Chapter Text
Jacob hummed tunelessly as he scraped away at the waffle iron, plotting his revenge.[1] From the humblest of beginnings, a hero will rise. Probably. Third time’s the charm.
He was taking an earlier shift that day, which meant that fewer among the all-day-breakfast-consuming public (not to mention his fellow employees) were under the influence of mind-altering substances stronger than nicotine. If he wasn’t putting out fires or trying to stop the bare-knuckle fighting that cheap hashbrowns somehow inspired in people, he had time to let his mind wander in between chores, and where it was wandering now was towards the evening— and the hunt. The concept sent a little thrill of anticipation through him, similar to the familiar fear but different in all the ways that counted.
Thanks to Jacob’s tireless efforts in cataloging anything that might be relevant to the defense of Gravesfield, most of the groundwork was already laid. The enormous map of the city that had joined the increasingly-crowded walls of the Hopcave was covered in color-coded pins for different incidents and locations: known haunts of the Nocedas and their Martian allies/masters/minions in red, locations of important events in the last four centuries in green, every Were-Owl sighting since the nineties in yellow, and, relevant for his current project, every location from a MyFace post or local news article that referenced chronic wasting disease in light blue.
The Martian witches had something, not that bright but very aggressive, that had possessed a dead deer and was using its body to move around. Jacob’s leading theory at the moment was that it was a rogue element, but the late nights and early mornings checking badly-degraded trailcam feeds for clues hadn’t entirely convinced him that it wasn’t secretly under the control of the Noceda Martians.
The previous night’s great success with the Hammer was just the most recent point he had presented in an ongoing attempt to convince himself to go back and seek the thing out. Yes, it was dangerous, but did he have any right to be scared? No, he would tell himself whenever he wavered, I actually know what it is. I understand the danger, so I should face it. How long until it attacks someone without my survival skills? The fact that any skills involved in his escape had been supported by an unknown quantity of luck was irrelevant. Jacob Hopkins, humanity’s champion, couldn’t afford to chicken out now. There were all kinds of reasons why he should go out there and fight, and very few reasons to stay home. What was the point of all of the scheming and testing if he never did anything in the real world?
Another real battle. A fight between me, defender of Earth, and the extraterrestrial menace, with absolutely zero flip-flops involved. A battle I’m prepared for. A battle I can win.
He judged the waffle iron to have returned to the appropriate food-safe-ish state of moderate grunge and plugged it back in, just in time for a waitress to call in another order. There was a spring in his step as he approached the flat-top. Only a couple of extra hours, and then he would cook himself the free patty melt that constituted an upsettingly large portion of his employee benefits, head home, and start planning a new patrol route with some chest hair.
---
By lunchtime, Parker was starting to have some concerns.
“Masha texted me and said they were sick last night,” she said to Norman as she picked apart the mysterious object that the Gravesfield High cafeteria staff insisted was a cheeseburger. “I asked what it was. Then about five minutes later I realized what they meant, and I apologized. No responses for any of that. Obviously they aren’t here today, and they haven’t sent any messages since.”
“They didn’t tell me anything,” Norman said through a mouthful of dubious, lemony apple slices. “Not really surprising. I probably could have handled all of that better.”
Parker frowned at the memory. She had been skeptical when Norman had first stated his suspicions back in June, but by the end of the summer, the bet had been not if Luz and Masha would get together, but who would confess first. Once he had pointed out the signs to her, it had been… well, not obvious, but it was there when you looked for it. Sort of like they were trying to conceal it from each other while also both sort of knowing what was going on. It seemed unnecessarily complicated to Parker, and that was back then, when the world made sense.
It wasn’t that she didn’t believe her own theories. They held up! There was proof this time! Something freaky was clearly going on here! But…
She had never seen Masha shut down like that before. They had spoken, moved, done everything to convince Parker and Norman that they were alive, but the revelation that Luz had obtained a girlfriend had caused something to snap inside of them.
“I think you were right to do it, though,” she said, somewhat reluctantly. “If it was going to hit Masha this hard anyway, I mean. It would compromise the mission.”
Norman nodded glumly. “I know. I just didn’t think whatever they had going was serious enough for them to react like that. I don’t blame Masha for being mad about it.”
At that moment, the bell rang, and they went their separate ways with that pleasant thought in their heads.
Later in the day, as she passed through the hallway between classes, Parker got a glimpse of Luz. She was standing in front of her open locker, looking forlornly at the art (always of the same characters) taped inside.
At home after school, as Parker was once again searching for variations on the theme of “dog-dragon boy and bird woman obscure anime” in an attempt to decipher this particularly confusing part of the Luz Situation, the group chat pinged. Masha was alive and capable of thumbs-up reacting messages, at least.
---
Jacob looped his thread across the map, connecting a set of white pins that followed his intended route. He would leave his car in a parking lot a few minutes away, trek down to the edge of the forest, and then work his way into what was hopefully mostly public land, moving north to south across the area with the highest reported level of “sick deer” sightings.
So far, said sightings seemed fairly concentrated. Taken as a whole and compared with each other, each one was happening along the bounds of one stretch of forest, bordered by the highway on one end and surrounded by Gravesfield and its suburbs on the other. Jacob supposed that he shouldn’t be surprised anymore by the average person’s ability to not notice things, but even so, nobody seemed to care! That had to be it. People didn’t expect to see a dead thing walking, so they didn’t. The other option was that whatever was piloting that dead deer around was smart enough to not draw attention to itself, and he didn’t want to think about that.
Instead, he went through the motions of his plan, feeling satisfaction as each part fell into place. He dressed for combat, donning his armor and cape, buckling his sword belt, and remembering at the last minute to strap a VoyPro to his breastplate. He took his power pack out to the car and reverently buckled it into the passenger seat, then tossed in the medium first aid kit. He downed an energy drink and tossed another two into the car, did one final check to make the house secure, and drove off into the twilight. As the station wagon rattled down the road, he punched the start button on his ever-present tape recorder and began to narrate, just like he’d practiced.
