cops to get to me.”

I held out a hand — a human hand, fingers shaking. “Wait, wait. I genuinely do just want to ask you some questions. And I— I don’t understand, where is this?” I gestured at the bank of windows. “Where am I?”

Taika raised one red eyebrow. “You teleported and you don’t know where you are? Did you seriously come all the way from England?”

“I followed your voice,” we said, blushing even more. “I think I may have … acted … rashly. Where are we?”

Taika’s expression shifted, like she was trying to decide whether to believe me. She jerked a thumb at the windows. “Chengdu.”

We blinked several times. “Cheng-what? Pardon?”

Taika rolled her goatish eyes. “Sichuan.” She paused when she saw I still didn’t get it. “China. People’s Republic, not Republic of.” She paused again and let out a big sigh, a sound like the roiling of a magma flow. “China’s the big country on the Asian mainland.”

“I know where China is!” I spluttered. “I’d just never heard of this city! And I … I didn’t know I was going so … so far … um … ”

We trailed off and stared out of the massive bank of windows. We were so very far out of our depth

“You’d be surprised.” Taika chuckled. “Met an English girl once who didn’t know the difference between Japan and China.” She narrowed her eyes. “You really don’t know where you are, do you, calamari?”

“Stop calling me that,” I hissed. I spread all my tentacles wide, trying for a threat display again. “I’m not working for anybody, I’m here on my own behalf. My name is Heather Morell and I want to ask you some questions, about something from ten years ago.”

Taika frowned in thought; those strange slit-pupil eyes narrowed.

“Heather … Morell,” she echoed, rolling my name in her mouth an iron sphere. “Morell. Morell. Holy shit. I remember you now, kid. You’re the English girl who got spirited away. The Reading twins—”

“Twins, yes!” I snapped, my chest suddenly roaring with strange anger that I had not expected. “We were taken by the Eye! Me and my sister, and you knew, and you could have told me it was all real! You were a responsible adult, right?! And you knew! You spoke to my parents, you— you had a photograph of my sister and me! You knew!”

Taika did not respond, like she couldn’t hear my words. She was looking me up and down anew, dragging her gaze along the length of my tentacles.

“You grew up,” she whispered. “Well, damn. Didn’t expect you to last a year, let alone ten.”

I cleared my throat, still angry but also embarrassed now. “I’m … look, I’m sorry for the dramatic entrance. I didn’t know if I’d have to fight you, or something like that. I’ve had bad experiences with mages, I apologise. I just … I just want answers. And the photograph. If you still have it. I know it’s been ten years, but … I need it. And I need to know what happened.”

Taika’s eyes travelled back upward and met my gaze; I did not like what I saw there. Her horizontal pupils were dilating, bulging like fire-flushed rock.

“Good thing I’m not a mage, then,” she said. She used one hand to sweep her flame-bright hair back over her scalp, falling in a wave. “But I’m sure if we work together we can give you a bad experience anyway.”

We froze. “What? No, no, Taika, I just want answers. What does it cost you to tell me—”

Taika burst into a grin like the opening of a volcanic rift; something was glowing in the back of her throat. She laughed. She bobbed on the balls of her feet. She rolled her shoulders.

“Cost?” she echoed. “Nothing. But it’s been decades since I saw something on your level, calamari. And you’re flying blind. You’re reckless. Somebody’s gotta put you on your arse before you start killing people. Or worse.”

I took a step back, tentacles raised in a protective cage. “I’ve killed mages, yes. It’s not hard, but I don’t want to! Please, just give me the answers I want, or I’ll—”

Taika clicked her fingers.

The pair of handle-less black blades on the table rose from their resting places and shot toward her, like iron slugs pulled by magnetic force. They settled into an orbit around her, tips pointing outward. Another ten identical blades shot out of the corridor, homing from another location deeper in the apartment; those additional ten joined the first two, circling around Taika’s body in a segmented cage of iron.

Each blade gained a shadow, despite the burning light of the dawn still pouring in through the windows. Each weird little sword was wrapped in a shade, a writhing black flame, half-visible against the background of reality.

“What the— what— I—”

“You’ve fought tadpoles and frog-spawn,” Taika said in a voice like a forge-fire. “Mages? Ha. I’m a witch, squid-girl.”

“So?!” I blurted out, shrugging with all my arms, absolutely done with this. “Is that supposed to mean anything to me!?”

Taika cleared her throat and went to carry on, but I rolled right over her.

“I’ve had a year of these absurd supernatural definitions, and I don’t care anymore!” I yelled. “I don’t care what you are or what you call yourself. My head is full of hyperdimensional mathematics. Do you even know what that means, hmm?! Do you?”

“Well,” Taika said. “Yeah, but—”

“And I’m quite certain that a ‘witch’ can be thrown Outside as easily as a mage! I don’t want to fight you, Taika, whatever you are, but I need answers!”

“And you need a lesson,” she purred.

One of the black knives suddenly whirled outward from the cage around Taika, striking toward me with an almost lazy motion, spinning through the air, showy and flashy, intended to intimidate more than wound.

I had not yet completely taken leave of all of my senses. Seven squid girls we might have been, but I was still very much Heather Morell, and Heather Morell did not know the first thing to do in a sword fight — let alone a sword fight against a ball of spinning blades held aloft by the ineffable magic of an overconfident and smug woman who appeared to be a raging bonfire in human form. I was not about to meet this mage — or ‘witch’ — in a fair fight.

So I hissed from the depths of my throat, slapped at the blade with a tentacle, and spun up the familiar old equation. If Taika would not yield and talk like a sensible person, then I would show her exactly what I could do. She had her warning shot, and so did I.

My tentacle touched the black surface of the lightless blade. The equation slammed into place.

Out.

A blue flash blurred the air where we made contact, like metal on metal. The blade span away, deflected by my tentacle and the hardened spikes of bone and claw.

But the sword was still there.

The blade was still present, in the apartment, in reality. The equation had worked, but the object had not gone Outside.

My eyes went wide. Something roiled in my stomach, something sick and wrong, like I’d taken a tumble at an unexpected angle, like my inner ear was confused.

Twenty feet away, Taika blew out a long breath, like she’d just done a somersault and pulled off a difficult trick landing. The deflected blade sped back to its place in her orbiting cage.

I boggled at her. “Wha— how—”

“I was trying to tell you, calamari,” she purred. “You’re not the only one four knuckles deep in reality’s cunt.”

Previous Chapter Next Chapter



You’re not the only one, Heather.

Though whatever Taika is, she certainly doesn’t seem that much like Heather, does she? Same thing, different angle? Same kind, different … metaphor? Well, whatever the case, Heather has perhaps bitten off a lot more than she expected. This isn’t a mage. This is something else. And Heather’s been rude. Heather’s been rash and swept up by emotion and probably hurt Sevens in the process. Heather wants answers and was prepared to kill. But is she prepared to fight?

Meanwhile, I have art to share again! I want to share this wonderful picture of Heather with Sevens and Aym, over on the fanart page! It’s by skaiandestiny, over on the discord server.

If you want more Katalepsis right away, you can get it by:

Subscribing to the Patreon!

All Patrons get access to two chapters ahead! No matter what level you subscribe at! That’s about 20k words at the moment. The more support I get through Patreon, the more time I can dedicate to writing, and the less chance of having to slow down the story or get interrupted by other responsibilities. The generous and kind support of Patrons and readers is what makes all this possible in the first place, I would literally not be able to do this without you; thank you all so very much! You can also:

Vote for Katalepsis on TopWebFiction!

This helps so very much! A lot of readers still find the story through TWF, which still surprises me. It only takes a couple of clicks to vote!

And thank you!!! As always, thank you all so much for reading. Katalepsis is for you, dear readers. I could not do this without you.

Next week, fight, fight, fight, fight, fight!

eyes yet to open – 22.3

Content Warnings

Parental browbeating / references to unintentional psychological abuse (same as previous chapter)
Unreality/gaslighting/memory corruption
Grief and loss



Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Truth-wrought abyssal flesh flowered from my flanks and burst through the concealed velcro slits in the sides of my borrowed hoodie.

Sixfold and strobing, glossy-smooth and gleaming-pale, strong with muscle, thick with chromatophores, weaving layers of armour for my heart and soul. They — us, we, I, all in one and one as all — flared with a dark rainbow umbra of void-born bioluminescence. We soaked the sitting room in unnameable colours, washing the walls with neon pink, drenching the sofa in mustard gas yellow, turning the carpet filthy with toxic purples and mould-bright oranges and danger-warning reds — and dyeing my parents’ faces with the grey-pale of wordless shock. Six beautiful, undeniable, unfalsifiable limbs from beyond the human body-plan unfurled from my sides, to violate both the stagnant, stale air of the house in which I had grown up, and the sclerotic structures of my parents’ minds.

My mother stumbled away from us. All her patronising, careworn anger vanished like flash-boiled steam, replaced with open-mouthed shock. She collapsed into her chair, panting for breath, a hand clutching at her heart. My father stared with the awestruck eyes of a child gazing upon the sea for the first time, the waves roused to violence beneath a lightning storm, with electricity playing over the water’s surface. His moustache had gone droopy.

Not enough! Not nearly enough!

We lifted ourselves upward on three tentacles until our feet left the ground. With all our body weight raised and suspended via three muscular coils braced against the carpet, we looked down upon our parents. Our eyes were full of tears, our face blazing with heat, our heart soaring with vindication.

Catharsis was like a drug, surging through our veins, throbbing inside our head, churning in our belly — no doubt spiced and catalysed by the lingering buzz of brain-math pain crackling across our nervous system and distributed neural tissue.

I had dreamed of this moment during my darkest hours of isolation in Cygnet Children’s Hospital, on those long and lonely nights curled up beneath my bedsheets, to escape the horrors which were visible to only my altered eyes, while I’d sobbed my twin’s name into a cold pillow. I had dreamed of looking down on the doctors and scattering them like bowling pins, of rising above my parents and screaming in their faces: you’re wrong!

Maisie is real! I have proof! I love her and she’s missing and gone and nobody will pay attention or believe me and you’re all leaving her behind!

We longed to blossom further, to flower and fruit, to surrender our biology to the transformative process, to show our parents the very limits of the truth. We ached to sharpen our teeth and elongate our tongue, to decorate our skin with flowing colours in a language no human eyes could read, to blink with three sets of lids and twist our throat into a shape for words not meant for human ears. We quivered and panted with biological potential, with the budding seed of a bladed tail, with the promise of steel-shod bones and razor-sharp fingernails. We wanted to hiss, to screech, to unfold and unfurl until we were large enough to pull reality down upon the human mind, until we might see my parents as nothing but ugly lumps of living meat twisted into glugging chemical factories, and force them to look upon the shameless and incandescent truth.

But we didn’t.

Because then we would have been there all night.

We kept a ruthless hand on our urges. In the end this was not about breaking my parents, or about satisfying my own needs, or even about bringing us all together, to heal at long last, to reconcile this chasm between us. No, none of those things mattered, not by comparison.

This was about Maisie, and the information I required in order to bring her home.

We made do with one tiny sliver of all the things we wished to say, to express all that we felt.

“Go ahead, mother,” I said. “Tell me I’m insane.”

My mother did not tell me anything. She whimpered.

That whimper was enough to bring me down — both metaphorically and literally. We did not wish to actually hurt our parents, to scream and shout and shove their noses in the truth; we’d exercised that urge once before, against Natalie’s parents, to bring them Into The Know for the sake of their daughter’s future. We had indulged in all the strongest cocktails of bitterness and revenge, and told ourselves we had no other choice. But then Sevens had shown us how those poisons ate away at our own guts in equal measure, metabolising our own soul into rot. We had not quite exorcised those feelings — we suspected that we never could — but we didn’t truly wish to see our parents’ minds broken on the rack of reality, with all the attendant risks.

We lowered ourselves back to the floor, easing downward with our tentacles until our feet pressed into the plush fabric of the carpet. I was panting, shivering, shaking all over, coated with a sudden sheen of cold sweat. One by one we — us Heathers — all agreed to lower the intensity of our strobing rainbow brilliance. We dialled it down until it no longer overwhelmed the lights in the sitting room.

A lemon appeared in front of my face, held in a pale hand, attached to a very lovely arm, inside the perfectly pressed clean white sleeve of a crisp blouse.

“For you,” Sevens murmured.

I glanced at her in surprise, blinking and confused; she’d managed to stand by my side all throughout that absurd threat display. We suddenly felt terribly embarrassed.

“I— hic,” hiccuped. “But—”

“Eat,” said Seven-Shades-of-Essential-Aide.

We accepted the lemon with two tentacles and began flaying the skin, then plucking out morsels of sharp, yellowy flesh. The first bite stilled our mind. The second scrap calmed our belly. The third made us sigh. We needed that.

My parents were just staring, awestruck and silent. My mother was half-recoiled in her chair, as if trying to sink into the cushions. My father’s amazement was beginning to ebb, the flavour of his shock changed by the curious frown on his forehead.

“Heather,” my father said slowly, as if not believing his own voice could function in this aura of unreality. “What … what exactly are we … looking at here?”

I swallowed another chunk of lemon. Much better.

“The truth,” we said. We shrugged — with two shoulders and all the tentacles not currently occupied in de-fleshing a lemon. “We didn’t want to show you … ” I trailed off and smiled, self-conscious and melancholy. “Well, no, that’s a lie, of course we wanted to show you. We just didn’t want to hurt you, either of you. But the denial was getting too much. This is the truth.”

My father’s frown deepened. His eyes ran across my tentacles, narrowing, blinking, squinting with the cognitive effort of overcoming his own world-view. He stroked his moustache as if puzzling over a crossword.

“And … what,” he tried, then cleared his throat and screwed up his eyes. When he opened them again, I had not stopped existing. He nodded. “What is the truth, sweetheart?”

A weird giggle forced its way up my throat. “Hi mum, hi dad,” we said. “I’m a squid.”

Hic — went my mother. She let out a hysterical little laugh as well, then hiccuped again.

Oh.

Oh no.

My moment of catharsis and relief curdled in my gut: that’s where I got the hiccuping thing from.

My mother, wild-eyed and breathing too hard, said: “T-those aren’t real. They’re … p-paper mache! With lights inside! T-this is a cruel, cruel trick to play on us, Heather. I thought better of you, you’re not—”

One of us lost control — Top-Right whipped outward, a single tentacle arching through the air like a spear, to stop six inches from my mother’s nose.

“Eek!” My mother shrieked, then crammed a hand over her mouth, panting through the gaps between her fingers, wide eyes glued to the slow-strobing tip in front of her eyes.

My father reached across the sofa and gripped my mother’s arm. “Samantha. Samantha, it’s alright, it’s okay. It’s only— it’s only our— our Heather, our—”

“Dad, stop,” I said. He was struggling too, and I couldn’t bear it. “That was … that was my fault. I shouldn’t have been so … aggressive.”

Part of us burned with shame — well, not Top-Right, but most of the rest of us. That little whipcrack was no different than pretending to wind up and deliver a punch to my mother’s face. A threat, faked and stalled, but a threat nonetheless. That was not what we wanted.

But still we held that one tentacle in front of my mother’s eyes. We coiled our tip, curling and spiralling, with bands of colour descending our length; we showed off the fine control, folding and flexing the pale skin, undeniably biological and alive. Smooth and elegant and expressive. Deny this, mother.

My mother removed her hand from her mouth. Her eyes were glued to me — to us, to our tentacle. “It’s … ” she murmured. “It’s a … a robotic arm, then. Silicon for the skin. A-a project, at your University. Doesn’t … doesn’t Sharrowford have a robotics department, or something? Yes! Yes, that must be it.”

We sighed. “Mother, how could I have gotten six robotic limbs through the front door?”

“You … you had it concealed under your clothes,” she answered. Her voice grew with confidence as she spoke. “In a sort of fold-out costume. Like those on-stage costume changes in Christmas pantomimes.” Her eyes left my tentacles and found my face again. She was denying my reality even with it right in front of her, turning her eyes away from the truth. “Don’t you remember that one production of Jack And The Beanstalk, from when you were eight?”

“Mum,” we said. “Stop.”

“The fairy girl in that panto,” she went on, “she had a dress, a milkmaid’s dress, as a sort of disguise, and a stage-trick was set up so she could do a little spin and the whole outfit transformed into a sparkling gown.” My mother took a deep breath and pointed a finger at my face. “I remember it so clearly because you were delighted! You squealed and clapped along with all the other little children. You loved it! You remember that, don’t you? Don’t you? You do!”

Of course I remembered my parents taking me to Christmas pantomimes; I even recalled that specific production, and the actress my mother had referenced. I remembered that the ‘fairy girl’ was very, very pretty, and my childhood self had been struck by fleeting puppy-love, dissolved into memory by the following dawn. And I remembered the flashy costume-change, the twirl and the sparkle, the enchantment of stage magic.

But unlike my parents I also remembered that Maisie had been there too, squealing and clapping and entranced alongside me.

“Mum,” we said, struggling to retain our patience. “You hugged me on the doorstep. I think you would have noticed if I was concealing five stone worth of high-grade costume equipment under my clothes. Stop ignoring the evidence of your own eyes.”

My mother huffed sharp and hard, to cover the way she was shaking all over. She jabbed a finger at Sevens instead. “Your friend there! Miss Sevens — if that is even your real name — she did it! She was standing by your side the whole time! She gave it to you somehow. She— uurk!”

My mother gasped, her rising rant cut off mid-stream; Seven-Shades-of-Serene-Scorn had turned upon her the most wintry and cutting of looks, blank and flat and without mercy. My mother stared back, quivering in her chair, compressing and twitching her lips with the effort of finding a retort to the silent transfixation of Sevens’ eyes.

“Do not avert your gaze, Mrs Morell,” said Sevens.

We made a show of glancing at Sevens and looking her up and down, indicating her body with the flick of one tentacle, her smart, creaseless blouse and her spotless, long skirt, wrapped around her slender, slight physique.

We said: “And how would she have concealed that, mother? Sevens isn’t exactly wearing baggy clothes.”

My mother rallied with a valiant effort to continue denying reality. Her attention whirled away from Sevens, sliding across my face and heading for the other side of my tentacles. “Then it was your other friend!” she snapped. “The goth with the ridiculous dress! Aym, was it? Yes, that’s it! That’s why she’s wearing all … those … layers … ?”

Aym — our little coal-smoke demon of reverse psychology and emotional torment — had become rather overwhelmed by the excess of raw, unironic, heartfelt emotion on display. She had retreated behind the shadow of my tentacles; I had no idea how she managed to locate ‘shadow’ in the lee of light-emitting organs, but she did, somehow, and we were not about to ask for the details. She had sunk into the black lace of her dress, become faceless and handless, a pillar of gloom wrapped in moon-dark cobwebs.

My mother trailed off as she stared at what Aym had become. The sight of my tentacles had cracked open her mind, not all the way, but just enough to allow her to witness the truth, however briefly.

My father was staring as well, but he remained more coherent. He stroked his moustache and nodded at Aym. “That’s an impressive trick, Miss Aym. I take it you value your privacy?”

“Thank you,” Aym replied in a voice like rusty nails dragged along rotten wood. Almost shy, by her standards.

My mother stammered and gulped, cold sweat beading on her forehead. “I don’t— I don’t— I don’t believe any of it. T-this is a trick, some kind of trick. You’re playing a c-cruel jest, you … ”

“You’re really going to make us go all the way, aren’t you?” I hissed, more angry than I had expected. I shoved another sliver of lemon-flesh into my mouth, biting down on the sharp taste to control my bitter disgust, then whipped Top-Right back away from my mother’s face. “Fine. Look.”

I turned one flank — my left — toward my parents. With a human hand I reached into the slit on the side of my hoodie and pulled it wide, revealing the mass of altered flesh where pneuma-somatic tentacles met human skin. We flexed and tensed the muscles, showing ourselves off, a sheen of tears in our eyes. Humiliation and vindication swirled together inside my head.

My father looked away, trying to be polite. My mother stared, a hand to her mouth.

I let the slit fall shut again. “Deny that,” we said. “Go on.”

My father stroked his moustache and stared at a point on the floor, thinking hard, brow furrowed. “Sweetheart, Heather, what … what does this mean?”

My mother straightened up before I could answer, face as composed as she could manage, which wasn’t much; she looked like a victim of some unspeakable natural disaster, her world washed away in a storm. “This doesn’t change a thing, Heather,” she said. “You’re mentally ill. You know that. You’re sick and you need help. I don’t … it doesn’t matter what … what … body parts you have … ” She paused, panting, frowning, trying to overcome the weight of her world-view. “You still need to see the doctors. You need to go back to hospital. You need to go back on your medication. Your father and I don’t want to force you, but—”

“Mother,” I snapped. “Don’t be absurd. I have tentacles! Look!”

She looked me right in the eyes and said: “It makes no difference! We are your parents. You are going back to hospital, young lady.”

We sighed and rubbed our face with one hand. “You can’t have me involuntarily committed. Not just because I’m legally an adult, but because it’s physically impossible.”

“What are you talking about?” my mother snapped. “Heather, this is delusion. You know it’s delusion. You need help, treatment, just like the first time. This is just another—”

With one swift tentacle we reached out and picked up our father’s book from the little table next to the sofa. We drew it close and discovered he had been reading The English Civil War: A People’s History; we dearly hoped that wasn’t some kind of sign. Then we dipped a hand into the tarry-black, corrosive sump at the base of our soul, yanked hard on a few familiar levers, and spread the consequences outward through our distributed nervous system.

Out.

The book vanished right in front of my parents’ eyes. They both just stared, dumbfounded, audience members for a magic trick. I waited a few seconds, then reversed the process; I hadn’t sent the book anywhere questionable, it was just sitting on a hillside in Camelot, probably puzzling a few Knights and a Caterpillar or two. With a flicker of hyperdimensional mathematics — this trick now elementary to me, at the cost of nothing more than a brief wave of nausea, a spike of head pain, and a nasty tingle down our nervous system — we brought the book back to our own left hand.

We held up the book.

My mother scoffed. “Oh, that was just sleight of hand! What do you take us for, Heather? Don’t be ridiculous, you—”

“Sevens, Aym,” I said, tossing the book onto the sofa. “Please step back from my body. Don’t touch me for a moment.”

Out.

We skimmed off the surface of the membrane between here and Outside, bouncing like a flat stone on the surface of an endless, bottomless sea. We sling-shotted around a fixed point in reality, there and back in the blink of an eye, burning across the heavens beneath the world like a comet made of tentacles and beaks.

We touched down a split-second later in the kitchen, stumbling slightly, a small trickle of blood running from our nose, head pounding with the increased effort of brain-math. But the effort was spread and shared, and we did not fall to our knees or vomit up our guts on the familiar old kitchen floor tiles; that would have rather undercut the intended affect, if my parents had rushed in there to see me chucking up my dinner.

We could not pause here to ruminate over memories, over the shadows of sunset pouring in through the back window, over the hard plastic counter tops where once we had made cookies with Mother and Maisie. Spirits fled from the back windows, from the thin grass in the garden, scuttling under the kitchen table, vanishing through the cracks in the cupboards. We nodded to the big dozy red-mawed spirit still lazing by the doorway, and then stepped past it, back into the sitting room. Childhood fears formed no more barriers for us, not anymore. They were our friends now.

My mother was up on her feet, clutching at her own chest in panic; she stifled another shriek when she saw me step out of the kitchen. My father was awestruck once more, gazing up at me from the sofa. Sevens was waiting, relaxed and cool. Aym was a pillar of shadow.

“Explain that,” we said.

My mother sat back down, panting too hard. My father shook his head.

As we resumed our place in the middle of the room, flanked by Sevens and Aym, we said: “I didn’t take the train from Sharrowford to Reading. I teleported myself here, along with my friends. You cannot confine me in any way that can hold my body. Sorry, mum, dad, that sounds weird, but it’s just a fact. You can’t! I know, I sound like a cartoon villain, but it’s the truth.” We sighed, rubbing our face. “Or, well, maybe you can! If you know a magician or two, or a cult, or some unspeakable monster you’ve never told me about. But I don’t think you do.” We smiled and swallowed a hiccup. “I really don’t think you ever did. You never lied to me. I know that.”

“It’s not real,” my mother said in a tiny, forlorn voice. Tears quivered in her eyes. I had to look away. I didn’t want to see my mother cry, no matter how difficult she could be.

My father straightened up and cleared his throat. “I hope it is real, dear,” he said to my mother.

She stared at him, wide eyed and appalled. “What?! Why— why would you say that?”

My dad nodded at me with calm certainty. “Because Heather looks happy. Well.” He cleared his throat again. “Maybe not right now, not while she’s having to explain all this to her parents.” He smiled, just a little. “Am I right, sweetheart? No, you don’t have to answer. But look at her, Sammy. That’s our daughter. That’s our Heather. Look how strong she’s grown.”

I sniffed, so I wouldn’t start crying too. “Thanks, dad,” I croaked. “T-thank you.”

My mother just shook her head, horrified on a deeper level than I could touch.

My dad spoke to me again: “Sweetheart, you still haven’t explained what this all means.”

I laughed, surprising myself. “It means I’m a hybrid squid-girl from beyond reality, running a shared consciousness with seven semi-separate selves. It means mages and monsters and magic are all real. It means I have four — five? I’ve lost count. Four supernatural girlfriends. Yes, I’m in a polycule, and we can talk about that some other time, because now is really not the time. Do you remember Evelyn, from when we visited at Christmas? She does magic, she’s a magician. And Sevens here, she’s technically my fiancée, and she’s the daughter of a god from beyond reality, and—”

“W-what about Raine?!” my mother squeaked, blinking away tears. “She was a very nice girl! Very nice! I thought she was very good for you!”

“Raine and I are probably going to get married,” we said. “I love her.”

“But— but is she—”

“Oh, Raine’s human—”

My mother sighed with exaggerated relief.

“—but she’s more scary than most monsters. She’s killed a whole bunch of people. Mostly for me.”

My mother hiccuped twice in quick succession, then grasped her chest and stared in abject horror.

My dad said: “Sweetheart, slow down, please. I can’t take even a small portion of this on board. You have … extra … limbs, yes, I can see them.” He squinted hard at my tentacles, trying to fix them in his mind, punctuating his words with little chops of one hand; my father was not In The Know, not after a little light show and a translocation trick. It would take much more psychological violence to break even a willing participant out of the chains of reality. But he was trying, as hard as he could, to believe his daughter. “And they’re clearly real—”

My mum interrupted: “They’re ridiculous! Why are they rainbow? It’s such a stereotype! You could make them any colour you want!”

We flashed our tentacles in warning-yellow and danger-red, just to prove a point. My mother shut her mouth again, eyes full of tears. She was not dealing with this well, trying anything at all to deflect from what she saw.

My father cleared his throat and tried again. “They’re very impressive, sweetheart. But I can’t take all the rest of that on faith.”

We sighed and faced the inevitable. “Mum, dad, you will both begin to forget or rationalise all this within hours. Mum, you’re already trying to do it, right in the middle of all this. You’ll believe what’s in front of your eyes, for the duration of it being in front of your eyes, but as soon as your mind is able, it will start to self-edit, to warp your memories, to fill in the gaps with other things.” A strange lump formed in our throat — we didn’t want them to forget.

My mother spluttered. “Are you calling us plain imbeciles?”

“No, mum. No, I’m not.” We sighed. “You’ll remember this conversation, but you’ll probably recall it differently. Maybe you’ll remember me coming home from university for an evening, showing signs of mental illness, telling you I’m in a polycule of lesbians, that I’m engaged, that I’m defiantly not taking my meds, and so on. But the rest of it?” We shrugged, then started to struggle with tears of our own. Why could they not believe? “You’ll fill the rest in with mundane explanations. And that’s not your fault. That’s just how the human mind rejects evidence of the supernatural, rejects things from outside — or Outside, with a capital O, the dimensions beyond reality.” We sniffed hard, our anger turned to cold and ashen melancholy. “You’ll forget.”

My father said slowly: “And what does this have to do with … with your … medications … and … your ‘imaginary friend?’”

We winced. “Don’t call her that. I know it’s not your fault, dad. But you have to say her name. She’s your daughter as well. And she’s real.”

He swallowed, rough and raw. He took slow, deep breaths, squinting hard, unable to cross this final boundary of acknowledgement. If he said the name, it was as good as admitting that I had been right all along, all this time.

“Maisie,” we said the name for him. “She was real. She is still real. She and I were kidnapped by a god-like thing from Outside reality — The Eye, it’s called. I escaped. She didn’t. Everyone forgot. But it wasn’t your fault. It was The Eye.”

My mother sobbed, once, sodden and pitiful. What did she have to cry about, compared with me?

My father just shook his head slowly.

We said: “Did either of you ever doubt it? Ever doubt that you only had one daughter? Was there no inkling? Nothing at all?”

My dad said, very quietly and slowly: “I always thought twins would be nice, actually. Had a dream or two about it. You put the idea in my head, Heather. I never wanted to say it out loud, of course. That was the sort of thing we were never supposed to do, doctors orders, don’t feed the schizophrenic delusions, don’t give an inch. But you always seemed like you’d be happier with somebody else at your side. Even before the … the … ‘breakdown’, I mean. Even before. Always thought that.”

His murmur trailed off, eyes fixed somewhere in mid-distance, trapped in an emotion that had no place on my father’s face.

“I’m going to prove it to you,” we said. “Within two weeks. Because I’m going to rescue her. Say her name, dad.”

My father shook his head. “Will we remember?”

“I have no idea. Dad, please. Say her name.”

My father swallowed. “Ma—”

My mother screamed.

Face buried in her own hands, tears seeping from beneath her palms. She wailed like I’d never heard a human being wail before. There was no falsehood in that sorrow, no clumsily concealed manipulation, no crocodile tears to herd me back into a box. For a brief second I heard an echo of myself in her cry — my own voice, calling out for my twin in the dark.

“No!” she sobbed, hyperventilating, panicking behind her own hands. “No, there was one baby, one baby! There were never two!”

“Sammy!” my father called her name and tried to put an arm around her shoulders, but she shrugged him off and crammed herself against the side of the chair, crying wildly.

“I would not— I would never forget my own daughter! I would never! It was dreams! It was just dreams!”

I was so shocked I didn’t know what to say; of all the possible outcomes, this I had not expected. We coiled our tentacles inward, as if under attack.

My mother’s crying face, wracked with pain and loss, rose to face me, tears running freely down her cheeks. “There was one baby, one baby!” she screamed at me. “It was you, Heather. There were never two. Never two. There was never a— a— a M-Maisie! Maisie!” She wailed my twin’s name — her daughter’s name. “Maisie! No! No, we didn’t forget her. We didn’t. It was a lie. It was a lie! It was a lie … ”

My mother dissolved into full-body wracking sobs, shaking her like a fit, hands clutching at her hair and skull as if trying to dig the memories out of her brain.

Sevens leaned close to my ear. She whispered: “Your mother needs you, my love.”

Amid the bitterness and the humiliation, the catharsis and the vindication, I had overlooked an essential truth.

If I was right, then my parents were also victims of the Eye.

Their daughter had been taken from them by forces beyond human comprehension. They had been made to forget about her, abandon her, and deny she ever existed. And then, with their minds clouded and memories violated, they had unintentionally tortured their other daughter by telling her she was insane.

No wonder my mother denied it so strongly. To accept the smallest crack was to invite madness.

We went to her. I crammed the last of my emergency lemon into my mouth to give me the courage I needed. We knelt down in front of my mother’s chair and put all our tentacles around her arms and shoulders and back, and tried to hold onto what was good in her.

“Mum. Mum? Mum, please look at me.”

She shook her head, sobbing and shaking, but eventually she looked up and met my eyes. She was a mess, red-faced and red-eyed, more distraught than I’ve ever seen another human being, destroyed inside by things she could not understand. She was me, a year ago, sobbing in a public toilet when Raine was just a dream of better things. She was me, another victim of the Eye.

“Mum,” we said slowly. Our own voice was shaky too, crossing uncertain ground, croaking with semi-transformation into something abyssal and raw. “Maisie was real. I know she was real.”

My mother shook her head. Denial was her only escape.

“It’s not your fault that you forgot,” we said. “I don’t think you had a choice. The thing she was taken by, it’s called the Eye, and somehow it made everybody forget. It altered reality, changed all the old pictures of me and her so it was just me in every one. Her bed in our room, gone. Her clothes, toys, all kinds of records, anything, all of it, gone! It’s not your fault. And you’ll forget again. By the end of this conversation, or next morning, I don’t know, but your mind won’t let you remember. You’ll rationalise it away, you’ll—”

“I don’t— hic— want to?”

She murmured that question in such a tiny voice.

“Mum?”

“I— hic don’t want to, forget?” She held the tears back for a moment, her voice a wet and broken sound. “How do I— how do I make myself— not forget? Heather?”

My blood curdled, cold and sluggish inside my veins, glugging through my heart. My mother was pleading for the one thing I would never have imagined her asking for. And I could not give it to her. My mouth went dry. A lump hardened in my throat. My eyes filled with a mirror of her tears.

We had considered in great detail the measures we might take to force my parents to accept reality: a trip Outside; exposure to spirits via Evelyn’s pneuma-somatic seeing glasses; bringing Zheng to visit. But none of these would address Maisie’s absence. In some of our most bitter moments we had imagined how they might react if I brought them Maisie’s message — the childhood pajama top she had managed to pass to us via her Demon Messenger. I had imagined how they might feel, seeing the message in a bottle from the daughter they had abandoned.

But now, with my mother weeping and pleading, all thoughts of vindictive display had fled.

“I … I can’t risk it, mum,” we said. “I’d have to break you, change the fundamentals of your mind, by taking you Outside. And I can’t risk that, because the fallout and the consequences might interfere with that rescue. I’m … I’m sorry.”

My mother stared at me, hollow-eyed and dead inside. She murmured: “What should I do?”

“All you have to do is not interfere. I’ll bring Maisie back. I’ll bring her home. I promise.” 

My mother nodded, stiff and robotic, no longer weeping and wailing, but numb and distant. “Will it … ” her voice cracked a little. She sniffed hard. “Will it be very dangerous for you?”

“ … yes.”

She half-attempted to hug me, to touch my tentacles. One hand went around the back of my head, cradling me. “B-be safe, Heather. Sweetheart. We love you.”

I blinked back tears of my own.

Slowly, my mother let go. She sat up straight. Something seemed to clear inside her face.

“I have to write this down!” she declared. “I’m writing this down! I refuse to forget this! I refuse!”

I had to stand up and step back; she was in bustle mode, from weeping to problem-solving in one instant. My mother shot out of her chair and bowled right past me, stomping into the kitchen, scrubbing her eyes with the back of one hand. We heard drawers banging open and objects slapping down on the kitchen counter. She returned a moment later clutching a notebook and a pen, cast herself back down into the chair, and then bent over the pages, scribbling as fast as she could. Her handwriting was a herky-jerky spider-leg scrawl.

“If I write it down then I’ll believe it, if I write it down I’ll believe my own words,” she hissed as she wrote, rocking gently in the chair. “I won’t forget, I won’t forget, I won’t forget. See? Here’s her name: Maisie. Maisie is real. That’s my own hand. I won’t disbelieve my own hand. I shan’t. I refuse.”

My father reached out to her. “Sammy. Sammy, please, slow down.”

“Let her do this,” I said. “Dad, I think she needs to do this.” 

My mother kept writing, her notes spiralling out down the page and onto the next. My father leaned back and sighed a great and terrible sigh of deep exhaustion. He ran a hand over his face, tugging at his moustache. He was keeping it together better than my mother, but not by much, and not for the same reasons.

My mother muttered: “Heather, dear, I need the names of all the ladies in your ‘polycule’. And yes, yes, I do know what that word means, I’m not a hundred years old.”

To my surprise, Sevens stepped away from my side and went to stand by my mother’s shoulder. She peered at the notebook as my mother scribbled, murmuring soft suggestions and corrections, adding details in a feathery whisper, placing a gentle hand on my mother’s shoulder. My father watched all this with haunted eyes.

“Dad,” we said. “Do you believe what I’m telling you?”

My dad cleared his throat again, as if something with spikes was stuck to his vocal chords. “Well. Well, I don’t know. Sweetheart, I want to support you, I really do, but this is a lot to take in. A lot to adjust to, all at once. And, well.” He sighed and smiled. “You’ve just told me that in a few hours I’m going to file all this away as something that didn’t really happen. Is that right?”

“Maybe,” we said. “Maybe not all of it. I don’t know.”

He nodded slowly, taking steady, deep breaths. Was he fighting a panic attack? Perhaps. The mental image of my father shaking and shuddering in the throes of a panic attack was not a pleasant one.

“Dad,” we went on, giving him something practical on which to focus. “Do you believe me enough to tell me about the ‘strange lady’ now?”

My mother’s pen paused on the page. She looked up at my father. Sevens murmured something soft and slithering into my mother’s ear, and her eyes returned to her notes. She resumed writing.

My dad learned back on the sofa, nodding slowly, frowning as he dredged his own memories. He seemed to settle inside, as if this act of assistance gave him solace.

“Like I said, sweetheart,” he began slowly, “nothing strange happened in the days or weeks before your … ”

“Before Maisie was taken,” I said.

My dad nodded. “Before … before ‘Maisie was taken’. I’m pretty certain about that part, because the psychiatrists had us comb over every aspect of your life, everything which could have triggered the breakdown, or contributed to the state you were in. Anything and everything. And we came up a total blank. Kaput. Nada. Etcetera. Now that I think back on it, there wasn’t even anything which might be explained by this ‘mental self-editing’ you’re so insistent on.” He smiled, trying to awkwardly cover up his lack of faith. “Absolutely nothing weird happened before that night. Sweetheart, I promise, all I remember is when you started screaming. It was four o’clock in the morning. You screamed like … like I’d never heard a child scream before.” His voice broke. He knitted his hands together, knuckles turning white. “Worst sound I’ve ever heard, to hear your own child scream like that.”

“Okay,” I managed to say, squeezing the word out through a rapidly closing throat.

My own memories of that night lay like an open wound, oozing black pus and infected lymph, too raw and vulnerable to touch directly for long. I recalled the exit from Wonderland as akin to the sensation of falling backward down a well; I remembered scrabbling and clawing at the lip of that well, breaking and bloodying my fingers in a desperate attempt to not leave Maisie behind. Was any of that literal, or another abyssal metaphor for something that a child’s mind could not suffer?

And I remembered all too clearly the way I’d screamed, thrashing and bleeding on the bedroom floor, terrified beyond thought, wailing that Maisie was missing, Maisie was gone, that I had left Maisie behind.

A tiny, lace-clad hand slipped into mine. What a surprise; Aym did have an earnest side after all.

