The Worm in Every Heart

—ease myself in, connecting up and Oh! All the way through in one smooth rush Oh, ah To clip something deep inside And I Twist and hiss, jerking Laid utterly open Right to the tight silk heart of you, oh yes Hot breath between my shoulder blades, pinning me flat Right on through The pain, prone and panting against my cousin’s sheets, satin knotting like a kiss along the length of me Pounding My God, I’m so SMALL to him My claws on your hips, teeth at your nape And I’ll die, my Christ, I’ll die Of pleasure Grendel howling as I clamp down on him now While from your own throat comes a sound no angel knows Our mutual arc pulling taut at last Fit to spasm and Jet—

—together.

* * *

At last, he slept. I waited until he was deep enough to shift in his sleep and slipped from my commandeered bed to the cold stone floor, where I sat, head in my hands, for what seemed a very long time. Then I bit my lips, and rose.

The keep seemed different to me now. Emptier. And as I passed through the study with its shattered window a light rain splattered against my naked skin, reminding me that there had been no time for clothing. But what did that matter, after all?

Nowhere I could run from Grendel would be far enough. Nothing I could do would dissuade him. I had built him well, entirely TOO well, and it had brought me down from the height of a Creator to the de

pths of the Pit.

But I knew what must be done.

I turned a corner and limped down the hall towards the forbidden door—once barred, then reopened. The rain fell through the laboratory’s pierced roof, soaking me to the bone.

I took my notebooks and all the instruments I could find, wrapped them in cloth and paper, doused them with volatile chemicals, and set them alight with a single spark. Then, spreading the detritus of my short career around me in a ring, oblivious to the pain of my burnt fingers, I lay back on the floor looking up at the watery sky.

Nemesis, I thought, who punishes the proud. I have made my own Nemesis.

As a bolt of lightning cracked the sky to show the glow behind, I drew my last remaining souvenir of Godhood towards me.

“Poor Ivan,” I heard myself whisper. “Je suis desole, mon gentil cousin, parcequ’il est ma faut vous etes mort.”

I raised the scalpel. Calmly, with that deft touch so admired amongst my peers at the Medical School, I brought it down. Calmly, I slit my wrists, one after another.

After which I lay back again, gratefully, and let my life seep away.

* * *

I see your face before me now, as always. Ever since the moment of my birth. Ever since the moment I lifted away the overturned surgical table, after waiting for the ring of fire to burn itself out, and saw you lying there.

So pale.

But you were wrong, my creator—and your plan, as is often the case when one must think fast under pressure, was poorly laid.

I got there before the notebooks could fully burn. A little charred, yes. But legible.

Hear me now, wherever you are: I cannot let you go. I will not.

And I am a good pupil, also. Surely, you must give me that.

Sleep well, Mikela.

* * *

I sleep, just as Mother said I would. I dream I lie packed in ice while years pass, years upon years. I dream I am disinterred and wrapped in bandages, raised toward a shining globe, the charge surging through me as I writhe and scream—blind, but hardly senseless. Then I dream silence, cut only by the sound of the scalpel tracing my jaw. I open my eyes, and the first thing I see . . .

. . . is your face.

Beyond the Forest

CAROLA WOKE COUGHING BLOOD.

The moon was already up. New frost had settled at dusk, lending the rotting leaves around her a leprous sheen. Her teeth ached. As she raised her hand to block the light, she saw that insects had laid their eggs beneath her nails as she slept.

Die, she told them, and felt their tentative hum dim slowly to silence.