“October eighteenth, log one. I have just departed from my house for a mission that will, if all goes well, be the first time I face the Martians on my terms instead of theirs. With the Hammer performing as it should and my sword skills having improved since August, I think I’m as ready as I’ll ever be for this trial. With no Were-Owl sightings in months, I will seek out the bioweapon that has taken control of at least one dead deer, get better images, and then…”
Jacob paused. Curse the cultural Christianity of this language, he thought. There is no ‘kingdom come’ to blow anyone to, but it’s such a good line.[2]
“Shoot it with my staff,” he finished with a sigh. It just wasn’t the same, but he was already making a big concession with the Hammer. Adopting borderline symbolisms to scare the enemy was a dangerous road to walk. “Anyway, it turns out that night vision goggles are crazy expensive, so it’s moonlight and flashlight for this one. If the cloud cover was any denser, I would have to call it off.”
He turned, rolling the wheel to the left with one hand while the other one fumbled for the tab on an energy drink can. “I know where it is, it doesn’t know that I’m coming, and I am finally prepared to face it. Tonight will be a performance unlike any the Earth has ever seen.”
When he got there, the woods were dark. Extremely dark.
It could have been darker, Jacob told himself as he strapped the power pack on over his cape. Many people do not ever experience primordial nighttime darkness anymore. There isn’t much of it left, especially in the United States. Then again, while the lights of Gravesfield in the distance was enough to obscure the true night sky, it didn't do much else. Any benefits that might be had back in the embrace of civilization were lost out here. Beneath the trees, this was the same darkness that the Wittebanes had disappeared into all those centuries ago.
Jacob was good at ignoring it. He had plenty of artificial light sources with him every time he went out on an expedition after dark, but, as his unhelpful thoughts supplied as he adjusted his power pack, so had the witchfinders. The darkness might have gotten smaller, but it was still pretty damn dark.
At least the flashlight beam was bright and steady, not like the flaming torch of the traditional monster hunter. Just as early humans had looked skyward and dreamed of gods, so had they glanced nervously into the shadowy edges of the flickering light of a campfire and invented monsters. Firelight was alive, and it inspired the same kind of life in the imagination. If you were part of an angry mob, hefting pointy farming implements and chanting slogans, it probably wasn’t so bad. If you were alone…
Jacob suppressed the shudder. North first, then south again when I hit the suburbs. I’ve got all night. He switched on his bodycam, downed the rest of his last energy drink, drew his sword, and stepped forward into the trees.
---
Masha sat cross-legged on their bed, breathing slowly. They were calm. They were calm and collected and they were done crying for right now. Actually done crying for right now, they had been surprised to find. Everything still sucked forever and ever, obviously, but they had finally gotten that part of it out of their system for the time being.
There had been some tears back in September, but that had stopped, as always, when a breaker tripped in Masha’s brain mid-sob and they told themself: This is dumb. You look and sound ridiculous. What if someone saw you? You specifically are not allowed to do this. Knock it off. Not a helpful sentiment in a safe place, but it was what it was. This time, however, Masha's predictions about keeping the thoughts at bay had fallen apart within minutes of getting home. They just couldn't keep going like nothing had happened. So, they had grit their teeth, locked their door, and decided to let it all out. Surely it wouldn’t be that bad.
It was, in fact, that bad. Once the flow started, there was no way out but through, and there was a severe backlog of Through that had to happen before Out was achieved. There were hiccups and snot and a lot of really embarrassing soggy noises, but somewhere around the end of hour two, an exhausted Masha slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep.
They woke up the next morning feeling refreshed, if a little dehydrated. Then they Remembered, and it almost started over again. Staying home from school hadn’t been hard to swing, surprisingly enough, but Masha didn’t have time to think about that: they had disconsolate brooding to do. That became counterproductive after just over an hour, unfortunately. There were other things they could do to distract themself, so they did them.
Then they did some of them again.
And again.
When they finally ran out of homework, chores, and rituals to do and their list of things to sort, clean, rearrange, or otherwise mess with was exhausted, Masha took a very long shower. They got sad again while picking out some new clothes to put on afterwards, made some more wounded forest animal noises while the water ran and the feelings leaked out, and nearly did a backflip when their foot hit a dollop of dropped conditioner. Slightly bruised on the tailbone and the ego but otherwise unharmed, they lay in the bottom of the shower with the increasingly-cold water pouring down, stuck between the huge unfairness of it all (unbearably miserable) and the huge unfairness of it all (kind of funny, actually).
It was just too much. Too much at once to deal with. Masha had said to themself that they would say something to Norman when they calmed down, but now they were calm, and the only communication they had been able to muster was a quick reaction to preempt a welfare check. If they didn’t want to blow up at him (and Masha’s mind, despite its current sogginess, was made up on this point) they were going to have to release the pressure by opening up and explaining. It had taken significant effort back at camp to be vulnerable with the rest of the cabin, and this was ten times worse than admitting that they had let themself get bullied for so long. They could stay home for the rest of the week at most- it depended on whether Deda Alexei was serious about forging a doctor’s note, and whether they felt like gambling on being able to make up Wednesday’s English test- but they would need to go back and face the music eventually.
Now, at day’s end with nothing else to do, sequestered in their private sanctum, Masha needed another distraction. Maybe a self-inflicted haircut? No, probably best not to try that one again. What else, then?
Masha got up and padded over to their desk. The nagging anxiety about academic performance stirred once more in the pit of their stomach. Maybe they could go over radians again. That was… probably a Friday thing? Maybe? There wasn’t much else to look at, but it would be… wait, why is my backpack so heavy?
Then it hit Masha: The hayride project! They could work on the story! They weren’t sure why they hadn’t thought of it earlier. Maybe it was the connection to other things they didn’t want to think about, maybe it was the general sort of brain-fried state they had been in for the last thirty hours or so. Either way, it would be perfect.
There was a huge amount of material to sort through. Before they closed the museum Monday night, they had robotically filled their backpack with anything about the Wittebanes that they had pulled from the shelves during their shift. Masha firmly believed that if they were going to tell the story, they shouldn't be reheating someone else's version. Tyler and some of the others the Society had recruited were already working on puppets and backdrops, but there might still be some time for Masha to make suggestions. Even if it turned out to be boring, at least it would put them to sleep.
In fact, Masha soon found themself engrossed in the task. Old stories, the ones that stay around and get retold over and over, aren’t just about the characters, but about the tellers and the listeners and the times they live in. Much can be learned in comparing how the same tale is told, seeing what gets added and which parts are taken away. Since the disappearance of the brothers Wittebane, people through the ages had taken the story and shaped it in the telling. Some of the sources- most of them, really- were very simple renditions of the tale, usually following the same pattern.