My father took a deep, shuddering breath, staring at a point on the carpet. “Sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t think. It’s hard for me, too.”

“It’s okay, Dad. Please. Please try.”

I reached out and wrapped a tentacle — Middle-Right — around his forearm and wrist. An anchor of our own. He stared at that for a moment, patted me awkwardly, then nodded with sudden determination.

“It was about three or four months later,” he started. His voice turned practical, matter-of-fact, grounded once again. “Maybe five months, I’m not certain. That whole period, that whole first year, until your first long stay at Cygnet Hospital, it’s kind of a blur for me and your mother. But it was about then. It happened at Cygnet. We were in one of the waiting rooms, not the big main room with the reception desk, but one of the smaller ones, the long one next to the consultation rooms. The one with the aquatic scenes and cartoon fish painted on the wall. You remember that one, Heather?”

We nodded. “I do remember it. Smelled like lemons.”

He nodded along with me, but his eyes were so far away, his hands shaking as he squeezed his own knuckles. “Me and your mother were in there alone. Well, not completely alone. I think there were another couple of people waiting at the far end, but I barely remember them. No, we were alone in the sense that you weren’t there, Heather. The doctors had taken you for some kind of ‘cognitive assessment’. They said it might go better if neither your mum or dad were present, but they didn’t force us not to be there. I remember that very clearly, for some reason. It was pure chance. Either or both of us could have chosen to stay in that room with you, and then maybe we wouldn’t have met … her.”

“Who?” I hissed, shivering inside. “Who was she, dad?”

He gestured to the right with his interlocked hands and a tilt of his head. “There was a fire exit in the side of the waiting room. One of those push-to-open-and-alarm-will-sound type doors. She came in through that. The alarm didn’t go off. Even at the time, I thought that was weird. From the moment she entered the room, I knew something was off. But I couldn’t put my finger on it.”

He swallowed, frowning harder, as if struggling to remember. Fighting the full weight of reality, for the sake of telling me the truth.

“You can do it, dad,” I hissed. “You can do it, please.”

He nodded. “She walked right up to us. She flashed a badge, like a lanyard, like she was hospital staff. She called us Mister and Misses Morell. She said she wanted to talk, about you, about our daughter, about Heather.” He shook his head slowly, squinting at nothing. “I knew something was wrong, but it was like I couldn’t say no. She wasn’t hospital staff, no way. No doctor or psychologist, nothing like that. She wasn’t dressed like any of them. Jeans and a jumper and a trench-coat. Like a detective from an old film or something. And she was carrying … I don’t know, I didn’t get a clear look at it. A long knife or a sword or something, inside the coat. But … but I just … ” He hissed as if in pain. “It was like I couldn’t point it out.”

“What did she look like?” we said. “Dad, what did she look like? This is important.”

“That’s half the reason I remember her so clearly,” my dad said, raising his eyebrows. “She was very striking. One of the most striking women I’d ever seen.”

“ … dad?”

My mother paused in her notebook-filling and muttered: “Your father’s not being funny. She really was.”

My dad nodded. “She was very tall. I didn’t stand up, but I had the impression she would tower over me if I did. She had the longest red hair I’d ever seen, all the way down to the backs of her knees. And proper red, not ginger, real red, like it was dyed. But it didn’t look like dye, it looked like … ” He huffed. “Bloody hell, blow me down, this sounds silly, but it wasn’t like hair colour at all. It was like frozen fire. And her eyes, they were all wrong inside. Pupils went the wrong way, like a goat or something.”

He looked up and met my eyes finally, searching for confirmation and reassurance. “Does that make any sense to you, sweetheart? Because I feel like I went mad and saw a hallucination.”

“I … I don’t know,” I said.

Who or what exactly had visited my parents? I had less idea now than before my father’s description. Some of us — us Heathers — had been prepared for the absolute worst, for my father to describe Loretta Saye, Evee’s mother, or for him to reveal that they’d been visited by somebody else I might recognise. But this? Mage or demon, or a vessel of the Eye, we had no idea.

“What did she say to you, about me?” I prompted.

My father blew out a long breath. “Well, she sat down next to me and your mother, and she asked all sorts of questions. Not questions like the doctors and psychiatrists asked, but weird questions. She showed us a bunch of symbols in a little notebook and asked if we recognised any of them. She asked if you were displaying any strange new habits or proclivities, like if you were trying to go out at night, or killing small animals, or reading a bunch of books too old for you, or if you’d lost all your appetite and were trying to eat non-food items instead.”

My mind soared and whirled; this was making even less sense than before. “What? Was that all? What else did she ask?”

“All sorts of questions, I can’t recall even a fraction of them, I’m sorry.” He shrugged. “I remember she said a bunch of strange words — not English, like — and was checking to see if we knew them. We didn’t, though, and I’m sorry, but I can’t recall any of them, this was ten years ago. She drew a symbol in her notebook, and it was … well.” He swallowed. “It was like an eye. Like you were raving about in the first few days. A big black eyeball.” He shook his head. “We only recognised that because of what you’d been saying, Heather.”

My blood went cold.

A mage?

Had a mage sent Maisie and me to the Eye?

“And was that all?” I said, colder than I had intended.

My father took a deep breath and glanced at my mother. My mother paused her writing and swallowed, raw and hard and rough. Sevens tightened her grip on my mother’s shoulder.

“Dad?” I prompted.

My dad said, slowly and carefully: “She had a photograph. A hard copy photograph, not on a digital camera or anything. She took it out and showed it to us. And she knew it was going to make us angry. It made me very angry, because … because I knew it had to be a fake. Photoshop or something. That was when I decided she was a charlatan, a con-woman or something, trying to trick us somehow.” His voice turned hoarse. “She’d stolen hospital records and read about your case, something like that. She was trying to prey on us. There was no other explanation. None. It was impossible.”

“Dad. Dad, what was the photograph?”

He was shaking as he pushed the word out. “It was of you, Heather, and another girl who looked exactly like you. Identical, but dressed differently. In a pub garden, before a sunset. I recognised the pub, it was the Rose and Thistle, right here in Reading. And I recognised the photograph, because I was the one who took it.” He swallowed, throat like sandpaper. “A photoshop. Must have been. Couldn’t have been anything else.”

“Dad, did you get a name from her?” I said. “Anything, anything at all? I need to track this woman down, dad. I need to find her. Now!”

My dad raised a hand. “It was around then that I lost my temper. I’d been feeling angry with her for a while, but it was like … like something was holding that back, stopping me from saying no or asking her to show some real credentials. But when she showed me the picture, it was like that feeling was removed and … I told her that we would call the police.”

“Dad, that was a mage. A magician, a wizard, she—”

“She apologised. She stood up and wished us good luck with you. She said she had a lot of pity for you, but she was sorry she couldn’t do more to ‘fix the mistake’. She said it wasn’t her area of expertise, couldn’t help—”

“Dad!”

“And then she gave me a business card.”

My mother’s head jerked up, staring at my father. “You didn’t keep the damned thing, did you? All these years?”

My dad managed to look almost sheepish, but then he sat up straighter, filled with pride and defiance. “Turns out that was the right option, in the long run.”

“Where?!” my mother yelped. “It’s not in the big file with all of Heather’s medical notes, I would have seen it! I told you to throw that horrid thing away! She was a charlatan, a—” My mother slammed to a halt. She returned her eyes to her notes, staring hard, gone silent. Trying her best.

“Dad?” we said.

He looked me in the eyes. “Kept it in my wallet all these years. Tucked behind my Tesco clubcard. Ten years is a long time for a little paper business card to last, right?” He smiled a shaky smile. “I never thought of that before. Maybe that’s not normal either.”

I was shaking, both inside and out. All our tentacles tingled in anticipation, though we could not even conceive of what this truth meant.

A mage? A mage who had sent us to the Eye? Something else? The Eye’s messenger? None of this made sense.

My heart burned with something I’d never felt before.

“Dad, please—”

“I’ll fetch it,” he said.

My dad stood up and went into the tiny little entrance hallway, to rummage in his coat pockets for a moment. He returned holding his black leather wallet, scuffed at the corners. He flipped it open, extracted a little rectangle of cream-coloured card, and pressed that into my shaking palm.

For a moment we could barely read the words on the card; we were breathing so hard that our vision had gone blurry. We had to bring three tentacles to bear, just to make out the print with a wide-angle array of pneuma-somatic sight. The card itself was nothing special. No strange symbols or magical designs hidden in the corners or on the back, no esoteric tricks or traps in the writing, no clues that this was the ‘business card’ of a mage — or worse. And my dad was right: the card did not look as if it had spent ten years crammed into a wallet. It looked as fresh as the day it had been printed.

It read, in neat and professional typeface:

Taika Eskelinan

At Large In The World, Despite Your Best Efforts

All enquiries please telephone:
010456-6754-7777-00-00-2

A smile ripped at the corners of my mouth, teeth aching to elongate and sharpen. All our tentacles extended and flexed, threatening to bud with spikes. A predatory shudder passed through our guts.

A telephone number — blood in the water.

Time to hunt.

Previous Chapter Next Chapter



Heather gets her catharsis, her parents get the truth (however painful and horrifying) along with a sliver of hope at the bottom of the box, the promise of their lost daughter coming home, the promise of not forgetting again; and Heather gets a kind of truth as well. But who the hell is Taika? More mage bullshit, and our little squid is eager to hunt.

If you want more Katalepsis right away, you can get it by:

Subscribing to the Patreon!

All Patrons get access to two chapters ahead! No matter what level you subscribe at! That’s about 20k words at the moment. The more support I get through Patreon, the more time I can dedicate to writing, and the less chance of having to slow down the story or get interrupted by other responsibilities. The generous and kind support of Patrons and readers is what makes all this possible in the first place, I would literally not be able to do this without you; thank you all so very much! You can also:

Vote for Katalepsis on TopWebFiction!

This helps so very much! A lot of readers still find the story through TWF, which still surprises me. It only takes a couple of clicks to vote!

And thank you! Thank you for reading my story, dear readers. I could not do this without you, it would be impossible! Thank you so much for all your support. Katalepsis is for you!

Next week, Heather pounces. Springs from the dark. From among the rocks. Ever seen an octopus eat a crab? Yeah, something like that. Crunch crunch crunch. Let’s hope she looks before she leaps. Erk.

eyes yet to open – 22.2

Content Warnings

Parental browbeating / references to unintentional psychological abuse
Borderline transphobic comment
Dissociation



Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Pale brick, soft and chewy as undercooked sponge cake. White plastic window frames — too clean, too sterile, with not a hint of lichen or moss to blemish their spotless surfaces. Clear glass backed by lace curtains, like eyes blinded by thick crusts of cataract. A front garden not even worthy of the term, just a patch of paving stones with perfectly interlocked edges, scoured clean so not a single blade of grass might push up between the concrete blocks. Fake terracotta plant pots were placed in the appropriate corners, wilting flowers caged within. Front door — a bland white portal. The brass knocker was only a plastic replica.

Sterile and inoffensive. Both unergonomic and unexciting. A wizened skull, wrapped in paper-thin flesh.

My childhood home.

Semi-detached houses stretched out to the left and right, neat twinned rows facing each other across the sticky tarmac, marching off down the length of the street. Low front walls baked in the cloying heat which still clung to the bricks at the end of this August day. The sun slanted in from the west, sliding toward the horizon. Nobody else was around, the road was empty, all except a single cat sat on one garden wall a few houses down, a great marmalade moggy who watched us with the sleepy, detached gaze of a confident apex predator. A few trees rustled in the passing wind, but the air offered no relief. A hundred meters away the main road buzzed with the sounds of occasional traffic, cars slowing for the little roundabout, engines a distant insect purr crawling through the thickened summer air. Children’s voices carried over the houses, playing in the back gardens of adjacent streets, so much freer than the machine sounds.

Spirit life was everywhere, present in every street and road, upon every pavement and one third of the rooftops. A riot of impossible colour and beastly limbs and fluorescent plumage, of living blobs and ape-faced slugs and looming spectres in the shadows. Ghouls cavorted and played in the roads, while great shaggy hounds slinked through alleyways. Tiny simian goblins perched on rubbish bins, and climbing stick insects wiggled and danced on the slate roof tiles.

The spirits were not quite the same as back in Sharrowford — different sets of morphology, different clades, fashion trends, and balances of population — like we’d stepped from one biome to another, and not realised it until we’d taken the time to catalogue the wildlife. We’d never noticed before. After all, we hadn’t been back here since before we had finally become comfortable with the spirits we’d been seeing for half our lifetime.

Oh, but those spirits in the streets, they parted for us. They made way without complaint.

Perhaps they could sense our darker purpose.

Reading, in Berkshire. Twenty three minutes past six in the evening. Monday, August 5th. On the very street where I and Maisie had grown up. Standing before my parents’ house.

This time I knew exactly why I was so acutely aware of the number on the clock face — because I’d been frantically checking my phone for the last few hours, to the point of obsession. Because this had to be right. Because I’d had to wait.

Were my parents home? Almost certainly. My father’s car was parked a little way along the street, a compact blue hatchback tucked tight against the curb. My mother did not own a car, as she had worked within walking distance since before I and Maisie had been born — but she was never home later than quarter to six.

Nothing felt real.

Reading, the city itself — or the town, to purists — felt less real than when I had visited it in a dream.

We had teleported ourselves here, arrived three streets away, concealed by the rear end of a trio of industrial-sized rubbish bins which I knew were still there; that had felt real, briefly — the concrete beneath our feet, the sudden unleashed sunlight, the scent of the dying of a baking-hot August day. But then we’d stepped out into the streets that we remembered from childhood — no! Streets which were engraved into our heart as little as one year ago. And as we’d walked that inevitable route, reality had fallen away in layers, peeling back to show the truth as a void. And then we’d reached the house itself, the ultimate question standing there in bland brick and clean plastic gutters.

Our breath was all stopped up inside our chest. Our hands were numb. We could barely recall who we really were.

Had my life of the last year even been real? Standing there, about to see my parents in person for the first time in eight months, I felt like I was regressing, before I’d even crossed the threshold. I hadn’t even seen my mother’s face yet, and I felt all my courage draining out of holes in the base of my heart.

In Sharrowford, among my chosen family, I was Heather — abyssal traveller, witch of hyperdimensional mathematics, daughter of the Eye, betrothed to a Princess from beyond reality, speaker to god-things, folded into seven inside myself, beloved of more people than I could ever have imagined. And I was on a quest to rescue my twin sister, who was real, and alive, and whom I would free, whatever I had to do. In Sharrowford I was an adult.

But here, in Reading, I was Heather Morell — a mentally ill child, cowed and quiet, taking my medication like a good little girl.

A wave of slow dissociation passed over me. My tentacles were wrapped around my core in a pitiful self-hug — invisible, reduced back to pneuma-somatic truth, unseen by unknowing eyes. Didn’t want to spook the locals. Didn’t want to upset my parents. Hide who you are, tuck it away so nobody can see. Pretend it’s not real. Tell the right lies. Don’t let them know you’re utterly, completely, unsalvageably insane.

Couldn’t stand it. My stomach hurt. Pure acid.

“Kitten,” purred Seven-Shades-of-Sunlight.

I didn’t — could not — take my eyes off the house. This empty shell. This soul-trap.

“Kitten,” she repeated. “Breathe. You keep forgetting to breathe. Speaking will require breathing.”

I took a deep breath, sighed heavily, and pulled my eyes away from the house.

Sevens stood to my right, breathtakingly beautiful as the bloom of sunset caught her in profile. She wore the Princess Mask and carried her lilac parasol. Every strand of blonde hair was perfectly arrayed. Her face was composed, calm, collected, everything I was not. Her white blouse and yellow skirt had not a single particle of lint or dust upon them, pressed to perfection, even though we had silently wrapped a tentacle around her arm. Her shoes shone in the evening light.

I felt like a little goblin by comparison, wearing jeans and the thin orange hoodie I’d borrowed from Raine — the one with slits cut in the sides, currently secured by velcro, for my fully manifested tentacles to burst through when required. My hair felt greasy and unwashed. My armpits and back were damp with sweat. I was shaking with adrenaline and anxiety.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” we said.

“You can, kitten,” said Seven-Shades-of-Solid-Support. “You must. You will.”

“Don’t— don’t call me kitten in front of my parents. Please. T-that would be very weird. Funny. Maybe even a good distraction. But— but weird. Please don’t. Don’t.”

Sevens nodded. “I will not.”

A tiny pale face peered around Sevens’ hip, framed by straight black hair and thick black lace, with a nasty smirk on thin pale lips — Aym.

“Nah,” Aym rasped. “We can totally call this off. Head home. Do it another day! It can wait, right? Put it off!”

Aym was dressed as close to normal as she could get; she was still head-to-toe in shapeless black lace, with everything but her face and hands concealed inside lightless clothing, but she could easily pass for a human teenager — as long as one did not wonder too long about the unique shape of her eyes, or the strange proportions of her face, or how she moved without the sound of footsteps upon the ground.

We swallowed, and managed to say: “Stop it, Aym. I don’t need more reverse psychology. I’m here, aren’t I?”

Aym hissed between her teeth. “Then why’d you bring me?”

“Moral support of a very specific kind.” Doubt wormed up my throat and emerged as a useless repetition of a question I’d already asked: “Is it really safe for you to be separated from Felicity like this?”

Aym shrugged her bony, petite little shoulders beneath her blanket of black lace. “I’m not really here. I’m still wrapped around Flissy’s neck. Thank Seven-Shades-of-Sunlight for that trick.”

Sevens bowed her head slightly.

Aym carried on, “And you still haven’t explained to me why Sevens is here, anyway. Why don’t you bring your whole complement of dykes and bitches?”

I turned back toward my parents’ house and stared at the front door, the white portal to nowhere, filled with nothing. “Because I need to do this alone.”

Aym snorted. “And you’re not! Sevens is here! I’m here!”

Sevens placed a hand on the top of Aym’s head, smoothing her hair back over her scalp. “Hush.”

Aym hushed instantly.

We’d been over this already, but I repeated it anyway — not for Aym, but for myself, a reminder, to keep me honest.

“Sevens is here to stop me going too far,” I said — and then I stepped over the garden threshold.

Aym was merely rehashing the same argument which had unfolded nearly six hours previously, back in Sharrowford, within the safe and familiar confines of Number 12 Barnslow Drive. She only did so to goad me onward, to distract my thoughts, to keep me focused. That’s how Aym worked on her ‘targets’ — be it me or Felicity — needling and prodding with any underhanded psychological trick, to keep us putting one foot in front of the other.

That’s why I’d brought her. If we’d brought Raine, we would have broken down, and wept, and clawed at our own chest, and begged to not have to do this. And Raine would have relented.

But Raine was not here. Aym was — and so all seven of me presented a united front, and got on with the difficult task of ruining whatever remained of my relationship with my parents.

Ah, but why do it like this? Why not take Raine, and Evelyn, and Lozzie, as backup and support? Why not take Zheng, or Twil, or even Tenny — to show my parents the occult truth beneath the skin of the world? Why not take my friends and allies and lovers? Why do this alone?

That argument had died as a seed, smothered by empathy before it could germinate. Raine did not like that I wanted to go with minimal support — but she understood and respected the need. Evelyn neither comprehended nor accepted; she’d called me obstinate, self-sacrificing, ‘set in my determination to be isolated’. She hadn’t meant any of those things, of course, she was just as scared as I was. In the end she’d pulled out her trump card — would I expect her to face her mother alone, if Loretta Saye was still alive? No, of course not, never. None of us was ever alone. But that was not this. I was not going to duel my parents in a magical battle for survival.

I was not even going to tell them the truth.

I would have the truth from them — not for me, not for healing, not for our family, but for Maisie’s sake alone. And I did not know if I could do that in front of Raine or Evelyn.

But Sevens? She would keep me from going too far. And Aym was here to make sure I went far enough.

In less than an hour the sun would be down, behind the houses and streets of Reading, and the city and spirits alike would be bathed in gloomy dusk. My earlier declaration that I would speak to my parents ‘within the hour’ had been hopelessly optimistic; they were, of course, both at work. Calling my mother and telling her ‘we need to talk’ would likely have ended in inconclusive disaster, and calling ahead to warn them might give them exactly that — too much warning.

So, with the sun dipping below the distant rooftops, we crossed back over the narrow gap between freedom and childhood, with my true nature cloaked and hidden from unknowing eyes, and stood before my parents’ front door.

Sevens clicked up on my right. Aym shuffled to my left.

Numb, quivering, distant from myself. I stared at the door bell. I considered knocking. Three tentacles raised — then we corrected, and raised a hand instead, then let it fall, hesitating, to our side.

Sevens said: “I can press the button for you, kitten.”

“No,” I hissed. I swallowed three times to force my throat open. “I … I need to be ruthless. Sevens, I need to be ruthless. I … how do I do this? I feel like I’m being infantilised just standing here.”

“Look,” Sevens purred.

“At what?” I hissed.

“At yourself. Look down at yourselves, kitten.”

We understood exactly what Sevens meant, but it barely helped. We looked down at our tentacles, invisible to normal humans right then, pulsing their slow throb of rainbow light against chest and belly. The truth, but unseen. Slowly, painfully, we uncoiled them. We opened up, we spread our limbs. We wrapped one — top right — around my right arm. We — she and I, me and me, Heather and Heather — reached out together and pressed the door bell.

Ding-dong! came a merry little chime from deep inside the house.

Deep breaths, Heather. Deep breaths. Stand up straight — mum dislikes when you slouch. Fix your hair one last time. Hands where everybody can see them, tentacles where nobody could. Sevens is ready. Aym is there to run weird and difficult interference. Unclench your heart, unclench your jaw. Breathe! Breathe. Breathe.

Footsteps approached the other side of the door, heavy and solid. Not dad.

My mother answered the bell. The door swung inward.

I’m not sure from where exactly I get my own petite build, but it isn’t from my mum; Samantha Rosemary Morell is both big-boned and rather round, and absolutely comfortable with both those physical facts. Or perhaps I’m incorrect. Perhaps when she was younger my mother was built more like myself — I don’t have any pictures of her as a teenager or in her early twenties — and when I get older I’ll pack on some weight and become more like her. She has mousey hair which had never quite forgotten the fashion trends of the 1980s, framing a pinched and curious face, her lips always slightly compressed by an unspoken question or unexpressed disapproval. On that evening she hadn’t been home from work for long — she was still wearing her bank clerk’s shirt, her thin cardigan, and her sensible trousers. We shared the same eyes, but that was about all.

For a split second my mother looked like a total stranger, framed by the off-cream paint of the tiny entranceway — and by the two spirits hanging from the ceiling, suspended in the air by lizard-tails and oozing down the walls; a dozen gooey-soft eyes turned to stare at me in unison. Then the spirits scurried off, fleeing into the depths of the house, spooked by the arrival of Homo Abyssus.

But my mother’s eyes did not recognise me, did not recognise what was standing in front of her as her daughter, even though she could not see a hint of my tentacled truth.

Then she lit up with a gasp, with shock and surprise. Not displeased, just bamboozled.

“Heather?!”

“Hello, mum,” I said. My heart was going too fast. “Surprise.”

My mother did what came naturally, she leaned forward and gave me a hug, a quick reaction, the same way she always had. I felt all my ruthless determination crumbling away between my fingers as I awkwardly returned the gesture.

But then she pulled back and looked me up and down, her face creased with bewildered concern.

“H-Heather, what are you— how—” The gears caught and locked inside her head. Quick eyes flicked across Sevens and Aym, then back to me. She frowned, craggy and serious. She reached out and placed a familiar, soft hand on my shoulder. I moved my invisible tentacles out of the way and tried not to pull back. “Did something happen? Are you alright? What are you doing here? What— what—”

“Mum, I’m fine,” I said, and did my best to smile — but she saw right through that. Same as she always had. “I’ve popped down for a little visit, that’s all.”

My mother boggled at me. There was the pause — and then the storm: “Popped down for a little visit?!” she echoed. “Heather, we haven’t heard from you in weeks! I’ve left three messages on your mobile phone. And yes, that lovely young lady you’re with, Raine, she did answer once, but that’s hardly enough! Heather, you were supposed to come visit back in Easter! Your father and I have been joking that you’ve decided to never come back!”

“I’m sorry, Mum. But I’m here right now, I—”

“And what exactly are you doing here? Something is clearly very wrong.” She tutted. “I can tell, you know that. You know how you get all stiff and formal whenever something is terribly wrong. I can see it written right on your face. And it’s what, a three and a half hour train journey from Sharrowford to Reading? You just hopped on the train, in the evening, on a whim, to visit your dear old parents?” She tutted again, then frowned sharper, and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Are you off your medication?”

“Mum!” I almost snapped. “I—”

“And who are these two?” She glanced at Sevens and Aym again. “Friends of yours? Where’s your girlfriend, Raine? Does she know you’re here? You’re not even carrying a backpack or anything! Did you come empty-handed? I can’t believe this. I can’t. What’s wrong?”

Of course she didn’t leave me time to answer any of those. They weren’t really questions; they were to establish that I had broken the patterns of normality, done something ‘weird’ and unexpected. My guts turned to acid. Three tentacles twitched upward as if readying to smash my mother across the face — though we never would. We never would. Would we?

Seven-Shades-of-Softest-Touch pressed her fingertips against the small of my back.

Ruthlessness solidified in my heart.

“Mum, this is Aym,” I gestured to my left with a smile, speaking with the most polite good-girl tones I could muster. Then the other side: “And this is Sevens. They’re friends of mine, from university. They wanted to come with me, as support.”

My mother’s frown took on that unique cast which told me she was trying to read volumes in the noise of the wind and the rain.

“Support?” she said. “Whatever for?”

Sevens opened her lips with a soft click. “Good evening, Mrs Morell,” she said with perfect elocution. “I do apologise for interrupting your day. Your daughter is a very good friend of mine, a very close friend. It is a delight to meet you.”

My mother boggled at Sevens even harder than she’d boggled at me. Neither of my parents were ardent royalists, but something in Sevens’ tone had sounded undeniably aristocratic.

“Yeah, hi,” went Aym. She was trying to hide in the lengthening shadows of early dusk.

My mother poked her head further out of the door and looked left and right, a terrible pantomime of checking for eavesdropping — because that was exactly what she was doing: making sure that old Mr Gunther next door did not overhear anything awkward or strange-sounding, that the Jobbines down the street did not witness anything ‘abnormal’ outside our very own front door, that Susan and Patty across the road didn’t see me throwing a fit or talking to the air or drooling down myself.

As far as my mother was concerned, her mentally ill daughter had shown up on her doorstep, empty-handed and unplanned, with a pair of women she’d never seen before. Her crazy little cuckoo had flown home.

Then she said in a low whisper, as if anybody cared: “You haven’t broken up with Raine, have you? I rather liked the girl, she seemed very sensible, very smart, very—”

“Mum, no!” I snapped.

My mother winced and glanced left and right again. “Then what is this—”

“We need to talk,” I said. Sweat was running all down my back, my face was going red, my skin was itching all over. “I have something I need to talk to you and dad about. In person. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’ve come.”

My mother boggled at me again, but then I saw the gears catch a second time, spinning to life inside her head. She tried to hide it the same way she always had, as if not allowing it to show on her face would make up for her words — ‘Remember to take your medication in the morning,’ ‘It’s probably something you imagined,’, ‘You know how you get, Heather.’

Her poor little girl was having another episode.

That helped. I held hard to ruthlessness.

“Now,” I said with a little huff — and oh, I realised, I got that habit right from her, didn’t I? The huff, the turn of the head, the soft little click of my tongue. It was all her, all my mother. I faltered, faintly horrified. “May we come indoors, are you going to make me stand on the doorstep?”

My mother revived. “Oh, oh! Yes, yes, do come on in.” She stepped back to admit us. “Gosh, of course, Heather. Of course you can come inside, don’t be daft. This is your home too.”

My home too?

It did not feel that way. Not anymore.

My mother made a big fuss of inviting Aym and Sevens inside as well: “Any friend of Heather’s is very welcome. Come on inside, I promise we’re all very normal here. You’re both Heather’s classmates at university, then? Aym, that’s an … interesting … dress.” She struggled, eyes sliding off Aym as we all shuffled into the tiny entranceway. “And … Sevens, was it?” My mother said the name so very slowly, like it didn’t make sense. “Gosh, you’re both very smart. You must feel a bit overdressed slumming it around with our Heather!” My mother let out that grating laugh, the one she always forced out when she was trying to apologise for me without sounding like she was doing so.

I bristled. I couldn’t help it. But Sevens put a quiet hand on the small of my back again.

Sevens said: “Heather is always immaculately dressed, in my humble opinion.”

My mother blinked several times. Sevens’ tone of aristocratic superiority left no room for argument; my mother had no idea what to make of it. I saw Aym grinning, her face hidden just beyond my mother’s sight.

“Well!” my mother recovered. “Well, certainly. Of course.”

She got the front door closed and locked once again; as she did, I saw several spirit-life eye-stalks peer around the door frame. They quickly whipped back out of sight when we turned a tentacle-tip toward them. The locals were growing curious now their wayward daughter had returned, festooned with weapons and marvels of hidden flesh. But we weren’t here to play with the wildlife.

“Well then,” my mother said. “Come on through, come on through. Shoes off on the mat please, dears. Heather, your father’s in the sitting room, you really must sit down and—”

My mother rattled on and on, flipping between politeness and hurrying us onward, adjusting her cardigan with nervous hands, flapping about left and right. Sevens stepped out of her boots without needing to unlace them, bend down, or exert herself in any fashion at all — they simply fell from her feet, leaving behind the cream-yellow of her stockings. Whatever was going on under Aym’s dress did not require shoes, and my mother was too mundane to notice that. I awkwardly wriggled out of my trainers.

We were herded out of the tiny entrance hallway, past the foot of the stairs, and into the sitting room.

My parents’ taste in internal décor was far from perfect, but then again whose ever is, except for one’s own? Thick cream carpets, fake leather sofa, big armchairs either side, all pointed at a respectably large television. An IKEA bookcase stood in one corner, stuffed with the various paperbacks my mother liked to read, shoulder to shoulder with my father’s science fiction magazines. An old bricked-up fireplace dominated one wall, a retired relic from the 1950s, though the mantelpiece still served as good place for various knick-knacks — a statuette of a bear, a row of decorative mugs, and three pictures of me as a child and a teenager, in some of my most presentable moments.

Plain white skirting boards. Floral wallpaper in soft yellow and rose. Stools for putting one’s feet up. A pair of those long-necked standing lamps stood in opposite corners, to replace the ceiling lights when one wanted to watch television in the evenings. They still had the combination DVD-and-VHS player beneath the TV, the very same one they’d had for the last twelve years, all shiny buttons and a big black opening for the anachronistic tapes. Memories floated to the surface of my mind, of Maisie and I mucking about with old tapes, making the machine eat them and spit them out over and over.

There was nothing special about my parents’ sitting room, not really. It was neither a horror of modernity stripped of all human warmth, nor a comfortable and cosy throwback. It was just another sitting room in a semi-detached house in the middle of suburban Reading.

Three spirits were in residence: a prismatic purple blob was clinging to the big window which looked out on the cramped back garden, eyes forming and melting in its surface; something like a massive bipedal hound was hunched in a corner, all grey and black and dripping with ichor; and in the doorway to the kitchen was a huge humped mound of crimson flesh, toothed maw hanging open on a pitch black gullet, like some kind of filter feeder in the deep ocean.

The window-blob and the lurking hound fled as soon as I stepped into the room, like tiny crustaceans scurrying for the safety of a hole in the rocks before the beak of a squid. The blob phased through the window and rose like a bunch of balloons. The hound flinched and scrambled away on skittering claws, tail tucked between its legs.

The flesh-lump in the kitchen doorway did not move, however. I recognised it from my childhood. That spirit had often been present in the house, just sitting there in the doorways or the middle of a room, scaring me half to death, trapping me in parts of the house for hours on end with sheer childhood terror.

We stared at it, all seven of us, all tentacles pointing.

We knew it had never meant harm. Few spirits did, we suspected. But we needed it to move, to pay attention, to do as we said. We could not afford the fear, could not afford to slip back into old childhood patterns.

The crimson flesh-lump shuffled backward, like a tired old dog retreating to his bed. It peered around the kitchen doorway, but now the way was clear. I sighed and nodded a silent thank you.

“It’s Heather!” my mother was saying. “And she’s with friends. She just turned up! Just right there on the doorstep!”

“Yes, I heard,” said my father, gentle and soft. “Hello, love. You alright?”

My dad was sitting in his favourite spot, the left hand side of the sofa, with his feet up on a stool. He’d probably been home for a while, because he was already wearing his ‘lounge longs’ — that was his own private term for a pair of pajama bottoms — and a t-shirt, with no trace of his work clothes, the grime and dirt of the day, or even any tiredness, beyond a little slackness around his eyes. My father was a man of exacting precision; home from work meant a shower before he even touched anything. And now there he was, sitting in his usual spot, his book placed neatly to one side with a bookmark between the pages. He’d had the television on as well, with the sound muted, but the first thing he did was pick up the remote and turn it off. I had his full attention.

If I had inherited little of my build from my mother, I had received somewhat more from my father: Gregory Morell was short, stocky, compact, and gentle as a golden retriever. Big green eyes in a smiling, hangdog, weathered face. His hair had been greying and thinning long before Maisie had been taken, but he didn’t bother with dye or a comb-over, he just let it sit how it wanted. He’d been working on an equally grey moustache for a while, and I wasn’t sure if it suited him.

“Hi, dad,” we said. “I’m alright, yes. I’m not in trouble or anything. No, don’t get up, let me … ”

I leaned down to give my dad a hug, but he stood up anyway. He clapped me on the back and I tried not to touch him with my tentacles. When we let go he eased back into his seat, eyes roving over myself, over Aym and Sevens, and then to my mother, who was standing awkwardly, waiting for me to resume.

“Uh,” I stumbled for a moment. “Dad, this is Sevens, and this is Aym. They’re friends of mine from university.”

“Oh, mm!” My dad pulled a moustached smile. “Nice to meet you both, nice to meet you. Friends of Heather, eh? You all going to be staying the night? Suppose it’s a bit late for a return train now, hmm?” He blinked several times at Aym. I was certain he wasn’t really seeing her for what she was. He said: “Gosh, that’s a full-on goth getup right there. Did you come on the train like that? Well, well, I’m impressed. Not often you see that these days.”

Aym flashed him a smile; I willed her not to say anything.

He cast around at the two chairs and the remaining spot next to him on the sofa. “Ooh er, I don’t know if there’s enough room for everyone to sit. Sammy,” he said to my mother. “We’ll have to fetch a chair from the kitchen.”

My mother pulled a big nasty wince. She pressed her hands together as if praying; I knew for a solid fact that neither of my parents was the least bit religious. “Greg, please, I do not think that is the most important concern at this juncture.”

“Nonsense,” my dad said with a very mouthy frown. “We shouldn’t leave guests standing around on—”

“Gregory!” my mother repeated.

Sevens cleared her throat gently. “It is quite alright, Mister Morell. It is a pleasure to meet you as well. Heather has been very complimentary about her upbringing. She has told me very much.” Seven-Shades-of-Sharp-Rebuke smiled as thin as an ice-rimed razor blade.

If my father understood the sarcasm, he didn’t show it — which meant that he did not understand it. He smiled. “Oh, thank you, young lady. Sevens,” he said her name, frowning a little. “Sevens. Sevens. You know, I think I’ve heard that name before. Forgive me if I get this incorrect, no offense meant, I’m genuinely very curious, but is that … Corsican?”

Sevens corrected him: “Carcosan.”

My dad smiled, always eager to learn something new. “Ah!” he said. But then came the uncomprehending frown. “Carsocan … Carcosan … is that on the south coast of France? No, no, I’m getting my geography mixed up.”

“Dad,” I said. “Please. It’s very polite of you, but … ”

My father cleared his throat awkwardly. His smile was more nervous than I’d realised. “Yes, yes of course. You’ve got things to talk about. On a surprise flying visit. With no luggage. Your mother’s got a point, you know. My heart’s going like the clappers, my girl.” My dad tapped his chest, trying to make a joke of it. “What’s wrong? Just tell us, please. Whatever it is, we’re here for you.”

My throat almost closed up at that. We’re here for you — were they really? My mother was infantilising, but she always meant well. My father was gentle and kind and loved his daughter, but he couldn’t see what we could. They were not going to like a single word of this.

“Yes,” I said, shaking a little. “I need to ask you both a question, I—”

My mother interrupted: “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

All my courage curdled into confused disgust. I gave my mother a look like she was insane.

“Don’t give me a look like that!” she snapped. “It’s a perfectly reasonable question!”

“Mother, it is not a reasonable question!” I snapped back. “I’m a lesbian! I sleep with women! You know I’m a lesbian!”

My mother blinked several times in frank surprise, her head recoiling like a turtle who couldn’t quite return to her shell; I’d never spoken to her like that before. I half-expected her to retort with something like, ‘Don’t take that tone with me, young lady,’ but then she escalated far beyond my wildest expectations.

“It … it is a reasonable question,” she said, stiff and huffy. “Raine … Raine could be … a trans woman.”

I boggled at her. Sevens cleared her throat. Aym slid around behind us, neatly out of sight.

“Mother,” I said. “Excuse me?”

My mother huffed and hurrumphed and couldn’t quite meet my eyes. She knew she’d put her foot right down her own throat, but she scrambled to do damage control before she digested her own toes. “I’m not completely ignorant about the modern world,” she said. “You probably think of me as some fuddy-duddy old lady, but I consider it important to be well-informed. You can’t understand anything if you don’t read up on things! And … well … trans women who still have all the … the … ‘original equipment’—”

“Mum!” I snapped.

My mother threw her hands into the air. “All I’m saying is that it is biologically possible! If you didn’t take precautions! So it is a reasonable question!”

“Raine is not trans, and if she was it would not be any of your business. I am not pregnant.” We were blushing by then, bright red with bizarre indignation. “Will you sit down?” I huffed, losing my temper. “Sit down and listen to me. For pity’s sake. Just, listen. For once. Listen.”

My mother adopted that old expression, that pitying frown which said poor little Heather is over-reacting. Her voice softened, went gentle and coaxing, tinged with passive-aggressive rebuke. “Heather, dear, I am only asking—”

“Ahem,” my father said out loud. “Samantha, I think you went over the line with that one.”

My mother tutted. “Oh, yes, please, do take her side with this.”

My father sighed. “I assumed we were both on her side.”

That shamed my mother hard enough to get her to do as I had asked; she adjusted her cardigan, huffed in several different directions, and then finally sat down in one of the armchairs, rather than next to my father on the sofa.

