Savage Saints (Monsters of Saint Mark's)

Not only that, there are two of them now. And both have these four keywords. In fact, the first two lines of both poems are the same.

A horn, a hoof, an eye, a bone. A man, a girl, a place of stone.

Both of them say that.

I’ve always kind of assumed that the man was Pell and the girl was me.

But… what if the man is Tarq?

Maybe it could be any man?

Hell, maybe the girl isn’t even me?

And maybe the place of stone isn’t the sanctuary?

A memory flashes through my mind. That dream place when Pell and I were in the upstairs hallway. The woods and off across that meadow—the temple.

A place of stone.

Hmmm. This is starting to get interesting.

Then I turn my attention to the third and fourth lines.

The first spelling talks about time, a mistake, and being safe behind the gate. But the second one talks about a fight, a fall, and a brand-new dawn.

What if the first two lines are mandatory? Maybe all the magic is about a man, a girl, and a place of stone. And maybe the way you change the spelling is by changing the third and fourth lines?

“Pie!” Talina yells.

I look over my shoulder at her. “Huh?”

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Sure.” But my mind is still on that last thought. It feels right. The power is in the first two lines, but the change is in the third and fourth.

There’s just one problem with this theory: The spelling I wrote yesterday also worked and I didn’t use these keywords. So what’s so important about a horn, a hoof, an eye, and bone?

“Hel-lo!” Talina is yelling at me again.

“What, Talina? I’m thinking hard about shit right now!”

“So fill me in! I’m here to help.”

Uh. Yeah. No. I don’t think so. But I force a smile. I even try my best to make it real. Because I think I just might have the freaking answer to everything. And there’s no way in hell I’m gonna share it with anyone from Vinca. I don’t trust these people. They’re kinda creepy, actually. Queens, and Firedays, and ten-day workweeks. It’s all very what-the-fuck.

I close my notebook and stand up. “I need coffee. My brain isn’t working yet. It’s just a jumbled mess up there.”

Her whole forehead crinkles up in… what? What is that? Confusion? Irritation? I’m not sure. I barely know her. But it’s definitely something. Then she says, “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Doing what on purpose?”

“I can’t go to the coffee shop today.”

“Why not?”

She huffs, then points to the white spots on her shoulder and thigh. “Moonspots? Hello?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. What the hell is a moonspot?”