“Once upon a time, there lived two brothers named Caleb and Philip. In those days, everyone was afraid of witches, and they hunted down anyone who they suspected of witchcraft. One night, when the brothers were young men, they met a strange woman…”
These were fairytale retellings that reliably hit the same beats with the same characters. Caleb was brave and noble; Philip was quick-witted and slow to trust; and Evelyn…
Actually, as Masha read on, the stories didn’t hit the same beats with the same characters. The Brothers Wittebane would sometimes unaccountably develop more depth, and Evelyn danced freely between archetypes. Apparently, Jacob wasn’t the only person to care about the folklore and its interpretation.
“Among the first settlers of Gravesfield, there were two orphan brothers.
“The elder brother was named Caleb. He was bold and faithful, beloved by his comrades. The minister said that he was a guardian of righteousness, and that he would always be able to defend the town from the forces of evil. That was not what he wanted.
“The younger brother was named Philip. He was thorough and intelligent, admired by his peers. The schoolmaster said that one day, with a mind like his, he might find his way out of little Gravesfield and into a university. That was not what he wanted either.
“One crisp autumn day, as Caleb was hunting in the forest, he heard a strange sound coming from the branches of a tree…”
In most versions, Evelyn was the villain, a wicked witch, an evil old crone, the character Masha’s critical mind filed away as “standard caricature of a dangerously independent woman; inverse of the princess.” In a lesser but surprisingly large number of others, it was the people of Gravesfield who were the villains, falsely accusing a woman of witchcraft. In some of both, Evelyn was closer in age to the Wittebanes, and in many she and Caleb were lovers. There were variations there too. In some, the story had three heroes; in others, only two; in others still, the situation was too complex to draw firm lines.
“Consumed by jealousy, forgetting himself in a fit of rage, Philip laid an accusation against her. He began to regret what he had done after he heard that Evelyn had escaped a mob, and that she had only done so because Caleb had fought to defend her.
“Philip resolved to claim that his brother had been bewitched, but the weight of the uncertainty bore down on him. On the night before Caleb’s trial, he used what prestige he had to speak with the accused…”
It was well past midnight at that point, but Masha didn’t care. Some of these were juicy. Piles of historical drama! Delightfully old-fashioned language! So many versions that turned half-known historical figures into complex characters! A dozen different endings, ranging from deeply mysterious to unbearably tragic! It was like scrolling through a relationship tag on OTA, maybe even better: These two (Caevelyn? Wittethorn? Maybe Parker already had a name for them) had absolutely no Daniel Specter crossover jumpscares, the spelling and punctuation were more standardized even in the primary source excerpts, and the dubious portrayals of certain physical and historical realities weren't present at all.
…make that “significantly less common,” actually. One of the books Masha had obtained in their stony-faced collection attempts the previous night was a tattered paperback, browned with age and perfumed with the scents of decaying glue and cigarette smoke. The front cover was missing, but the back could still be read.
“CRUCIBLE OF DESIRE: Eve Thorne longs for an escape from the repressive Puritan world she has grown up in— and someone in which to confide her dark secrets. Just as she starts to believe that her wishes will never come true, brothers Philip and Caleb ride into her small settlement, seeking the source of a disturbance in the larger town of Gravesfield. Drawn in by Caleb’s radiant and honest muscular blondness and Philip’s sharp wits and inexplicably attractive brooding, Eve must choose-”
Masha put the book aside and moved on. Clearly, not every retelling was equal.
It was somewhere in the vicinity of three in the morning when Masha drew out a stack of papers, printouts of a scan of the Spring 1954 Connecticut Historical Quarterly that they had uncovered during the ongoing de-Jacobizing of the museum. They had considered leaving it alone after realizing that Jacob had been using it to make his “edits,” but a quick glance had shown that this one wasn’t a fairytale or a bodice-ripper: It was research, conducted on one of the stories that gave Gravesfield its reputation as the most haunted town in the state. They dug in voraciously.
“Those who are more than passingly familiar with the tale will not be surprised to hear that the legend of the Wittebane brothers has a basis in fact. In the mid-17th century, there were indeed two young men by the names of Caleb and Philip living and working in the town of Gravesfield. Recent discoveries further support the idea that the meetinghouse fire, an event present in nearly every rendition of the tale, did in fact coincide with an abortive attempt to convict a local man of witchcraft.
“The most compelling and divisive part of the legend to folklorists and historians alike is the mysterious figure of the witch, Caleb’s kidnapper (or perhaps lover) Evelyn Hawthorn. Surprisingly, she too appears to be a historical figure and not a later invention, although information about her is sparse and untrustworthy. Usage of the name and a roughly consistent description dates back to accounts written down within living memory of the disappearance of both brothers. This, alas, is the extent of our knowledge of her. Who was she? For many years, it was sincerely believed that Evelyn was truly a witch, alternatively using supernatural abilities to free her lover from captivity or enslave his mind to her whims.
“The more commonly held position today is that Evelyn was a bold woman with unusual resolve and a daring plan, and that the version of the story handed down from those who witnessed the original events omits information that would, as in other witch trials, reveal the true motivations of her accusers: Jealousy, suspicion, and paranoia likely played greater roles than any concrete evidence. The highly subjective but undeniably persistent writings of Damnation Blackpool suggest that she had little respect for the ways and laws of the Puritans— indeed, it would seem that Evelyn, though described as being of European appearance and dress, professed not only to not be Christian, but to have no knowledge of Christianity. Claims that she appeared dressed in men’s clothing as often as women’s are likely more attempts at social slander, but the regularity with which the claim is made is notable.
“That leaves us, as always, with the problem of Philip. Did he stay behind to maintain the fiction of bewitchment, or did he too believe that his brother was taken by supernatural forces? Was his expedition to ‘rescue Caleb from Perdition’ the result of some signal, informing him that it was safe to join the pair elsewhere, perhaps? It is difficult to believe, even considering the circumstances of the time, that a man of the disposition and education shown in Philip’s letters would not be somewhat skeptical of popular witch-mania.