Had my dad seen the lone tentacle which had risen from our side? Middle-Left, burning with shame and frustration, eager to just belt my mother around the face with an invisible limb, to shove her nose in the truth and leave her confused and reeling and—

No. No, we were not going to do that. I had promised myself that I was not going to hurt them — at least no more than absolutely necessary. Sevens gave me a sidelong look; she knew what I was thinking as I stood there, taking deep breaths, trying to hold myself back from something I would regret. I just nodded once. Swallowed. Flexed my hands.

This was not about healing. This was not about proving anything to them, or bringing them Into The Know, or showing them the eldritch truth of reality. All of those things could wait. All of those things would distract from rescuing my sister.

This was about information.

Ruthlessness did not mean cruelty. It meant focus.

“Heather,” my dad said gently, “will you sit down as well? We can fetch chairs for your friends, too.”

“No, thank you,” we said. “For this I want to stand.”

Sevens said: “I am quite alright. Thank you very much, Mister Morell.”

Aym ‘sat’ in mid-air, one of her usual tricks, her black lace dress flowing downward in a shadowy waterfall to pool upon the floor. My parents didn’t comment on that, though my dad frowned at her for just a second, as if part of his mind had noticed the physical impossibility. But then he dismissed it as unimportant and paid his full attention to me again.

If I’d ever had any doubts that my parents were not In The Know, not exposed to magic, then I had finally seen enough to convince me that they had no idea.

My parents watched me, waiting for me to speak. My mother seemed ready to argue. My father’s face was creased with concern. I had not seen either of them in the flesh since Christmas, but that seemed like a lifetime ago. I had changed so much in the last eight months — but not on the outside, not without the blessing of pneuma-somatic sight. My mum and dad saw only one seventh of what I was; they saw their little girl, still damaged and vulnerable and mentally ill.

We took a deep breath, and we began.

“I need to ask both of you a question,” we said. “And I need you to tell me the absolute truth, no matter what damage you believe the answer might do to me.”

“Heather,” my mother said, oh so gentle and reasonable. “We’ve always told you the truth. Always. We don’t lie.”

I restrained a sigh. “I don’t want to believe that you’ve ever lied to me about anything. But I still need to ask. You may have withheld information, without intending to harm me.”

My dad chewed on his lower lip, which made it look like he was chewing on his moustache. “Heather, what is this about?”

“Maisie,” I said.

My mother gazed upon me in abject, frozen horror, then let out a shuddering sigh, closed her eyes, and pressed her lips together. My father pulled a smile that was not a smile, a half-lopsided wince of compressed pain.

I had not spoken my twin sister’s name in front of my parents since I was twelve years old. A taboo, unbreakable on pain of return to the mental hospital, on pain of being looked at like I was not in control of myself, on pain of being treated like a confused animal. Maisie, hidden away, not to be named, not even to be thought.

But she was not dead. She was real, and alive, and here she was, screaming back out of history on my words. Not gone, mother! Never forgotten!

“Heather,” my mother said very quietly. “You know you’re not supposed to say that name.”

“Your mother’s right,” dad joined in, his voice cracking with worry. “I know you’re better than you used to be, but you really shouldn’t even think about your imaginary childhood friend. It’s not safe for you. You know that, love.”

Their words washed over us like diluted acid; we had long since grown skin thick and toughened against this unintentional bile. We waited, unsmiling, stretching our invisible tentacles outward to either side. Seven-Shades-of-Silent-Support placed a hand on the small of our back, yet again. Aym had slid away somewhere into the shadows, mortified or embarrassed; this was far beyond her area of expertise.

A strange, alchemical calm settled inside my chest and belly, cool and soft and glowing. I had expected to cry, but I only felt numb with anger, with a decade of frustration, of misled lies, of missed years and missed opportunities, of missing my twin sister. Bitterness fell away. Only truth remained.

“Maisie was real,” I said, speaking to the wall above my parents’ heads.

My mother, shrill and tight: “Heather—”

My father spoke over her, “Dear—”

Aym interrupted in an unleashed voice of rusty nails and broken needles, speaking from the shadows: “Listen to her, you cretins!”

They both flinched, confused, wrong-footed. My father blinked at Aym, screwing up his eyes twice. My mother shook her head like a horse bothered by a fly.

“Maisie was real,” I repeated. “And Maisie is still real. She was not my imaginary friend. She is my twin sister, your other daughter. Ten years ago — almost eleven years ago now — I did not have a breakdown, or a schizophrenic episode, or a series of hallucinations, or anything like that. Maisie and I were kidnapped by an alien god from Outside reality. I escaped. She did not. She is still out there. Something about that process erased the physical proof and relevant memories of everybody who knew she ever existed. Except for me. That is the truth.”

We let out a long, slow, shaking breath. We felt numb and flushed both at the same time.

Clean at last. We blinked away the gloss of tears.

My parents were not taking this well. Their beloved daughter had gone crackers again. My father was frowning with scrunch-eyed concern, like he’d just heard a terminal diagnosis. My mother was pinch-lipped and tight-faced, almost scowling at me, as if I had done a wee on the carpet.

She said, in a slow and measured voice, “Heather, are you taking your medication?”

“Mother, I haven’t been taking my medication for a very long time, because it didn’t ever work. It never, ever, ever made the ‘hallucinations’ or the dreams go away, because they were not hallucinations or dreams. I keep seeing the things I see because they are real.”

My mother huffed, screwed her eyes shut again, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I knew we shouldn’t have let her go off to university.”

My father interrupted before I could get angry: “Samantha, that wasn’t our choice to make. It was Heather’s.”

“And look! She’s relapsed! Listen to her! What is this?!”

My father sighed and made a placating gesture toward my mum. Then he looked at me, full of disquiet. “Heather. Heather, you know we both love you very much. You’re … you’re having another … you … ”

We just stared back, keeping control. “I’m what?” we said with gentle challenge.

My father frowned harder — with confusion. “Well,” he said slowly. “I was going to say you’re having another episode. That you’re unwell, and we we want to help, but … ”

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “But what?”

My mother stared at him, horrified. “Gregory?”

“I don’t know,” my father said. He shook his head and stroked his moustache. “You don’t seem the same, Heather. Not like last time. Not like any of the previous times.”

“Gregory,” my mother warned, her tone hardening.

My father gestured at me. “Sammy, look at her. I’ve never seen her so confident.”

My mother gaped at him. “Gregory, you cannot possibly believe all that.” She lowered her voice to a hiss, as if I was not right there and well within earshot. “It’s the same thing the doctors got out of her when she was little! It’s the same old delusion! Stop feeding it!”

“I am standing right here, you know?” I said. “I can hear you.”

My mother turned dark eyes on me again. “Of course you can hear us, dear. What are we supposed to say? What— we— we have to get you back on your medication, dear. This is— just listen to yourself! Listen to your—”

“I want you to answer a question,” I said, raising my voice. “That’s all you need to do.”

My mother almost shouted: “What question!?”

“Samantha,” my father said. “Let her—”

“What question?! What question?!” my mother repeated. “None of this makes any sense, what possible question could she have—”

“Talk to me, mother,” I said, my voice quivering. “I am right here.”

My mother just scowled at me.

“I want you to answer a question,” we said. “And I don’t care if you think it will hurt me. I need you to tell the truth, because only the truth is going to help me fix this. Even if you don’t believe me — and I know you don’t believe me — just humour me. I need an answer. That is the best thing you can both do, right now, to help your daughter. That would be me, by the way.”

My father said: “What’s the question, sweetheart?”

I swallowed. The numbness seemed to fall away inside me, like sunburnt skin peeling from clean flesh, suddenly raw and red. Why did that numbness ebb now? Because here was the moment of truth? Because I was about to discover how badly my parents had lied to me?

“Prior to my first ever ‘episode’,” I said, “In the day, weeks, and even months before that, did anything strange happen?”

“Strange?” my father echoed.

“Oh, oh I cannot believe this,” my mother started to pant, rocking gently in her chair, tears rolling down her cheeks. “She’s gone full paranoid. Gregory, we have to do something. We have to call— take her to the— I don’t know! She’s— she’s clearly unwell! Heather, dear, we love you, but this is nonsense! You never had a sister! You never did! I should know! I gave birth to you!”

“Anything at all,” I said to my father. My voice was shaking now. My tentacles wanted to coil around our middle, hug ourselves still. “I don’t know what it might have been. Unexplained phenomena. Odd sights. Anything. Literally anything. Animals indoors. A weird letter. Even a dream. Visits from strange people, or—”

My father’s eyebrows twitched. He tried to hide the reaction, but he could not.

My eyes went wide. My tentacles went wild, stiff and arched. My blood ran cold.

“Dad!” I snapped. “Dad, you do remember something. I saw that on your face!”

“Heather!” my mother wailed. “Stop this!”

“I saw it on your face! Dad! Dad, don’t lie to me! There was something! Tell me!”

My dad raised both his hands in surrender. “There was nothing. Nothing happened before your very first breakdown. Nothing before. I promise, sweetheart. I am not lying to you.”

“ … and after?” I said.

My mother whirled on my dad, sobbing openly. “Gregory, do not! Don’t! She’s sick! She’s ill! Don’t give her any more of this poison! Please!”

“Samantha, she is only asking for the whole truth—”

“What truth?! Nothing happened! She’s mentally ill!”

“—and I only think it’s fair that we tell her about—”

“Stop!”

“—the strange lady,” my dad finished.

I went completely and utterly still, inside and out. Every hair on my body stood on end. We felt my entire world turn upside down. My blood was ice. My guts iron. My bio-reactor a lump of dead flesh. Our brains were soup, our limbs rubber. My tentacles were ready to turn themselves to razor blades and pull down the walls of reality.

“Strange lady?” I echoed, in barely a whisper.

My father wet his lips. “After the first few months of taking you to the doctors—”

“I will not have this!” my mother roared and shot to her feet. Tears streaming down her face, she blazed at all of us. “Gregory, this is nothing but irresponsible! Her treatment plan was always clear. Never, ever, ever feed the delusions! We are not having this discussion, I will not allow you to harm our daughter!” She whirled on me and Sevens and Aym. “And you — you two, I don’t even know who you are, but you’ve done irreparable harm! Get out, both of you! Heather, you are not going back to Sharrowford, or university, not tonight. We are calling the hospital. That is final.”

My mother expected me to recoil. To shut my mouth. To nod my head. To be a good little girl and take my medicine.

“Mother,” I said, calmer than I had ever felt before. “You can’t make us do anything.”

She faltered and flustered for a moment, then rallied: “Just because you’re an adult doesn’t mean you’re not—”

“No,” we sighed. “We mean you cannot make us do anything. Don’t make us prove it.”

My mother boggled at me, tears dried on her cheeks, utterly lost.

My father leaned back on the sofa and frowned. He drew a hand across his face.

My mother spoke again, her tone gone treacle-thick and sickly-sweet: “Heather, Heather we both love you very much, but you are ill, you are delusional, you need help.”

“Mm,” my father grunted — and I knew that was agreement with my mother, not with me. “Maybe we should call the hospital. Heather, I’ll tell you about the strange lady, but first will you consent to—”

I lost my temper.

Sevens almost got there first, she almost managed to say no. She even had an emergency lemon, slipped to her earlier by Praem’s secret hands, ready to peel and stuff in my mouth at the first sign of serious trouble. But I would have spat it out just to hiss at the top of my lungs. Aym began to rasp a warning, because even she knew where this was going. But I wasn’t about to listen to her either.

We unrolled our tentacles and spread them wide; we dipped a fingertip into the machinery of the Eye, slick and dark and black and tarry, to flick that single unseen value from a zero to a one.

And then we showed our parents who and what we really were.

Previous Chapter Next Chapter



Our little squid just could not resist.

Wow! Well, it sure was a relief to finally get Heather’s parents on screen after all this time. I’ve been looking forward to this for a while. This chapter and the next have been a hell of a long time coming; this whole sequence has been planned allllll the way since the start of the story (which, to be fair, applies to many scenes in Katalepsis so far). Heather is … holding her own, but perhaps not in the way she wanted. Her mother is difficult, her father is trying his best, but she’s gotta go full squid again. Perhaps it was the only way.

I have a little treat for you this week! For any readers who do not frequent the Katalepsis discord, here are two delightful emotes, of Lozzie giggling, and Lozzie patting Tenny on the head, both created by skaiandestiny over on the discord server! I love these so much, I just had to share them with more readers. Thank you skaian!

If you want more Katalepsis right away, you can get it by:

Subscribing to the Patreon!

All Patrons get access to two chapters ahead! No matter what level you subscribe at! That’s about 20k words at the moment. The more support I get through Patreon, the more time I can dedicate to writing, and the less chance of having to slow down the story or get interrupted by other responsibilities. The generous and kind support of Patrons and readers is what makes all this possible in the first place, I would literally not be able to do this without you; thank you all so very much! You can also:

Vote for Katalepsis on TopWebFiction!

This helps so very much! A lot of readers still find the story through TWF, which still surprises me. It only takes a couple of clicks to vote!

And thank you! Thank you for reading! I literally could not keep writing Katalepsis (or anything else) without the incredible support of all my patrons and the boundless enthusiasm of my readers. That means you, thank you! Katalepsis is for you!

Next week, Heather shows the truth, and demands it too. She will have answers, no matter the cost.

eyes yet to open – 22.1

Content Warnings

None this chapter.



Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Blessed by the benefit of seven brains: one human, cradled within the hot, dark, osseous cavity of our skull, cushioned by the triple-layer of tissue-soft meninges, floating in a clear soup of cerebrospinal fluid, wrinkled and grey and flaring with invisible electricity; and six imitation-cephalopod, spongy ladder-structures running up and down with distributed thought, interlaced with the fibres and muscular hydrostats of our tentacles, woven from pneuma-somatic dreams and euphoric self-image. Seven brains! Surely more than enough to conceive and contain any measure of plan, to master any level of multitasking, to keep an iron grip of willpower on the self, and never forget a single thing.

But, no. Alas. Being Heather Morell, times seven, did not work like that, not in practice.

It was still all too easy to have too much on one’s mind. Too much to think about.

Too much responsibility.

Which is why, on the morning which followed our meeting with the last, sad, wet, half-dead dregs of the Sharrowford Cult, I gently but firmly declined to get out of bed.

I didn’t actually have to say anything to achieve this goal of luxuriant refusal, of course. We could just lie there, wrapped in my blankets, tentacles coiled about myself, face down on the pillow, pretending we didn’t feel the trickle of cold drool oozing from the corner of my lips. But I did feel it; I’d woken up at four or five o’clock in the morning, bestirred by the first distant hints of sunrise beyond the closed curtains, the first intrusion of the day’s light into the static grey gloom of our bedroom. I had been trapped in dozy purgatory ever since, teetering on the edge of sleep, so eager to slip back down into the darkness of unconscious oblivion — but dragged back up again and again as some new angle of anxiety grasped my thoughts and shook me like a snow-globe in a giant’s fist.

So I lay there, half-conscious, sliding back and forth, tapped by the occasional hypnagogic jerk, murmuring as a dreamer trapped in an endless hallway.

Zheng rose first, as she almost always did, before the sun had finished peeking over the horizon and flooding the city of Sharrowford. She’d joined us last night after a long soak in the bath. Never showers for Zheng, always the scalding hot dip beneath the waters; she was lucky that Number 12 Barnslow Drive possessed such a large bathtub. A bath, a bottle of mouthwash, and a brand-new toothbrush had seen her clean enough to do certain things with Raine, which had helped me stop thinking, at least for a little while.

I felt Zheng get up, felt her bulk and weight and size leave the bed, felt the sudden absence of her furnace-heat skin. I heard her grunt and purr and make her spine go pop-pop-pop. I felt her brush my hair away from my forehead with gentle fingers, then felt her lean over and do the same with Raine. I could have escaped purgatory by simply opening my eyes — Zheng would have noticed, invited me to join her, and I would be free.

Free to not think. Free to procrastinate.

So I didn’t; a couple of my tentacles disagreed, grumbling in the back of our mind, but the consensus was still against that selfish impulse. I pretended I was truly asleep, breathing deeply, still as untouched waters. I heard Zheng leave the room, stalking off into the dark corridors of the house to find herself some animal flesh to shove into her mouth. She moved with all her usual big-cat stealth. The sound of her footsteps vanished before she even reached the stairs.

An hour later — or two hours, or three? My sense of time was a hallucinatory dream, a fugue state, not yet real. Had I slept a little or been awake the whole time?

Well, whichever it was, Raine woke up.

She was louder than Zheng, slightly less graceful, heavier on her feet. And much more physical. Raine snuggled close to me for a while, kissed me on the back of the neck, and touched me in ways which queried if I wanted certain kinds of attention.

But I didn’t move. I was ‘asleep’.

Eventually Raine got up properly, sliding out of bed and leaving me in my puddle of warm lies. She stretched with big cat-like motions and deep breaths and more than a few whiny grunts — which made me regret declining her attentions. Then she threw on some clothes and checked her phone. She’d showered last night, a shared shower with myself, during which she had pinned me to the wall and helped me to stop thinking for a significant period of time, several times.

I wanted that right then, I wanted it badly enough to flirt with betraying my intentions. Several of us even twitched beneath the covers, tentacles aching to be touched. But that was not what we needed, only what we wanted. I needed something very different, very specific, very difficult. Something with which Raine could not help — at least not at first.

But then she whispered my name: “Heather? Heather, love, you awake?”

Try as I might, I couldn’t lie with my words, however much I might tell falsehoods with my body.

“No,” I grumbled.

Raine laughed softly, then spoke even softer: “It’s nearly ten, squid-princess. You want me to bring you breakfast in bed? I was gonna get some stretches in, downstairs, some real stretches, do a bit of a routine. I’m, uh, a little sore after last night, if you know what I mean. But I can get breakfast on first. You want some?”

“Mmm, no thank you.”

“You gonna sleep in?”

“No,” I said.

Raine chuckled again. “My beautiful little paradox. Do you want me to get you up? Is that it?”

“No.”

“Hmmmm,” Raine made an exaggerated thinking sound, like purring. She pressed a hand against my back, through the covers, and used her thumb to knead the muscles between my spine and shoulder blades. I almost groaned into the pillow. Raine purred again: “You being a bad girl and lazing around in bed is gonna come back to bite you, right? Is this a tactic to make me force you? Gonna be a brat?”

That purr was enough to tug at the base of my guts. Maybe if I got really, seriously, irritatingly bratty, then Raine would make it so I wouldn’t have to think at all for the rest of the day. Maybe this swamp which was bubbling and seething in my mind could be put off until tomorrow, until—

No. No more procrastination.

Maisie could not afford my procrastination.

“No,” I said — not cutely and sweetly any longer, not with a little purr of my own, not a teasing refusal to bait Raine into peeling me out of bed and out of my clothes and out of my skull, but ‘no’, clear and open and a little too hard.

Raine’s hand paused. “Ah?”

“No thank you, Raine,” I said, even clearer. “I need to think. Let me think. You’ve done nothing wrong, it’s fine. Thank you for the offer. I’ll … I’ll be down later.”

Raine nodded — I couldn’t see, but I felt the seriousness in her expression, the instant acceptance of whatever I needed to do. She said, “You can totally just go back to sleep if you want. You’ve earned it, after yesterday. You gotta take care of yourself, Heather.”

“I won’t sleep,” we said. “I can’t. I need to think. But thanks, Raine. I love you.”

Raine leaned down and kissed my forehead. I caught the scent of sleep-sweat and feminine flesh. “Love you too, tentacle-girl. Seeya in a bit?”

“Mm,” I grunted. “In a bit.”

I wasn’t being petulant. I simply knew that I wanted — no, I needed — to be alone, with myselves, to think.

Raine padded out of our bedroom on bare feet and gently closed the door behind her, sealing me back inside the warm, grey, gloomy bubble of walls and curtains and bed covers, at the core of my building-cocoon of secret thoughts. I lay there for a long time. Minutes, hours, I wasn’t sure. Hoping against hope that sleep might creep up on me from behind, take me unawares, and leave me with no choice but to submit. But it didn’t; sleep was uninterested in little old me. We felt more and more awake with every passing moment. Eventually we sighed and rolled over and stopped pretending to be asleep.

Our bedroom was a nest of friendly shadows. Grey light crept around the edges of the curtain, offering shape and form and definition to the shades within. The summer heat had broken overnight, dialling down to merely hot, instead of thought-searing; the sky outdoors was blanketed with high layers of thickened grey cloud, a crust upon the all-seeing blue beyond. Sharrowford lay sleepy and lazy below, a muted land of concrete and asphalt, brick and metal, buzzing to itself at the threat of chilling rain.

We stretched out our tentacles and sat up in bed, clinging to headboard and pillow and mattress, as if the anchors would serve to stall the task ahead. We tried hugging ourselves, then making ourselves very wide, all tentacles thrust outward. Then we flopped back again and sighed a very big sigh.

There was no escape.

“We have to do this properly,” we murmured to ourselves. “There’s no way to organise all this. Not without pen and paper.” We laughed an absurd little laugh. “Really? Pen and paper, Heather? Like you’re outlining an essay?”

Most of my tentacles agreed. It felt ridiculous, but it was the only way we knew.

“No,” we corrected ourselves gently, waving our tentacles in the air as we thought. “It’s not the only way we know. It’s just one of the few things we’re actually good at. One of the few skills we’ve developed.” We sighed again. “Always so bad at planning.”

I had always been terrible at making plans, and even worse at seeing them through; intellectually I knew I was not to blame for that. When you are a teenager assaulted by otherworldly nightmares and missing time and exhaustion and inexplicable monsters around every corner, it is exceptionally difficult to think ahead more than the absolute minimum required for survival. I had never learned to plan.

But I had learned how to write an essay.

Reluctantly, slowly, like an octopus in her den, we peeled ourselves out of bed, made sure we were reasonably decent — not half-naked, at least — and then stumbled to the bathroom, hoping not to run into anybody out in the corridor.

The upstairs corridor of Number 12 Barnslow Drive was as grey and shadow-drenched as our bedroom on that day; the bathroom was pitch dark, a windowless chamber. We used the toilet with the light off. That was nice. We flirted oh-so-temptingly with the notion of just staying there in the dark, no thinking, no responsibility, no light. Run a bath and lie there in the lightless cavern, comfy and quiet and warm.

“No procrastination, Heather,” we murmured into that stygian black. “Maisie doesn’t have time.”

We drank from the sink and brushed our teeth. Then we padded back to our bedroom and shut the door and threw all our clothes on the floor. Fresh thinking required fresh garments: a big loose t-shirt borrowed from Raine, which fell well past my hips, and a pair of bright pink pajama bottoms. No underwear. We were breaking rules today, being seven bad girls, skipping breakfast — ow, no — and wearing no knickers.

Raine would have been very excited if she’d known. But this was not for Raine’s benefit. Not for anybody’s benefit but mine.

I sat down at my desk in the corner of the room, where the shadows were deepest. Books had piled up here over the summer break, detritus that must be cleared off before the university term could start once more. But I had earlier need of this space than I had expected, so I put most of the books to one side, grabbed one of my large, spiral-bound, A4 notebooks, and took up a pencil. No laptop. This was not the sort of thing one wrote on a computer. We needed physical feedback. Graphite and paper.

I flipped the notebook open, past lecture notes about Shakespeare and Modernism and the nature of femininity in late 18th century literature, until I reached an empty page.

Then I stared at it for five minutes without writing down a single word.

“Not here,” we murmured eventually. “Somewhere else, somewhere. Just somewhere else.”

I grabbed the notebook and the pencil and left my bedroom, in search of a secret and shadowy nook.

Number 12 Barnslow Drive possessed no lack of secret and shadowy nooks. There were simply so many from which to choose. As I stood in the upstairs hallway and chewed on my lip, I could go left — down the stairs, into the front room, and from there into the kitchen and Evelyn’s magical workshop. No doubt the downstairs would be bustling with activity by then, but that was the opposite of what I needed, no matter how much my stomach grumbled for breakfast. I would inevitably run into Raine, and Evee, and Lozzie, and everyone else hanging around the house. Besides, Evee was probably working on the Invisus Oculus in her workshop right now, putting together the great spell to hide us from the Eye. I would not be alone with myself and my thoughts.

To my right lay the shadowy depths of the upstairs corridor, vanishing into the gloom where it turned off to the left once again. I had found privacy and quiet there once before, had I not? When I had needed a space to think, the house had provided. I had no doubt that if we wandered down that way and chose an unknown door at random, I would find a dusty room with an old writing desk, and plenty of light from a large window.

Nobody else seemed to be upstairs — except perhaps Tenny. I could hear the faint sounds of video games from behind the closed door to Lozzie’s bedroom. Evee’s bedroom door was shut tight. As was the study.

But I didn’t need seclusion. Being alone was a prerequisite, not the aim. I needed something I’d never done before.

I sighed and walked over to the single window in the upstairs corridor, letting the tips of my tentacles trail along the walls. Outdoors the sky was a ceiling of brushed steel, quiet and still, with light behind the layers. The trees along the street shivered with a little caress of wind. The smell of imminent rain leaked in around the window panes, crisp and juicy and dark.

My stomach rumbled again.

I sighed. Shoulders slouched. Tentacles slumped. “Oh, I can’t do this. Not today. I need food. I can try again later, or maybe go Outside, or—”

Click! went a door behind our back. Tip-tap! went a pair of sharp, smart, slick little shoes.

We turned in surprise — but not in shock — to see the door of Evelyn’s study standing open, and Praem resplendent in the doorway.

Despite all the stresses of yesterday evening, Praem was perfectly turned out, perfectly composed, and perfectly elegant. She was wearing her full maid dress, her shiny black shoes, her lace sleeves and puffy shoulders and long, layered skirts, black and white and starched all over. Her hair, as always, was tied up in a loose bun at the back of her head, with loops and coils of artfully messy blonde falling about her neck. She stared at me with blank, milk-white eyes.

“Oh!” we said, adopting a pleasant smile — for how could we not, for Praem? “Praem. Um. Morning— I mean, good morning. I didn’t hear you in there, I thought nobody else was upstairs. Except Tenny, I suppose. What were you—”

“Good morning,” Praem intoned — and then presented me with a pair of fresh lemons on a plate, neatly sliced into quarters. My stomach threatened to throw a riot. My salivary glands mounted an assault on my mouth. All six tentacles twitched, hard.

“Oh. Oh, um, Praem, thank you, but I should really—”

“Good morning,” Praem repeated, clear and bright.

“Yes. Good morning, again. Um, you really didn’t have to bring me—”

“Breakfast.”

“Yes, breakfast. Praem, that is very sweet of you, but I suppose I should go downstairs to—”

Praem stepped to one side, interposing herself between me and the route to the stairs; with her free hand she gestured at the open door of the study. The lights were switched on, bathing the room in a soft glow amid the cloudy day. Praem’s other hand continued to offer me a very lemony breakfast.

“Praem, you’re really too sweet,” I said with a sigh. I accepted the plate of lemons — with a hand, not a tentacle — and reached over to gently pat her on the shoulder. But then I paused and frowned. “Wait a moment. Praem, I didn’t tell anybody what I needed this morning. I didn’t tell anybody what I was thinking, not even Raine, though it’s not a bad secret or anything, I’m just going to do a little forward planning. How did you know I was looking for somewhere to think, and write notes, and that I was hungry for breakfast?”

Praem stared right through me, those milk-white eyes framed by her unreadable, blank expression.

I answered my own question: “Let me guess, because maids are perfect?”

“Maids are perfect,” Praem echoed.

“And this just happens to give you perfect knowledge of everything that happens inside the house.” I laughed softly. It wasn’t a question.

“How to summon a lemon,” Praem intoned.

“Ah?” I frowned, a bit bamboozled. “What does that mean?”

“You have summoned a lemon.”

I lifted the plate and smiled. “Two lemons, in fact. Thank you again, Praem. You’re a dear and we don’t deserve you. Please tell me you’re going to take some time for yourself today? Yesterday was very stressful for everyone.”

“Praem time,” said Praem.

I pulled a dubious expression at that, but I let it slide. Whatever ‘Praem time’ meant, she was welcome to it.

“Thank you again, Praem,” we said. “I’ll … yes, the study is perfect. Perfect suggestion. I’ll see you later?”

“See me,” said Praem — then turned on her heel, skirts a-swish, and vanished down the corridor. She descended the stairs a moment later, the loops and coils of loose blonde hair going down, down, down, until the house swallowed her up.

I stepped into Evelyn’s study, closed the door, and sealed myself inside.

Distant grey light fell through the single, small, elevated window; soft illumination glowed from the desk-lamp at the far end of the room; the air was filled with the dusty, heady scent of paper and print; the bookcases lined the walls, stuffed to bursting with their jumble of volumes; some kind soul — undoubtedly Praem herself — had tidied up the massive wooden desk at the rear of the room, turning it into a clean expanse of dark wood, waiting for a scribe’s work. The equally ancient wooden swivel chair had acquired a cushion, awaiting my bony backside.

Exactly the sort of place where an occult mastermind should write secret notes. Am I an ‘occult mastermind’? Usually I leave that role to Evee, she certainly relishes it much more than I ever do. And her mind is more masterful than mine.

I settled down at the desk as best I could. Even with a cushion the old wooden swivel chair was hard and uncomfortable, though once it had probably been the height of luxurious power-statement, circa 1949. The back extended far above the height of my shoulders. The armrests formed little bulwarks of wood either side of me; we looped our tentacles through those, playing around for a moment, entwining myself with the chair.

Notepad open, pencil at the ready. We took a long moment to gnaw on two of the lemon quarters, sucking down the juices and the pale flesh. My bio-reactor purred with appreciation. My stomach stopped rumbling quite so much.

Then I leaned over the notepad and got started.

At the top I wrote:

‘Wonderland — The Eye — Maisie’

Those were the non-negotiable elements. The confrontation and rescue, that was the entire point.

Then I paused to eat another piece of lemon, and decided I needed a little treat. Oh yes, four words written, one line, none of the difficult parts yet tackled, and Heathers had earned herself a treat. How I ever got my university essays written, I will never know.

The treat, however, was two more words.

I wrote:

‘Alexander’
and
‘Edward’

And with a delighted flourish, I crossed them both out, with a nice big thick line.

Then I added ‘(Orange Juice)’, though I could not justify crossing out his name. We had not defeated him, merely driven him off, and then ended our connection with the horrifying post-mage Outsider. I settled for surrounding his name with brackets. Then I wrote: ‘Sharrowford Cult, remains pending (including the unfortunate boy in the hospital)’.

This neat list was about to get more complicated, with less clarity clouding my clear catalogue of enemies. But I frowned and went ahead anyway.

‘Harold Yuleson (ours now)’
‘Mister Joe King (truce successful)’

There. Finished. Our list of foes, vanquished and conquered and driven away, or otherwise co-opted or brought around.

Then I paused for a long, awkward moment. There was still so much page left to fill. My throat bobbed. I chewed on the end of the pencil, on the little metal part which held the pink nub of the eraser. Then I handed the pencil off to myself — to a tentacle — so I would not mutilate it any further. I leaned back and reached for a slice of lemon.

“Need a devil on your shoulder?” said a voice like rusty nails drawn across broken ground.

I flinched so hard that I banged one knee on the ancient wooden desk; the swivel chair creaked in protest as I turned too fast; all our tentacles flew outward in a protective cage — and then collapsed as I sighed with great exasperation.

A slender, person-shaped blob of shadow hung in front of the bookcases to my right, oozing darkness toward the floor in great sticky, tarry ropes, which dissipated into nothing before staining the floorboards. A suggestion of a grin floated deep in the living gloom.

“Aym,” I snapped. “Do not make me jump like that! And come out of there. Stop it. I don’t have the patience to deal with you doing that.”

“Doing what?” Aym purred, like a cat with terrible lung problems.

“Hiding in plain sight!”

“Tch,” Aym tutted — but she obliged my request. The darkness tightened and thickened, like steam condensing on a mirror, or clothes sliding over skin and taking form. In the blink of an eye shadow turned to sprite.

Aym was sitting — well, hovering in mid-air, as if perched in an invisible seat, with her chin in one hand. She was unveiled, out in the open, neither wrapped by shadows nor hidden by a clever trick of the light. Draped from throat to ankle with dripping black lace, with only her pale hands and her weird, angular, elfish little face showing, eyes tilted at a fey and inhuman angle, framed by her long, messy, black hair. She pulled her lips back in a teasing, satisfied grin. A tiny coal-dust sprite of a girl, all sharp bones beneath her shapeless garments.

“You could have just knocked,” I said. “Instead of making me jump.”

She giggled — a sound like iron filings falling through a sieve. “Might be the last chance I get, squid-girl. Well, at least for a little while. Flissy and I are off tomorrow, you know? She’s had enough of sleeping in her car.”

I sighed and rubbed at my eyes. “Well. Good. She’s probably had more than enough of us lot. Aym, what are you doing? Where is Sevens? Shouldn’t you be with her?”

“Seven-Shades-of-Sunlight,” Aym said her name with surprising precision and respect, “is taking a nap. Sleeping off a little … ” Aym’s thin, pale lips curled upward in a nasty smile. She raised two fingers to her lips, parted them, and stuck her tongue into the gap.

I rolled my eyes. “If you expect us to blush, you’re going to have to do better than that. I’ve seen that gesture from Raine a million times. She’s done that to me more times than I can count. You’re not going to embarrass me with oral sex jokes, Aym. And I think you’re lying, anyway.”

Aym pulled a little pout, which made her face even sharper than before. “Tch. You’re still no fun.”.

“What are you doing here?” I repeated.

Aym gestured at the notepad on the desk. She crossed her legs beneath her layers of impenetrable lace, a motion like the shifting of midnight shadows.

“This is always the problem with polycules,” she drawled. “Sooner or later, somebody has to write up a spreadsheet.”

“It’s not a spreadsheet, it’s a list.”

Aym snorted — a sound like a pocket of swamp gas bubbling the surface of a tar pit. “Same thing.”

“No, it’s not! And if it was a spreadsheet I would be making it on my laptop, not by hand. You can see very well what it is from right there, stop trying to wind me up.”

“Try? Nay. Do!” Aym giggled. That sound made the little hairs stand up on the back of my neck.

My expression turned stony and cold; I had intended to seclude myself to think, alone. “Aym, why are you—”

Aym cleared her throat with strange delicacy, like pins dropping onto a metal plate. “I thought you might appreciate some assistance — some expert assistance. An objective, adversarial voice, to stop you from sitting there and staring at a blank page. A devil, on your shoulder.”

I opened my mouth to tell Aym to buzz off — but then I paused. My brow unknitted. I sat back in realisation. “Praem sent you. Didn’t she?”

Aym’s cheeks turned pink, which was absolutely delightful — not because it made her look cute (which it most certainly did not), but because I’d got one over on her. She waved a hand, which was tucked deep inside the end of one sleeve all of a sudden. “Certainly not. You think I take orders? I came entirely of my own accord. My own glowing initiative. You and Seven-Shades-of-Sunlight have been very kind to me and my Felicity. Can’t I show some appreciation? Return the kindness?”

I couldn’t help but smile. Aym stared me down, willing herself not to blush any harder.

“Alright, Aym,” I said eventually, with a little sigh. “What exactly are you offering?” I left unsaid the real question: ‘What does Praem think I need you for?’

“I already said, twice! A devil on your shoulder. You need external motivation, to keep you from stalling. Look!” She gestured at my notepad. “You are getting nowhere. Now, you can sit here for the next eight hours and get nowhere, or you can have me provide some counter-arguments. Your choice.”

I controlled my amused smile; fair enough, I thought, Praem has a point. And Aym is as close to an objective observer as we could get. Observer and irritant — perhaps that was what I needed. But I didn’t entirely trust her motivations, to put it lightly.

“Why do you care, Aym?”

Aym’s stare reminded me of an irritated stray cat. “You could stand to be a little more polite to me, squid-face. I am your fiancée’s girlfriend, after all.” Then she pulled a face like she’d bitten into an unexpected taste. “Oh, that is a confusing statement. Polycules, not even once.”

We sighed again. We were not going to get a straight answer out of Aym, that was obvious.

“Thank you, Aym,” I said softly. “Very well, then. I’ll continue. Pull up a chair. Well, metaphorically speaking. But if you’re rude about even one person on this list—”

“Yes, yes!” Aym tutted. “You’ll throw me in your extra-dimensional dungeon and have me tickle-tortured. I’ll be polite.” She batted thick, dark, heavy eyelashes. “I’ll be a good girl.”

I gave her a look — hopefully enough to let her know I was deadly serious — and turned back to my notepad. Aym appeared at the corner of the desk, seated on empty air. She allowed one black lace sleeve to pool on the wooden surface of the desk itself, puddling outward and turning into shadow.

“Well?” she purred, all wet and rusty. “Who’s first?”

I lifted my pencil and wrote on a new line: ‘Raine’

“Ah,” Aym said. “Yes. Your bull-dyke.”

I shot her a frown.

Aym raised her sleeve-covered hands in surrender. “It’s a compliment! A compliment. The woman certainly owns the butch aesthetic, I’ll give her that much.”

I said: “Right. Well then. Obviously she’s coming to Wonderland. Though I’d rather she not. Uh … here.” I added a little plus symbol, to indicate that Raine was to be part of the Wonderland expedition. Then I hesitated, glanced at Aym, and wrote two words just beneath Raine’s name.

‘Get married?’

“Ugh,” Aym made a disgusted noise. “Really?”

I blushed a little. “Yes, really! Raine suggested we should … should … get married, for real, maybe, before we go to Wonderland.”

Aym sighed and blinked heavy-lidded eyes at me. The tips of her hair joined the pooling shadows on the corner of the desk. “Isn’t that just an admission of defeat? ‘Let’s get married because we might both die.’ How sad.”

“N-no, it’s not, it’s—”

“Oh it so is,” Aym rasped. “If you really thought you were both going to make it, there’s no reason to rush. And you are going to make it back, aren’t you?”

“Yes! We are!” I snapped at her, growing angry — though I knew I was only treating her as a substitute for my true fears.

Aym snorted and sat back up straight in her intangible chair. “Besides, you don’t have time. You’re going as soon as you’re all ready, aren’t you? You can’t organise and throw a wedding in the space of, what, a few days?”

“We could do a registry office thing. Just the legal part.”

Aym rolled her eyes and sighed, shivering inside her lace as if hit with a vile stench. “Really? Really? The whole point of it is just to get the state involved? Cross the I’s and dot the t’s? Where’s your sense of romance, squid-for-brains?”

“It’s plenty romantic!”

