Page 7 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

She stills, pressing her back against the damp wall, as if she can blend into the concrete. She reaches forthe Ether; the ease with which she can access it is reassuring.

“It’s okay,” the voice says again. There is a ruffling sound that is familiar, though she can’t quite place it. “Here, let me help you.”

There is a clunk of metal falling, a chain being unlinked, and then the creak of a door as it opens, spilling a sliver of pale light from beyond. The sliver widens, falling on her like a spotlight. She blinks against the sudden intrusion, holding her hand up awkwardly to block the light. A small dark creature hops forward and down, onto the top step of the stairs that lead up and out of this damp, dark place.

She takes some comfort from the notion that whatever it is, she is much bigger than it, but she still presses herself against the wall, fists clenched in front of her should she need to defend herself. The light is startling after the darkness, but her eyes adjust quick enough for her to glimpse the oil-slick feathers of a bird, a small one, like the ones she used to chase as a kid while waiting for her grandma in front of the grocery store. He is airborne with a few flaps of his wings then he is perched on her bent knee. She jumps when he lands, but he tightens his grip. She can feel the sharpness of his claws through her skirt, and she’s sure there is a small tear in it now.

The bird cocks his head to the side, yellow eyes beaming brightly, and says, “You are scared, but not as confused as you should be.”

She swallows, finding her voice. “I’m a witch,” she says quietly. Her throat feels like it’s on fire. She swallows. “And you are cursed.”

“Indeed,” says the bird—a grackle, she recalls—tucking his wings close to his body. “But you have it slightly wrong. You are no longer a witch.”

Her fists clench, and she brings them close to her stomach, remembering what the stain on her shirt is. Her fingers dig into the fabric, stiff with her blood. “What do you mean?”

“You are just as cursed as me now,” says the bird, with a click of his beak.

Before Calliope can respond, a gruff command comes from the doorway. “Kane!”

The sudden sound makes her jump and Kane’s claws grip her knee harder, the nails sinking beyond the thin fabric of her skirt and into her skin, as he twists his head to look at the source of the command, feathers puffed up. Calliope can just see the silhouette of a man before he descends into the basement.

5

One Kind of Magic

Calliope

She didn’t know it was possible for a grackle to look suitably chagrined, but Kane somehow manages it. The man kneels in front of Calliope and swipes at Kane, forcing the bird to hop off her knee and down onto the ground “I told you to watch her, not start a conversation,” he says, not unkindly.

Calliope shifts closer to the wall, feeling the concrete snag on her shirt. Her arms come up to her chest, fingers ghosting over the scar on her arm as she instinctively shields herself. Not that her arms will protect her much, because now that the man is in front of her, she recognizes him as the sales clerk at the gas station.

Thevampire.

Up close, his eyes are unnaturally gray and hisskin almost translucent in the dark. His aquiline nose hints at ancient royalty and yet there is a small hint of a beard that is oddly endearing on an immortal being such as him.

“You’ll probably want to rinse your mouth out,” he says, handing her a glass of water. “The aftertaste takes some getting used to.”

She looks warily at the glass. “Aftertaste…?”

Instead of explaining, he sits the glass down on the dusty concrete floor and shifts so that he is sitting cross-legged in front of her. “I’m Rory,” he says, with a smile so ill-used it comes out more like a grimace. “Do you remember last night?”

“You bit me,” she says, steady and emotionless.

He nods. “I didn’t know what to do—you asked me—you were—”

“I was dying.”

He nods again, his eyes never leaving her. He seems poised for an attack, shoulders stiff, aware of her every movement.

“You saved me,” she says, softly.

He hesitates, a line forming between his furrowed eyebrows. “I did what I could.”

“What’s the aftertaste from?” Her voice is shaky in the dark. She plucks at the small tear in her skirt. She yearns to draw herself back into the Ether, to pretend this isn’t happening.

He runs his hand through his hair before replying. “You were dying. I bit you, then made you drink myown blood.”

“You fed off me?”

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