“Finally, there is some circumstantial evidence that the events of the Wittebane affair, which we can confidently assume occurred at the same time as the fire that damaged the meetinghouse, caused such an impact on Gravesfield’s most zealous hunters of devilry as to echo in their decisions for some decades after. There were no witches hanged in the town after the fire, some decades before Winthrop’s legal requirements for a conviction effectively ended the practice in Connecticut. The common conjecture is that…”
Masha pulled over some scrap paper and wrote down a few notes and page numbers. This was the good stuff, and if their eyes weren’t starting to burn, they would probably keep going. They were about to give in to the call of the pillow when another paragraph, peeking out from underneath the page they were currently on, caught their eye.
“-versions of the tale all ascribe Evelyn specific and peculiar powers. Witches that could transform into an animal or use animals as spies or servants would likely be familiar to settlers in Connecticut at that time, but Evelyn’s supposed manifestation was a small songbird, a far cry from the cats and corvidae traditionally associated with witches and the Devil in English folk tradition.
“The specific charges leveled against Evelyn are also unusual among the New England witch trials. The contemporary idea of a witch as a human that has made a pact with Satan in exchange for supernatural power seems more prevalent in later retellings than in the surviving primary documents. While she is exclusively referred to as a witch, the descriptions of Evelyn’s origins and abilities in Philip’s surviving letters (as well as her apparent ignorance of the gospels rather than a rejection of them) have more in common with older European folklore about elves.
“After Caleb and Evelyn disappear from the historical record, Philip’s letters often refer to the creation of ‘door-ways’ into ‘an other World.’ He goes on to claim that he witnessed his brother making this journey more than once— some versions of events purport that Caleb was captured following his return from such an excursion. The historical record suggests that Philip’s search for Caleb and his dedication to these theories proved disastrous for him in the years before his disappearance, resulting in a rapid fall from the good graces of-”
Masha carefully set the papers down.
The jigsaw puzzle metaphor was a little shaky at this point, considering how much of a mess the whole situation had become, but this felt like a pile of edge pieces: Even if they didn’t quite fit together, they were from the same part of the picture, and some of the pieces they had put together earlier might fit if they tried them. Facts that didn’t seem possible kept linking up with other facts that didn’t seem possible, supporting each other and pointing towards a conclusion that itself felt even more impossible than the sum of its parts.
Doors to other worlds. Animal transformations. Jacob’s obsession with alien invaders. This “Hunter” guy and his weird resemblance to the Wittebanes. The way Luz forgot about the…
They groaned, stood up from their desk, and flopped bonelessly onto the bed. Great. I thought about it and now my chest hurts again.
Masha blearily checked the time on their phone. It was nearly five, and they could see the first treacherous glimmers of daylight outside. This, they decided, must be why Jacob went crazy. Without anyone else to bounce his ideas off of, he’d gotten stuck in some kind of Martian conspiracy loop after he found out that there was something odd happening. Well, that wasn't going to happen to them. Waking up will suck, but I need to get out of here. I'll take that test, and then I can tell Parker and Norman about this. I-
That one got a full-on pillow scream. Moving forward meant confronting the conclusion they had been avoiding all day: if they wanted any peace back, within or without, they were going to have to talk about their feelings. In detail. In front of people that weren’t Luz. The cure, for all the good that it might not even do, almost sounded worse than the disease.
They didn’t have to do it at school, though. There were ways and ways of putting things off.
That’s the thing about therapy, I guess, Masha thought sleepily as they switched off the lights. Or cornball camp activities that are supposed to put peanut butter on the pill, or Ramblr posts about mental health, or whatever. It’s so easy to know what you’re supposed to do, but actually having to do it? Ridiculous.
---
Jacob didn’t know how long he’d been doing this. The fear had given way to a more manageable apprehension, which had held steady for some time thanks to the state in which nearly half a gram of caffeine had left his nerves. Where was that thing?
He had left the edge of Gravesfield behind for the third time about… ten minutes ago? Twenty? He would just trudge until the road appeared again, then turn around. He hacked savagely at a bramble and shivered slightly. Should have worn more layers. At least the exercise is-
It came slowly at first, a bitter twinge in the chilly breeze that brought to mind low tide and bloody lumps of fur on the side of the road in hot weather. Jacob, wriggling free of the sudden grip of terror, felt his heart pound even harder as he tried to think.
I can smell it. I can smell it, so it’s close. When it gets closer, I’ll be able to hear it. By the time I can hear it, I’ll know what direction it’s coming from. I’ll see it before it sees me. I will.
He sheathed the sword and unsheathed the Hammer. Then, when I see it, I can kill it.
The thought, one he hadn’t had the occasion or the nerve to think before, sent a thrill through him. That electric feeling of power rode the wave of adrenaline and caffeine, presenting Jacob with what could- no, what would happen next. I can fight back. I will fight back. I went looking for the monster, I found it, and when it shows itself I will Kill It.
The smell was getting stronger. Jacob wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, but- no. He was hearing it, the leaves crunching and the horrible wheezing getting louder. It was somewhere ahead of him, downhill from where he stood, still obscured in the darkness. The beam of his flashlight, still held in his left hand, was pointed at the ground. Jacob breathed out slowly.
It’s out there. I don’t know how far, but it’s out there. I know which way it will come from.
He ran a finger over the dead man’s switch, absently wishing that the component had a less dire name. The terrible rotting thing stumbled somewhere in the darkness, and Jacob strained to see it as the sounds and the smell drew closer. Its eyes had glowed, hadn’t they? Pinpricks of electric blue, a sign of the nanite marionette strings that had forced their way into the body. Was that just the chemical wildfire in his brain, or was that motion in the dark?
It won’t get me. I can’t let it get me. I won’t let it get me.
It was getting closer, maybe a few dozen yards at most. The stench of death was overpowering now. Jacob shifted his stance, ready to brace against the kick of the discharging sorcerous energies. He might not have time for more than one shot once the light came up. It was investigating now, but once it knew he was hostile…
I won’t even have to draw the sword. My aim is true. I will not miss.
Jacob could hear the hissing and wheezing in the gloom. He readied the Hammer, holding it out in a stance not dissimilar to the one he took with his sword. He could see the blue now.
Not much closer than this. It’s in front of me. It’s in front of me, and I have my weapon. I have my weapon and it is in front of me. It’s in front of me it’s here it’s here it’s here-
Jacob whipped his left arm upwards with a wordless cry. Not fifty yards away, standing starkly illuminated in the beam of the flashlight, was the beast.