Aym snorted with naked disgust, which sounded a bit like a clogged drain full of black mould. “If you and Raine do get married, it should be a big party. You have so many people, it’s not like you have to invite many others. You don’t even have to pay for a venue! Hold it Outside, in that castle your tin men have built, or down in Sussex at Evelyn’s estate. You can do it on the cheap, get lots of booze, and have a proper knees-up. Your family deserves no less. Or are you going to cut them out of the whole thing, abandon all the others?”

I chewed on the end of my pencil. She did have a point.

“Besides,” Aym drawled. “If you get married after all this, won’t Maisie be there, too?”

I frowned; a low blow. But it was true. Did Raine and I getting married add anything material to our plans? No.

I lifted my pencil and modified the line — I added ‘AW’ after the marriage question.

Aym raised an elegant, dark eyebrow. “After Wonderland?”

“Yes,” I said. “After Wonderland.”

Aym purred when she smiled. “That’s more like it. Now we’re getting somewhere. Though, before or after, they’re both death flags. I hope you don’t trip them, squiddy. Carry on.”

I wasn’t sure what Aym meant by ‘death flags’, but I could guess.

Next I wrote: ‘Evelyn’, and added a plus symbol right away.

“Of course Evee is coming,” we said. “She’s our mage. She’s the expert. We could never do without her.”

“Mm.” Aym just grunted. Keeping her usual opinions about Evee to herself? Perhaps she really was trying to be polite.

Below Evee’s name I added: ‘Pneuma-somatic prosthetic replacements.’

Aym tutted and rolled back in her seat like a grumpy teenager. “She doesn’t want them!”

“We don’t know that for sure,” I said. “I need to talk to her about it again.”

Aym groaned. “And you don’t have time! Squid-head, you don’t have time. You’re telling me, seriously, that you’re going to pull off an untested, unexplored, dangerous magical experiment, and maybe put yourself out of action for days? You’re going to expect Evelyn to stomp off into danger with untested techniques strapped to her thigh and hand? Because, please, tell me yes, tell me now, and I will stop helping you.”

I blinked at Aym in surprise.

She added: “Look after little Saye. Look after her well. You do not want me as your actual for-real enemy, Heather Morell.”

I sighed and nodded. However much I didn’t want to think about this, Aym was correct. Evee’s new prosthetics could wait — if she ever wanted them at all. Better to assault Wonderland with the leg she knew.

Instead I wrote beneath Evee’s name: ‘Invisus Oculus’. Aym did not argue, just nodded along. Then I hesitated, drew in a deep breath, and added: ‘Share bed? Maybe kiss.’

I stared at the words, expecting Aym to snort or laugh or maybe even argue. But she said nothing, silent as a lingering shadow. When we finally turned to her, she was grinning, wide and toothy.

“Aym!” we snapped.

“Whaaaaat? I wasn’t saying a woooooord,” she purred.

“Oh, whatever. We can leave that note there for now. Surely there’s time for one night of … of … whatever. But you don’t breathe a word of this to anybody, Aym. You understand?”

Aym nodded, slowly and gracefully.

Quickly, I moved on.

‘Twil +’

No notes for Twil; she’d made her position and allegiance clear. And I wasn’t going to interfere with whatever she felt for Evee, or Lozzie, or anybody else.

‘Praem +’

“Well,” I said, explaining to myself as much as to Aym. “If Evee comes, so does Praem. And if anybody can pull us out of an unexpected fire, it’s her. She doesn’t need any notes, either. Praem is perfect. Oh! Wait a moment.”

I added: ‘Birthday! (AW)’

“There,” I said. “Something else to look forward to.”

“Mmmmm,” Aym purred.

Next up: ‘Lozzie +’

“Lozzie’s our emergency getaway, just in case,” I said. “And she may have insights, or ways of communicating with Maisie, once we’re actually standing in Wonderland. In some ways she’s more potent than me. If we can’t find any other way to solve this, Lozzie’s the wild card.”

‘Tenny’
‘Education? (AW)’

I did not add a plus next to Tenny’s name. She was not coming to Wonderland. No way.

Aym made a curious little sound. “Hmmm?”

“Tenny … Tenny deserves more than this,” we said, sighing and leaning back in the chair. “She can’t stay cooped up in this house forever. She deserves a real life. Friends. An education. Somehow.”

“Mmhmm, if her ‘friends’ like meeting giant moth-girls with tentacles?”

I tutted, but softly. “Her skills at disguise are improving. Lozzie and I have discussed the possibility of sending her to Sixth Form college, next year, if her disguise is good enough. Though, uh, I wouldn’t wish A-Levels on anybody, but I don’t see any other way to get her into a university program. She’s already smart enough, far too smart for secondary school. She’s developed so much faster than a human being.”

Aym snorted. “Going to uni wearing her humansona?”

“Don’t mock her. Don’t laugh. I’m deadly serious, Aym. Tenny deserves a life. We’re going to give her that.”

Aym grumbled and averted her eyes. “Sure, sure. But after Wonderland?”

I nodded. “After Wonderland.”

The next few were obvious.

‘Lozzie’s Knights +’
‘The Cattys +
‘Zheng +’

Then:

‘Seven-Shades-of-Sunlight +’

I glanced at Aym. She just stared at the name, impassive, eyes dark and hard, like pebbles inside her face.

I added: ‘Get married (AW)’, and ‘Help her become herself (ongoing)’.

“Mm,” Aym grunted with grudging approval.

“Aym,” I said slowly. “Are you worried that Sevens is going to get hurt, or not come back?”

“No,” Aym said — and that was all.

I tried a different angle: “Are you and her … I mean … with you going home with Fliss soon, she … and you … ”

“We’ve talked about that. She’ll come visit,” Aym said. She sounded horribly petulant, like a child who had been denied her sweets, but was trying to be oh-so-very brave and serious about it. “Easy for her, anyway. And no, she won’t get lost out there. She can run away in ways the rest of you can’t.”

A slightly sore subject, it seemed. I decided to leave it be, for now.

The rest of the list was easy enough, because from there it became a catalogue of who was not coming with us — plus a couple of additional notes.

Heart – no, unless she butted in. Kimberly, Nicole Webb, Felicity? They made a tantalizing love triangle, but — no, absolutely not. Aym herself, obviously that was also a no. Jan? Well, no, but she got an additional note: ‘Maisie’s vessel’, which Aym did not dispute. July, no, if Jan was not coming. The Saye Fox? Only if she snuck aboard at the last moment. Grinny? No reason to include her.

Sarika? Badger? Neither would be of any help. Whistle? I added him as a personal joke, just to make myself smile a little. Saldis? We hadn’t seen her in ages, we had no idea where she was at current, somewhere in the spheres of Outside, but we were absolutely certain that she didn’t want to attend a trip to one of the most lethal places in all the known spheres of creation.

Evee’s spider servitors. Marmite. Hringewindla. The other members of the Brinkwood Church. All no, not least because Hringewindla could not move even if he wished.

The Demon in Clay, still kept in a bucket downstairs in Evelyn’s magical workshop — yes.

“Huuuh?” Aym grunted.

“It came from the Eye,” I explained. “Or from Maisie. We’re hoping that we can leverage that somehow, as a connection. Maybe.”

Aym snorted. “You still have no idea what you’re doing.”

“We’ll get to that in a moment,” we said, feeling butterflies in my stomach. “Let me finish the list first.”

There was only one more name to add, one I’d been avoiding thinking about. Why was this so difficult, when I’d already faced down the dark paradox of Raine and I getting married or not?

‘Natalie Skeates’

“Ehhhhhh?” Aym tilted her head to the side, pooling her dark hair on the desktop once again; the coal-soot locks dissolved into tiny curls of shadow. “What’s the little girl got to do with anything?”

The little girl I had rescued from Outside, from Edward’s machinations. Little Natalie, who’s parents I had broken to the eldritch truth. So much like me.

I added: ‘Check up on her. See how she’s doing.’

Aym waited as the tip of my pencil hovered. I hesitated, stuck.

“After?” Aym purred. “Or … ?”

“Both,” I said. “Both. Before and after. I can spare an hour to go say hi, in case we don’t get another chance.”

Aym purred a wet, bubbly little laugh. “How noble.”

“There’s nothing noble about it,” I hissed.

Beneath the list I turned my notes into a pair of practical summaries.

First, everyone who was coming with us to Wonderland: Raine, Evee, Praem, Twil, Lozzie, Zheng, the Knights, the Caterpillars, and Seven-Shades-of-Not-There-Right-Then. I also added the Clay-Squid Demon at the end, in brackets.

Second, the list of things I need to do before we crossed the threshold to Wonderland: make sure Evee’s Invisus Oculus was ready; make sure Jan had finished construction on Maisie’s body — which included heading over to her hotel later today to make sure she took the necessary pictures of my own body; visit Natalie; possibly spend an unrelated night with Evee; and last but not least—

My hand hesitated.

“Go on,” Aym purred. “You have to admit it.”

I sighed and swallowed. But I wrote the words.

‘Figure out the Eye.’

“Hnnnh?” Aym grunted, as if she hadn’t expected that, as if she’d been anticipating something else, something juicier. Then she snorted. “You really don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

We took a deep breath and tried not to get angry. We took up another quarter-slice of lemon and sucked out all the tangy, sharp, sour juice, then bit off the flesh and chewed, to give ourselves time to think.

“No,” we said eventually. “We do know what we’re doing. The plan is clear.”

“Ahhhhhhh?” Aym purred.

I stayed very cool and calm and collected — or at least that’s what I told myself. In reality I was probably shaking.

“Yes,” I explained. “Evee completes her spell to hide us from the Eye. We test it, on me, because I’m the Little Watcher, the closest thing we have. Then, if it works, we go to Wonderland. I go first, with the magic circle, to test. If the Eye doesn’t open, we set up a gateway, a protected gateway, back to Camelot. Then we have a way of standing on the soil of Wonderland without the Eye’s attention.”

“Mmmhmm, mmmhmm,” Aym purred, mocking and amused. “And then?”

“And then we do what we never could before. We investigate.”

“Ooooooh. Investigating this, investigating that. General … investigation.”

I finally turned and frowned at the little lace-drowned goblin next to me. She was sitting up in her ‘chair’ with a twisted little smile on her face.

“Stop mocking me!” I snapped.

“Making it up as you go along,” Aym said, not intimidated by my sudden temper. “That’s what you’re doing. You’re just dressing it up in fancy words.”

A smile crept across my face; Aym had made a misstep. “A simple plan is always better than a complex one. A complicated plan, with lots of moving parts, can inevitably go wrong when one piece fails to get into place fast enough. We’re not doing that, we’re keeping it straightforward. We have multiple, redundant ways to leave if something goes wrong. We have multiple, redundant physical protections. We have — what do you call them? — reserves? Yes, reserves, Knights, Caterpillars. We’re not going in with any expectations that certain things will work and others won’t. We’re not planning to reinforce failure, but to find a weak point.”

Aym rolled her eyes. “You’re just repeating what Evelyn’s told you.”

“Of course I am!” I huffed. “Because she understands these things, far better than I do. She’s sort of good at this, when she believes in herself. So, yes, of course I’m following her. Besides, we have more information to go on than ever before — the Eye misses a twin! That’s a basis for the beginning of communication!”

Aym raised the dark ache of an eyebrow. “So, a nice little chat?”

“I don’t know! We might get there and spend a day or two trying to figure out the landscape, figure out if there’s a physical place or location of importance, or if there’s any other clues. But then, yes, I’m going to attempt communication, probably.”

“Because that always goes sooooo well.”

“Stop it!” I snapped again. “It won’t be able to see us! That’s the point. Communication without observation. We’re going to circumvent the nature of the Eye itself. It’s the only thing I can think of before actually getting there and trying it..”

“And then you’re just going to ask politely?” Aym smiled, thin and sharp and nasty. “Hey, big thing in the sky, give me back my sister?”

I threw my pencil down on the desk, bubbling with anger inside. Misplaced, stupid anger, covering for the worst fear of my life.

“Why are you such a little pessimist, Aym?” we said. “Why—”

Aym suddenly flowed out of her intangible seat and stood up, black-socked feet touching down on the floorboards right next to the desk. With her standing and me sitting, she had a few inches of height on me, enough to loom and scowl and cast a long, jagged shadow across myself and the desk.

“Because it keeps morons like you and Flissy alive!” she rasped. “Because somebody has to say: no! Your ideas are shitty idiot ideas! Think them over again! Pessimism? Really? That’s what you see here? I see a moth flying toward a bonfire.”

I was shaking now — and no longer with anger. “It is the only thing we’ve come up with.”

Aym pointed at my notepad. She leaned in close — so close that I could see the pores in her milky pale skin, smell the strange and dusty earthen scent of the manor house where she and Felicity lived, and feel her living shadow pressing against my face.

“You never finished your list, squid-brains,” she purred, like a rusty metal ladder being dragged out of a swamp. “Isn’t there one more source of precious information?”

For a moment I had no idea what Aym meant — but then it dawned, and all my anger and fear left us behind, like a bath plug had been pulled inside my heart.

We turned back to the notebook and took up my pencil with a numb hand.

I wrote:

‘Mum and Dad’

‘Talk’

At my shoulder, Aym purred: “When? Little miss procrastinating octopus, hiding in your hole in the rocks — when?”

Cold sweat broke out down my back. My throat threatened to close up. All our tentacles wanted to coil in tight and seal us up inside a protective ball. We grabbed one of the remaining lemon slices, stuck it in our mouth, and sucked out all the juice in one go.

“When?” Aym repeated.

“Today,” we whispered. “Within the hour. Right now.”

Previous Chapter Next Chapter



How can an embryonic squidling-goddess also be the most skilled procrastinator in the world? Like this! Make plans and notes but never actually make the move. But even Heather’s neuroses are no match for Aym. She’s like a heated wire going through a block of cheese. Heather’s got no choice now. Cornered by her own rhetoric.

And we’re back! Thank you so much for waiting, dear readers, thank you for your patience. Even though I didn’t manage to overcome all the obstacles to publishing a chapter like normal last week, I’ve still be writing this whole time, and I’ve managed to work up a little bit of a backlog, to hopefully avoid more interruptions in the future!

And, hey, no patreon link this week, since it’s almost the end of the month! If you do really want to subscribe, feel free to wait until the 1st of November. And in the meantime, I hope you have a weird and creepy Halloween, but safer than Heather’s. If you want more Katalepsis right away, may I suggest this wonderful fanart of Heather and Evelyn which I just added to the site? It is by Cera, over on the discord!

Also, as usual, you can:

Vote for Katalepsis on TopWebFiction!

This helps so very much! A lot of readers still find the story through TWF, which still surprises me. It only takes a couple of clicks to vote!

And thank you so much. I could not continue to write this story without all of you! I know I say it all the damn time, but Katalepsis is for you. Thank you so much.

Next week, Heather can no longer avoid it. Time to speak with mum and dad. Time for difficult, dangerous questions. Time for truth.

mischief and craft; plainly seen – 21.14

Content Warnings

Animal death (off screen)
Eating animal corpses (on screen)
Discussion of carnism and vegetarianism
Blood and guts and gore



Previous Chapter Next Chapter

A night in the woods is really quite scary.

What an absurd thing for me to feel, no? I, Heather Morell (times seven) — who has walked the nighted loam and toxic leaves of Outsider forests and unearthly jungles far beyond any human sphere — was spooked by a little patch of English woodland.

I’d visited horizon-devouring continent-forests, where dying suns starved mile-thick mats of vegetation into cloying sheets of black rot; I’d wandered through dense thickets of living bramble and choking mist, where hidden horrors stalked behind the boughs; I’d crept along fungal groves which colonised and cloned any scrap of exposed animal flesh, shivering with vegetable motion as they imitated their prey. As a teenager I’d been torn from sleep and deposited naked and shivering in storm-wracked pine forests where the trees moved whenever one wasn’t looking, where giants peered through the canopy with eyes of burning lead, where the soil itself wished so dearly to eat one’s ankles. I’d been chased by giant mushrooms, examined by ferns with pulsing exterior organs, and laughed at by unseen sprites playing in the upper leaves of mile-high trees.

An English woodland was nothing by comparison. Little here could actually hurt us. No bears or wolves trod these isles anymore, not outside of zoos — though some optimistic conservationists were attempting to reverse the latter. Eventually. Maybe. One day. A few boars may be found here and there, but breeding populations of what Tenny called ‘hairy piggy friends’ were carefully tracked, and none lived near Brinkwood, not that we knew of.

The largest predator in these woods? The humble badger (no relation to ours). And the European badger is such a skittish animal that we had no chance of even a fleeting glimpse, not with my tentacles pouring out strobing rainbow light, Zheng radiating silent predatory menace, and Raine crunching through the fallen summer leaves with the habitual gracelessness of any modern human; no offense to Raine, she is in fact very graceful, but even she didn’t truly belong here, out in the woods.

Spotting a deer was even less likely — they’d be off the moment they heard us bumbling through the undergrowth, fleeing from the silly, loud, inelegant humans.

Dark and spooky, yes. But nothing to be afraid of. The forests of the past were long gone, reduced to these stubs between the encrustations of the modern world. I even went and looked it up that night, after we got back from our spur-of-the-moment excursion, in an effort to contextualise my feelings: only about 13% of the UK is wooded; of that, only 20% dates back to at least 1600.

Patches like this — the area near to Geerswin Farm, protected by Hringewindla’s unseen influence, at least a thousand years untouched by human hands — were vanishingly rare, and not even very large. Seen with the clarity of a map, this tangle of untended woodland wasn’t even a quarter of the size of Brinkwood itself. It soon gave way to roads and fields, the forest dribbling out even as it climbed the hills, reduced to orderly little copses and well-pruned scenic rural displays.

But all the knowledge in the world did not soothe the nerves when one was down at ground level, in the dark.

Shadows slithered and slid behind the tree trunks as we crunched across the carpet of dry leaves, long fingers of night reaching off into the depths of the woods from every mute forest sentinel. The canopy far above swayed in the summer night’s breeze, a static rustle always teasing at the edge of one’s hearing — but warm winds did not reach down to the forest floor, where the air quickly grew clammy and cold and crept up behind one’s back. Things moved beyond my tentacle-light — rodents, rabbits, nothing really, but my mind magnified them a hundredfold.

Spirit-life didn’t help. There wasn’t much of it this close to Hringewindla’s territory, and the spirits seemed to steer clear of his bubble-servitors; two of those were following us, high above the treetops, glimpsed through the rare partings in the upper leaves — our friends keeping an eye on our safety, nothing more. But that only meant that the spirit life also retreated to the fringe of darkness at the edge of my light: strange faces and insectoid limbs loomed out of the night, odd tentacles slipped away from tree trunks, while massive lumbering beasts sunk into the forest night as soon as we dared look. Zheng peered at some of them. Raine couldn’t see.

Instinct ruled, when an ape walked a forest at night. One’s rational mind said this was the 21st century, in the middle of England, and one need not jump and flinch at every rustle of leaf or snap of twig. But our ancestors had jumped and flinched and paused to listen, and so survived the nocturnal predators; the ones who hadn’t, well, they weren’t our ancestors.

So we too were compelled.

Or maybe that was just me — Raine certainly didn’t flinch at every little sound.

She and I and Zheng set off in what felt like a random direction, away from Geerswin Farm, deeper into the woods. There was no pathway or track here, no foot-beaten way through the trees, so we let Zheng lead us on a meandering route, skirting thicker undergrowth, wandering past clusters of trees, avoiding the fallen trunks of fungus-eaten giants felled by storm and age.

Raine held my hand. I kept my tentacles high to give us light. The Saye Fox rode on Zheng’s shoulders for a few paces, but then let out a soft yip — a request to be put back down. Zheng obliged and the Fox trotted along beside us, which was a very odd experience indeed. She didn’t move like a dog alongside her human companions, but darted in little bursts, ears swivelling, head high as she hunted for prey.

For the first couple of minutes nobody said anything. We walked in companionable silence. I started to wonder what would happen if I wasn’t present — would Raine and Zheng just walk on without speaking, communicating with body language instead of words? I sort of wished I could observe that without disturbing them or getting in the way. Would they do things with each other that they would never do around me? Probably not, but the idea was strangely exciting.

What was I thinking? Fifteen minutes ago I’d been preventing a murder. Now I was, what, horny? Was this some kind of emotional backlash?

We started to blush, of course. And nobody was saying anything to interrupt my thoughts. So they ran on and ran, until Raine and Zheng were having a hypothetical ‘fight’ in my mind, and then—

“Raine?” we said, desperate to break the silence. Our voice seemed so loud in the night. “Are the others really okay, back there at the farm? I feel like I’ve abandoned my responsibilities.”

Raine glanced at me as we walked. Her face was framed by the darkness, but lit from the side by the slow rainbow pulse of my tentacles — like we were in a nightclub. She was sweaty from the confrontation at the farm, with a pistol still shoved down the front of her jeans, her beautiful chestnut hair swept back and sticking up.

She chuckled softly and shook her head. “Heather, love, hey, you can’t take every burden on your shoulders alone.”

“But I’ve left everyone else with so much to deal with. Haven’t I?”

“Evee and Fliss and Jan are gonna deal with the cultists. No worries, Heather, seriously, I made sure of that before I left. And they’ve still got Praem, July, and Twil for muscle. They’ll be fine. The cultists will be on their way back home soon enough. Then Ben and Amanda are gonna sit indoors with Evee and Praem, until it’s time to head home with us. If we end up being out for too long, well, I can call Evee, Praem can take her home in my car, and then you can teleport me and Zheng back. Right?”

We blinked at her in shock, trying to process all of that. “You really did think of everything, didn’t you?”

Raine cracked a grin, beaming with confidence. “S’my job, Heather. Cover your blind spots.”

I sighed a big, sad sigh. “I feel like I wasn’t finished, back there.”

Raine reached over with her free hand and ruffled my hair. “You were. And you did well. Seriously, Heather, you gotta learn to delegate. There was nothing more you could do there. Squid-god needs to let her followers pick up the slack, right?”

I tutted and rolled my eyes. “‘Squid god’, really? Raine, I’m not literally Cthulhu. One of these days we’re going to leave somebody terribly confused.”

Raine laughed, less subtle than before. “Don’t let Evee hear you bring up the big unspeakable ‘C’.”

My stomach threatened to drop out through my pelvis. We nearly stumbled in shock. “Pardon? You mean Cthulhu? No, that’s fiction. Raine, don’t tell me Evee thinks it’s real, that’s just— no, absolutely not, I can’t deal with that. Vampires and werewolves, okay, maybe. The King in Yellow — um, maybe not the best example. But no. Not that. That’s not real. I refuse it.”

Raine shot me a teasing grin. “Nah, she just hates it.”

I pressed a tentacle over my heart. “Don’t panic me like that, Raine!”

“Didn’t mean to.” She shot me a wink. “Just cooling you down.”

Zheng rumbled, a few paces ahead of us, a wordless sound of agreement. Did she enjoy me getting all flustered as well? At least the Fox didn’t yip.

“So,” Raine said to Zheng, calling to the imposing wall of Zheng’s back. “Big girl. You missed a hell of a show today. Should’a come home earlier. Maybe you could’a gotten to chow down on a mage after all.”

“Mmmm?” Zheng grunted. A dark eye glanced back over her shoulder.

“Oh!” I said. “The dream! Of course, Zheng wasn’t there, she doesn’t know about all that.”

“Uh huh,” Raine said, rolling her tongue around inside her mouth. “Heather found a book, and we met Mister Joking all over again.”

Zheng stopped, framed by the towering trees. She turned and stared at Raine, eyes narrowed to dark slits. The Saye Fox bounded forward and nuzzled at one of her ankles, so she couldn’t have been radiating anger or menace. But she did loom so large and dark in the midnight shadows — and it wasn’t even midnight, it was barely past sundown.

“Yeeeeeeah,” Raine purred. “Thought that might get your attention.”

Zheng rumbled: “Speak, little wolf.”

Raine filled in what Zheng had missed. I listened, mostly passive, and realised just how absurdly busy the last couple of days had been: a complex trip Outside, meeting The King in Yellow again, getting introduced to Heart, locating and translating the manuscript about vegetable twins who had also been abducted by the Eye, going to see Twil — then the meeting with Yuleson this morning, our intrusion of Joking’s dream, and finally this confrontation with the last remaining dregs of the Sharrowford Cult.

I’d had a very long forty eight hours. Several of my tentacles agreed that after this, it was time for sleep. Lots of sleep.

Zheng listened, purring like a tiger; by the time Raine had finished, Zheng was baring her teeth.

“You allowed the wizard his freedom?” she rumbled — at me. “The clown escaped.”

I flinched a tiny bit. Raine squeezed my hand and Zheng purred deep in her chest, an I’m-not-angry-but-I’m-not-happy sound, a tiger letting you know that the food did not meet her approval, but she was not going to remove your head for the offense, at least not this time.

“Well … yes,” we said eventually. “Joking wasn’t a threat to us, not directly. We got what we wanted out of him with a deal, rather than violence. And I’m not sure we could have gotten that with violence anyway. It required his cooperation. Besides, I’m not sure I have any right to start designating every mage as a threat and then getting rid of them. That’s a dark path to start down, Zheng.”

She rumbled: “Alexander. Edward.”

I sighed. We hadn’t wanted to argue with her, but here we were. We said: “They were both direct threats to us, to all of us. To Lozzie, to you, to me. Dealing with them was right, yes. But applying that to everyone else? Zheng, I can’t do that. I can’t transform myself into judge, jury, and executioner for every mage we ever meet.”

Zheng bared her teeth in a silent refutation; I might not be able to do that, but she could.

“Besides,” we carried on before she could say anything more. “I thought you’d be more surprised by the revelations about the Eye.” Then I frowned. “Wait a moment. Zheng, you were present, in Joking’s dream memories. You were there when he spoke to the Eye through Alexander. I saw you in one of the side rooms.”

Zheng shrugged. “Mage filth was of no concern to me. Worms dragged me away when the howling started. I heard nothing. I concealed nothing from you, shaman.”

I actually laughed, almost embarrassed. “Oh, Zheng, no. You of all people are completely trustworthy. You didn’t seriously think I was doubting you, did you? I was just … curious … I … ”

Zheng tilted her head.

“You … you did doubt me?” We boggled at her. That hurt, deep inside my chest. Zheng didn’t think we trusted her, implicitly and totally? “Zheng, I—”

Raine spoke up. “Heather trusts you more than she trusts me. At least, I think she does.”

“R-Raine!” we squeaked, growing yet more mortified. “I trust you, too! I don’t put one of you ahead of the other. I don’t! I never—”

“The shaman has made me her puppy,” Zheng rumbled. “Trust — yes. Trust in judgement? Perhaps not.”

I winced. “Zheng, I thought we already … well … sort of … resolved this?”

Zheng grinned, wide and toothy — very Cheshire Cat, against the dark background of the night-shrouded trees.

She was toying with me, batting me about like a prey animal. I huffed and tutted and had half a mind to stamp my feet.

“Zheng! I thought you were being serious!”

Zheng kept grinning. “It is true, is it not, shaman? You do not trust my judgement, or you would not guide me from my prey.” She lost her grin and purred, deep and rumbly. “Mmm, perhaps that is the point. I have not considered this before.”

Raine said: “Sometimes you gotta tell Heather ‘no’.”

“H-hey!” we squeaked again. “Raine, what is that supposed to mean?”

Raine grinned at me. “It means sometimes you’re a bossy little brat and you need a good spanking.”

I hadn’t blushed so hard in weeks. Our face turned bright red from throat to hairline. We felt like steam would pour from our ears, our cheeks light up the night like an emergency rescue flare. My tentacles very nearly did, palette-shifting their rainbow-strobe pattern toward crimson blush, brightening and flaring as we all went very stiff.

Suddenly I was acutely aware that I was alone in the woods with a pair of predators — my lovers, certainly, my protectors, absolutely. But predators none the less. Several tentacles coiled with shivering anticipation. One limb crossed over our chest in a gesture of coquettish self-concealment.

Zheng rumbled deep in her chest, a sound of dark amusement. “The shaman needs a reminder?”

Raine stared into my eyes, lips curled with a dangerous grin, showing the edges of her teeth; had they always looked so sharp, or was I transposing Zheng onto Raine? Raine’s beautiful chestnut hair was framed by the darkness, by the shadows of the trees at her rear, a halo of night around my razor-sharp angel of muscle and meat and barely contained malice. A corner of her tongue slipped out between her incisors, poking at the soft pink of her lips.

“Maybe,” she purred.

“I- uh- I mean- um!” I struggled for words, suddenly breathless. Neither of them had moved, but I felt penned in, cornered, pressed against a tree trunk in the dark forest, all alone. Little Heather, you’ve wandered off the path and into the woods. You’ve allowed a pair of wolves to lead you astray, and now they’re going to ravage you, and you rather like the idea. Raine and Zheng are about to—

To what? Do the same thing we did in bed? Why was I so nervous? Why was my heart fluttering like crazy?

“I-it’s sort of … dirty … in the woods,” I managed to squeeze out. “Even though it’s dry. Because it’s summer.”

Raine cocked an eyebrow. “Heather?”

Zheng rumbled: “The shaman is in heat.”

“Z-Zheng … ” I hissed.

Raine just grinned wider. “I can see that part. She does make it obvious, don’t she?”

Zheng said, “The shaman thinks we are going to rut with her.”

Raine raised her eyebrows at Zheng. “We’re not?”

“Mmm. I am … still sore.”

Raine frowned. “Ah?”

I cleared my throat, desperate to de-escalate. “Y-yes! Zheng has a point. We can’t solve emotional problems with sex. Zheng, thank you, I love you and I do- I do- I do like it when— well, you know what I mean. But yes, you’re a bit emotionally sore and we shouldn’t be trying to solve this with sex.”

“Couldn’t hurt to try,” said Raine. “Actually, I think that would be the opposite of hurt. By definition.”

“Tch!” I tutted. “Raine! I’m being serious.”

Raine burst out laughing. Her voice carried off through the trees. “And I’m not! Did you seriously think I was gonna do you up against a tree, Heather?”

My face was busy turning several fascinating shades of rare scarlet; if this kept up I wouldn’t need my chromatophoric skin anymore, I’d just transform into a lobster. Not all of us — us Heathers — agreed, of course. Two of my tentacles found this a delightful notion, and wanted to reach toward Raine and goose her sides to encourage her onward. Another two were shivering with anticipation, paralysed, waiting for Raine to make a move. One of the tentacles we were using for light was easing her colouration toward a flirtatious pink; we dialled that back.

“I mean!” I squeaked. “I wouldn’t! Put it past you!”

Raine purred, almost as deep as Zheng: “Wanna try me?”

I squeaked, eyes going wide, feeling my knees give out. I almost said yes, but then—

Zheng took off like a boulder from a trebuchet.

She shot away to the left, one heel kicking up a little puff of dry leaves. I squealed and flinched, tentacles going everywhere; Raine actually jerked upright, one hand going for her gun. Zheng darted into the woods, between the trees, beyond the circle of gently pulsing tentacle light. Her coat whipped out behind her for a split second, and then she was gone, swallowed by the night.

The Saye Fox trotted up to the spot where Zheng had been standing, sat down on her haunches, and sniffed the air.

“W-what … ” we stammered. “What was— what—”

Raine cleared her throat and removed her hand from her pistol. “It’s nothing, Heather. Don’t worry. She had me going for a second there, but she’s just playing.”

We boggled at Raine, then at the Fox, then off into the darkness where Zheng had vanished. “How can you be sure? How can you know that? Raine?”

Raine laughed softly, almost but not quite embarrassed. “She moves differently when there’s a real threat. She would have let me know.”

“How?”

Raine shrugged. “She just would have done. That’s how we communicate. She’s brilliant in her own way, you know that?”

“Of course I know that,” I muttered, staring off into the darkness. “Is she coming back, or are we supposed to follow her?”

“Oh, no,” Raine said. She even cracked a grin. “If we were playing that kind of game, she would have announced the rules. Well, maybe bodily. But she’d announce them all the same. Nah, this is a solo thing. She’ll be back in a sec, if I’m right. Though, uh, brace yourself, Heather. It might be a bit grisly. Just hope it’s not a badger. Or a fox.” She glanced at the Saye Fox. “You wouldn’t like that, would you, Miss? Or should I call you Mrs?”

The Saye Fox just stared back at Raine with those glowing orange eyes, like little fires inside her vulpine skull.

“Suit yourself, then,” said Raine.

We all stared off into the dark. Raine turned out to be correct. Zheng returned a few moments later — carrying a dead squirrel.

“Oh!” I blurted out as soon as she stepped into the circle of light. “Oh, Zheng. Oh my gosh. Did you kill that just now?”

“Mm,” Zheng grunted. She stopped a few paces away and lifted her kill by the tail. It was grey and furry and very dead, all limp, little limbs hanging loose. I winced and had to look away. At least there was no blood.

Raine said, “Are congratulations in order? Or would that be like applauding you for heating up a microwave meal?”

“A clean kill,” Zheng rumbled on, without actually answering the question. “A broken neck.”

I said: “Zheng, please.”

“Shaman, it felt nothing but my hand. A moment of pain.” She sounded surprised.

“Still, I’m not sure I want to … ”

“You eat meat, shaman. Do you not?”

“That’s not the same,” I said, automatically.

Zheng rumbled with displeasure, almost offended. I blinked up at her in surprise. She was still holding the dead squirrel by the tail, framed by the night and the thick tree trunks beyond our circle of light. The Saye Fox had moved next to one of Zheng’s massive boots, her orange eyes glued to the dead squirrel. Ah, yes, she was a predator too, simply by nature.

Zheng was regarding me with heavy-lidded eyes, dark and distant; I wasn’t sure what that meant. Raine stayed diplomatically quiet.

“Zheng?” I said.

“The clean kill,” Zheng purred. “The quick death. The respect for the prey. This is less worthy than the slaughterhouse?”

A knot twisted in my stomach. “Ah. Well. No. When you put it that way, no, of course not.”

Zheng rumbled again, then raised the squirrel corpse and opened her mouth. I winced and averted my eyes again.

“Look at me, shaman,” she rumbled. “Or do you deny what I am for even a morsel of squirrel meat?”

“Zheng!” I huffed — but I looked up at her. “Of course I don’t! I just don’t want to watch you crunch down on a squirrel’s head, thank you very much.”

“You watched the beasts of the swamp devour their offering, their cow. Did you not, shaman? Am I not equally worthy?”

She was talking about the Shamblers, and how we’d fed them an entire cow’s carcass, tossed it into the swamp and watched them turn up to pull chunks off the bones. She had a good point — that was a much more grisly display than this. Much less blood, too.

“Of course you are!” I tutted again. “Zheng, why do you want me to watch you eat a squirrel? What is this actually about? It’s not as if you haven’t dumped deer carcasses on our kitchen table in the past.”

Raine cleared her throat. “Because you wouldn’t let her kill that mage.”

“Well, yes!” we said. “But why does that mean a random squirrel has to suffer?”

Zheng rumbled: “It did not suffer. I already told you that, shaman.”

I cocked an eyebrow at Zheng. “Is this meant to be a punishment of some kind? Zheng, I’m not actually squeamish, I’ve seen much worse than this, it’s just not … enjoyable to watch.”

Raine started to laugh. She couldn’t keep the grin off her face anymore. “You’re being real petty, big girl,” she said to Zheng.

Zheng purred and glanced off into the woods, darkly frustrated. 

“So,” I said. “You killed a random squirrel to make a point to me?”

“I would have killed it anyway, shaman.”

“Why?”

Zheng narrowed her eyes. “Because I am hungry.” She raised the squirrel by the tail again, then tossed it and caught it again so she was holding it by the torso. “Every piece of the body will be used. None wasted. This is respect, shaman. It is better than any mage deserves.”

“And the squirrel isn’t a mage,” we said.

Zheng stared at me in silence for a few moments. I had offended her on some level I didn’t fully understand.

Because I was turning my eyes away from what she was? From this core element of her fundamental nature?

This was an unwinnable argument. Even if I did not understand, I did not want to hurt her.

I wanted to respect her.

“Eat your squirrel,” we said after a moment. “I’ll watch. I won’t turn away. I promise.”

Zheng rumbled softly, then nodded. She lifted the dead squirrel to her mouth and ate her meal.

The process was both messy and loud — much louder than I’d expected. In death the squirrel had barely bled at all, but Zheng got blood and guts all over her hands as soon as she started dismantling the animal. She began by biting off the head and crunching down on the skull, eyeballs and fur and all. She had not exaggerated when she said no piece of the prey would go to waste — all except a small portion of the lower intestine, which ended up on the forest floor. I didn’t expect her to literally eat poo, so that was understandable. She crunched through bone, chewed up meat and organs, swallowed fur and skin and claws and sinew and all. She extracted a couple of choice cuts of meat from the hind legs as she ate, and dropped them for the Saye Fox. The Fox happily wolfed down her treats and then whined for more. Zheng obliged.

I kept my word. I watched the whole thing, from first bite to last morsel, all the way to Zheng licking the remaining scraps of sticky scarlet off her fingers. The iron-tang scent of hot, fresh blood filled the air, mixing with the leaf-rot and the living bark of the woods, muddied by the soil, given context by the green growth hidden in the darkness. Raine watched too, curious but not disgusted.

My stomach turned over as we watched — but not entirely with distaste; beneath the visceral dislike of watching a small mammal get pulled apart, I began to salivate.

My tentacles responded with the urge to sprout claws and hooks and spikes, not out of aggression, but with a kind of playful predation. Abyssal instinct woke and stirred inside my chest, whispering suggestions about finding a little hot juicy morsel of meat for ourselves. After all, I’d acted like that in the abyss, had I not? I was a predator too. We saw ourselves in Zheng, for just a moment.

We’d never felt this before — no, that wasn’t true. We had, but only in moments of extreme stress and violence, when the urge had been tied up with self-defence, or aggression, or peeling secrets out of human skulls. It had never before felt so normal.

Raine watched too. She watched me, as well. When Zheng was nearly done, Raine squeezed my hand. “Heather, you okay?”

I let out a shuddering sigh; Zheng had made her point — she and I were not so very different, even if that hadn’t been the point she’d wanted to make. I laughed awkwardly, and said: “Maybe I really should go vegetarian. Maybe it would be safer.”

Zheng popped a bloody finger out of her mouth. “Shaman?”

“Yes, I’m sure you wouldn’t approve, Zheng.”

“Mmmmmmm?” Zheng purred, turning her head sideways as she licked more squirrel blood off her palms.

“I mean, you eat a lot of meat. Entirely meat, actually, and if I was to—”

“The shaman’s choice is the shaman’s choice. It is the way.” Then she grinned. “Not that I would stop.”

“And I wouldn’t expect you to!” I squeaked. “That’s entirely beside the point.”

Zheng just grinned and rumbled a laugh deep in her chest. She finished cleaning her hands, then looked off into the darkness, in the direction we’d been travelling before we’d stopped. “Onward, shaman?”

“Onward!” Raine cheered, raising her hand and mine together.

“Onward, I suppose,” we agreed.

Zheng led the way once more, though closer than before; a rift between us had sealed. The Saye Fox trotted at her side. Raine and I followed.

We hiked up a low ridge, another undulating wave in the landscape of the woods, and passed below a towering clutch of massive trees, higher than the surrounding canopy. We descended into a little valley with a tiny, sluggish stream at the bottom; the water was black in the night, tarry-dark with silt and clay. Zheng left massive bootprints in the banks. Raine and I took the drier ground. The Fox vanished around a bush and then appeared on the other side of the stream somehow. Zheng paused to stare at the roots of a fallen tree, open like the mouth of a great beast in the loamy, sticky, dark earth. Raine pointed out mushrooms and gave them names and reminded us not to eat any of them — even Zheng, with her iron stomach and demonic immune system.

As we walked, I began to feel a strange new temptation.

The woods at night were not so different to the abyss, when looked at from the wrong angle. The trees offered handholds to climb, like ascending the water column in the deep darkness; could we use our tentacles to launch ourselves up into the canopy, fulfilling the latent suggestion in the bizarre combination of ape and cephalopod that we were? Probably, if we tried, and didn’t listen to the fear of falling.

Could I rush off into the woods like Zheng had done, and catch me a squirrel?

Maybe. If I was clever and fast and didn’t face-plant into the mud in the first five seconds. I doubted I could actually bring myself to kill a small mammal, I didn’t have it in me. Another paradox — I, who had killed human beings, and mages, sent them Outside and destroyed them utterly, was unwilling to wring the neck of one squirrel.

But then again, the squirrel hadn’t done anything to me.

Zheng was at home in the woods, almost as much as the Fox. I might be, if I was willing to try, or if I was pushed by need.

But Raine wasn’t, despite her confidence; she was a human being.

We spoke as we walked.

“So,” I said. “Raine, you said that Zheng needs to talk? That’s why we’re out here in the first place, isn’t it?”

Raine chuckled. “And you too, Heather, you’re all wound up.”

“Um, less wound up now that I’ve watched Zheng eat a squirrel, I think. I feel oddly better, actually. Centered? Mindful? Better, anyway.”

Zheng purred from up ahead: “I have talked.”

Raine said, “Not about what matters, big girl. No you ain’t. And you know you ain’t.”

We came to a jagged slope, a shallow hillside riven by bare earth; in any season but summer the short descent would be impossible, one would have slipped instantly, fallen on one’s backside, and slid all the way down the slope. But the heat had baked the mud to a rock hard crust. Zheng went first, descending in leaps and bounds. Raine and I picked our way more carefully. Raine kept a tight grip on my hand. I used my tentacles to give us an unfair advantage.

At the bottom of the slope was an actual footpath — not much more than a track through the leaves and the undergrowth, beaten by generations of human feet passing this way. To the left the path vanished into the darkness, winding between the trees; to the right was a tiny wooden bridge over a shallow stream — just a pair of naked planks, a single upright handrail, and a tiny, weathered, moss-encrusted National Trust signpost. The signpost was so old that the text was illegible, worn away by sunlight and rain and the tiny eaters of the woodland ecosystem.

Zheng was standing on the bridge, feet planted on the woods. The planks didn’t seem sturdy enough to support her weight. Her hands were in her pockets, chin raised, eyes narrowed. The Saye Fox was on the other bank, waiting for us to join her. I hadn’t seen her descend the slope.

Zheng rumbled: “What matters, little wolf?”

Raine cracked a grin. “What is this, Billy Goats Gruff? Are you the bridge troll, demanding your bridge toll?”

Zheng grinned back, toothy and sharp. “Yes, little wolf. Truth or dare.”

I sighed and tutted. “Really? We’re not thirteen year olds. Or characters in an American romantic comedy. Truth or dare? Zheng, what are you doing?”

“Dare,” said Raine.

“Leap the river,” Zheng purred.

Raine let go of my hand, took a couple of steps back, and narrowed her eyes as she judged the distance between the banks of the stream.

“Raine!” I squeaked. “It’s the middle of the night — well, evening — it’s dark, and getting cold, and that’s actual water! If you fall in you could catch cold. Or at least have a very soggy walk home! No, please, don’t.”

Raine flashed me a grin. “Hardly a river. Stream, at best. Can’t be more than six inches deep. And I’d leap that before breakfast, Heather. Here we go!”

Raine took a quick little run up — then jumped over the stream without issue. She landed neatly on the other side, raised her arms, and said: “Ta-da!”

Zheng rumbled approval. The Saye Fox went yip-yip.

Raine said: “Right. My turn, big girl. Truth or—”

“Truth,” Zheng purred.

Raine pretended to think, putting her chin in one hand and raising her eyebrows. I took the opportunity to cross the bridge, clearing my throat for Zheng to move. She ushered me in front of her and then joined us on the opposite bank. To our right, the woods crawled off up an incline, into the slimy darkness, hemmed in by overgrown ferns and bushes.

“Truth then,” Raine said. She pointed at Zheng. “Here we go. And you gotta answer, that’s the deal. Zheng — why’d you really run off to the woods after we finished off Edward? Does it have anything to do with little Grinny?”

Zheng stared for a moment, unreadable. “That is two questions.”

“It’s one question in two halves. Don’t you get clever with me.” Raine cracked a grin.

Zheng blinked slowly. She reminded me of a big cat, a tiger prowling the forests of the night. I didn’t want to touch her hands right then, not until she’d sanitised properly with some soap and water, but I curled one tentacle around her forearm, soaking up the inner heat from her body.

Zheng and I had already discussed this, however briefly. But this was Raine asking her the same question; it was not my place to answer.

“The child,” Zheng rumbled eventually. “Leaves me conflicted.”

We cleared my throat. “That was the exact same thing you said to me, Zheng.”

“Mm,” Zheng grunted

Raine said, “‘Cos you saved her, didn’t you?”

Zheng bared her teeth — not aggressive, just thinking. “The mooncalf protected her. The mooncalf saved her.”

Raine shook her head. “Lozzie may have thrown the lifebuoy, but Zheng, it was your words which made that demon try to swim at all. She would have clung to Eddy-boy all the way down otherwise. You peeled her off.”

Zheng said nothing. She just started into the darkness.

Raine was correct; when we’d had Edward cornered at last, his Grinning Demon — Grinny, the monster made from the corpse of his late wife — had clung to him, not out of love, but in a parody of devotion, a desire to be the one to kill him, to eat his flesh. Zheng had correctly deduced that Grinny would be unable to bring herself to strike the mage down.

Zheng’s words from that moment rang through my memories: “Look at me,” Zheng purred. “I am free. I am loved. You can have both.”

I cleared my throat gently. The night and the forest seemed to swallow the tiny sound. “Zheng, that was all you. Raine’s right. You freed her.”

Zheng still said nothing.

Was she — uncomfortable? I could hardly believe that. I’d seen Zheng angry, furious, smouldering, filled with lust, or hunger, or strange aggression, or purring with satisfaction, even sparring with Raine. I’d seen her cry over memories of her long-lost sister, or wallow in sorrow over her own past. But I’d never seen her so uncomfortable in such a basic way.

Raine said, “Never freed a demon before?”

“No,” Zheng purred.

“Oh,” I said, softly.

Raine was nodding. “Uh huh. Just never came up before, right? Because they’re always just tools, used by mages. Freeing them means killing them. But not this time. Why so different, big girl? ‘Cos she was so obviously being used? Never helped one of your own kind before, not … ”

Zheng lowered her gaze from the darkness and stared at Raine with all the intent of an ice-cold razor blade. Raine trailed off — not intimidated, but curious.

“Z-Zheng?” I said, feeling more than a little nervous.

“My kind,” Zheng echoed. “My kind were the people of the great forest. A tribe, in a land that no longer exists. Reduced to nothing by Rus and Mongol. My kind is gone, little wolf. Dregs may remain, but they are not mine. You know that.”

Raine took a deep breath and spoke two words in a language I’d never heard before.

To my ears they sounded like ‘kejta ilamat’.

To Zheng, they meant something more

Zheng stared at Raine like she’d seen a ghost. Her eyes widened. She froze.

“R-Raine?” I said. “What was that?”

Raine cleared her throat and managed to look sheepish, a rare treat from her, I was amazed.

“That was ‘I am sorry’, or ‘I apologise’,” Raine said, “in Tundra Yukaghir. Or at least it was the best I could do.” She turned her attention back to Zheng, and said: “I know, big girl, the linguistic drift since your time must be ridiculous, and I’m sure my pronunciation was terrible. There’s almost no books on it either, even dictionaries. I had to dig some digitized copies out from the university library’s academic access program — and those were in Russian, which I can’t speak either, so that was fun. Everyone who still speaks it for real sure as hell doesn’t speak any English, not beyond ‘okay’ and ‘hello’. I was actually trying to learn a few sentences. Was gonna surprise you, big girl. But I put my foot in it just now. You’re right — demons are not ‘your kind’. Your people were, well, a people, a long time ago. I apologise.”

Zheng stared and stared and stared. Perhaps it was the silence and shadows of the night, but I thought I saw tears shining in her eyes.

Then Zheng roared at the top of her lungs, splitting the night with a cry, and rushed at Raine.

For one terrible moment I thought Raine had caused such offense that my two beloved were about to come to real blows. The Saye Fox went yip-yip-yap. We almost lashed out with my tentacles to stop Zheng, or to shove Raine back — but some instinct stayed my hands.

Zheng swept Raine off her feet, like she might with me, so easy with those demon muscles. She laughed in a kind of triumph I’d never heard before, swung Raine in a circle, and put her back down. Raine staggered with the impact, laughing along with Zheng, blinking and blushing — which was very new and very exciting.

Before Raine could take a step back, Zheng put a hand on her head, fingers running through her chestnut hair, just like she would with me. “Little wolf,” she purred.

“Liked that, did you?” Raine panted, somewhat surprised by Zheng’s impromptu celebration.

“Thank you, little wolf. Your pronunciation was terrible. The words weren’t even right — the drift, yes, too far. But that matters not. Thank you.”

Raine grinned with success. Zheng, to my surprise and delight, leaned in and down, as if to kiss her.

But Raine ducked her head back, one hand up to stall the affection. “Woah, woah, big girl, hey. Hold off on that for now, hey?”

Zheng paused. “Mm?”

Raine laughed. “You just ate a wild squirrel. My immune system is only human.”

Mine’s not, I thought.

Our sevenfold heart flooded with sympathetic disappointment — how romantic and poetic and lovely it would be for Zheng and Raine to share a kiss, after that sweet gesture. Part of us wanted to see it, too; Top-Right was beside herself with glee. But Raine was only human. There was no telling what that wild squirrel may have carried in its flesh. Zheng’s demonic immune system would burn up any intruder, but Raine was only human.

Only human.

One of us made a suggestion — Bottom-Left tentacle, though the idea spread rapidly through us all in a flash of temptation and guilt.

What if we shared our immune system with Raine?

We felt the ghostly after-image of a bio-steel needle inside a tentacle-tip, like a bone inside flesh. We shivered and gulped with anticipation and need. Evee had told us never to do this, never inject a human being with this stuff, this tripartite soul-fluid distilled from the abyssal approximations inside our bio-reactor.

But then Zheng and Raine could kiss!

We weren’t that far gone. We clamped down on the notion — it was mad.

But it would make Raine more than human.

Make her able to withstand—

“That was a very lovely gesture, Raine,” I blurted out instead, to cover my growing horror.

Zheng grunted an approval, let go of Raine, and stepped back. She didn’t seem offended by the refused kiss. Raine just shrugged and grinned.

“The little wolf has a point,” Zheng purred. “The child — she needs a name. She needs one to take responsibility for her. She needs a sister, as I had. She has none. She has a friend, in the puppy. That is not enough.”

“Tenny?” I asked.

Zheng nodded. “I know her not. She knows me only as aid, a hand in the dark. But … mmmmmm.” She purred. “I will be the sister, this time? For a time, at least.”

Raine shot her a wink. “Spend some time with her. Just try it out.”

Zheng nodded.

They both seemed as if a weight had lifted from their shoulders, as if the distance between them had shortened, as if a gap had closed.

But now a weight had settled on me.

We’d been so busy the last two days that I’d avoided thinking about this. Even when I’d asked Twil the same question, or when I’d begun planning with Jan for the creation of Maisie’s body.

The fundamental question, the one we’d asked Raine again and again, which she had continued to answer by staying by our side.

But now it was real, less than two weeks away, if Evee’s preparation went to plan.

We could not bottle this up, not in front of these two; Raine was already beginning to frown at me, seeing right through my exterior. Zheng was cocking an eyebrow, the question forming behind her lips. If we could speak this nowhere else but amid the dark forest, we had to speak it.

We just blurted it out.

“Raine, Zheng,” we said, voice shaking slightly. “I don’t want you to come to Wonderland with us. Either of you.”

Raine frowned. “Heather?”

“Shaman,” Zheng rumbled. “You fear.”

“Of course I fear!” I said. “I keep trying not to think about it, but I’m terrified! I love both of you, and I don’t want you to die, or even to get hurt. And you just— you want— you want to be Grinny’s older sister, to give her something to cling to, as she grows? Good! Fine! Yes! But we might all be dead in two weeks. This might not work! Zheng, you’re really, really, really good at punching things, very hard. But what can you punch, out there in Wonderland? I don’t want you to die, I—”

“I am invincible, shaman,” Zheng rumbled.

I boggled at her. “You … ”

“As long as you live, I am invincible, shaman. There is nothing more to discuss. I will stand by your side beneath the gaze of whatever foe is before you. If you stand, I stand. That’s all.”

Raine said, “Heather, if you think I’m not coming with you, you’re having a laugh.”

I turned to her, trying not to let the lump in my throat grow any larger. The trees were so tall, the night so deep, and Raine so alive amid it all.

“Raine,” I said. “You’re only human. The rest of us going — even me, even Lozzie, or Evee — we’re all monsters, or mages, or supernatural, and you’re just … just you.”

Raine cracked a grin. “You think I give a shit?”

I blinked at her; she was radiating menace in that moment, rolling off her in waves. “R-Raine?”

“I don’t need to be a mage or a werewolf or a demon to kick every arse you wanna put in front of me, Heather. You wanna juice me up with that tentacle jab, don’t you?”

I blushed, bright-red scarlet, almost worse than before. My tentacles all tried to duck away, embarrassed, before realising that would plunge us all into darkness. “I-I-I didn’t say—”

“You have my permission.”

“ … Raine?” I could barely squeeze the word out.

“Not right now, not yet. But if I ever go down, or if I seem like I’m done — I mean, really, truly, fucking done — you’ve got permission.”

“But— Evee said— we don’t know what that might do, or—”

“I don’t give a shit,” said Raine. Her grin shifted, from aggressive to teasing. “Would it help if I said I want you inside me?”

“Raine!” I squeaked. I was almost crying. “I’m being serious, I-I’m terrified that you’re going to get hurt out there, I—”

“And I’m scared you’re gonna get hurt, so I’m coming with you. That’s all.”

We started crying, though only softly, driven by the devotion before us. Raine pulled us into a hug and kissed our forehead. We clung to her, shaking and shivering, rubbing our face on her shoulder. We stayed like that for a long time. We felt Zheng’s hand on our skull, a comforting warmth.

“Yip!” went the Saye Fox.

Raine and I parted softly. We both looked down at the orange vulpine eyes, glowing in the forest darkness.

“Nuh uh,” said Raine.

“Mmmhmm,” Zheng echoed.

“Sorry, pardon?” I asked.

Raine said, “She’s definitely not coming. The fox, I mean, no matter how worried she is about Evee. Outside is no place for foxes, however much they want to help. Right?”

Outwardly I laughed, a little giggle to dispel the fear; but inwardly I agreed more than I could voice.

Outside was no place for unaltered humans, however much they wanted to help.

Previous Chapter Next Chapter



Heather discovers her latent desires to be a woodland creature, Zheng shows off that she will eat raw meat and give no fucks, and Raine reveals she’s been learning a near-dead language as an act of devotional respect. There’s a lot going on here, but in the end Heather cannot escape the inevitable; everyone wants to help her, and they may not be capable enough to face the Eye.

Last chapter of the arc! I know, I know, it feels like it came out of nowhere, but I’ve had to adjust things behind the scenes a little. Arc 21 was getting gigantic, and if I kept it going until the planned starting point of arc 22, it would be the longest of the story so far. So, you can think of the upcoming arc 22 as the final stop before the rising climax which will be arc 23. Arc 22 will probably be quite short by comparison, maybe 5-6 chapters. But regardless, onward we go!

If you want more Katalepsis right away, you can get it by:

Subscribing to the Patreon!

All Patrons get access to two chapters ahead! No matter what level you subscribe at! That’s about 20k words at the moment. The more support I get through Patreon, the more time I can dedicate to writing, and the less chance of having to slow down the story or get interrupted by other responsibilities. The generous and kind support of Patrons and readers is what makes all this possible in the first place, I would literally not be able to do this without you; thank you all so very much! You can also:

Vote for Katalepsis on TopWebFiction!

This helps so very much! A lot of readers still find the story through TWF, which still surprises me. It only takes a couple of clicks to vote!

And thank you! Thank you for reading! I could not continue to write Katalepsis without you, all the readers and supporters. This story is for you! Thank you!

Next week – ah, no! Not next week, but the week after! Once again, a little reminder for anybody who missed the announcement last week: there will be no Katalepsis chapter on the 21st of October.  I am still doing my best to try to sneak one in anyway, and it might happen, but for now please assume that Katalepsis will resume on the 28th of October, as usual. Thank you for your patience, I’ll do my best. Back in time for the best part of the year, Halloween!

But when it does resume, Heather needs to get ready, get her boots on, and do the one thing she’s been avoiding all this time.

mischief and craft; plainly seen – 21.13

I know not everybody reads the post-chapter author note, so I’m putting this little note up here instead: there will be no Katalepsis chapter on the 21st of October. That’s two weeks from now. This is the first time I’ve ever actually planned to do this, on purpose, rather than the few times I’ve had to skip updates due to medical issues, so I want to give all the regular readers a good advance warning. I’m going to be spending that week helping a family member with going to hospital; I’ll still be writing, still be working on the story, but I cannot be certain of having a chapter prepared for Saturday morning. This week I am going to embark on a mad attempt to write two chapters in a single week, to see if I can buffer for it. But there’s no guarantee that will work, so I’m calling it now. I can promise that Katalepsis will be back as normal afterward!

Content Warnings

None this chapter.



Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Zheng didn’t even look at me.

We hadn’t seen her in days; she hadn’t seen me since I was half-comatose, lying insensible on my bed and sleepwalking to the toilet in the aftermath of a total pneuma-somatic crash. But she didn’t spare us a single glance. The dark slits of her eyes were fixed on a single person at that gathering, in the growing gloam of deepening dusk, beneath the suppurating sky, beyond the circle of shivering leaves. Her whole body was a coiled spring aimed at that one purpose, her intent written in the flex of muscle and tightening of tendon. One target, one cultist, one mage: Harriet Marsh, the Doctor, the older lady at the very front of the clutch of terrified faces.

A fox among hens, a wolf in the flock, a viper dropped into a pit of worms.

There was no time to negotiate, to call out, to shout, “Zheng, what are you doing?!”

We all knew exactly what she was doing, why she was here. Perhaps some of the ex-cultists didn’t comprehend quite so rapidly; maybe one or two of my allies didn’t fully grasp the situation. But they would soon enough, when the ripping meat and the spurting blood and the strangled screams started.

“Zheng!”

“—she’s gonna—”

“Zhengy no! Don’t!”

“-it’s the zombie, the zom—”

“Oh fuck, it’s her again.”

“Shoot her! Shoot her! Shoot—”

“—not doing shit—”

“—really? Now?”

The others started shouting regardless, even those who knew better, calling out warnings or challenges or just Zheng’s name. Weapons hesitated, mouths opened in gaping confusion, and nobody took charge. None of those shouts had time to finish; it was all too easy to forget just how very fast Zheng could move.

Zheng’s muscles coiled and bunched. She rocked back like a piston in a tube. Her lips peeled away from a razor-sharp grin.

And she pounced.

A lightning flash of rippling muscle and reddish-brown skin roared across the crumbly tarmac, coat snapping out behind her with a whipcrack sound. Hands spread like a raptor’s claws, face a mask of bloodstained joy in the drowning dusk, she was a living missile of murderous intent.

And we

saw everything

frozen!

all at

once

A moment of perfect clarity, before the blow had time to land. I’d experienced this before, when performing brain-math equations in the heat of panic and adrenaline and desperate need. But now, the moment seemed to hang, as if time was presenting me with a question.

Perhaps it was because I already had our tentacles outstretched, to make myself look big, to intimidate and impress the remaining cultists; we had accidentally created an array of perception, a ultra wide-angle lens on time and space and motion. Perhaps it was stress and anxiety and pressure, the need to help these people, poisoned by resentment and anger, mixed into a heady cocktail with the guilt of failing to live up to how I had defined myself. Maybe it was the echo of dream-logic from earlier in the day. Maybe it was because I’d been thinking about the Eye. Or maybe it was just the sky, the ‘Eye’ of our own little sphere, hanging in the void, lending me a brush of her perception as she stared down upon the bloody tableau about to unfold.

More likely it was just mathematics. After all, geometry, velocity, angles of impact, choreography — isn’t that all mathematics, in the end?

The group of cultists was gathered in front of me, dappled by the dying sun through the forest leaves; Harriet Marsh, Zheng’s target, was at the very front, sitting in one of the white plastic garden chairs. We were separated by about twelve feet of open space. She was gaping at Zheng, one hand clutching an arm of her chair, too slow and old and Eye-ridden to react.

The other cultists — all nine of them — were recoiling in horror, hens before the fox bursting through the wall. The little girl was beginning to scream. The one in the wheelchair had closed his eyes, resigned to fate.

None of them mattered — a harsh thing to admit, but it was true. None of them could help.

Praem was sprinting, skirts flying — but not toward Zheng. Praem had once proven that she was physically stronger than Zheng. Could she beat Zheng in a fight? Hold her off? Contain her? Who knows. But she wasn’t faster than Zheng. Praem was running for the little girl, Catherine, presumably to scoop her up and cover her eyes and ears, to spare her the sights about to unfold.

July — poor July, but she couldn’t think on the same scale as Zheng. She was simply not fast or ruthless enough. She pounced, but she aimed at where Zheng was, not where Zheng would be in the next quarter of a second. This was no play fight, no friendly wrestling match. This was not a game. Zheng was murdering a mage.

None of the others could make a difference either. Felicity’s finger coiled around the trigger of her shotgun, but she would have more luck hitting a butterfly in flight than Zheng on the hunt. Raine didn’t raise her firearm; I couldn’t blame her for that, she loved Zheng too, she wasn’t about to shoot her. Twil was turning on the spot, gone full werewolf, all tooth and claw, but she wasn’t fast enough either. Jan was shouting. Sarika was screaming — raw and rough. Amanda was mumbling some jumbled nonsense as bubble-servitors shivered and moved to intercept Zheng — but they were even slower, only just peeling themselves from the roof of the house. Sevens raised her umbrella as if to whack Zheng over the head with it, but what good would that do? Evelyn’s hands slid over her bone-wand, but she couldn’t crunch out the words quickly enough.

Nobody present could force Zheng to stop; nobody was fast enough to intercept her strike, or strong enough to bring her down, or willing to hurt her in the ways which mattered. Given time and proper motivation, the mages may have been able to contain her. Given permission and a free hand, Hringewindla’s bubble-servitors could perhaps have denied her some action, held her back, cut her off from her target. Raine and myself, if we’d been able to sit her down and talk this out, we might have convinced her otherwise.

All too late, all too slow. An ex-cultist was about to die, right in front of the others, in front of me, torn apart by one of my closest allies, my lover, my beautiful and unstoppable Zheng.

We saw a solution to several problems; we all agreed, all seven of us Heathers. This was going to hurt.

Harriet Marsh was twelve feet in front of us; Zheng was on the right, approaching at a right-angle. Lucky; the solution to this equation would not have worked if she had approached from any other direction.

We whipped all our tentacles down and back, coiling them into one giant muscular spring. My perception-array collapsed. Time resumed in a roaring rush.

Zheng was a blur of bronzed flesh and whipping coat and scything limbs. No human could have hit that moving target.

But we were not a human. We were seven squid girls. And we had a lot of extra neural tissue for running that calculation.

Hiiiissssss-scrwwwwaaaaak!

I leapt at Zheng like a squid at a shark, shooting from a crack in the rocks, beak snapping, tentacles whipping forward. Wait, did I have a beak? Not literally, but it felt that way, like I should be snapping a bony protrusion shut on Zheng’s flesh, nipping off pieces of her. But I did make the most awful noise with my throat, a screeching squawk which would have sent the cultists fleeing if they hadn’t already been falling over each other to get away from Zheng. If I’d had an ink-sac, I would have squirted the contents and filled the air with a cloud of darkness, fogging Zheng’s eyes and filling her mouth with sticky mucus.

It all felt very powerful. Very big and strong, very clever, very well done. Very sharp, little cephalopod.

What was this now, the third time I’d leapt at Zheng like this? I was making a habit of it. One would have assumed I might have learned a thing or two by then. But I hadn’t. No time to think, only to calculate!

I had failed to account for the fact that even with my tentacles fully manifested, I was less than a quarter of Zheng’s body weight.

She wasn’t just fast, she was big.

We slammed into her like a minnow into the flank of an orca. Our tentacles whipped around to find a grip, slipping off her coat, flailing for a handhold, desperate to hook around neck or waist or an arm. We speed-grew suckers to anchor ourselves to any exposed flesh. But Zheng was moving too fast and we were so very small. She could simply have kept going, brushed us off with pure speed, left us to complete our arc and crash to the tarmac among the cultists. Harriet Marsh would be dead before we even hit the ground.

But Zheng loved us very much; she was not willing to let us fall, to break our bones and graze our skin.

Zheng caught us like a rugby ball as we slammed into her. She stumbled sideways to stop me falling. Her redirected momentum carried us to the ground, together.

Zheng and I fell among the cultists, rolling on the crumbly asphalt; one huge hand cradled my skull to stop it cracking off the ground, while another cushioned my hip to prevent a fracture from the sheer speed of impact. Legs parted and scurried out of our way, voices yelped and screamed and fled, chairs toppled and scraped back.

We came to a halt with me on top, cradled against Zheng’s heaving, furnace-hot front. Zheng’s face was inches from my own, her lips peeled back in a furious snarl.

I started to croak her name through a twisted throat: “Zhe—”

But Zheng jackknifed to her feet; the world lurched around us. She stood up, let go of me — and to my horror and surprise — shoved me backward. Several pairs of hands caught and steadied me.

“Shaman!” Zheng roared in my face. “Do not deny me this!”

Zheng was angrier than I had ever seen before — which was saying something. Her eyes bulged from their sockets, the tendons in her neck stood out like steel cables, and she was coated in sudden flash-sweat, beads of moisture rolling down her forehead and matted in her dark, greasy mop of hair.

I flinched — an understatement, actually; I flinched so hard that my tentacles flailed, baffing somebody in the face and eliciting a growl of ‘ow, Heather, fuck’s sake’ from my left. I squeaked and squealed and tried to make my skin flush with warning colouration, but I wasn’t Outside, was not set up for that. Part of us wanted to hiss and spit. Middle-Left tentacle wanted to grow barbs and spikes and cover us in armour. Top-Right wanted to harden her tip and hold it out like a spear, to ward Zheng off. We did none of those things; our senses were still a-whirl after our unplanned leap and tumble, our minds still catching up with what we’d done.

Nobody seemed hurt, at least not physically.

Twil and Raine had caught us. The circle of cultists was scattered and broken by Zheng’s intrusion, but Praem and Felicity and Sevens were doing what they could to herd them all back together. Evelyn had gone white in the face, clutching her walking stick. Lozzie was biting her lower lip, sad and hurt by this in some way I didn’t understand. Several bubble-servitors had descended to the tarmac, but then just sat there, great big bubble-blobs unsure how to proceed. July just stood with her arms folded, glaring at Zheng as if disappointed. Soup — Nicole’s dog — was barking and growling at Zheng, while Nicole and Jan both tried to get poor Soup to calm down. Bernard, Amanda’s dog, did not seem too bothered. Benjamin Hopton had gone white in the face, eyes wide. Aym hadn’t moved, content to stay as a little lace-patterned pillar of night; but I thought I detected a nasty grin inside that darkness.

Zheng’s target, Doctor Marsh, was standing up, shaking like a leaf but looking defiant. Iron-grey hair was stuck to her forehead. Her chin was raised. She looked like she wanted to cry.

“Shaman,” Zheng rumbled when I did not answer.

Raine said, “Hey, hey, big girl? Cool the fuck down, right now. Don’t make me come over there and spank you one.”

Zheng ignored Raine, with eyes only for me. At least she was looking at me now.

Twil hissed through a mouthful of fangs: “Bloody hell. The fuck was all that about?”

“Heather,” Raine hissed to me. “Heather, can you talk to her? She’s going to snap if you don’t. Heather? Come on, you can do it. I believe in you, you can do it. Talk to her. Say something. Anything at all. Call her a bitch if you gotta.”

Raine’s belief buoyed me back up. I got my feet planted firmly beneath myself and spread my tentacles outward again.

“Shaman,” Zheng rumbled a third time.

“Zheng,” I croaked, trying to force my throat back into a human shape. I sounded awful, like something dredged out of a tar pit, or a 1970s rubber monster. “Zheng— guurk,” I coughed, then gave up. Zheng didn’t care. “Zheng, you can’t kill these people. I’m trying to protect them.”

Zheng stared at me like a tiger at bay, eyes bulging, mouth a sagging line of compressed fury. Her breath was like the exhaust of a coal engine; heat rolled off her in waves, a palpable burning behind her flesh; she quivered, vibrating with anger in every muscle.

It was easy to forget just how large Zheng appears; her size tends to fluctuate in my mind. I once measured her to get an accurate assessment — with her enthusiastic and amused consent. We used a tape measure, though she had to lie down, or I would have needed to climb up on a chair. Seven feet and two inches exactly, from soles to crown. She weighs approximately six hundred and seventy five pounds, almost fifty stone — and all of that is muscle, great slabs of muscle packed onto her massive frame, far denser than a human being of the same size. She is a titan dredged from the ancient world, giant and unyielding, and it is very, very difficult to stand one’s ground before her rage.

“Zheng,” I croaked again. “You’re—”

“Scaring you, shaman?” she rumbled. She was not amused. She was not playing.

“Well, yes. Y-yes, of course you are.”

Zheng leaned closer. I flinched and shivered. Raine swore softly under her breath. Twil growled deep in her throat, all wolf now, barely woman at all. Sunset’s glow glinted off Zheng’s dark eyes. The evening heat seemed to have fled. Even the insects in the undergrowth had gone silent. Zheng was a pillar of shadow with the last of the dusk at her back.

“Shaman,” Zheng rumbled. “I follow you — I venerate you — because you are the way. But do not deny me this. Do not ask me to do this.”

I swallowed, very hard and very dry. “Zheng, I told these people I would protect them against—”

“I care nothing about these worms!” Zheng roared.

She raised one arm and pointed past me and Raine and Twil, pointing at Harriet Marsh. The older woman flinched as well, blinking rapidly, shivering on the spot. But she did an admirable job of standing her ground — though that may have been due to Felicity’s shotgun at her side.

Zheng growled: “The wizard is mine, shaman. She forged links in my chains. She dies. Here. Now.”

We took a deep and unsteady breath. Were we on thin ice, here? Zheng had stopped her assault, but was she only humouring us, or was there a way to convince her not to do this?

And did I really care about some ex-cultist? Should we have simply let Zheng have her prey?

I glanced over at Doctor Marsh again. She was flanked now by Felicity on one side and Lozzie on the other, as if she might decide to do something rash. Evelyn stood a few paces further away, leaning heavily on her walking stick. She caught my eye and nodded.

“Harriet,” I said, trying to unchoke my voice. The lady flinched again. “Marsh,” I tried again, and sounded significantly more human. My throat hurt. “Doctor Marsh. Is this true? Are you a mage?”

Harriet Marsh blinked at me several times, like a sleepwalker slapped across the face. She mumbled, “I don’t— I— but—”

“She was!” croaked a familiar voice.

Sarika was sitting up in her own chair, glaring across the tarmac. Badger was trying to hush her, but too gently to have much success.

“Sarika?” I called back.

“She was,” Sarika repeated, quieter than before. “She was one of us. Taught. A little.”

Harriet stammered out her own answer: “Y-yes. Yes, technically. But I was never taught very much. Alexander took me under his wing, promised enlightenment and … and … knowledge.” She swallowed, struggling against something internal, blinking hard as if against a headache. “I retain bits and pieces, and—”

Zheng rumbled deep in her chest, drowning the woman out. “This wizard filth added to my chains.”

Zheng lifted the hem of her baggy grey jumper beneath her coat, showing her naked belly and flank, muscles rippling, dark skin coated in a sheen of sweat, brown-rose complexion glowing in the dusk. Her tattoos shone on her skin, a network of lines and circles and script crawling across her flesh, cut through by the circles I had removed when I had broken her chains.

She ran one fingertip across a looping line of esoteric letters; the script was cut off by my intervention, truncated by one of the circles of bare skin.

“Here,” Zheng growled. “I recall, shaman. I recall.”

“Zheng—” I said.

Harriet raised her voice, shrill and terrified: “I barely remember!”

Zheng rounded on her. “The shaman speaks! Silence, wizard!”

Harriet jumped so hard that Lozzie had to steady her. She glanced down at Lozzie, half-nodding a thank you — but Lozzie stuck her tongue out with a little acid wiggle of her nose. I had a feeling Lozzie would not mourn if Zheng killed any of these ex-cultists.

I said: “Let her explain herself, please. Doctor Marsh, is this true, did you assist in controlling Zheng?”

Harriet looked at me, at an utter loss. “Maybe? In truth, Miss Morell? I do not recall. My mental faculties are not what they used to be. My brain, my thoughts, my … self, is all falling apart.” She blinked back tears. “I-I may have held an inkwell and a design sheet, while … M-Marcus? Was that his name? I can barely fix my late colleagues in my memory. Marcus. While Marcus added to the zombie’s bindings. Maybe.” She shrugged, thin shoulders going up and down beneath her unwashed pullover. “The last year is a blur. I do not know.”

“I do,” Zheng rumbled.

“Zheng,” I sighed.

“The wizard is mine,” Zheng grunted.

“Zheng!” I snapped, losing my patience at last. “Does that mean you’re going to kill Sarika, too? Or Nathan?”

Zheng looked down at me with dark and boiling eyes. “Shaman.”

“You let Sarika live,” I said. “You haven’t torn her tongue out and broken all her fingers. Have you changed your mind? Or does that only count for mages I haven’t dealt with?”

“The worm-rotten ruin is of no—”

“She’s still a mage,” I said. “I assume you mean Sarika.”

“She is broken.”

I pointed at Harriet. “And she’s not? She can barely stand on her own feet. All of these people are broken, Zheng. If they wanted to be a threat to us, they would have tried something already. I doubt any of them will be doing magic ever again, not with what’s been done to their minds.”

Zheng rumbled, glaring at me. Her eyes were like twin pits of hot tar, thick and dark and roiling with rage. The sunset was deepening, plunging us all into the long shadows of the forest.

“Shaman,” she said. “You deny me this.”

I flapped my arms and several tentacles, helplessly. “Why did you wait?”

Zheng tilted her head, jaw still clenched, eyes narrowing to shadowed slits. “Shaman?”

“Your phone has been off for days, Zheng.” I felt my temper boiling over; felt words bubbling up that perhaps I should not say, but all of us were getting angry now. “You could have been part of the planning process for this meeting. You could have added your own stipulations, or warnings, or told me this might happen. Were you waiting and watching in the woods just now? For how long? Were you stalking us without revealing yourself?”

Zheng tilted her head the other way. One massive hand slipped inside her coat and extracted her mobile phone — a little dirty, but intact. She pressed the power button, but the screen stayed dark.

Raine said: “Needs charging, big girl.” She did not sound amused.

Twil winced. “Seriously? Fuckin’ ell.”

I repeated myself. “Zheng, that wasn’t a rhetorical question. Were you waiting and watching, from the tree line?”

Zheng’s eyes flickered back up to me, impassive and blank, like a shark in the deep. “Shaman.”

“Because you could have joined us!” I snapped. “You could have walked up to me and said ‘Oh, Heather, by the way, that one is a mage, can we kill her later?’” I glanced around at the other cultists, at Harriet trying not to shiver too hard, at the faces of my friends — Evelyn was wincing in slow-motion. Praem was carrying the little girl — Catherine — against her hip, like a much smaller child, arms supporting her weight beneath her legs, her face buried in Praem’s shoulder. I cleared my throat and hurried to add: “I mean, don’t worry, I don’t think I would have said yes to that either, frankly—”

“Shaman,” Zheng rumbled. “I am not your hound—”

“No, Zheng, you’re my equal. That’s the point! You’re one of us. Part of my family. So, what was this? You waited until I was done taking responsibility for these people, and now you expect me to just let you murder one of them in front of everyone?”

Zheng let out a long, slow, rumbling breath, like a living engine of steel and flame. She had eyes for nobody but me. Boring into my flesh, staring me down, trying to spook me or force me back or make me look away. Once I had been a rodent before a snake, transfixed by power and beauty and the threat of violence — and muscles and boobs, I won’t lie — but there and then I stared back at Zheng, beneath the darkening sky, both of us drenched in bleeding shadows, coated in sweat, tired and angry. I would not look away, no matter how much I wanted to hide behind Raine.

The others faded away; it seemed like there was nobody in this twilight world but Zheng and I.

Zheng purred, low and deep, “You will forbid me, shaman?”

“No,” I said.

Zheng’s lips curled into a more familiar expression, a face-splitting grin of deep satisfaction, showing her shark’s teeth and a hint of long, flickering tongue. The dying sunlight caught her face from far away, flame-lit and falling. “Shaman. You still understand—”

“I can’t ‘forbid’ you from anything, Zheng. I don’t control you. I can’t order you about, or tell you what to do, because you’re not my slave. You’re my friend and my lover. I can’t stop you from killing that woman. None of us can. The choice and the power is all yours. But I will be … incredibly disappointed in you.”