He hadn’t thought about what it would look like. Not realistically.
In Jacob’s mind, anything Martian-related that stayed still for too long was quickly covered in a protective layer of fantasy by his active imagination. That, combined with the easy courage of the days after an adventure, had softened the apparition somewhat in his memories. He had mostly seen it on blurry trailcam footage, and with how badly deteriorated his cheap third-hand equipment had become, it was just a shape. Four legs and antlers: that was a deer. A spooky zombie deer, maybe, but still just a deer. Even when it had chased him, he hadn’t been able to get a good look.
The thing in front of him now had not gone through any kind of softening process, other than the natural ones visited upon dead things that have spent two weeks in the sun and the rain being jerked around by some supernatural force. There was more gleaming white bone visible on its- no, that wasn’t gleaming, it was glistening. Much worse. Its jaw hung crookedly from some remnant of flesh, a drunken grin on a head that swayed upright as if death was just some disfiguring disease, dots of blue burning in the empty eye sockets. Things clicked and squelched as it moved its legs. The jaw opened further, and what was left of a ravaged windpipe bugled an unnatural buzzing roar.
WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG KILL IT KILL IT KILL IT KILL IT-
The noise that Jacob made in reply was a fresh take on that timeless classic, the combined battle cry and scream of terror. There may have been words involved, but afterwards he couldn’t recall what they had been. The camera strapped to his chest, alas, didn’t pick up very high-quality audio, and what it did pick up was drowned out as the circle was completed, the staff flicked forward, and power erupted out of the Hammer of Witches to strike a blow for mankind.
After that, it was down to raw sensation for a bit. A ringing in his ears. Spots in his vision. Cold earth and leaves on his hands as he fumbled for the light. The smell of ozone; the smoldering tip of the Hammer trailing smoke in the spiraling flashlight beam; heat radiating from the staff as Jacob fired twice more, blindly striking into the dark from a kneeling position. Fear and tension as he seized the flashlight again and-
And it was lying still on the leaves.
Jacob made his approach carefully, still holding out the staff. The monster looked like just a bundle of bones and fur, mostly. There hadn’t been an explosion of gore, as he'd been mildly worried about. Aside from some tubes tangled around one leg that he forced himself to look at in case they were Martian in origin, it looked like most of the thing’s innards had fallen out long before. The smell was overpowering now, filling the world with thick, wet rot.
He stopped, still a few feet away. Jacob tensed, held down the switch on the Hammer, and shut off the light.
No blue glow.
The light came back on. The mighty hunter looked uneasily at his quarry, which thankfully did not seem inclined to look back at him. A dollop of unidentifiable slime, lodged on a contour of the antlers for who knew how long, fell off and hit the ground, making a remarkably similar sound to the one created by Jacob’s pre-hunt meal hitting the forest floor about four seconds later.
Through the acidic taste of victory, Jacob grinned. The dead thing on the forest floor was just a dead thing. He’d done it. He’d really done it! He had driven out the malfunctioning Martian whatever-that-was, blown it clean out of the body it had stolen! One of his hits had peeled what was left of its face away from the bone. Empty sockets looked up at him with no more than the usual macabre mockery that the living ascribe to skulls.[3] He briefly considered taking a trophy before a fresh wave of the smell hit him. Similar considerations about searching for anything that might be a sign of nanite possession were also discarded after a cautious prod with the toe of a shoe caused too much wobbling, both in the deer carcass and in Jacob’s freshly-emptied stomach.
That wasn’t important, though. What was important, Jacob reminded himself as he pulled out his compass and began walking back to the road, was that he was alive. He had fought and he had won. His nerves had held, his invention had worked, and his training had paid off. Gone was the timid Jacob of years past, cowering behind trees and hiding in ditches! Gone was the paranoid fool who hadn’t been able to take advantage of the shapeshifter’s malaise! Now was the age of-
Out in the darkness, something large stepped on a twig.
Gone also is the wheezy and cramp-prone Jacob, he thought as he sprinted along a few minutes later, flashlight beam spiraling as his arms pumped. He who fights and runs away… Uh… I stretched before I came out here! He slowed down to a light jog after making sure nothing was following him.
This was a victory beyond his wildest dreams, a clean and easy defeat. That thing must have been barely functional, a survivor of the battle on Mars that the witches had escaped from.
Now, it was time to celebrate, and he was hungry. There were only a few places that would be open this late besides Jacob’s own workplace, and since he didn’t trust any of the food there unless he’d prepared it himself, pizza was probably his best bet.
Half an hour later, he drove away to pick up his victory meal, humming along happily with the radio. A perfect night. It might be just one monster out of many, but no one will ever need to fear that thing again.
---
The rain came in the gray half-light before dawn. It fell gently on Gravesfield as the sun inched closer to the horizon, dribbling out of the sky in a halfhearted sort of way. Water ran down the flame-colored leaves and dripped onto a crow, which was thinking unusually hard about its next meal.
The crow ignored the rain as it circled around the food. The maybe-food. One the one claw, the smell said: This is meat. You are a scavenger, and you are hungry. Eat the meat. On the other claw, it was a bright enough bird to notice some oddities. The deer didn’t seem entirely dead.
The crow pecked experimentally at the carcass.
It didn’t move.
The crow stepped forward and pecked again, tugging on a loose flap of hide. This time, the deer shifted, and the bird fluttered backwards. After a few moments of inactivity from its prospective meal, it stepped forward again. Maybe there was nothing to worry about.
Suddenly, before it could start trying to pull off a piece of meat, the skeletal head rose from the leaves of its own accord and took in a rattling, squelching breath. The crow launched itself into the air in an explosion of wings.
The revenant watched it go, one bright blue eye fixed on the carrion bird as it retreated. Somewhere under the swirling madness and terrible exhaustion that filled the mind that controlled it, the thought wings might be useful briefly surfaced.
This was an irritating setback. That fool of a man, who was apparently still insisting on endangering his soul by meddling with powers which he couldn’t hope to understand, had badly damaged the deer. It was going to be even more difficult to control now. No matter. He just had to get as close as he could before the body fell apart, and then he could find a new host.
The tangle of incomplete legs briefly fought against itself, and then the corpse rose again, leaving a few small bones and bits of putrescent flesh behind. He didn’t care. They weren’t necessary.