Zheng’s grin died. She pulled her lips back in — disgust? At me?

“These worms are nothing,” she purred. “You owe them nothing.”

I sighed. “So you were listening to my little speech? Yes, Zheng, I don’t owe them anything. You’re right. But I’m choosing to take responsibility, even if it’s not mine to take. Nobody else can. Nobody else will. They don’t deserve it, certainly. But does that little girl there deserve to be stuck like this?” I gestured at Catherine, in Praem’s arms, though I could barely see them in the dying light of sunset’s end. “Do any of them deserve the Eye? No.”

“You made no oath, shaman. You—”

“Well then I’m making one right now!” I said. “At the very least — the very least! — they can die free. Not with their souls bound like this. You of all people should understand that, Zheng.”

A low blow. I almost winced.

Zheng drew in one great heaving breath — and took a step backward.

Framed by the distant line of darkening trees and the soupy-thick shadows of the fields, she sank into the gloom, becoming part of the gathering night. Her head dipped, her shoulders slumped, her eyes went slack and slow.

A surrender. But in shame? Not what I had intended.

I opened my mouth again to speak some plaintive nonsense — but Doctor Harriet Marsh spoke before I could call out to Zheng.

With spluttering defiance and an arrogant huff, she said: “This is a set up. An obvious little play, to win our trust.”

Everyone looked at her — well, everyone except Zheng, who had eyes only for me. Raine sighed, Twil snorted and shook her head. Evelyn looked disgusted. Over by Soup and Nicole, Jan winced and grimaced and braced as if about to get splattered with gore. Most of the other cultists looked sceptical and fearful.

As well they should, because I lost my temper.

Before we even knew what we were doing, we whipped out a tentacle and wrapped it around Marsh’s throat; her hands flew to her neck, her eyes bulged with panic, and she let out a terrible spluttering wheeze. I didn’t actually squeeze — I wasn’t genuinely choking the poor woman, I didn’t know if we had it in us to do that — but we gave her one hell of a fright, then dialled it up past eleven by screeching at her.

“Shut up! Shut up before I change my mind and feed you to Zheng!” I said — or tried to say. The words were not entirely human.

I think she got the gist of it though.

Then I let go and shoved her back. Luckily Felicity was there to catch her.

I was quivering with anger, struggling to control myself, but equally embarrassed by my ugly little outburst. The little girl was sobbing into Praem’s shoulder, shaking and shivering and panting. Had I caused that? The other cultists were exchanging awkward looks, terrified and skittish. Harriet was rubbing her throat. A hand squeezed my shoulder, Raine whispered words close to my ear, but we couldn’t take them in. Twil raised her hands and said something to the cultists, but I was miles away.

The sunset was ending; the exterior lights of Geerswin Farmhouse finally started to flicker on, flooding the crumbly asphalt with harsh electric light. This had not gone how I had wanted.

And Zheng — my beautiful demon — turned away from us. She vaulted the fence in one smooth flowing motion of muscle and fabric, and then stalked across the dry-baked field, her feet sinking into the shadows, returning to the woods.

“No … ” we murmured. “No, no, no, this is all wrong, I … ”

The others were gathering themselves. The cultists shuffled closer to each other, like droplets of water joining together. Faces were looking to me for direction, so many faces, so many little expectations, watching me for cues, for promises, for which way to jump next. And not just the cultists — ex-cultists, now? — but my friends too. Evee, watching to see what I did; Sarika, eyeing me with silent judgement; Amanda Hopton, seeing with the eyes of her curious and distant god; Lozzie, biting her bottom lip and looking at Zheng’s rapidly retreating back; Seven-Shades-of-Sinking-into-the-Shadows, with her subtle nod of acceptance that I’d done the right thing.

Had I?

I was stuck, with words jammed in my throat, the soles of my shoes glued to the tarmac.

And then, clarity whispered in my right ear.

“Hey, Heather. Hey, hey, love. Go after her,” said Raine.

We turned to face her. Raine was lit from the side by the exterior lights, harsh and washed out. We blinked and realised we were almost crying; Raine raised her eyebrows, so full of meaning.

“W-what? Raine?”

Raine nodded sideways, after Zheng’s retreating back; she was almost at the distant tree line, a slightly more coherent smudge of darkness against the night beneath the canopy.

“Zheng,” Raine said. “Go after Zheng, hey?”

“B-but what about—”

Raine cracked a grin. “We’ll handle the stragglers. Hey, you’ve already made your point. Said what you meant to say. Brilliantly, too.”

“I don’t think I did,” I whispered.

“You did. Now, get after our big girl before she vanishes for another week.”

“But what if she wants to be alone? Raine, I-I think I hurt her—”

“Heather, I love you, but you’re daft as a bat sometimes. If Zheng didn’t want to be followed, she’d be moving a damn-sight faster than that.” Raine shot me a wink, pushed my shoulder to point me after Zheng, and gave me a — thankfully covert, in front of all these people — pat on the bum. “Get after her. For me, too.”

On the far side of the field Zheng melted into the tree line.

I ran for the fence, and I didn’t look back.

Behind me, I heard Raine turn around and raise her voice: “Okay, ladies and gents, listen up! Heather’s gotta go fix that little mess, but we’ve got a few more things to talk about. Evelyn Saye right there wants to inspect you for other magical phenomena, and all of you have something to say to our Loz—”

But I wasn’t listening; I was chasing Zheng.

I didn’t leap the fence. I clambered over it awkwardly and dropped to the other side, cushioned by my springy tentacles; we could have launched ourselves over the barrier, but we weren’t quite as flush with emergency adrenaline as earlier, and we didn’t want to risk an awkward landing in the uneven, rock-hard, sun-baked field, or end up with a broken ankle in a rabbit hole. We landed on the grass, picked myself back up, and crossed the field at a run.

Down in my gut, my bioreactor woke up, thrumming with energy. We were running?! Gosh, we did not do that, as a rule. Heathers might have six tentacles but we were still not very athletic. This would leave me huffing and puffing very soon indeed.

Zheng was long gone now, a shadow among shadows soaked into the great cloying mass of the woods. The last of the sunset was still blazing and bleeding just beyond the forest, a final ragged slash along the treetops, and the exterior lights of Geerswin Farmhouse were flooding the tarmac courtyard with electric brilliance — but out here, on the edge of the wood, I may as well have been staring into an ocean trench.

We scurried over the exterior fence without pause, then plunged past the limits of the farm, beneath the silent sentinels of the bubble-servitors high up in the treetops.

Beneath the woodland canopy, beyond sight of the sky, we dived into premature night.

Leaves shivered in the summer night’s wind. Gnarled roots clawed for my trainers. Skeletal branches plucked at my hair. The trees were thick and ragged in every direction, mute giants towering in the darkness. Undergrowth coiled and curled about their skirts in hanging fronds of fern and trailing ends of ivy. The air was thick with rotten smells, with the scent of bark, the dust of high-summer earth, the verdant reek of leaf and sap and decomposing muck. This was true old-growth woodland, nipped at the edges by human hands, but with the heart untouched in a thousand years.

I blundered deeper.

“Zheng! Zheng! Wait for me! Zheng!”

For an unaltered human this would have been very foolish. The woods were just as lonely and dark as they were a thousand years ago; true, there was probably a road within fifteen minutes walk in any direction, but that wouldn’t help if you tripped on a root and broke an ankle, or didn’t have a torch or a phone to see by, or wandered in circles until morning found you exhausted and thirsty and weeping, curled up in a ball. Being alone in the dark in the woods is frightening — it taps deep into the ape brain we all still share, populates every shadow with unseen predators, screaming at you to get out, get clear, get to somewhere with better sightlines, find friends, find fire, be silent, don’t make a sound.

But I was not just a human being, not any more. I was a little scared, how could I not be? But there were seven of us inside me, and apart from Zheng I was probably the scariest thing in these woods. I was half-tempted to slip my squid-skull mask back on, but what did owls and foxes care for that? My tentacles protected my ankles from unseen roots. If the worst came to the worst, I could always Slip out to Camelot and then home. And I could almost smell Zheng among the trees — her unique spice of sweat and heat called to me.

But I couldn’t bloody well see her. It was extremely dark. Stupidly dark. When I looked back over my shoulder I could not see the lights of Geerswin Farm anymore.

Deep in an abyss. Just how I liked it.

“Tch, Zheng! I can’t— oh, wait, here—”

And for light, I had my phone. I got halfway to fumbling it out of my pocket before I realised I didn’t need it.

“Oh, Heather, Raine is right, you are very daft sometimes,” I said to myself, as I raised two tentacles and turned up the brightness of their slow rainbow-strobe. The bioluminescence pushed the darkness back.

It was worth the risk. There were unlikely to be any mundane walkers out and about in the middle of these trackless woods, in the dark. And if there were, then I would wager they were up to no good, and probably deserved the fright of seeing a six-tentacled rainbow-glowing lesbian squid-girl among the trees.

“Zheng!” I called out. “I’m not leaving without you!”

A rumble replied from up ahead. I breathed a sigh of relief; if Zheng had sprinted off, I had no way of keeping that promise.

I skirted a particularly thick holly bush which was covered in nasty sharp thorns, worked my way around the thickly gnarled boughs of two massive trees, and emerged onto a low ridge which ran through this part of the woods.

And there was Zheng, sitting cross-legged on a wide, flat rock which jutted out from the apex of the ridge, less than six feet away from me. We were almost eye level with each other — she was still a little taller, due to the angle of the ridge.

“Zheng,” I sighed. “There you are.”

Her eyes were closed, her reddish-brown face lit by the slowly shifting glow of my own tentacles, framed by the dark trees. Her hands rested in her lap. She looked ready to meditate, or pronounce wisdom, or sit there for a hundred years. Her coat trailed off into the shadows behind her. 

“Shaman,” she purred. She didn’t sound angry any more. I wasn’t sure if that was a good sign.

“Yup,” I said, feeling very lame. “That’s … that’s me.”

We fell into awkward silence. Wind rustled the forest canopy, far above our heads. I looked up and took a deep breath, trying to think of what to say. My tentacles had plenty of suggestions — hug her, slap her in the face, start hooting and shouting, go sit in her lap, tell her we love her (which was the truth and the whole truth and never would be otherwise), fling ourselves at her again, and a dozen other less useful courses of action.

“Zheng,” we said eventually, looking at her again. “I didn’t mean to humiliate you, back there. I meant what I said, I-I have no right to even attempt to control you. I wasn’t. I was just trying to save that woman’s life, even if she doesn’t deserve it, perhaps especially because she doesn’t—”

“You have made a puppy of me, shaman.”

I winced. Zheng didn’t sound resentful, or angry, or upset. It was a statement, nothing more.

“Well … maybe it’s not so bad to be a puppy?” I said.

Zheng cracked open one eye. I blushed and sighed.

“I-I mean, sometimes!” I added. “If you like the feeling! Not always. Not permanent puppy-mode. Sometimes you can be a puppy, sometimes you can be a big scary tiger. It’s up to you, Zheng, not me.”

Zheng rumbled and closed her eyes again. I had the distinct sense I had fumbled that.

“Puppies are still dogs,” I muttered, more to myself than her. “Still nature, red in tooth and claw.”

Zheng’s brow twitched. Her lips curled upward with approval. She purred, the sound rumbling off into the darkness. “Red in tooth and claw. Mmmm. Praem said that once, also. Poetry?”

I blinked, surprised that Zheng had used Praem’s actual name. Was that a special marker of respect? It wasn’t the time to ask, however.

“Tennyson, yes. The poet, I mean.”

Zheng grinned, amused. “Tenny-son?”

I sighed and crossed my arms over my chest; without the lingering heat of the sunset, the air beneath the canopy was growing cold and cloying, damp and dank. My bioreactor responded with a flush of warmth from deep inside my abdomen, but my shoulders and scalp still felt chilly. I wished I was wearing my hoodie.

 “No relation to our Tenny,” I said. “And I actually don’t like the part of the poem that line comes from. It’s all about the contradiction between a beautiful world created by God, and the grisly reality of nature. As if real nature isn’t beautiful, too. As if predators aren’t … divine.” I stared at Zheng and sighed a very big sigh. “Oh, I have caged you, in a way, haven’t I? I’m … I’m sorry, Zheng.”

“There is nothing to apologise for, shaman.”

“There kind of is. Look, Zheng, maybe you’re correct. Maybe once I’ve freed those people from the Eye — assuming that even works — maybe once it’s all over, maybe the mage, that Harriet woman, maybe you should … you know … ”

Zheng lost her amused grin. “Feeding me your table scraps.”

We winced again. “Not what I meant! That’s not what I meant at all! Oh, Zheng. I feel like I’ve neglected you.”

“You have not, shaman. You have changed me.”

“For the better? You don’t seem very happy about it.”

Zheng rumbled a big sigh, her massive chest and shoulders rising and falling as the sound crawled off into the forest around us. We could feel the heat coming off her, like a stone left out in the summer sun, radiating all her stored warmth into the dark. We longed to crawl into her lap and cuddle up to her, but we felt as if we didn’t have the right. Not then, not yet, not in the middle of this.

Zheng did not have a chance to answer, however, as an unexpected visitor glided out of the woodland shadows.

Russet fur and black-tipped ears slid into my circle of rainbow-strobing tentacle-light; silent, elegant, precise little paws padded across the carpet of decomposing leaves; orange eyes glowed like firelight in the darkness. Sleek and glossy and very well-fed, her little face preternaturally aware of myself and Zheng, showing neither fear nor caution.

“Oh!” I squeaked in surprise. “It’s— it’s the fox! The Saye Fox! Hello?”

“Yip,” she went, very softly.

Zheng cracked her eyes open and turned to look as well. The Saye Fox — for she could be no other, and I would recognise her anywhere — trotted up to us, completely fearless. She hopped onto the low rock where Zheng was sitting, then directly into Zheng’s lap. She curled up on one of Zheng’s massive thighs and rested her head on Zheng’s knee.

Zheng chuckled, low and amused. She reached down and scratched the back of the fox’s neck. The Saye Fox went: “Yerp-ip.”

“Perhaps it is not such a bad thing, shaman,” Zheng rumbled, thoughtful and quiet. “I return a little to how I was before, with my little bird.”

I couldn’t conceal my sigh of relief. “Still. I’m sorry, Zheng. I have neglected you.”

“No more apologies, shaman,” she said. She was very focused on petting the fox. A luxury very few humans could say they had ever enjoyed.

“Well, okay then,” we said. “You should really, really speak with Lozzie too, by the way. I could tell she was seriously worried about you. She cares about you a lot, Zheng, she gets worried when you’re upset.”

“Mm,” Zheng grunted. “The mooncalf’s love means much.”

“It certainly does,” I said. I glanced down at the fox. She’d closed her eyes in deep contentment. “Have you been hanging out with the fox for the last couple of days? Is that why you’ve been out in the woods?”

Zheng didn’t answer for a long moment. “She lurks here and there. Wherever she wishes.”

“ … that … wasn’t an answer to either of my questions, Zheng. But you don’t have to, I think. I-if this is something private. I don’t … ”

Zheng raised her head and gave me a level, blank stare. “Shaman.”

“Zheng?”

“I conceal nothing.”

“I wasn’t claiming you were, I just … you seem so … I … ”

Zheng let out a low rumble. “The child leaves me conflicted. The woods are good for thinking, or perhaps for not-thinking. For doing, without thought.”

I blinked at her, framed by the darkness. “The … child? I’m sorry, Zheng, but who are you talking about?”

“The mage-wrought demon-child. The young one, who cannot speak well, but who yearns for my name.” Zheng sighed, a big rumbly sound in the darkness, and returned her attention to the Saye Fox.

“Oh,” I said. “You mean Grinny.”

Zheng grunted.

“You don’t like that name?” I asked. “It’s only provisional.”

“Names have power, shaman. They build and they bind. They stick where they should not. They get into cracks, then work themselves free and damage more than their weight has right to. Like grains of sand between the teeth.”

I winced; what a gruesome metaphor. “Then why not name her yourself?”

Zheng looked up at us, surprised; it was rare to see her surprised, eyebrows raised, eyes widened. She said nothing.

“Grinny likes you,” we explained. “That’s why she likes your name. Probably because of how you helped rescue her. We can’t just call her ‘Zheng Two’ or something. Well, I suppose we could, if she really wanted. But maybe you should give her a name, maybe she’ll like that, maybe it’ll give her somewhere to start. You could even give her a list of suggestions and let her pick.”

Zheng stared at me in silence for a long, long moment. Wind rustled through the treetops far above. A bird called in the distance, perhaps an owl.

“I’ve never … ” Zheng mumbled.

But then she raised her eyes from my face and looked over my shoulder. The Saye Fox stood up suddenly, hopping out of Zheng’s lap, her ears pricked up.

I glanced over my shoulder as well; a thin light was poking through the trees, bobbing, swaying, making its way toward us.

“Be calm, shaman,” Zheng purred. “It is only—”

“W-who’s there?!” I stammered out.

“Only me!” came a confident reply; it was Raine.

She joined us seconds later, stepping out of the trees, holding her mobile phone in one hand. She cracked a grin when she saw that I was lighting up the area with my tentacles, and switched off the flash-light function on her phone. She looked flushed and excited, perhaps from wandering in the dark, but she’d also left behind her equipment — her firearm and her home-made riot shield. She still had her pistol jammed into the front of her jeans, but otherwise Raine was empty-handed.

“Raine?” I said.

“Little wolf,” Zheng rumbled.

Raine grinned at both of us. “If you go down to the woods today,” she said in a sing-song voice as she stepped forward. “But hey, you two are much more exciting than a teddy bear’s picnic, right?”

I stumbled back.

“R-Raine?”

Raine was totally focused on Zheng — and brimming over with anger of her own. She grinned, she flexed, she didn’t show it in the same way, but it was written in every muscle and tendon, in the way she stepped slowly toward Zheng, sitting on her flat rock. The Saye Fox scampered out of the way too, and coiled herself around one of my ankles.

Zheng just stared.

Raine walked right up to her, still grinning. They were about level with each other. “Hey there, big girl.”

“Little wolf,” Zheng purred.

Without warning or challenge, Raine reached out and bunched a fist in the front of Zheng’s jumper, like she was getting a good grip for a judo throw, or was about to pull her other fist back and punch Zheng in the face.

“Raine!” I squeaked. “Don’t—”

But both of them ignored me.

Raine said. “Stand up.”

“I will tower over you, little wolf.”

“That’s the point. Stand the fuck up.”

My throat closed up as I watched. Zheng stood, towering over Raine, though Raine kept her grip on Zheng’s jumper. Then Raine tugged, as if to jerk Zheng’s head back down to eye-level. Zheng didn’t move, she just raised an eyebrow.

“Play along, big girl,” Raine growled.

Zheng said, “Why?”

“Because I’m real fucking angry with you. Because you and I have a deal. Because you’re not just Heather’s, you’re mine too.”

Zheng grunted deep in her chest, and to my incredible surprise she lowered her head, allowing Raine to drag her downward. They stared at each other, locked inches apart.

Then Raine said: “You wander off into the woods, for days. You don’t answer your mobile phone. You don’t let anybody know what you’re up to. When you do come back, you’re ready to murder, and you’re tunnel-visioned right on that, nothing else—”

“Little wolf,” Zheng rumbled.

“And I don’t disagree with any of that,” Raine said. She grinned again.

“R-Raine?” I said, surprised.

“Hell,” Raine went on. “I kind of agree with you, actually. Heather shouldn’t be fixing mages. Probably better to kill that woman, safer for all of us.”

Zheng started to grin too.

But then Raine said: “But that’s not the point, big girl. You wanna know why I’m so angry with you?”

“Yes, little wolf.”

“Because you didn’t even say hi to me. Not a nod. Not a word, back there. What are we to each other, huh? Are you bullshitting me? Heather’s your shaman, sure, I get it. But you and me, big girl. This isn’t like what Heather and I have. You know that.”

Zheng grinned even wider. “You are jealous of the woods, little wolf?”

“Jealous isn’t the right word. And it’s not the woods.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, at such close range, close enough to touch — or to kiss. Both of them were grinning, Raine with burning confidence, Zheng with dark predatory intent. Zheng even parted her teeth and slid her massive tongue out for a moment, then snapped it back with a flicker of wet red motion. But I felt like they were about to strike each other. About to clash with knife against fists, like they did once before.

Then I realised: both of them were loving this.

I was vibrating so hard I thought I was about to pass out. Several of my tentacles suggested we sit down, and quickly. The Saye Fox was frozen against one of my ankles. I don’t think she was enjoying the show in quite the same way.

Then, Zheng sighed. “My apologies, little wolf.”

She leaned forward. I thought she was about to kiss Raine on the cheek, but instead she closed her teeth gently on the edge of Raine’s jawbone. Raine laughed and let her go. They both straightened up and stepped back.

“The shaman is about to overheat,” Zheng said.

Raine laughed and glanced at me. “You alright there, Heather? You are looking a bit flushed.”

“As if I could possibly help that!” I squeaked. We all flailed, tentacles going everywhere. The Saye Fox darted back over to Zheng, who scooped her up in her arms and placed her on her shoulder, where the fox coiled around the side of Zheng’s neck quite happily. “You two looked like you were about to— to— oh, I don’t know!”

Raine laughed. Zheng just purred, seemingly mollified at last.

I sighed and huffed and tried to clear my collective mind. “Raine, what about the others? What’s happening back there?”

“Not much,” said Raine. “Evee’s doing some stuff with them, then they’re all off. Meeting over, Heather, you made your point. Praem’s talking to the kid, doing what she can. We might have some ideas there, but nothing you can act on right now. There’s nothing more to do. Everyone else has it under control. This was more important.”

“This?” I said.

“You and me and Zheng.”

Zheng grunted a soft agreement and turned to stare off into the woods. “We agree, then, little wolf. We go hunting.”

“Excuse me?” I said, bewildered.

Raine clucked her tongue. “Eh, not quite hunting. Just a walk. The three of us. It’ll do Heather good too, clear her head.”

I boggled at Raine. “In … in the dark? Here? Right now?”

Raine nodded at my tentacles. “We’re hardly in the dark, we’ve got our little deep-sea squid to help. And hey, you’re all wound up, you need to work out that. And Zheng needs to talk.”

“She … she does?”

Zheng said nothing. But I suspected Raine was right. We hadn’t finished the discussion about Grinny.

Raine said, “And if she can’t talk to us, who could she talk to?” She shrugged. “So, let’s go for a little walk. Not long, no worries, just a little. Then to home again. Just the three of us.”

“Four,” Zheng rumbled.

The Saye Fox let out a soft, “Yip.”

“Ah yes,” Raine said, grinning. “My mistake. The four of us. A walk in the woods.” She held out a hand to me. “Come on, Heather. You’ll enjoy it. Nothing to be scared of, not with me and Zheng around.”

Previous Chapter Next Chapter



Heather! Why are you denying your cute puppy her tasty meal?! She just wanted to help, see? Zheng is helping! Big doggy Zheng is a good girl, helping with bad people, woof woof bark bark.

Oh dear. Okay at least they avoided traumatising that little girl any further. Praem really is a saint, right? And Heather made her point. Maybe a bit more forcefully than she intended, but hey, if it works, it works. And now it’s time to wander around in the woods, in the dark, at night, with a huge zombie and a heavily armed dyke. Heather’s going to have such a wonderful time.

If you want more Katalepsis right away, you can get it by:

Subscribing to the Patreon!

All Patrons get access to two chapters ahead! No matter what level you subscribe at! That’s about 20k words at the moment. The more support I get through Patreon, the more time I can dedicate to writing, and the less chance of having to slow down the story or get interrupted by other responsibilities. The generous and kind support of Patrons and readers is what makes all this possible in the first place, I would literally not be able to do this without you; thank you all so very much! You can also:

Vote for Katalepsis on TopWebFiction!

This helps so very much! A lot of readers still find the story through TWF, which still surprises me. It only takes a couple of clicks to vote!

And, as always, thank you for reading! It is you, the audience and readers, who make all this possible. I couldn’t do it without you. I’m just glad you’re enjoying the story! Katalepsis is for you!

Next week, Heather goes for a wander in the abyssal darkness, right in the middle of the English countryside.

mischief and craft; plainly seen – 21.12

Content Warnings

PTSD
Degenerative disease
Malnutrition
Traumatised children



Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Sunset sky was crusted with cataracts of cobwebbed cloud, grown into gnarled layers of ghostly gossamer, stained crimson and caramel by the unkind caress of the submerged sun — bruised apricot, bleeding coral, burning orange — and darkening with slowing turns toward the blinded blue-grey of summer dusk. A ragged circle of sky — hemmed, imprisoned, squeezed in tight — with the edges of her cornea rat-eaten and raw, penetrated by the glistening green well-mouth of the shivering treetops. The sun, with all her blistering heat, had dipped well below those swaying, rustling, creaking trees, their trunks washed by the ever-present westerly winds, flowing in a ceaseless river toward the distant, hidden bulwark of the Pennines. An empty sky, compressed into a squinting blood-drenched circle of pain.

Was the sky lonely?

We couldn’t stop thinking about that; we really should have been paying more attention to our surroundings. The others needed us present. We were the core and fulcrum of this entire event. But I couldn’t stop.

There was only one sky, after all. Wherever one’s feet were planted upon the earth, one could look up and see the same sky. Sunset or sunrise, night or midday, cloud or rain or storm or snow or hail, these were all only masks over the one true face. Other skies existed, yes — Outside, Beyond, in other dimensions; but this sky, earth’s sky, she could not visit those any more than she could touch the ground. The sky above our heads that evening was a rounded circle staring downward, blind and insensate, from beyond a ring of Brinkwood trees. But it was the same sky. Singular. Alone. Empty.

Clouds were nothing more than water vapour held aloft by air pressure, no matter how infused with romantic metaphor; birds and bats and moths visited the endless, solitary blue, but only her lowest reaches — and they always fell to earth in the end. Human beings could barely imagine her upper secrets, only when we encased ourselves in metal tubes and hurled ourselves through the firmament like roaring intruders, not seeing, not comprehending a thing. We could not touch her, not truly. We were not made for contact with something so alone and apart, so vast and other. We could not understand the sky.

Could we understand the Eye?

A better question: was the Eye lonely?

After all, it filled the sky of Wonderland. It was the sky, from horizon to horizon. Did Wonderland have a sky, behind the great orb? Or did the eye have a hidden optical nerve, descending forever into a void at its rear?

I doubted the metaphysics were quite that literal.

I’d never considered this question before — not after Maisie was taken, not while growing up, not even during the previous year of my now-enlightened state. Not until the revelation relayed through Joe King’s memories, from the lips of a dead man possessed by the Eye. The medium had almost certainly not done justice to the message; for an Outsider entity on the scale of the Eye, a dead man’s lips and throat were probably about as expressive as a finger puppet was for a human being. But the message was simple: I am one, when I should be two.

Eyes come in pairs, don’t they? No, they do not — that is a human notion. Or at least a mammalian one. Spiders have eight eyes, bees have five, some kinds of lizard have three; there is even a species of undersea mollusc which boasts a thousand tiny little eyes, a fact which delighted us when I looked it up earlier that day, a great comfort while I was curled up in the dark on my bed, sniffing and confused while Raine rubbed my shoulders.

But no, the Eye had made itself so very clear. The first piece of clear communication it had ever attempted.

Two missing one. One missing half.

Just like me, missing my Maisie.

A spiteful, toxic, barbed little part of us hoped that the Eye was indeed lonely. We hoped it knew the pain it had caused me and Maisie by ripping us apart from each other. Another part of us was less optimistic — perhaps the Eye was alone, yes, but who was to say it felt such a thing as loneliness? Perhaps that notion was beyond it, or beneath it, alien and unknowable.

Perhaps that’s why it wanted me back so badly; perhaps it knew that Maisie and I had to be reunited, to be whole once more. One plus one equals two and all that. But maybe there was no sentiment in that desire.

Maybe it was just mathematics.

The lonely sky, from whose beauty I could not tear my eyes.

“Nothing yet?”

Evelyn grunted the question through her teeth, from my left; that almost brought me back down to earth.

Raine answered from my right: “Still a no, Evee. Same as the last time you asked me, which was thirty seconds ago, by the way.” Raine chuckled softly. “You can see my phone screen as well as I can, hey? The moment they call, you’ll know it. There’ll be a little jingle and everything.”

Evelyn hissed through clenched teeth. “They’re late. I don’t like it.”

Jan cleared her throat, a little way behind me. She said: “Actually, they still have five minutes before the agreed time of contact. Nothing is wrong, Evelyn. Please, everyone just … ”

Jan trailed off. I assumed Evelyn had turned and speared her with a glare. I couldn’t see, because I was too busy staring at the sky.

From even further behind, a dreamy voice spoke up. “We see nothing on the road approaching the farm. Everyone should be relaxed. That would be better. Better, yes. Better to be relaxed. Nothing to worry about. Miss Martense is correct.”

Amanda Hopton — speaking in that dreamy, floaty, dissociated voice which meant her god was communicating through her. Hringewindla was assuring us he had the approaches covered.

A grumpy masculine voice next to Amanda said, “These fuckers should know they’re on thin ice for this shit. They should have called early.”

Benjamin Hopton, Twil’s cousin, the Brinkwood Cult’s primary muscle. Technically he was not present to support us, but to act as his aunt’s bodyguard.

Jan repeated herself: “The agreed time of contact is still — four and a half minutes away. Nothing is going to go wrong. Everything is going to plan.”

Ben snorted. “Things always go wrong when you lot are around.”

On the other side of her aunt, Twil said: “Oi! I’m one of ‘this lot’ too, Ben.”

He snorted again. “Yeah, I haven’t forgotten.”

Twil’s voice rose. “What’s that’s supposed to fuckin’ mean, hey? You wanna tussle, Benny-boy? You wanna get bog-washed?”

“I’m the one holding the gun here, Twil,” he said. Did I detect a hint of playful amusement in his voice? Perhaps.

I could almost feel the evil grin cracking across Twil’s face. I certainly heard the crack of her knuckles. She said: “You ain’t got silver bullets in that mag, Ben. Go on. Give it a try. Put one in my leg and see how quick I can still kick your arse.”

Ben laughed, unimpressed. “You wouldn’t be so mouthy if your parents were here tonight.”

“Mouthy? Mouthy? Fuck you, Ben, I’m gonna shit in your cereal—”

“Will you lot fucking stop?” croaked a crunchy, crackling voice from a raw and broken throat.

That was Sarika — off to one side, separate from the others. Her voice was so full of scorn and acid that somehow it ended the stupid argument, though I wasn’t so sure it was a real argument in the first place. Twil and Ben had grown up together, somewhat. Just cousins, bantering. Trying to ease the tension.

Evelyn, however, agreed. “Yes,” she tutted. “This isn’t the time for—”

But Sarika was already off. She rattled on like a bag of broken bones: “Infighting before a confrontation with an enemy is about the most stupid, asinine thing you could possibly do.” She snorted, rough and painful. “Not that I should expect better, I suppose. Amateurs and hobbyists and wilful ignorance. You lot are going to get all of us killed, eventually, one way or the other. I don’t know why I agreed to come. Why am I here, huh? Why am I here? Paraded around like a fucking trophy.”

Nathan — our Badger — spoke up with surprising gentleness. “Sarry, hey. It’s going to be okay. Everyone’s just on edge.”

Sarika spat: “I’m not.”

Yet another voice spoke up as well. “Could’a fooled me,” said Nicole Webb. Sarika had no answer to that. “Don’t lie, Sarika, it doesn’t suit you.”

Somebody else opened their mouth with a soft click, for a fresh retort or a new joke.

But Praem interrupted, bell-clear in the cooling dusk: “No fighting.”

A moment of silence passed beneath the bleeding sunset sky — broken eventually by a snort from Sarika: “Shouldn’t your fearless leader be the one to say that?”

I sighed and lowered my gaze from the lonely heavens.

Geerswin Farm, the Hopton family home, Twil’s home, the base of the Brinkwood Cult, or the Church of Hringewindla. Forty one minutes past six in the evening. August 4th. 2019.

Why did that date stick so clearly in our mind? Perhaps because we’d organised this meeting down the smallest detail — we knew who was supposed to call who, and when, and where, and what they were supposed to say, and who was meant to stand in which position, and say what, and how to gesture and look and wait for answers — and who was meant to keep their lips shut tight and let the others do the talking. Or maybe it wasn’t any of that, maybe it was because we were so badly disorganised most of the time that this one high-precision event stood out among all others.

Or maybe because of Maisie’s deadline. My twin had little more than two months left — and I was not going to wait that long. But here we were, tying up a loose end.

Or maybe just because Raine had her phone in her hand, and we could see the numbers on the screen.

I did not turn around to look at Sarika and the others — though one of us did, my Bottom-Left tentacle, trying to cover our collective back. Instead I stared off across the crumbly tarmac and hard-baked mud of Geerswin Farm. Shafts of dying sunlight filtered down through the ring of trees, scattering in a lace-work pattern of rotten orange upon the ground. A soft breeze tugged at my hair, slipped gentle fingers into the slit-cut tentacle-holes in the sides of my t-shirt, and made the trees rustle against themselves in an endless wave. Insects chirped and trilled and sang in the long summer grass. Sweat lay sticky on my skin, but not suffocating, drying in the dusk. Far away, distant cars passed along distant roads, muffled beyond the woods — but not many, not on a Sunday night.

The entrance to the farm — a little bend of ancient asphalt which turned toward the road — was lined with Hringewindla’s bubble-servitors. The driveway looked like a chasm cut through a sea of bubble-bath. More of his ‘angels’ were scattered in the treetops, forming our perimeter guard, our early-warning system. A cluster of them hung far up in the sky above the farm. Raine had called them ‘air cover’; Twil had made a joke about ‘loitering munitions’. I’d barely been paying attention.

Sarika was waiting; we pulled our collective minds together.

“I’m nobody’s leader,” we said out loud, talking without looking back. “And I’m anything but ‘fearless’. You must be joking. You should know better than that, Sarika. I’m actually really intimidated. More than a little bit afraid. Worried. Anxious. Nervous. Can I find more synonyms for this? Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not sure I want to.”

I hiccuped once, loud and painful. I wasn’t lying about the nerves.

To my right, Raine murmured, so softly that none of the others could hear it: “Hey, Heather, hey, it’s gonna be okay, nothing’s gonna go wrong.”

We whispered back, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Sarika heard none of that. She snorted with contempt, and said: “You’re intimidated? You? Don’t make me laugh, Morell. Hurts my throat.”

“Oi,” said Twil, taking offence on my behalf. “Big H doesn’t need that right now—”

“Wait, Twil, please. Sarika,” I said — still staring at the end of the driveway. “What do you mean?”

Sarika laughed, dripping acid derision. “God, you are so wilfully blind. Look around you. Look at what you’ve got here.”

I tore my eyes away from the driveway; watching would not speed up the proceedings, that was just magical thinking. We turned — all of us, all six tentacles and my human core — and looked around at the others.

I already knew exactly what Sarika was trying to express; I was just trying not to think about it too much.

We — not merely me, myself, and I, six other Heathers embedded in the neurons of my tentacles, but we, us, the group, me and all my friends, my chosen family, our allies and auxiliaries and fellow-travellers and friendly observers and conquered prisoners — were gathered before the ancient edifice of Geerswin Farmhouse, standing on the crumbly tarmac amid the slow sunset, ready to receive a surrender.

The Farmhouse itself was still undergoing repairs — the leftovers of when Edward Lilburne had assaulted the place with his obscene suicide-bomber Outsider creatures. Some of the damage had been too great for simple renovations. Whole window frames had been removed and replaced, the front door was brand new thick wood, and several sections of century-old wall had been chipped away and filled in with modern red bricks. I felt terribly sorry for the poor house; the damage was not our fault, it was Edward’s, but though Evelyn had helped to pay for the repairs, the scars would always remain. When we’d arrived at the farm about an hour earlier, to begin setting up, the first thing I’d done was walk over and pat the front wall of the house, murmuring my condolences.

“Get well soon,” I’d said. Raine had laughed — but with love. Evelyn had sighed. Lozzie had joined in and hugged the front wall.

I’d felt terribly silly, but what did that matter?

Several cars stood at the edge of the tarmac courtyard — Raine’s little red one, Felicity’s hulking range rover, Benjamin’s muddy land rover, and Amanda’s modest five-door. The vehicles were lined up nose-to-tail, ostensibly to tuck them out of the way, but actually that was a cheap psychological trick to make the space feel more enclosed.

One of Jan’s many suggestions. She’d offered so much advice on how to run this little meeting. Some of that I had rejected as too cruel.

We were not, for example, going to blindfold and gag these people before we spoke to them. Nor were we tying them to chairs. Nor was I wearing my squid-skull mask and talking entirely through intermediaries — though I had the mask tucked into the coils of one tentacle, to use during the introduction. But I wasn’t going to wear it the whole time, not unless things went really badly.

We prayed it wasn’t going to come to that.

Evee was to my left, with her walking stick in one hand and her scrimshawed bone-wand clutched in the other. She was still dressed for the heat of the summer’s day, but adjusted for the rapid cooling of the evening dark — she wore a t-shirt and one of her long skirts, floaty and soft, with a shawl draped over her shoulders, and her long blonde hair still tied up but ready to be let down to cover the pale expanse of her neck. She stood close enough that I could reach out and touch her with my fingers, but far away enough to hide her continuing embarrassment — and she was deeply embarrassed.

That was the other half of why I’d been staring into the sky; I wasn’t merely lost in brooding melancholy over the nature of the Eye, I was trying to avoid sneaking glances at my poor, sweet, mortified Evee.

The dream — of Joseph King’s concrete house and everything we had learned there — had not dissipated into fragmented memory upon ending, but had stayed in everyone’s minds, fresh and clear as the waking world. The whole dream had lasted only sixteen seconds of real time. As far as I could tell, everyone recalled exactly what had been said and done, including the deal for Joking’s notes, and a last-minute promise of further contact via some more secure and less metaphorical methods.

And that meant Evee recalled saying that she loved me — and remembered her angrily vocalized wish for increased bust size.

At first, I’d been too wrapped up in the revelations from the Eye; there were more pressing matters than Evelyn’s thoughts about her boobs. But she’d blushed up a storm and spent all afternoon avoiding me, throwing herself into the process of organising this meeting.

I hadn’t realised how embarrassed she was until Raine had made a joke — a casual joke, barely a poke, which could have been interpreted in several different ways. The joke was about what Evee should wear to the meeting, something about buying new bras? Evelyn had blushed so hard I thought she might hurt herself, but then she’d released the tension by hurling a glass of water in Raine’s face — which was practically a favour, considering the sticky heat of the day.