It had been a challenge, getting the thing to work, but then again, that was the point. The creature had been dying when he found it, and it hadn’t lasted long afterwards, but the little bodies of squirrels and rabbits couldn’t withstand possession for as long as a deer’s could. He had kept the body as it rotted, operating its unfamiliar limbs through sheer force of will and breathing through force of habit, and as he had done it, this little-used quirk of the curse that rotted him from the inside out had been further honed into a useful skill. Other animals had before and would still give themselves to the cause after the deer ceased to serve, and then, when he was strong enough…
I’m coming, Caleb. Ț̸̢̨̞̹̞͔̮̝͚͒̋h̸͍̻̞̰̼̪̥̗̭͈͎̾̎͛͂̄͊͘͝į̶͕̭̣̤̖͎̩̙͕̫̬̈̎̏̾͛̋͝ş̵̧̥̼̩̯̹͚̭͚̦̥̃̋͛̀̍̇ͅ ̵̛̭͓̟̤̺̩͓͖̖̝͌̎͑̅͒́̌͝͠͝͝ͅt̷̡̨̪̰̠͇́͛̅̔̾̾̆̋̕͠ī̴̪̈̀̈́m̵͕̻͓̺̩̙̭̣̊̈͒̽͂̇͂̈́̌́̕͝ͅȩ̵̬̙̦͙̘͖̮̰̳̮̼̜̣̖̎́̂͠ ̷̨̧̛̠͕͚̘̭͖͈͗͒̔̾͆̿́̇̈͋͌͠ͅI̴̭̲̜̪͐̎͜ ̶̡̱̜̣̘̞̹̰̫̹̝̪̟̳͗̅̒͗̚w̸̤̮̻͉̥̥̖̯̯̬͉̫̘̉͊̃͆̀̚o̸̢͚͕̦̙͋͝ņ̵̨̧͉͙̬̼̼̠͇͇͖̺̇̀̿̍̿͒̏̀̕’̴̲̑̑̂̍t̸̩̠̝̼̘̹̪̣̊͌͌̌͝ ̴̡̡͕̝̙̰̮͚̹̦̭̮̑̾̅͘͜͜b̴̡̨̳̻̠̻̣͉͊̒̃͂́͗͜͠e̶̡̨̻͓̬̹̳̘̼̙̣̙̲̖͛͐̋͜͠ ̷̧̠̳̫̦̹̫͇̱͙̜̞͌͆͌̉̉͆̍͑̂ţ̴͔͍͓̤̤͙̝̩̞̓̕͜ó̴̠̔͐ṓ̶͓̣̦̠͇͈͇͇͈͍̝̂̎̑͆͜ ̵̬̻͕̮̥͋̈́̓͋͆ͅl̷͓͎͕̱͖̖̭͙̩̰̥͍̖̓̉a̸̢̨̲͖͇͇̣͎̬̦̪͚͋͂͆̋̈́͐́̽͛̔̂̍̎̾ͅt̸̡̼̰̞͚̩̲̯̦̤̹̝͌̃̅̆͒̈̌̾̽͆͜͠͝͝e̴̱͈̥̐̃͒̏̀̇̾̊̐̆͋̕͠.̴̹̳̽̄̽̔
This time I will save you. W̴̧̧̛̘̠̖͈̗̮̤̊́͆́̒̅͛̅̿̅̈͐̒͘͜è̸͓̫͇̫̭̜̄͊̎̈͘͝ ̵̘̼̳̠̤͕͚͓̣̦͚̀̄̽͐̈́́̂̄͗̈̐͝w̶̡̘̰̤͖͕̤̝̬͇̮͉͈̠͊̈́͊̕͝į̷̡̡̯̣̹̹͓̀͊̓̿̊̏̃̎̚͠ļ̴͕̮̠̦͚̹̝̓̇̆͑̆̈́̏͌̈́͂̀͘͝l̶̡͙̰̤͓͕̗̜̹͂͒̆̇͊́̊ ̴̝̙̞͎̻̱̖͒̔̃͠͝f̶̨̝̮̻͙́͑̽̏̅̀̆̉i̴̧̠͎̫͓̲̥̜͖̊ͅn̶̟̑͋̄͋̐̄̀͊̆̄͂̽͝d̷̛̬̙̻͇̖̰̲̗̥̃͛̿̆̋̓̑̕͘ͅ ̶̨̛͇̳̤͙͖̼̱̜͓̱͎͙̲̄̉͂̒͒̌̄ȁ̵͈̎̈́̑̆̾͆̆̒̚b̸͙̪̣̻̣̺̊̽̆̌̿̎͊͆͝s̷̼̗̟͚̰̙͕̲̦̥̫͙͆̇̽̃̌͂̌͌̅̚̕ǫ̸̢̲̥̞̼̬̫̮̹͇̊̑́͜͠l̶̢̖̗̲̼̹̬̰̔̆̀̈̍͑͗̉̆́̍̿͠͠ͅú̸̡̡͈͎̟̹̞̟̫̤͖̍͌͐̎͐͑͠t̷̛̖͈̬͇̲͔͇̩͇͓͕̻͚̞̦̄͒̊̐̌̈́̀̊̆̋̌̏̚i̸̱̥̰̰͈̤̥͖̩̣͊̿̎͗͐̀o̷͓͔̺̟̫͛̅́̾̽͛̽̌̉͆͜͠n̷̡͎̟̆͗.̴̛̜̭̦̬͔̯̈̾́̇̃̋͗̃̆
You will repent and be forgiven. Į̶̨͙̼͍̮̝̹͈̎̀ ̴̛̲̹̤̻̑̇̃̚͝ẁ̶̥͔͇̻̻̌͋͛͂͋̾̐͗͌̀̚̕̚͠ḭ̷̖̱̰̩̳͍̗͎̭̖͗̆̍͒̋̓̀͑̿̽̈́͝͝l̷̰̬̟͆̋̂͌̓̈́̕͝͠͠l̶̡͓̟̾ ̵̬̖̉̓̒͗s̸̨̗̟͎̝̩̖̣͙̞̞̥͚̻̓̀́̊̌̍̏̍͆́̎͘ą̴͔̍̉̿͛̃͐̇̂̽̉́̚͠v̸̜͖̘̓͐̔̔̋͂͐͐͛͜͠e̸̦̱͈̞̯̬̬͕͆̍̀̂̆̇̎̿̍́̍̕͘͘͝ ̶̨̨͈͓̙̲͖̯̥̰̱͖̲͊̅͗̿̓̃̓͑̓͠y̶̱̠͐o̵̜͈̹͔̞͆̍̿̊̉ų̷̭̥͓̝̖̯͂̀̏ͅ.̸̢̛̘͙̗͖̂͆̇͐̂̆͛̀̈́̒͑͠͠͠
I will save your soul. T̶̪͔̪̦͊̌͑̈̀h̵̛̹͖̬̻̺̩̪̱̺̒̈́̃̆́̇̔̿͒̈̈̀͐͘ē̵̡̲̲̮̣̼̣̥̘̹͉͙̊̾̄̀̑̾̽̔̏́̓̚͜͝y̷̢̡̼̖̫͖͈̼̮͔̏́̄͐́̿͂͊̔ ̷̫̱̄͌̽̎͑̃̑̓̽̈́̏̕̕̚̚c̵͈̻͊̄̀̐̐̀͂̍̑͊̕̕͠͠a̴̝̪̓̏͋̈́̊͛͋͝͝n̴̢̜̖̜͙͐’̵͈̿́͆͌͗͛̀t̴̛̛̠̙̖̹̙̺͗͂̊̈́̀͛̔̈͗̾̄̈́ ̷̨̯̭̱̝̖̤́̉͂͋̄͝͝h̶͙̮͛̉ȁ̵̛̖̠̪̯͙̤̭͓̌͐͐̅v̵̨̼̮̦͚̫̝̳̞͗̿̉̌͂͝ę̸͙̞̱̝̦͓̟̣̌̈́͋̽̃̓̈̿̆͒̈́́͜ ̸̯̐̑̅̍͊̀̿y̸̡̛͚̪̣̿͌̄̀͒̂̅̽̕ờ̸̰̿̏͋̈́u̴̡̥̥̥̲̺͍̼̭̬͒̋̒̇̃ͅͅ.̵̦̟̪̦̮̥͐̎̈́͑͛̎͒̓͊̿̏͆͘͝͠