We’d sat side by side in the back of Raine’s car on the way to Geerswin Farm. Evelyn had stared straight ahead. She had not offered me her hands.

But we knew she loved us. This wasn’t new. What was she so self-conscious about? Surely not the boobs thing. Surely.

We both had more important matters now though; she scowled at me for a second.

Praem stood at Evelyn’s other elbow, close enough to offer support if needed. She was straight-backed and starched, prim and proper, frilled and laced in her full maid uniform. Hands folded before her, blank eyes staring ahead, Praem was the absolute picture of self-control and iron discipline. A clever illusion, since she was always like that.

Raine was on my right, dressed in big stompy boots, jeans, and a black tank-top. She was sweaty from the hot day, still amused from the dream, her chestnut hair all stuck up and raked back. Her makeshift riot shield was propped against one leg. Her handgun was stuck into the front of her waistband — safety on. That method of carrying a firearm both terrified me and made me feel very funny about Raine’s crotch.

Raine also held one of the sub-machine guns — the awful shiny black weapons that we had, frankly, looted, from Edward Lilburne’s final clutch of doomed mercenaries. There was something ghoulish about that. The weird little killing machine hung from a strap over her shoulder, like it was a tote bag or a cute accessory.

A few steps beyond Raine was one of our auxiliary trios: Felicity, Aym, and Sevens.

Felicity had refused to give up her long coat, despite the heat of the day, though the garment hung off her shoulders more like a cloak. She made no attempt to hide her half-burned face behind her auburn hair. Her magically altered sawn-off shotgun was cradled loose in both hands. Frankly I was amazed she had agreed to attend this; she was supposed to be heading home in a couple of days, back on business of her own. Perhaps she felt she still owed it to Evee.

Next to her was Aym — physically manifested as a cowled and cloaked little figure, a sucking swamp of lightless black lace, faceless and armless, little wisps and tendrils tapping at the asphalt ground. And there was Seven-Shades-of-Sunlight, resplendent in her Princess Mask, chin held high, hair ruler-straight, clothes pressed to within an inch of their fabric lives, with the tip of her lilac umbrella against the tarmac, held at a jaunty angle. She caught my eye and blinked slowly; hello kitten, are we not beautiful?

Oh, we were. In a very specific kind of way.

Directly behind me were Lozzie and Jan, holding hands. Lozzie’s poncho was all a-puff and a-float, the hem drifting outward against the breeze. Jan was wearing her ridiculous body-armour, a ‘plate carrier’, as Raine had called it — but not her big puffy white coat. The coat was plausibly deniable protection; the bullet proof plates screamed a different message.

To their side stood July, black hair tied back, dressed like she was ready for a martial arts fight, owl-faced and wide-eyed. She ignored everyone else.

Behind them, sitting on the steps of Geerswin Farmhouse, was Amanda Hopton, glassy-eyed and thick-tongued as she communed with her god for our benefit. The wall behind her was festooned with his bubble-servitors, watching his most beloved human in case the worst should happen. More of the angels were clustered up on the roof of the house, a rapid-reaction force kept close to hand.

To Amanda’s right stood Benjamin, big and heavy and frowning, shaven-headed and sceptical, carrying another one of our purloined submachine guns. He had specific instructions not to even take the safety off; not unless something completely untoward happened. His job was the same as most of the others present here — look scary and serious.

To Amanda’s left was Twil. She was unarmed, fluffy, stripped down to t-shirt and a pair of exercise shorts, and practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. Our werewolf did not need a gun to project menace and the threat of violence.

Off to one side was another curious trio: Sarika and Badger — our proof of good intent, our examples of how this could all go — and Nicole Webb, our tame private eye on the edge of the supernatural world. I wasn’t entirely sure why Webb was here, or why Raine had invited her. Perhaps she was meant to offer her expert knowledge about avoiding police attention — or maybe she was worried about us gunning down ten people in cold blood?

We didn’t blame her; we knew what we looked like.

Sarika and Nicole were both sitting on plastic garden chairs fetched from inside the house, made more comfortable with some cushions. Sarika was stronger than she used to be, she could swing those crutches around like an extra pair of legs, but there was no way she was going to stay standing for the duration of this meeting. Nicole, on the other hand, still had a cast on her broken leg; it was due to be off in a few days, but for now she was still on crutches as well.

Nathan, however, was standing on his own two feet, with the aid of a metal cane. An extra chair waited, in case he needed to sit. Dressed in a baggy jumper and a pair of jogging bottoms, he looked thin and clean, bright-eyed and wide awake behind his glasses. He saw me looking and shot me an innocent smile.

In a way, Nathan was my proof. Here was evidence we were not monsters.

Two very good dogs were also present — Soup, Nicole’s big, grey, rather imposing hound, who was seated at her feet, and Bernard, Amanda’s pneuma-somatic seeing-eye dog, large and fluffy and apparently entirely comfortable with Soup now. Whistle, Badger’s Corgi, was not in attendance; this was too scary for little Whistle.

Several conspicuous absences stood out. Tenny and Grinny were back at Number 12 Barnslow Drive, looking after Whistle and Marmite. They, in turn, were being ‘looked after’ by Kimberly. Kim was not actually expected to do much, just keep an eye on things, with a fully charged mobile phone ready to call Lozzie if anything unexpected started to happen. The residents of Geerswin Farm were also not at the meeting; Twil’s parents had elected to make themselves scarce. Twil had suggested they were squeamish about what might unfold, despite graciously offering us the use of their property.

Again, I didn’t blame them. They probably thought this was going to get ugly.

Amy Stack was also not in attendance, much to Raine’s disappointment. Stack had, however, answered her phone earlier that day. She had listened to Raine’s request-slash-pitch, then replied with one word: no.

Then she’d cut the call.

Evelyn had grumbled, “We don’t need her there, Raine. Stop it. Stop thinking with your cunt.”

“Yeah, but I want her there. I want to—”

“We all know exactly what you want!” Evelyn had snapped. “She is not our ally, Raine. Don’t obfuscate that. She’s a hound with a leash around her neck. And she will try to slip that collar if she can.”

Raine had grinned and wiggled her eyebrows. “Leash? Collar? Nah, Evee, you’re getting it backwards—”

Evelyn had ignored that. “Just because she has very little reason to turn and bite us doesn’t mean she shouldn’t be treated as a danger.”

Raine had sighed. “What, we’re never gonna ask her for help again?”

Evelyn had snorted. “Leave her to her family life with her boy. If we never hear much from her again, I’ll be perfectly happy.”

I had cleared my throat at that. “Well, she is associating with Nicole now, isn’t she? And Nicole likes Kim, and … and … ”

Evelyn had given me such a storm-tossed look that I’d trailed off; at least that was better than her blushing over memories of the dream.

One final absence at the meeting worried at my heart — the only one which really mattered.

Zheng wasn’t there.

My beautiful seven-foot demon lover was not answering her mobile phone; nobody had seen her in a couple of days, not since she’d taken off while I’d been in semi-conscious recovery after my pneuma-somatic crash. She’d been back to the house a few times while I’d been sleeping, offering fresh prey to Grinny, but nobody could contact her now she was gone again. I’d not personally seen Zheng since the fight with Edward.

She’d done this sort of thing before, of course — vanished into the woods for days or weeks, hunting fresh meat, sleeping in the trees, living like an animal. And she had no way of knowing that we’d accelerated the schedule for this meeting. But her absence stung. Zheng was the other point of the triangle between myself and her and Raine. Raine missed her too, though she kept that well-concealed. Zheng wasn’t just mine — she was ours, now. Raine cared too. A part of her was missing.

Once this meeting was over, with the matter concluded one way or the other, I was going to look for Zheng — tomorrow at the latest, or maybe this very evening. We’d take Raine, too. We’d use brain-math if we had to. I was certain she was alright, I just didn’t understand why she was not here.

The many faces of our assembled forces; I sighed and met Sarika’s eyes.

“Yes,” we said. “I’m not blind to this, Sarika. We’re meant to be intimidating. I get it. We all know. You don’t have to rub it in.”

Sarika snorted again. “Then what have you got to be afraid of, huh?”

“Plenty,” I said, starting to lose my temper. “None of us are trained negotiators or anything like that. I’m barely an adult. We’re not qualified to be doing this, we—”

“Neither are any of my old friends,” Sarika grunted. She looked away. Badger gently touched her shoulder, trying to comfort her, but she shrugged him off.

We opened our mouth again. “And to answer your question, Sarika — you are here to make this easier on your ‘old friends’. As easy as we can make it. I— I promise, I—”

I hiccuped.

Raine reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “Hey, Heather, hey,” she purred, for me alone. “It’s gonna be alright, whatever happens.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe, but I can’t—”

Buzz-buzz! Buzz-buzz!

Raine’s phone vibrated in her hand, playing that weird little high-energy jingle she used for a ring-tone. The screen lit up with an incoming call, from a contact which Raine had named ‘Drug Dealer (Not Sarcasm!)’.

I almost giggled, despite everything. The humour helped.

“That’ll be them!” Raine announced to the group. She turned to the rest of us so we could all hear her words, then answered the call. “Speaking, yup, you have the right number.” A pause. “You just entered Brinkwood, understood.” She flashed the rest of us a thumbs up; Jan gave one back in return. “Just follow the map, just like Jan said. Yeah, that’s correct. Be sure to take the last stretch slow. Park well clear of the driveway, well before you reach it— yes, before. Okay, good. We’ll have people out there so you can’t miss it. One at a time, remember? You’re the first car? Good. Call again if anything changes. I’m hanging up now.”

Raine ended the call and lowered the phone.

Jan said: “Miss Hopton — that is, Amanda — are we still clear out in the road?”

Amanda blinked, slow and heavy, her eyes half a world away; Hringewindla had dozens of his bubble-servitor angel-things lining the narrow country road in both directions. A precaution, invisible to human eyes, lest a police car or a hapless evening driver happen upon the periphery of our strange gathering. We didn’t want anybody spotting the firearms — or freaking out at the sight of my tentacles, or Aym, or Twil in full werewolf form.

“We’re— we’re clear,” Amanda said. She swallowed once, thick and gummy. “Clear, yes, clear. Nobody but— oh, there’s the first car! Yes, it’s them. They’re coming. Oh, oh they are … they are so small … so small … mmmmm.”

Benjamin rubbed her shoulder. “It’s alright, auntie Mandy. It’s alright. S’okay.” He frowned at Raine. “Go time, then?”

“Go time!” Lozzie cheered — totally at odds with the seriousness of the moment.

Raine slipped her phone into her pocket and clapped her hands once. “Ladies and gentlemen, places please.” She pointed here and there: “If anybody needs a slash, now is the time. Ben, finger off that trigger, mate, you know better. Fliss, keep that shotgun where they can see it. Sarry, Badger, say hi and nod and smile if you must, but please do stay put, hey? And Heather.” She paused and smiled at me. “Heather, you’re gonna do fine.”

We swallowed and nodded — and resisted the urge to wrap ourselves up in our tentacles. Turning into a roly-poly rainbow beanbag Heather-ball would rather spoil the effect of everyone else looking so intimidating.

Instead we spread our tentacles outward.

Look big, Heathers! Big! Big! Hiss! — no, wait, don’t hiss. Look big! Dignified. Unimpressed. Make your tentacles strobe brighter. Big! Don’t hiss, careful now.

Raine was already walking backward, one hand on the pistol-grip mechanism of her stolen firearm, lifting her makeshift riot shield with the other. She nodded to Twil and July as they moved forward to join her; Twil was shaking herself to work up her nerves, but July’s owlish expression betrayed no emotion. Everyone else shuffled awkwardly — all except for Praem. Evelyn swallowed loudly, fingers creaking on the handle of her walking stick, while Jan took up position on my right, her own phone out in one hand, Lozzie trailing behind her.

But then Raine looked back, as if she’d forgotten something.

“Oh, and Evee?” she said.

Evelyn scowled at her. “What? What? Raine, you need to get into position, you—”

Raine cracked the most absolute shit-eating grin I’d seen on her in months. “Puff your chest out. It’ll help.”

Evelyn turned the most fascinating colour of grey-white rage, lips compressed into a strangled line, eyes blazing with fury. Her right arm twitched — for a moment I thought she was going to hurl her walking stick after Raine. But then Raine shot her a wink and — bizarrely — blew her a kiss. Evelyn refrained from throwing anything after Raine’s retreating back. Our trio of advance security walked across the sticky tarmac, until they were out of earshot, waiting at the bend in the driveway of Geerswin Farm.

Evelyn crunched out through clenched teeth: “Cannot fucking believe her. Now, of all times.”

Down on my right, Jan looked vaguely confused. Mercifully, Lozzie did not laugh. She and I and Praem were the only ones who understood that the comment from Raine was, in fact, a boob joke. Praem just stared straight ahead, like everybody else.

I whispered back: “She was trying to get you to put on your scary face, Evee.”

Evelyn squinted at me sidelong. “My what? Excuse me?”

“Your … your scary face. You looked nervous. We all do. But now you look scary. It worked.”

Evelyn ground her teeth; that couldn’t be good for her.

Perhaps it was the nerves, or the way my mind was overwhelmed by other thoughts, or the performative puffing-up I was putting on; I don’t know why I said the words, they just slipped out.

“Evee,” I whispered. “Your boobs are fine.”

Evelyn just stared, wide-eyed and frozen. My own words hit me. I started to blush.

“I-I mean. They’re good. Your boobs are good. Uh, um— wait, no—”

Evelyn continued to stare. Praem turned to look. Jan either didn’t hear, or pretended not to. I think I heard Lozzie swallow a squeak so hard she almost died.

“Sorry!” I hissed. “Sorry. I just mean you’re well-formed. Normal. Healthy. You don’t need to worry about si—”

“Heather,” Evelyn hissed like a broken gasket. “Stop. Oh my fucking God. Stop. Stop, please.”

Praem intoned: “Keep going.”

I cleared my throat and blushed far too hard. Evelyn sucked on her teeth, looked away, and huffed a great, exasperated sigh. She managed to straighten up a little, wincing at the trials of her warped spine and kinked shoulder. “I’m going to need a massage when this is all over. A professional one. An expensive one.” She huffed again. “Do I really look intimidating?”

“Yes,” I said, not trusting myself to say anything more. “Yes.”

Jan cleared her throat gently. “Looking intimidating is half the point. Well done, Evelyn.”

“Helmet on, Heather,” Evelyn grumbled. “Hide the blush, at least.”

“Oh, oh, yes, right.”

I slid my squid-skull mask on over my head. Then we stared at the driveway. We all did.

A minute or two later, the final remnants of the Sharrowford Cult began to arrive.

Jan read their names off her phone as they appeared, half to confirm their faces against her photographs, and half to inform us who these people were.

“First up,” she said. “Sebastian Faulko. Yup, that’s him. Bald as a walnut.”

They came on foot, one by one, waved forward and then halted by Raine’s raised hand and the threat of her gun. Behind me, Amanda Hopton confirmed the cars in which they had arrived, parked just off the road on the edge of the woods; she read off their number plates through bubble-servitor senses, for Jan to cross-reference against the list she’d been given. Four cars, ten people, no extras — all number plates had to match, all faces had to be accounted for. No hidden watchers, no last-minute additions, no unplanned plus ones.

Jan murmured: “Second iiiiis … Juliet Berry. Mmhmm. That’s her. No funny business.”

Each cultist — or ex-cultist, I wasn’t sure yet — came forward around the bend in the driveway, emerging from the trees like a trickle of refugees lost in the woods, escapees from some hidden faerie-realm. Each one halted when Raine ordered, then submitted to a pat down from July; they’d been informed this was mandatory, that we could take no chances.

“Third — a Doctor. Doctor Harriet Marsh. And … yeah, she’s clean. If anybody was gonna spring anything, it would be her. Smart lady, oldest of the bunch. No idea how she’s still going.”

After each cultist was checked for hidden weapons and declared clean, they were permitted to walk forward to the end of the driveway, where Twil waited to glower at them, more wolf than woman. A holding pattern, until they were ready to be presented, all at once.

Presented to me. What was I here, angel, or judge, or warlord? We didn’t even know anymore.

“Number four, Mister Jonathan Perioet — pronounced like the ballet move. Most likely to pass out during proceedings. We may have to fetch him a chair.”

And we — all of us, standing there triumphant and clean and sane and whole (well, mostly), sitting in front of Geerswin Farmhouse, we watched every second of this sad performance.

“Five, Richard Fosse—”

“—and that’s his daughter, Nena Fosse—”

“—William Turner. He has seizures, but his wife— yup, she’s up next, Penny Turner, she’s got his wheelchair—”

The names washed over me. I couldn’t take them in. I couldn’t do anything but stare through the eye holes of my squid-skull mask.

These people were human wreckage.

Hollow-eyed, sallow-faced, sagging and shuffling and full of sorrow; greasy hair, grimy flesh, grim clothes. They stared across the tarmac at my tentacles with empty looks, the classic ‘thousand yard stare’; some of them stared at Aym, or flinched away from Twil, but they struggled to find much awe even in a full-fleshed werewolf or a faceless blob of darkness.

They really did seem like refugees from some hidden conflict in England’s sleepy summer heart. Nathan had looked a little like that, before I’d ‘rescued’ him from the Eye — but Nathan had been sustained by taking action, even if that action was a deal with Edward and a foolish attempt to kidnap Lozzie. Action had given him hope. These people, all ten of them, they had no hope but to wait upon mercy, to pray to a God who was not listening. They had endured the Eye whispering inside the backs of their heads for months and months and months.

They were beyond exhaustion. Beyond bags under the eyes or slumped shoulders or slack jaws. They were walking corpses. None of them looked like they’d bathed in weeks, or slept in days. Most of them were at least a little malnourished. They shook and shivered and flinched at nothing.

The one in the wheelchair had rheumy eyes, thick and puffy. The Doctor — Harriet Marsh — was the most coherent of the lot, a small and slender woman with grey hair, perhaps in her sixties or seventies, tough as old oak, alert in the eyes, but twitchy, like she’d been mainlining a petrol tank worth of coffee to keep her mind from rotting. I recognised two of them — Richard Fosse and his adult daughter, Nena; they were the pair who had accompanied Nathan in the park, during the ill-advised plan to kidnap Lozzie. Richard had been solidly built the last time I’d seen him, exhausted and drained but holding on; but now he’d lost a great deal of muscle mass, his dark skin tinted grey as if from blood loss. The daughter was twitchy and nervous, holding onto her father’s arm like he might trip over a loose piece of tarmac.

How had they even driven here? Wasn’t that dangerous? I suppose they hadn’t any choice.

I watched Raine halt each one of them and implicitly threaten them with a gun. I watched July frisk them. None of them resisted; I doubted any of them could.

We knew this was necessary. The others had made it clear and I had not disagreed; in the cosy, easy comfort of Number 12 Barnslow Drive, it had made sense that any one of these ex-cultists could still be a so-called ‘Eye Loyalist’. One of them might decide they had a better chance of fulfilling the Eye’s demands by surprising me at the last moment — shooting me, or rushing at me with some kind of magic circle beneath their clothes, or some other plot that we couldn’t predict.

But here, watching them, that notion was revealed as utter nonsense. These people were defeated. They were already dead.

“As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods,” I murmured softly inside my mask. I could barely swallow. “They kill us for their sport.”

Evelyn tore her eyes from the slowly gathering line of cultists. She glanced at me sidelong. “Heather?”

“King Lear,” I said, then shook my head. “I hate this. I didn’t think it would be … so … ”

Evelyn tutted sharply. “Heather, all these people were members of Alexander’s cult.”

“And?” I sniffed. “So was Kim. She was a victim, too. Not all of them were willing … or, I … I don’t … no, nobody deserves this. Nobody deserves the Eye. We didn’t even leave Edward to the Eye.”

“They went to war with us, Heather.”

I tried to laugh, but it felt hollow. “The last remnants of a defeated army? From a war that started before I even arrived in Sharrowford? Is that what we’re doing here?”

“Harden your heart,” Evelyn hissed. “You may not be able to save … to … oh … ”

But even she trailed off as the ninth cultist shuffled around the bend in the driveway, to be frisked and examined by Raine and July.

It was a little girl.

“Oh, no.” I put a hand to my mouth — or where my mouth should be, the front of the mask. “No.”

Evelyn swallowed, dry and hard. “Shit,” she hissed. Some of the others stirred behind us. I heard Benjamin swear beneath his breath and Sarika choke back something suspiciously akin to a sob.

“Christine Durmore,” Jan read off her list. “I, uh, don’t expect any trouble from this one.” She added quickly: “Her father survived, too. Don’t worry, she’s not an orphan. He’ll be number ten, he’s probably just behind her.”

Christine Durmore was not quite as young as I’d been when the Eye had taken Maisie away — she looked perhaps twelve years old. But she’d fared no better than the adults. Malnourished, thin, eyes glazed and distant, with that look which one sees on pictures of children from war zones, children who’ve seen things they should never see — empty, numb, far away inside herself. Lank brown hair, skinny and short, exhausted beyond thought.

I hissed, “Jan. You didn’t tell me one of them was a child.”

“ … yes I did, Heather.”

“Then I— I didn’t— I—”

I almost left my place in the line and moved forward; the girl had stopped in front of Raine, but Raine, for once, looked back to us, uncomfortable with this turn of events. July paused too, uncertain of how to proceed. This was all planned, all organised, we all knew we had to do this — but when it came to the moment, none of us were truly prepared.

I pulled my squid-skull mask off my head. Deviating from the plan. I couldn’t do this, I could not intimidate a literal child, I couldn’t—

Evelyn’s hand shot out and grabbed mine. She locked our fingers and held on tight.

“You have to stay here, Heather!” she hissed. “You undermine the entire point if you break that. Stay put.”

Jan swallowed and nodded. “Yes, stay put.”

My throat felt so thick that I almost choked. “But—”

Evelyn said. “Praem, if you—”

But Praem was already striding forward. The doll-demon crossed the tarmac with neat little clicks of her perfectly polished black shoes, the skirts of her maid uniform swishing and swaying, her spine ram-rod straight, her eyes high and blank. The little gathering of cultists shied back from her approach, like the demon she was.

The girl just stood there, numb and distant, as Praem marched up to her. Praem stopped, gathered her skirts, and crouched down so they were eye level with each other. Raine and July withdrew a little way, then waved the last cultist forward — the girl’s father, James Durmore. Praem spoke with the girl for almost three full minutes; I couldn’t hear what they said to each other, they were too far beyond earshot, but I could see the girl’s lips moving as she replied.

“She’s a saint, you know?” I murmured.

Evelyn grunted. “Mm?”

“Praem.”

“Mm,” Evelyn said. “I know. Better than any of us deserve.”

Eventually Praem got the reassurances she needed; she stood up and offered Christine Durmore her hand. The girl accepted the offer. Praem led her to join her father with the others, handing the girl off to the exhausted, hollow-eyed man. We did not have a twelve year old child frisked at gunpoint; something toxic and lethal unknotted in my chest, falling back down into the roiling chaos of my guts.

Raine and July led the cultists across the tarmac. Twil brought up the rear, like a sheepdog. They moved the group close enough for a conversation, then halted them. Praem fetched four additional plastic garden chairs from indoors — one for the little girl, one for the man who apparently had seizures, one for Richard Fosse, and one for the Doctor, Harriet Marsh.

The cultists watched and waited, nervous with anticipation, but with hope beaten out of their minds. Raine and July and Twil hovered around the edges of the group. Just in case.

Evelyn squeezed my hand. She whispered: “Heather? Heather, if you’re not up to this, I can—”

“No,” I murmured back. “I can do this. I want to do this.”

We cleared our throat, spread our tentacles as wide as we could stretch, and raised our voice.

“My name is Heather Morell,” I said. “Some of you have met me before. All of you know who I am. The woman to my left here is Evelyn Saye — most of you know who she is as well, because you once served Alexander Lilburne. And that means you know the woman behind me, as well — Lozzie Lilburne. Everyone else present here is my ally, or friend, or family, or—” I almost choked, but I had to say it “—vassal, in some form.”

Sarika snorted; nobody winced, because she was supposed to do that. Sticking to our script. Some of the cultists exchanged glances with her — they knew who she was. They had some rough idea of what had happened to her. These remnants were the last of the cultists who had rejected her plan to communicate with the Eye. They’d chosen not to follow her. They’d fled. All the rest had died.

“And of course,” I added. “You all know Nathan.”

Badger smiled. He raised his free hand. “Hello, everyone,” he said, then greeted several of them by name. “Rich, Will, Seb. Doctor Marsh. Hi.”

Richard Fosse stared at Badger with thick, dull eyes — and then blinked and lit up, just a little. He nodded in return. The Doctor had a pinched expression, but she nodded too. William, the one in the wheelchair, said: “Switched sides, did you, Badger?”

“No,” said Nathan. “I was saved.”

I took a deep breath and carried on. So far, so good. “I know what lurks in the back of your heads,” I said. Some of the cultists winced. Some of them made as if to shy away. The little girl shivered and swallowed a dry sob. The Doctor closed her eyes as if suffering internal pain. Penny — the wife of the man in the wheelchair — let out a strange whimper. “And,” I added quickly. “I will not speak its name aloud, nor a version of its name, because I know that would hurt you. I’m not here to hurt you.”

One of them spoke up — James, the father of the little girl: “Are you going to help us?”

“Like you helped Nathan,” said Harriet, a little harsher and harder than I had expected. It was not a question.

I was shaking inside. We tried very hard not to hiccup. “I did save Nathan, yes. I … wrested ownership of his soul, from the thing that ails you. It was not easy, it—”

Richard Fosse interrupted, his voice dull and lifeless. “I told you, she’s not going to help us.”

“Hey,” Raine snapped. “Shut up and listen.”

But Harriet Marsh stared right at me, and said: “You’re not going to help us, are you, young lady?”

“I—” my throat was closing up. “I— let me finish explaining, I—”

“Please,” said one of them — I wasn’t sure which.

“She’s not going to help us.”

“What was the point of this? What was the point of this?”

“Please, please.”

“—can’t take much more of this—”

“—think they’re going to kill us—”

“—just get it over with—”

“—please—”

All of them, all talking all over each other, starting to panic, to wail, to sob. And throughout it all the little girl — Christine — sat in her chair, growing smaller and smaller, further and further away inside herself, little eyes locked on nothing.

Hiiiiiiissssssss!

That shut them up. Most of them flinched hard enough to stumble, or jerk backward in their chairs. Harriet, the Doctor, went white in the face. The little girl blinked.

We unknotted my throat, heaving and gurgling. This had not been part of the plan.

To save my efforts, Evelyn spoke up: “Jan Martense has explained the problem to you.” Her voice came out cold and hard, but she did not let go of my hand. “Heather’s method of saving Nathan required trepanation — physical, not magical, not anything like that. He died during the process, his heart stopped, and we had to resuscitate him. He went to hospital afterward. They put a plate in his skull. If we repeat the process for each of you, even two or three of you, then the police will become suspicious, at the very least. And likely not all of you would make it through the procedure. Some of you would die in the attempt.”

Harriet Marsh, at the front of the group, said: “Then why call us here? Just to tell us no?”

“It’s the end,” one of the others said.

“It’s not the end,” I said, my throat finally back to something approaching human shape. “I called you here to give you hope. I want to explain to you what I’m doing, and how I will attempt to free you.”

I waited a beat; all eyes fixed on me, waiting, so full of desperation. I almost couldn’t take it.

We said: “The thing that lurks in the back of your heads — I am, in a way, the adopted daughter of that entity. And in a week or two, as soon as we are ready, I am going to travel to where it resides, and confront it, to rescue my twin sister. And when I do that, I am going to ask for it to free all of you as well.”

The cultists stared. Some of them blinked. None of them said anything.

Not the effect I had hoped for, but the one that the others had told me to expect.

James Durmore — the father of the little girl — raised his hand. “Trepan me. Please. Trepan me, I don’t care if I get brain damage — then, if it works, please, please do the same on my daughter. Please.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “You don’t understand—”

“Put a hole in my head!” one of the others shouted. “Do me! I don’t care if it doesn’t work!”

“Death or freedom,” one of the others slurred. “Fine, fine, I’ll take it.”

“Hey, hey,” Raine was saying. “Hey, calm down.”

“Please! Miss Morell, please!” James said again.

Twil snapped something too. Evelyn spoke up. Jan stepped forward. I could feel it all collapsing around me. Lozzie whimpered. Even Nicole spoke up, a rattling voice urging calm. Badger raised his voice too, calling for quiet, for his old comrades to understand, but—

“You owe us better than that,” said Doctor Harriet Marsh.

We broke.

“I owe you nothing!” I practically screamed in her face. She blinked, shocked, taken aback.

Everyone stopped shouting; the Heather of a year ago, or even six months ago, would have been mortified. But we were seven now. And we were right.

“I am not a saint,” I went on. “Or an angel. Frankly, I owe none of you anything. All of you were members of a cult — a cult that kept one of my closest friends imprisoned. Lozzie, behind me — how many of you recognise her? How many of you knew her? How many of you helped her? Any of you? You all followed Alexander Lilburne, a man who had little children kidnapped and used up, who turned homeless people into zombies. All of you are lucky to still be alive. All of you were part of that—” I cut off my words and pointed one tentacle at the little girl, at Christine. “Not you, sweetheart. You didn’t ask for this. You’re only a child. It’s not your fault.” I sniffed hard, but I was too angry to stop. “The rest of you — do you think I let Sarika live because I owed her anything? I used her as an experiment, a proof of concept that I could rip a human being from the— from the grasp of the thing inside your heads.”

The cultists looked upon me, cowed and quiet.

“If we attempt to trepan all of you,” I went on, softer now. “Then the police will take an interest. They may interrupt us before we can go Outside, before I can attempt a rescue of my sister. And I would sacrifice every single one of you if it would increase my chances of getting her back. So, no. I will not compromise the thing that matters above all else to help a group of people who tried to have me killed or enslaved.” I took a deep breath. “But, when I am before my adoptive parent, I will make the effort to save you, too, because what is happening to you is not right. Some of you deserve prison. None of you deserve the Eye.”

I was shaking when I finished. Nobody said anything. Evelyn squeezed my hand. Raine blew out a long breath.

This had not gone to plan. I had not given these people hope.

No saint, no angel.

Just the daughter of the Eye.

Amanda Hopton broke the silence: “Oh! Oh, everyone, there’s—”

Bubble-servitors shifted in my peripheral vision, scattering from the treetops beyond one of the fields, like startled birds. Raine whirled around, hands on her weapon. Eyes raised toward the tree-line.

“—there’s a person— it’s—”

A towering form emerged from the gathering darkness beneath the trees, draped in her long coat and her baggy grey jumper. Raine lowered her gun. Lozzie broke into a smile. Several of the cultists stared in mute horror — because they knew who and what they were looking at.

“Zheng!” I called out, raising several tentacles, delighted to see her. “Zheng! Where have you—”

But then Zheng was striding across the field, picking up speed with every step, moving with sudden, swift, terrible purpose.

She reached the fence before I fully realised what was happening, a flickering blur of sprinting motion. Lozzie shouted, “Zhengy, no!” Felicity even raised her shotgun. Evelyn swore, loudly. Praem moved forward to intercept the interruption; so did July. I wasn’t certain they could stop this.

Zheng vaulted the fence, landed on the tarmac in a blur of dark clothes and sharp teeth — and grinned at her prey.

Her eyes were locked on one cultist in particular — Harriet Marsh, the Doctor.

Teeth bared, sharp eyes narrowed, muscles coiling back like springs.

I knew that look all too well.

Zheng was about to rip out the tongue of a mage, break the delicate bones of her hands and fingers, and probably feast upon her flesh, to make certain she stayed dead.

Previous Chapter Next Chapter



Squid-angel of sudden salvation, or heartless supernatural warlord unwilling to extend aid; I’m not sure which one Heather thinks she is anymore. Evee would certainly know which way she falls. And Zheng is about to take this abstract question and make it very practical (and possibly very messy. Ew.)

No patreon link this week, because it’s almost the end of the month! If you want to subscribe, feel free to wait until the 1st of October! And hey, go check out some of the other lovely web serials out there; I haven’t got any specific shout-outs this week, since I haven’t had my head in the web serial space for the last month or so, but hey, there’s plenty to see!

Meanwhile you can still:

Vote for Katalepsis on TopWebFiction!

This helps so very much! A lot of readers still find the story through TWF, which still surprises me. It only takes a couple of clicks to vote!

And as always, thank you so much for reading. Thank you for following Katalepsis so far, and for enjoying it so much. I couldn’t do this without you, the readers! This story is for you!

Next week, Heather gets to decide if she’s going to stop a speeding Zheng, or let things get bloody. And if she does want to get in the way … how???

mischief and craft; plainly seen – 21.11

Content Warnings

Dead bodies/corpses
Torture (sort of)



Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Praem presented us — me, myself, and I — with Joseph King’s notebook.

We accepted the slender black volume in shaking hands; I had to use an extra tentacle to support the back cover, to avoid dropping the precious payload upon the concrete floor. Part of us was convinced that one errant twitch would send the book tumbling from my fingers and vanishing into a void, like ripping out the pages and casting them from a windswept sea-cliff, or consigning the tome to a sealed capsule shot into a black hole. The dream-construct in which we sat would open at my feet and swallow this morsel of forbidden knowledge, placing it beyond the reach of human science and philosophy, forgotten and lost and never to be found.

We held the notebook at arm’s length for much longer than was warranted, waiting in silence as the dream-storm drummed on the concrete roof. A holy relic, a radioactive nugget, proof of unspeakable truths that would drive us all finally and completely mad.

Notes on the Eye, from a lucid and coherent mage.

Wasn’t this what we’d wanted all along?

Why were we so afraid?

Hic, we hiccuped so hard that it hurt our throat. “S-sorry,” I murmured, and drew the notebook in close, cradling it in our lap.

Raine purred, “Hey, Heather, hey, babe.” She leaned out of her seat so she could wrap an arm around my shoulders. “We’re all right here, okay? It’s not the Eye, it’s just notes. And we’re in a dream, right? Nothing to worry about. It’s just words in a book. You can do this, it’s nothing. You’ve done worse, much worse. This is just reading. Hell, you’ve read much worse books, for fun — ain’t no Eye notes got nothing on Finnegans Wake.”

I laughed, a little weak. “Not quite in the same category, Raine. But thank you.”

“It’s just words in a book,” Raine repeated — then glanced at Joking. He was still sitting upright and impassive in his absurd neon pink beanbag chair.

He nodded slowly. “My notes are not trapped. I’m not foolish enough to attack the little watcher to her face and expect to survive. And besides, that object is a dream recreation, not the original article.” He looked at Praem. “I’m sure … ‘Praem Saye’ here has already done the necessary prep work.”

Praem intoned: “A maid is prepared for any necessary cleaning.” A pause, then: “None was required.”

“There,” Joking grunted. “If you don’t believe my word, you can trust your demon attendant.”

I stared down at the blank cover of the notebook. Bottom-Left and Middle-Right drifted closer, tips pointing at the volume in my lap. Lozzie leaned out of her chair too, half-peering over my shoulder for a better look. Raindrops fell in slow waves on the concrete roof and lashed against the brown glass windows. The fairy-tale forest swayed in the distance. Vast shapes lumbered on the horizon, framing Joseph King’s shoulders and curly dark hair.

I sighed a little sigh, “At least this is a fitting place to read a spooky tome, I suppose.”

Joking narrowed his eyes. “My note-taking is not ‘spooky’. I am detailed and accurate.”

The notebook was not quite how the Heather of a year prior would have pictured a tome full of occult secrets: bound in soft black leather, held together with modern book-binding glue and a stitched spine, complete with a little manufacturer’s stamp at the bottom of the back cover, the notebook was altogether too normal. Rounded corners, ivory-coloured paper, and a neat little ‘If lost, please return to:’ page just inside the cover. Joking had filled in that page with a P.O. box number. Such a commonplace — if slightly fancy — notebook surely belonged in the bag of a war correspondent, or a down-on-her-luck poet slumming it in hostels across Europe, or some kind of wilderness explorer sketching grizzly bears in a Canadian forest. It was hardly a dusty grimoire bound in human flesh.

All occult tomes must have started like this, in their own times and places, their own context of physical and cultural production. Evee’s Unbekannte Orte — the only other source on the Eye that we had yet discovered — had once been a freshly printed book, rolled off some illicit press in a German back-street or the hidden rooms of a questionable monastery.

With quivering fingers and a hiccup in my throat, I turned the first page.

And there I discovered that Joking’s notebook did in fact live up to the esoteric tradition in one essential category — it was completely unreadable.

“Is this … shorthand?” we said, squinting at the weird little squiggles on the pages. “Or is your handwriting just that awful?”

Joseph King’s eyebrows raised in surprise. The Welsh Mage said: “Yes. A shorthand of my own design.”

Raine let out a chuckle and sigh, shaking her head. “Mate, Josh, Joe, whatever you wanna be called, you could have said something. Is this meant to be funny? Are you fucking us around? ‘Cos I don’t like it when anybody but me fucks around with my girl here, yeah?”

“Raine,” I tutted. I turned the notebook sideways, hoping it might make more sense from a different angle.

Joseph King sighed too — and collapsed into the laddish drunken lout once again. He grinned a big goofy grin and raised both hands in surrender. “Hey, hey, hey now, I thought like your maid girl had translated it or what. Done it for me, like. There’s more than just that one book, you know? There’s audio tapes, and some photos, all sorts. I thought she’d condensed it down, dream-style like. And hey, hey, this is a dream! Can’t you just go all squinty and look through the words?”

I ‘went all squinty’ and tried to ‘look through the words’; half my tentacles attempted to help, spreading out into an array of additional points of observation, as if looking at the book with a larger composite eyeball would somehow make sense of the words.

“That doesn’t work,” I sighed. “We can’t read this.”

Joking pulled a toothy grimace — then sat up, dignified and serious once more. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’ll have to translate manually. As I said, there’s more than just that one notebook. I’ll try to give you the rough picture of—”

“No, please,” we said. “It needs to be exact. I—I need to hear what the Eye was trying to—”

“Then you need the data complete,” he huffed. “Alright, I will compile — out in reality — a proper translation. We will have to arrange a meeting, a physical handover. A project like that is going to take me at least a week, or—”

“It’ll take too long!” we said. “We need this now. Soon. Within a week, or even today, for—”

A quivering voice interrupted our embryonic argument:

“I could reconstruct it,” said Lozzie.