The remains of the deer tottered forward, greenish-black sludge oozing across its skull as the possession returned to its previous strength. Away, then, along the roads, towards the places he had once known, towards his enemies and the softhearted fools who tried to protect them.
W̶̰̻̭̫̼̅͜ė̷͇̙͇̣ ̸̧̩͈̦̬̰̖̫͎͕̖͉͇̰͒̅̋͛͋̚̚͝͝ẁ̸̡͕͎̤̫̯̜̾̄́̈́͗͜i̸̧̛̱͖̲̬͇̭͉̥̪̒͒̎̆̆̒̾͋̿͐̽̐͜͝l̴̡̛̟̫̼͖̳̰͐̀̓́̈́̈̑̈́̌̕l̶̫͈̩̪͕͌̈́͒̈́̀̽͠͝ ̸̧͈̪͎̼͙̠̈́̀f̸̡͍̩͎͇́̄̒͋̂͐͊̊̅͂͆̆̓͝ͅi̵̡̱̫̖͓̯̪̞̹̹̫̔̌̔͛̽̓͆́͝͠͝n̶̢̤͓͙̓̄̅͊̅̄̌̉͐̂̅͘̕͠ḯ̴͙̹̹̰̜̏̉̃̋̉̈͌͊̕̕͠s̷̼̰̬͍̞̔̈́͘̕h̶̛͖̮̣̗̜͍͎̘͎͛͗̀̓͐ͅ ̴̧̧̦͍͎̯̗̦̝̼̼̑̄̓̉̇͛̈́̚͘w̴͕͖̼̭̪͈̳͕̝̮̻̣̯̿̾̈́̈̈́̓̒̔ḩ̷͎̻̟͔̗͙͛̏͐̃͜a̴̯̭̦͉̳̕t̵̨̧̬͇̝̠̪̗̠͓̦͌̌́̃͂ ̴̘̦̼̗̰͇͓͚̼̣̠̘̰̲͛̇̔̈́̊̑ͅw̴̪̤̰̜͇͑̅̌͊͘è̶̘͐̓̊̾̀̍͒ ̸̛̜̼͚̣̗͚̌͛͒̋͑͠s̴̢̭̳̮̬̙͋̓̒̌̀͘ṫ̸̯̦̮̺̮͔́͋̇͒͂͝͝ͅạ̷̢̼̬̺̻̺̰̺̥͖͒̀̽̍̈͋̈́͜͠ͅͅr̴̨̢͉̩̮͖̺͕͈̖̒̄͂̈́̿̽̾t̶̢̻̠̫̠̲̤͓͍̥̻̘̠́́́̋̐̑͊͝͝ę̸̟͎̩̗͎̈͋̾̈̂́̓͒͆̚͝͝ḓ̴̈́͗̓̑.̶̉̍͆͗͜ I’m coming, Caleb.
---
Wednesday was, for the most part, unremarkable. At lunch, Parker sat with the rest of the soccer team, discussing strategy for the upcoming game. It wasn’t something they were too worried about losing, but it never hurt to be prepared. The day was proceeding as normal. Masha still wasn’t back to school, but they had said something vague in the small hours of the morning about feeling better.
Parker had slept on her concerns and decided that if Masha wasn’t back by Friday, then it was serious. Otherwise, it seemed that Masha needed some time alone, but wasn’t against reaching out and would return soon. She was a little worried about a potential fight between them and Norman, but the way Parker saw it, that was less likely the more time went on.
For those reasons, she wasn’t concerned about Masha that day until Norman waved her down and pulled her aside after eighth period.
“Masha is back,” he whispered, glancing over his shoulder. “They must have come in for that English test they were stressing about last week. They’re in the hallway upstairs going through their locker right now.”
Parker stared. “What? No they aren’t. I would have seen them this morning when I came in.”
“I swear it’s them! They’re wearing baggy sweatpants and a hoodie and taking weird routes through the halls so we don’t see each other.”
“Why?”
Norman shrugged. “Because they don’t want to talk to me? Or to us, I guess, if you haven’t seen them either.”
Parker considered this. They had never been very good at other people, generally speaking. Even knowing Masha personally didn’t help much here with how odd they had been acting since Monday. “…have they sent you any messages?”