Everyone looked at her — even Praem, who turned her whole head so none could mistake the intended direction of her blank, milk-white eyes. The shiver in Lozzie’s voice arrested all other voices; for a split-second even the drumming rain appeared to cease. The dream hung on her intent.

Lozzie was staring at the notebook in my hands, her blue eyes wide and liquid, clear as sunlit sea. Her poncho was pulled tight around her slender frame, hands gripping the fabric from the inside, the garment gone limp and close, as if soured with sweat and fear. Her wispy blonde hair was lank and flat. She suddenly looked very small and vulnerable. All her amused energy had gone elsewhere.

“Reconstruct?” I echoed. “Lozzie? Lozzie — Lozzie, are you okay?”

Lozzie swallowed and looked up. She sniffed once, then rubbed her nose on her poncho. “Reconstruct. We’re in the dream! And Joker bum-face made it very easy to move things around here. Everything is super easy and plastic and not really solid or fixed or anything. There’s only one layer of reflections, sooooooooooo.” Lozzie nodded at the beanbag chair Joking was sitting in; she’d dragged that out of the floor a few minutes ago, after all. “I could. I could. I couuuuuuld. Wouldn’t be hard!” She shook her head with intense effort, hair going everywhere — then flattening back down again, limp and lifeless. “Wouldn’t be hard.”

“A reconstruction,” Joking echoed, his voice like a funerary bell. “You can achieve that, truly?”

Lozzie bit her lip and nodded slowly.

Joking took a deep breath and shook his head. Disbelief and incredulity — but also concern and curiosity.

Raine cleared her throat. “Is that like a big deal? Reconstructing things in dreams?”

Joseph looked uncomfortable. He gestured vaguely with one hand. “Dream construction is certainly possible — objects, buildings, even entire places. The most storied of dreamers have peopled whole cities and countries with their own imaginations. But those individuals do not stay anchored in the waking world for very long. I myself have been briefly acquainted with two such experienced dreamers, and they were … they were not ‘all there’. Lozzie Lilburne is clearly lucid and conscious. And reconstruction, from accurate memories? Of people?” He snorted. “If you are being honest about your abilities … ” He trailed off and waved a hand.

“I can do it,” said Lozzie.

She didn’t sound happy or proud about that.

Joking frowned. “Miss Lilburne, it is only fair to warn you that your brother’s corpse was in a terrible state to witness. You may not wish to do this.”

Lozzie just stared at the floor, hands wringing the inside of her poncho. I felt an overwhelming urge to get out of my chair and pick her up in all my tentacles, carry her home and tuck her into bed.

Raine shot Joking a nasty grin. “Why do you care, mate?”

Joking turned a dark frown on Raine. “I am a monster, yes, I know this — but of a specific kind. I would not rub the face of a young girl in the corpse of her dead sibling—”

“It’s okay,” said Lozzie, very quietly. “Heathy … Heathy needs this.” She looked at me, sidelong and tentative, a shell-less mollusc peering out from beneath a rock. “Heathy? Heathy? You need this, don’t you? Don’t you?”

“Uh … L-Lozzie, you don’t have to do this,” we said quickly. “You don’t have to. I can’t ask you to do this. We can get the book translated. We can wait. I was just being impatient, we can find another way, another … ”

Lozzie pulled a very sad smile. “Maisie can’t wait.”

“Lozzie … ”

Those shining blue eyes smiled back at me. “Heathy, you freed me over and over and over and over and over. You didn’t have to! You could have told me to go away, do it myself, blah blah blah. But you didn’t. And now we’re gonna free Maisie, too. Let me help? Pleeeeease?” She forced a smile, a big one, then bounced out of her seat and spread her poncho to the sides, wide and free again. “I just won’t look!”

We reached out a tentacle and wrapped it around Lozzie’s arm, holding on extra tight. She squeezed back, allowing us to wrap the rest of our length around her waist, beneath the poncho: a special anchor, just for her. To my surprise, Praem abandoned her position as arbiter of negotiations and stepped behind Lozzie instead. The demon-maid slipped her hands beneath Lozzie’s arms, around Lozzie’s front, and hugged Lozzie’s slender, slight, girlish form to her own plush and cushiony front.

Lozzie let out a tiny giggle and snuggled against Praem; she had all the support she needed.

Joking stood up, clearly uncomfortable, tense and hard, eyes blazing with a craggy frown. “I feel a responsibility to warn you fools. My questioning of whatever remained inside the body of Alexander Lilburne became … overwhelming. I was not afforded long with the corpse, and that was in part due to the surrounding circumstances. Any reconstruction may be taxing on the psyche.”

Raine stood up as well. She shrugged. “We’ve seen worse, mate. Don’t you worry yourself.”

I stood up from my chair too, only half-certain why we were all rising from our seats. “Yes, we’ve rather become veterans at this by now. I’ve stood in Wonderland itself and looked up at the Eye. I’m sure a dream recreation of talking to Alexander isn’t going to be that bad.”

Praem intoned: “Tempting fate.”

I winced. Raine snorted. Joking was not amused, frowning dark and dreary with the storm behind his shoulders.

Lozzie said: “It won’t be all full from margin to margin, anyway! I can’t summon all of it! S’not like I can actually actually really really bring the big peeper in to recite lines! It’ll just be memories, I promise!”

We smiled, just for Lozzie, our special smile for our beloved adoptive sister. “Anything you can summon is enough, Lozzie. And if it gets too much—”

Lozzie nodded up and down, very hard, which had the added benefit of rubbing the back of her head against Praem’s plush support. “I’ll stop!” she chirped. “I’ll have my own eyes shuty-uppy anyway, okaaaaay? Ready?”

Raine said quickly: “Hold up a sec. Anything we should do to brace ourselves? Lozzie?”

Lozzie shook her head. “Naaaaah. We’re not going anywhere. I’m just changing a ickle littley bit of the dream. Ready?”

We took a deep breath. “Ready.”

Raine said: “And armed.”

Praem said: “A maid is always prepared.”

Raine smirked. “Isn’t that boy scouts?”

“Maids are more prepared.”

Joking said, “Go ahead, dreamer. You have the wheel. I will not attempt to resist.”

Lozzie screwed her eyes shut and puffed her cheeks out, like a little girl about to throw a tantrum, a child with a puzzle that didn’t make sense — or Lozzie trying to do a human imitation of a hot air balloon. For a second, nothing happened; the rain drummed on the roof, the dream-storm continued its loving assault against the concrete walls of Joseph King’s speculative architectural tribute to his lost friend, and the distant humped shadows beyond the forest continued to lumber and roll.

And then, slowly but surely, the brown glass window faded away. The swaying forest, the haunted horizon, the dense sheet of raindrops falling from the stormy sky — all were replaced by a sudden extension to Mister Joking’s office.

On the other side of an invisible line stood a new room, a dream-memory summoned from shorthand notes, a ghost dredged from Joseph King’s recollections.

The new room was also made out of concrete — but not the clean, smooth, well-proportioned concrete of the Brutalist beauty in which we stood. A stripped floor showed fragments of stained carpet around the edges, the concrete itself scratched and scuffed, walls damaged by damp and time. Battered wooden door frames led off to the left and right. One of them was chewed at the base by years of being used as a cat’s scratching post. Through the left doorway I could just about see the remains of a kitchen, cupboard doors removed, appliances long gone, counter top ruined by cigarette burns. A paint-splattered iron radiator was bolted to the back wall of the room, cold and dead. A pair of naked glass windows peered out into a city-scape night — a quiet, empty, cloudless night, lit from below by the distinctive glow of Sharrowford street lighting.

Hissssss! — we lost control.

We couldn’t help it. We took an involuntary step back, recoiling, tentacles rising in a cage of self-defence. Joking glanced around, alarmed by my hiss. Lozzie flinched. We swallowed in a vain effort to rest the shape of my throat.

Raine said, “Woah, Heather? Heather? Hey, breathe, just breathe. Look at me. Breathe. That’s it, there you go.”

We caught ourselves, breathing too hard, breaking out in cold sweat. Memory is a powerful thing; we had underestimated the depth of our own trauma.

“I-I’m okay, I’m o-okay,” I stammered, though I held on tight to both Raine and Lozzie. “I’m okay. I can— I can deal with this. S-sorry. If Lozzie can deal with this, then so can I.”

Joking raised an eyebrow at me; he didn’t know.

Raine nodded at the ghostly room. “Heather, this is … ?”

“Glasswick Tower,” I confirmed.

Glasswick Tower — the Cult’s illegal stronghold in an abandoned building, before Alexander’s Eye-ridden corpse had turned several of the upper floors into a parody of human innards.

It was not the same room in which I had been briefly confined, and in which I had freed Zheng from her slavery and bondage — this space was much larger, perhaps some kind of communal sitting room. The Sharrowford Cult had turned it into a meeting place, with cheap plastic lawn chairs and a couple of battered folding tables arranged in a rough circle. Some hastily sketched magical symbols ringed the windows, glowing softly on the bare concrete walls — but they were mere dream impressions, powerless and inert. They did nothing to my eyes, provoked no recognition or nausea.

The true shock came from the inhabitants.

The dream-room from Glasswick Tower was teeming with people. All of them were frozen in place, captured in a single moment of remembered time, posed like a chaotic diorama.

They looked like they were all going mad. Standing, sitting, sprawled on the floor, leaning against the walls — every single dream-remembered figure was caught in a pose of internal torture, of unimaginable pressure written on their faces and engraved upon their musculature. One middle-aged man was curled up in a ball, caught mid-scream, his face contorted, his fists paused in the act of beating his own head. Several more sat in the cheap plastic chairs with thousand-yard stares, eyes fixed on the floor or the ceiling, wearing the most haunted expressions I’d ever witnessed. One young woman was pressing her forehead to the bare concrete wall, blood running down her face. A young man was crammed into the corner, biting down on a belt to choke back a scream.

A few of them — the ones near the centre of the group — appeared marginally more coherent, if hunched and tense and haunted by pain. I recognised Sarika, prior to her capture by the eye, her hair dark and sleek, her trim form wrapped in a fashionable coat. She was crying, staring at the mangled object in the middle of the floor. Badger lurked a little further back — greasy and unkempt, from back when he had looked more like a local drug dealer than a genius mathematician; he had his arm around another man, caught in the act of trying to console his friend, both them wide-eyed and weeping.

And there was Zheng — lurking just through one of the battered doorways, a pale giant, ramrod-straight, expressionless and mute, still under control and bound by the tattoos written on her concealed flesh. It was terrible seeing her like that; even as a memory, I wanted to reach out and free her.

Other faces I recognised less well, lurkers on the periphery, half-remembered glimpses from the time some of the ex-cultists had tried to kidnap Lozzie in the park. But most of them I had never seen before. Most of them had died before I’d had the chance, immolated by their attempted contact with the Eye.

We were looking at the scene a few hours after Alexander’s death, the night after I had confronted and killed him in the Cult’s castle.

Joking cleared his throat. The voice of the Welsh Mage emerged quieter than usual, almost tentative: “This is approximately six hours after his passing, which is about when I arrived. I understand his enhanced physiology gave him a few hours of grace before true death.” He swallowed. “The mage’s curse — reinforce your physical body and you just spend longer in pain before you go.”

Six hours, six hours since he had sold his followers to the Eye.

Lozzie whimpered; she had her eyes screwed shut, but she didn’t like hearing that.

“Stop, please,” I said sharply.

Joking nodded, stiff and formal. No jokes from him.

In the middle of the ghostly dream-room lay Alexander Lilburne’s corpse.

His ex-followers had stretched him out on a sheet of blue tarpaulin; blood, bile, and unspeakable intestinal fluids pooled in the crinkled plastic. He looked like he’d been run over by a bulldozer — a mass of minced flesh with little spears of bone sticking up from his broken ribcage and shattered hips. Dressed in heat-charred rags, head a bloody burst melon, a few scraps of blonde hair still clinging to his scalp.

This was not the first time I had seen Alexander’s corpse, not the first time I had witnessed the result of my own murderous handiwork; in an odd paradox of retroactive time we had already come upon his corpse once before, preserved in the mutated innards of Glasswick tower — but that was after the moment captured by this dream. In Joseph’s memories, Alexander Lilburne was not yet the core and origin of a bizarre concrete-warping biological obscenity. He was just a dead man.

Yet one important difference was impossible to ignore: his eyes were wide open, staring upward, and far from dead.

The Eye?

What were we looking at — a puppet? An avatar? A conduit to the Eye? Or something less comprehensible?

“Lozzie,” I murmured. “You’re right to keep your eyes shut. Keep them closed. That’s good.”

Lozzie whined an affirmative. Praem helped by sliding a soft palm over Lozzie’s eyes.

Raine whistled low. “It’s like the set of an old-school sitcom. No fourth wall.”

We hissed, “Raine. I don’t think it’s like a sitcom. Really.”

“It’s literally laid out like one. Not in tone, though.”

Joking stepped forward to the edge of the recollection, craning his neck to see from different angles. “This is incredible work, Miss Lilburne. Incredible work. I … I have taken decades just to build this concrete house, and I can barely manage more than blank walls and a mistake full of toilets. This, to create this from another mind, in moments?” He shook his head in awe. “Genius. Genius.” Then, quickly: “Is it safe to interact with? I cannot help but note that I myself am not present in the scene — am I meant to enter?”

Lozzie said, with her eyes safely covered by Praem’s palm: “It’s safe! It’s just a memory! You have to go in and say the words you said and then other words get said, okay?”

Joking looked back, hollow-eyed and stiff. “Other words.”

“Other words,” Lozzie echoed. “Mmhmm!”

Joseph looked me straight in the eyes. “Morell, I agreed to share my notes on the Magnus Vigilator and I am willing to abide by that decision. I will even watch a copy of myself go through the motions. But I did not agree to undergo this conversation all over again. It was not an ordeal I wish to repeat. Not in the middle of that room. Not among that. Not again.”

I bit my lower lip. “Was it—”

“It was that bad. Yes.”

Lozzie chirped: “It’ll only be the words themselves! I said, I can’t really dream up the big peeper! Just words, from— from Alex’s … in his … his voice … ”

“Lozzie, it’s okay,” we said quickly. “Look, this is getting too complex. Maybe it’s best if we—”

“But you need it!” Lozzie said. She wiggled in Praem’s grip, pouting at me without looking. “Heathy! Maisie needs it too!”

Joking crossed his arms over his broad chest, and said: “I cannot do this. Not like this.”

Raine held out both hands, her pistol forgotten in her waistband. “Yeah, yeah, yo, hey, everyone cool down. The man has a point, however much I don’t like to say it—”

Joking’s expression collapsed back into the drunken lad for a second. He shot Raine a big cheesy grin and a broad wink; he snapped back to sober seriousness in the blink of an eye.

“—and hey,” Raine carried on. “I remember when we glimpsed the Eye, once, when Evee made that window. Praem, Lozzie, neither of you were there. Once was enough. Is it really safe to listen? Really really?”

Lozzie pouted. “I promise!”

Joseph King was staring at me, frowning with a mixture of curiosity and realisation. We raised our eyebrows at him, with no patience for unspoken games.

He sighed, and said: “You are terrified of this. Of the Magnus Vigilator. I didn’t quite realise.”

“Of course I’m terrified!” we squeaked. “I’ve seen it up close! It haunted my nightmares for a decade! Did you think I enjoyed that?”

He nodded slowly, then glanced at Lozzie: “Only words, dreamer? You promise?”

Lozzie opened her mouth — but a reply came from behind us, from the doorway into the office, as it banged open and admitted a stomping gait into the room.

“It better bloody well be words alone, you absolute bunch of fools!” — said Evelyn.

We all turned in surprise; Praem even lifted Lozzie up and around, and spread the fingers of her blindfold-hand so Lozzie could peer at the sudden arrival.

Evelyn was dressed for hiking through a storm; water dripped from an expensive looking raincoat, puddling on the floor at her feet, darkening the concrete. She threw back the hood and raked out her long blonde hair, her face sweaty and flushed from climbing the stairs. She’d swapped her usual wooden walking stick for a more practical model in stainless steel, with a plastic handle. She wore a pair of lumpy, shapeless cargo trousers and her comfortable cream jumper, spotted with water and covered in bits of woodland debris.

“Welcome,” said Praem.

Raine started laughing. Joking dropped the Welsh Mage and instantly re-adopted the laddish lout, squinting with exaggerated disbelief. I squeaked: “Evee! How did you—”

“I told you!” Evelyn snapped at me — genuinely angry. “I told you to come back the moment anything weird or untoward happened. I made you promise to come back if something looked at you funny. And now I find you trying to summon the fucking Eye into a dream?!”

Lozzie mewled: “It’ll only be words … ”

“Words have power,” Evelyn snapped, then softened her tone: “Lozzie, I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but this is way over the line.”

Joking said: “Oh, alright, just, yeah. Just keep inviting random young women into my mind palace, why don’t you? Not like it was meant to be semi-secure or anything, nope, no way. Just waltz on in.”

Evelyn’s glare rounded on him: “And you — you shit! You stole my gateway spell! You gave it to Edward Lilburne! Heather, Raine, I cannot believe you are trusting this mage, I cannot—”

“Evee” we said.

Evelyn’s rant cut off. She glared at me for a moment, hot and bitter and full of care, as if daring me to say another word. When I was a fraction too slow, she snapped: “What, Heather? What, hm? You’re going to tell me that this has to happen, that this is essential, that it’s just oh so fucking important for you to put yourself in danger, yet again, without—”

“I’m glad you’re here,” we said.

Evelyn spluttered to a halt. “W-what?”

“I’m glad you joined us,” I repeated. I reached out with a tentacle, bobbed it briefly in a silent request for permission, and then gently wrapped it around Evelyn’s forearm. “Evee, you’re right — I am going to say that we need to do this. But I’d much rather do it with you here, with proper precautions, with you by my side, as well.”

Evelyn blazed at me for a long moment, lips pursed, then said: “God you’re a fucking idiot, Heather. Don’t know why I love you so much.”

I burst into an incandescent blush. Raine’s eyebrows shot upward. Lozzie smothered a giggle. Praem said nothing.

But Evee didn’t seem to realise what she’d said. She just stomped a few paces into the room, joining the rest of us and shaking the rainwater off her coat. She seemed completely unmoved. I peered closely — but her eyes looked normal, she was not shaking and shivering as Raine kept doing, and she appeared totally lucid. She simply didn’t notice her own words. Was this another effect of the dream?

She did notice our reactions, however.

“What are you all bloody staring at?” she spat. “Fine, I’ll help! If we do this, we do it properly.” She jabbed her walking stick at Joking. “And we don’t trust this bastard one bit.”

“Awww, cheers, lass,” said Joking.

“Uh, um,” I cleared my throat, trying to recover. “Evee, how did you join the dream?”

Praem answered: “I could not refuse.”

Evelyn huffed. “I’m not sure. I just wanted to, and then … ” She shrugged and grumbled, rolling her uneven shoulders and wincing at the way her joints popped and clicked.

“You didn’t have to actually walk through all that rain, did you?” we asked. “You’re all wet, are you safe, are you … ?”

“No, no,” she sighed. “I just found myself inside the doors of this place. If I had to walk through the rain, I have no memory of doing so.” She glared at Joking again. “Which I do not appreciate, by the way.”

Joseph held up his hands in mock-surrender. “Hey, lass, I don’t control your dreaming. Blame her.” He pointed at Lozzie.

Evelyn raised her chin. “I shall blame Lozzie for nothing. She is perfect. Fuck you.”

Lozzie did a little cheer under her breath. That didn’t sound like normal Evee either, ‘she is perfect’.

Joking puffed out a big noisy sigh. “Fuckin’ ‘ell you lot are a handful. Should I like, be expecting anybody else, too? Put on a round of tea? Maybe leave the door open, put up a welcome sign? Do I need to clear parking spaces?”

We all ignored him. I asked Evee: “How much did you hear? Do you need me to catch you up on our decisions?”

Evelyn shook her head. She frowned at me, looking distinctly uncomfortable in a way I’d never seen on her face before, half enraged, half confused. “I … I already know. And I don’t know how I know. Is this what it’s like being inside a dream? You know things without knowing how you know them?” She stopped and hissed between her teeth. “Ugh. I hate it. I do not like being here, not one bit.”

“Yuuuuuuuup,” said Lozzie, from behind Praem’s hand. “That’s dreaming!”

Evelyn banged her walking stick against her own prosthetic leg; it made a dull thump through the fabric of her trousers. “And why do I still have a prosthetic when none of this is real?”

“It is real!” Lozzie protested. “That’s just how you look in the mirror!”

Joseph straightened up, Welsh Mage once again: “Residual self-image.”

Raine snorted. “Alright there, Morpheus.”

Joking gave her a cool, flat look. “Yes, I lifted the concept from popular culture. It is a good one. I used to call the phenomenon ‘mind-body spirit impression’, but that is less aptly descriptive. The dream is highly mutable — as is self-image, but modifying either does require active effort expended over time. Miss Saye, your prosthetic leg, it is part of how you conceptualise yourself. Hence, in the dream, it is part of you.”

“Oh yeah?” Evelyn snorted, looking distinctly unimpressed. “And what if I ‘conceptualise myself’ with massive tits and a spine to support them? Do I get to have those too?”

My eyeballs all but popped out of my head; Evelyn seemed completely unembarrassed by her frankly bizarre question. Raine struggled not to burst into laughter. Lozzie squealed and jerked in Praem’s grip. Praem said nothing, staring at the wall. Joking just rolled his eyes.

The dream was doing funny things to Evee’s inhibitions; or at least to her self-filtering. I decided we needed to get this over with sooner rather than later, before she did something that would kill her with embarrassment the moment we returned to the waking world.

“Evee,” we said, forcing my voice soft and level. “What kind of precautions should we take, before we listen to what Alexander — well, before we listen to what the Eye said?”

Evelyn huffed and glanced around the room, then nodded at the floor beneath our feet. “Protective circle, three layers. We’re not exposing ourselves to the real thing, just a recording. Overkill, perhaps? I don’t care. I would swaddle you in cotton wool and put you behind armour if I could. I don’t want you to be here at all, Heather. I want you to go to my bed and get under the covers so I can—”

Evee blinked; she did not blush. Had she hit some kind of overload buffer? But then she just huffed and grumbled, and pointed two fingers at Mister Joking. “I need something to draw with. Now. And I will not say please. I am tired of saying please.”

Our increasingly beleaguered host found a nice thick black marker pen on his desk and handed it over to Evelyn — who, in turn, handed it to Raine, and began to instruct her on the angles and lines and shapes to scrawl on the floor. Praem would usually have fulfilled such a duty, but she was busy sitting down in a chair with Lozzie comfy and snug in her lap, one hand securely over Lozzie’s eyes. Raine got down on her hands and knees, and got to work, ringing all five of us with a triple-layer of magic circle. She neither quipped nor joked as Evelyn pointed and snapped, rattling off instructions and defining the exact letter-shapes for Raine to draw in between the lines.

Joseph King watched the work with a distasteful frown; he would have to scrub it off the concrete once this was all over, of course. Or use the dream to replace the slab? Or just the upper layer? Or could he make the ink vanish as if it was never there?

“Don’t thinkee, Heathy!” Lozzie chirped. “No thoughts!”

“Head empty,” said Praem.

“Dreams,” Evelyn spat. “Such bloody nonsense.”

Mister Joking performed a little magic of his own. As we prepared our makeshift magical shelter from any unintended backwash, he stepped right up to the dividing line once more, standing right on the threshold of the terrible memory of the night after Alexander’s death. He slipped into a series of strange exercises, closing his eyes and rotating each limb through a set of poses — some kind of martial arts practice, ingrained in his muscles by years or decades of repetition. As he progressed through the sequence, his musculature seemed to shift — not in shape, but in pose and fluidity, in how he held himself, how he used his body, how he inhabited his form.

When he finished and turned back to us, he was a different person altogether; gone was the loose, drunken pose of the young lout, and his face held none of the craggy disapproval and haughty superiority of the Welsh Mage. This was the Martial Artist, the one we had met only very briefly, when he had moved so fast as to evade even Zheng’s killing blow.

The palms of his hands glowed like molten steel. His eyes were heavily lidded with relaxation.

“I am ready,” he said in a rolling half-mumble, as if drugged or sleepwalking.

Evelyn was scowling at him. “What the hell are you? What am I witnessing here?”

Raine picked herself up off the floor, magic circle completed. “He’s a ninja, obviously.”

Joking said: “Mystical nonsense. And offensive. Don’t orientalise.”

Raine raised her hands and laughed. “Fair enough, mate.”

I spoke up for the first time in a while, with what I assumed was an obvious question: “Um, as this is all dream — or, ‘the’ dream — then how do we know that magic works the same?”

Evelyn grumbled with barely contained frustration. “Heather, I don’t care.”

Then she stomped over to my side and took my hand without the slightest hesitation.

“U-um, Evee—”

“Do not leave this circle, whatever happens. That goes for everybody.” She gestured at Mister Joking with her walking stick. “Except you, obviously. You can boil. Lozzie, are we ready to begin?”

Lozzie nodded up and down, from her position in Praem’s lap. “Mmhmm! Whenever you like!”

Joking took a deep breath and closed his eyes again. “Dreamer? Words only, yes?”

“Words only!”

“Can you keep the others still? Or at least allow them to move as little as possible? They were highly distracting. The room was … very noisy. There was some violence. It will interrupt the words.”

Lozzie swallowed, her tiny pale throat bobbing. She sniffed once, then said, “Okay. Do my best. Bestest best besty best.”

“Except Miss Masalkar,” Joking added. “She had things to say. The Magnus Vigilator answered her, too.”

“A-alright,” Lozzie said. She burrowed even deeper in Praem’s lap. I made sure to keep a firm grip on her with one tentacle, too. “I-I’ll try.”

Evelyn said: “Lozzie, you have veto power.”

“ … I dooooo?”

“It means that you can stop this any time you like,” Evelyn glanced at me. “Right, Heather?”

“Of course! Yes! Yes, of course. Lozzie, if it gets too much, please stop.”

Lozzie chewed her lower lip, then nodded. “Go on, go on in, Jokey-jokes. I’ll keep it … keep it just what we need.”

Without so much as a nod, Joseph King turned and stepped across the threshold of a dream.

As he entered the reconstruction of his own memories he changed yet again — his fluffy white bathrobe vanished, replaced with a long dark coat, smart shoes, and a formal hat. Was that a fedora? Or a trilby? I was never very clear on the small differences in men’s head-wear. As he stepped into the room he removed the hat, as if intruding on a wake or a funeral, which revealed that his hair was now buzzed short, shaved almost to the scalp.

The other figures in the dream-room from Glasswick Tower shivered and shuddered, memories straining against their bonds. A whisper of voices ghosted through the air.

“—left us, left us, left us—”

“—can’t get it out! Can’t get it out of my head—”

“—he wouldn’t have, not—”

“—the library, we have to raid his own library. He would have left clues—”

“—can’t— breathe— no—”

“—aaaauuurrrgh—”

“Calm down! Calm down, it’s going to be—”

“—m-maybe something in one of the—”

“—ask the Saye girl for help, we have to ask for help, we can’t— I can’t even think! Fuck you! Fuck you, I can’t think like this!”

“Stop— stop swearing, Chrissy is right here—”

And screaming. Muffled by the fog of memory, yes, but so much screaming.

Suddenly Sarika was right in front of Joseph, scowling up at him with her determined little face. It was so strange seeing her without neurological damage, her myriad of tics and twists, the grey in her hair and the pain on her expression. In the memory she was healthy and whole — and red-eyed from weeping, exhausted more deeply than I thought a human being capable of enduring.

“You’re Edward’s man,” she snapped in his face. “You’re meant to fix this. Can you fix him? Edward said you can. He talks but it’s not—”

Joseph said: “This is irrelevant.”

Lozzie whined — but the scene reset. The voices died off, whispers and screams fading beneath the pounding rain. Sarika was suddenly back in her chair, leaning over Alexander’s shattered body.

Joseph strode through the scene, weaving his way between the frozen actors. He knelt by the corpse, then extracted a hand-held voice recorder from inside his coat, and placed it on the floor. Next he produced a notebook and pencil. Then he glanced at Sarika.

“Miss Masalkar,” he said. “I need you to concentrate and answer my question to the best of your abilities: what was the last fully coherent thing he said?”

Sarika was sitting in one of the plastic lawn chairs. She animated from statue-stillness with a throaty grunt, as if fighting down a wave of pain inside her body.

“Almost eight hours ago now,” she croaked. “Wasn’t much. He just said: ‘I knew I was right.’ Nothing has made sense since then.”

Over in her chair, snuggled deep in Praem’s lap, Lozzie put both hands over her ears.

Deep in his own memories, Joseph nodded to Sarika — then looked back at us, at the audience. He said: “Brace yourselves. This is where it became difficult.”

Evelyn squeezed my hand. I squeezed back.

Joseph turned back to the corpse, squared his shoulders, and raised his pencil to the blank page of his notebook. He peered into Alexander’s open eyes. The corpse stared right through him, pupils fixed on the ceiling above.

“Magnus Vigilator,” Joseph said, loudly and clearly. “That is your name — one we have given you—”

Sarika recoiled. “What the fu—”

Joking ignored her and carried on: “A designation, a signifier. You are what is signified by those words: Magnus Vigilator. That is your individual name. To signify you. This is a beginning. Do you comprehend?”

Alexander Lilburne’s lips parted by a fraction of an inch. A dead man spoke:

Do you comprehend?

His voice was a terrible thing — wet and broken, a gurgle from a ruined throat and a mangled tongue, but somehow too clear and coherent to issue forth from such a battered form.

But there was another component to the words, some essence that could not be replicated in a dream-memory or captured in written notes, something that we, there in the dream, did not experience. We could only observe the results.

As Alexander spoke — or, rather, as the Eye spoke through him — Lozzie’s control slipped for a split-second. The figures in the memory flickered and jerked and re-assumed new positions. Sarika was caught in the act of recoiling from Alexander’s words, her eyes wide with terror, her face grey with sickness. Several of the other cultists were captured in the moment of vomiting, their bodies violently rejecting something more than mere sound. One man was screaming, eyes screwed shut, hands clamped over his ears. Chairs were toppling, their inhabitants fleeing for the doorways. I spotted Badger, at the back, pressed against the wall, face contorted as if he had been punched in the gut.

Joseph King fared better than the cultists — he did not have the Eye peering into the back of his thoughts, after all. He snapped back and covered his face with one arm, as if hit by a sudden blast of oven-hot air. Then he eased back into position, peering cautiously at Alexander’s face once more.

“Are you asking me a question?” he demanded. His voice shook with effort; we’d not heard him speak like that before. “Or are you merely echoing the sounds I am making?” He paused, waiting, surrounded by the frozen forms of cultists losing their minds. “Give me a sign that you understand.”

Give me a sign that you understand.

Again the wet and broken voice, horrifying and saddening in the sheer damage a body could endure in death — but not a supernatural assault on the senses. Lozzie simply could not replicate whatever the Eye had really sounded like through Alexander’s lips.

Again the cultists flickered. They fled the room, dashed their heads against the walls, screaming and weeping like a crowd beneath the pyroclastic flow of an erupting volcano. Some of them curled into balls. Others fell into twitching fits upon the floor. Sarika gripped the sides of her plastic chair, jaw clenched so hard that she must have damaged her teeth.

Joking fell backward, panting, covered in sweat, shaking his head like a wet dog. “I cannot … ” he murmured. “Check my notes. Morell, check my notes.”

It was only when he said my name that I realised he was talking to us, the audience, outsiders to the scene.

My eyes dropped to the notebook open in my free hand, cradled by a tentacle. Suddenly specific passages of Joking’s shorthand notation began to make sense.

‘Magnus Vigilator responds only with repetitions of the words spoken to it. Limitation of communication medium? Limitation of human mind? Is it repeating in hopes of finding meaning? Do not believe this correct. Only reflecting what it sees (hears?). Mirror of development processes in children? Flashing back to us what it observes, hopes of establishing an open line? Testing reactions? Or playing with parts, no understanding.’

‘Q: Speak a word that I have not spoken.’

‘A: A word that I have not spoken.’

‘Q: Tell me what you see.’

‘A: What you see.’

‘Q: Identify yourself.’

‘A: Yourself.’

‘Q: How many fingers am I holding up?’

‘A: How many fingers am I holding up?’

The text carried on for pages and pages, nothing but echoes and reflections, nothing but the Eye speaking through meat, reflecting meat back at itself. Like it couldn’t do anything else. Joking tried multiple languages — Latin, French, Russian, Chinese, and several I did not recognise, some of them undoubtedly non-human. But the Eye only echoed. It spoke not a word of its own.

‘Q: Why did you choose this indirect method of avatar possession? Why do you not rise to your feet and walk around? Why do you use only the eyes and the mouth, the voice-box? Is this a limitation of the deal made between yourself and Alexander Lilburne?’

‘Question went unanswered. Longer questions appear to elicit no response. Lack of interest? Lack of comprehension as to what part is important, or contains semantic value?’

‘Q: What do you want?’

‘A: Do you want?’

‘Q: Heather Morell. I know you are seeking contact with her. What does that name mean to you? Heather Morell. Tell me. God damn you to the pit of hell you insensible Beyonder obscenity. Give me something! Speak! Speak a word other than my own!’

The notes halted, melting back into incomprehensible shorthand. Our fingers shook, our eyes filled with tears of frustration. This was useless, worse than useless. The Eye observed, and reflected observation with perfect clarity. But it could do nothing more. Even through a possessed human throat, it could not truly communicate. It was too alien, too different, too large. What hopes did I have of ever making contact if we couldn’t speak with it?

And without communication the only option was violence, a fight, a staring contest — and we would lose.

We — seven of me, folded into one body, one human frame and six tentacles — were so much smaller than the Eye.

I wasn’t even shocked or angry that Joseph King had used my name in an effort to elicit a response from the Eye; but my name was a human construct, it probably meant nothing to Eye. It did not know me as Heather Morell, but as a collection of flayed atoms, thoughts unwound and stretched out like wire, self and body laid out beneath a merciless, burning gaze. Even me, even—

Two missing one,” said Alexander’s corpse.

Joseph King was once again crouched over the mangled body, his torso half turned-away, shielding his face with an arm. Sarika was trying to pull him away from Alexander’s corpse, screaming something in his face. The cultists who remained in the room were bleeding from the ears and weeping freely, most of them collapsed on the floor or slumped against the walls.

The Eye was speaking an answer — a real answer to a question. And the question was me.

The answer unfolded from shorthand on the page, in time with the corpse speaking the words in the dream-memory.

‘Two missing one. One missing half. Left without right, up without down, black without white. Where is my other sight? Where is the other half of my being? Where am I? I cannot see. Where am I? I cannot tell. Two is missing one. I am only half of creation. Two is missing one. Creation is half made up. Need the whole picture. From horizon to horizon.’

The answer ended.

Mister Joking lurched to his feet and reeled backward. He staggered out of the dream-memory scene, bursting back to this side of the invisible line. His dark coat and silly hat vanished, shed like a bad costume, replaced with his fluffy white bathrobe once again. His shaven head flickered back to his current messy curls. He almost collapsed against the concrete desk, catching himself on the edge, heaving and shaking.

Lozzie whined: “I can’t—”

“Then let go!” Evelyn snapped. “Let it go, Lozzie. Let it go.”

The memory faded. The room from Glasswick Tower blurred back into the brown glass of the window-wall, backed by sheets of rain and the distant, swaying forest. Lozzie whined and groaned and opened her eyes as Praem removed her hand. Evelyn sighed sharply. Raine blew out a long breath.

Joking straightened up, squinting hard against internal pain: “I already told you. I do not think it can understand anything we have to say. It spoke pure nonsense, it—”

“No,” I said.

The others all looked at me. Raine had already realised that I was crying slow tears, but Evelyn suddenly frowned with concern. Lozzie leaped out of her seat — her Praem-seat — and moved toward me, for a hug or reassurance. Raine kept rubbing my back.

“It spoke perfect sense,” I explained, crying but not sobbing. Our tears were clear. “Perfect sense to me, at least. Isn’t it obvious? Or do you need a twin to see it?” I almost laughed. “A twin to see it. Right in front of me the whole time.”

Evelyn clenched her jaw. “Heather, slow down and speak sense.”

Joking frowned too, sweat dripping from his brow. “Yes, enlighten me, little watcher.”

“It was speaking about Maisie and I. Two, missing one. One, missing a half. It knows. It knows that she and I are separated. That was the only concept it recognised, the only thing it could relate to, the only external reference point — that feeling. That separation. It’s the only thing it responded to! Separation. Being apart. Being one, when you should be two.”

Raine frowned as well, but more with concern. “Do you think it was echoing Maisie’s feelings? Like that was her speaking through it?”

We shook our head. “No. No, I think it was talking about itself.”

Evelyn squinted at me. “Heather?”

“Twins,” said Praem, standing from her seat and straightening her skirt. “Two in one. One in two.”

“Twins come in pairs,” I said, nodding at Praem. “We know it takes twins — or twins are drawn to it, I don’t know why, but the manuscript from Carcosa proves that part. Twins. It teaches twins. Or examines twins. What else comes in pairs?”

Evelyn’s frown turned exasperated beyond words. “Heather. You cannot be serious.”

“An eyeball cannot see itself, not without a mirror,” I said, hiccuping with an emotion I did not comprehend. “But twins can turn and look, and see themselves in each other. It knows, that’s the only human thing it could relate to — because it feels the same way. It is one, when it should be two. Just like us.”

Previous Chapter Next Chapter



The Eye speaks, and it has only one thing to say: 1 + 1 = 2

Also, something something Evee big unnaturals. Dreams sure do get weird, huh? This, however, might be the last of this particular run of dreamland chapters, we’ve spent enough time breaking logic and getting visited by maids. Now it’s time for something different. Time for Heather to deal with some other responsibilities (and also worry herself to utter distraction with this new revelation.)

If you want more Katalepsis right away, you can get it by:

Subscribing to the Patreon!

All Patrons get access to two chapters ahead! No matter what level you subscribe at! That’s about 20k words at the moment. The more support I get through Patreon, the more time I can dedicate to writing, and the less chance of having to slow down the story or get interrupted by other responsibilities. The generous and kind support of Patrons and readers is what makes all this possible in the first place, I would literally not be able to do this without you; thank you all so very much! You can also:

Vote for Katalepsis on TopWebFiction!

This helps so very much! A lot of readers still find the story through TWF, which still surprises me. It only takes a couple of clicks to vote!

And thank you! Thank you for reading! I couldn’t do this without you, dear reader; Katalepsis is for you!

Next week, Heather’s got a lot to think about, but also many loose ends still to tie up. Some of them who cry out for snipping off …