“Nope- ah, hold on, there’s something in the group chat.”
Parker opened her own phone to see for herself as Norman read the message out. “‘Come to my place. I need to tell you things.’ Then they put their address, and some warning about ‘anti-salesman tactics.’” He frowned thoughtfully. “Alexei, right. We’ve had… dealings before.”
“I am incredibly curious about that, but I need to be back here at six for the bus,” Parker said, bouncing impatiently. “This might take a while. We need to get going.”
Norman waved a hand noncommittally. “We see each other at the hardware store sometimes. It’s kind of a nemesis-by-proxy situation.” He nodded towards the doors. “C’mon, tell your dad where you’re going. I can drive us.”
---
Masha waited in their room, pacing back and forth to try to suppress the jitters. They had half an hour maximum before Parker and Norman arrived, but it felt like both an eternity and no time at all.
School and its responsibilities had been dealt with, more or less. Ms. Bledsloe’s concerns about progress on the hayride had been assuaged without Masha having to give up any personal information. A test had been taken (and most likely passed.) Messages, spare and utilitarian missives about meeting places and times, had been sent.
It couldn’t happen in the Blake basement, Masha had decided almost immediately. They had asked their grandfather that morning if they could have some friends over, and while he had agreed, the noises he had been making in the kitchen when they came back spoke of some kind of dangerous culinary alchemy, something more advanced (but hopefully less dangerous) than his usual fare. Masha hadn’t been to look. They were, as the modified saying went, lifepartnering their strength, bracing themself for what was to come.
They had spent the day pretending not to be Masha and feeling ridiculous about it, but, to Masha’s racing mind, it all made logical sense. The conversation that would inevitably happen when they spoke to their friends again could not happen anywhere else, because this was going to be The Big One. Masha intended to put all of their cards on the table. They were going to tell Parker and Norman everything. Things they had never attempted to put into words even for themself were going to be spoken to other people in a matter of minutes. The only thing they could do was charge forward and hope for the best. It matters not how strait the gate; once more unto the breach; half a league, half a league, half a league onward…
Okay, so maybe they were feeling a little manic about the whole thing and the English lit unit test hadn’t helped, but that was probably par for the course. Better than a lot manic. Better than the horrible numbness on Monday night. They just needed to drag it all into the light where it could be dealt with. What came after that was a problem for future Masha to worry about. Right now, the important thing was to keep-
Downstairs, someone knocked on the door. A few moments later, listening with their own bedroom door open, Masha heard their grandfather speaking haltingly, forming words through a heavy accent. “No, I do not know the… Alex Saben? He is not live here. Try of somewhere else.”
The reply was cautious. “…I’m Masha’s friend, Mr. Sobol. I think we met once back in August? I’m not selling insurance or serving a writ or anything.”
With the threat dealt with, the accent retreated back to its natural size and Alexei’s command of English suddenly approved. “Oh, Parker Blake, hunter of spirits! I didn’t recognize you with the short hair. Nevermind, then. You are expected; come in, come in. My sorcerous grandchild is upstairs. I would show you the way, but I need to get back to the kitchen. Do you like borscht?”
“I… don’t know what that is, actually.”
“I have not had it since I was your age, but Masha says I eat too many things from cans, so I found this cookbook at the library. We will all find out about borscht in… an hour, I think?”
Alright, fine. Maybe not all of the tears had been spent. Perhaps a small sniffle could be set aside for a crusty old man who was trying to make them feel better in one of the few ways he knew how.[4]
“Masha invited both of you. The tall one who tries my patience in the service of his evil masters, will he- no; I see him in the driveway. Take him up with you; we will test the soup on him later.”
Masha waited for the knock. They invited their guests in. Then they stood there like a deer in the headlights, which was exactly what they hadn’t wanted to do. Come on, start talking. Say something, you idiot.
Eventually, Norman broke the silence.
“I am… really sorry about the way I handled that,” he said, looking away and rubbing his neck sheepishly. “I knew that you liked each other, and back in September I wondered if-” He stopped himself. “I mean, I just thought it would be better for you to find out this way, if you didn’t already know. But… Uh…”
“You had some kind of reverse breakdown,” Parker supplied. “It was scary as hell and it freaked Norman out.”
“It didn’t-” Norman gave up and sighed. “No, you’re right, it freaked me out bad. I can't imagine how much that sucked. If you want to yell about it now, that’s cool.”
Masha stared. Okay. Right. Cool. That must have looked as bad as it felt, then. “That’s okay? I don’t think that would help, to be honest,” they said. “That’s why I stayed home. I was angry at- at a lot of things. You were the only one that wasn’t… abstract, I guess? I was worried about letting it all loose on you.”
Parker brightened. “So you were just being emotionally mature about it?”
“No, I was being massively insane about it all day,” Masha corrected. “I still feel massively insane about it. I just kind of got used to it enough to interact with society again.”
Parker waved a hand. “Eh. Debatable overlap there.”
“Either way, I don’t hate you, Norman. I was just losing it. Got stuck in my head, you know.” Masha gestured vaguely. “For several reasons. You were just the messenger.”
Norman visibly relaxed. “Oh. Good. I thought I’d, like, permanently damaged the whole Cabin Seven thing. Thanks, Masha.”
“Why avoid us at school today, then?” Parker asked.
“Because I assumed you were going to ask questions, and that had to happen here,” Masha said, trying to ride the relief into the fresh terror to come. There was a bit of a tremor in their voice now, but there was no time to dwell on that. They had gone well past the point of no return. “In my space where I control stuff, or whatever.”
Norman instantly saw through the transparent cover on the idea. “Like they talked about at camp?”
“Yeah, like they talked about at camp,” Masha said, rolling their eyes and trying not to smile. “Yes, some of the stuff they said was helpful; I admit it. I bet Weston is doing backflips somewhere right now. Anyway.” They swallowed. “You were right. To tell me, I mean. And while we’re telling each other how we feel, I think I should…”
This is it. Come on, you can tell them. No putting it off with Wittebanes.
“I think I should tell you why. I think it will help.” They gestured to the rest of the room with a passable imitation of a casual attitude. “Take a seat.”
Parker and Norman wordlessly claimed the desk chair and the beanbag, settled in, and looked back expectantly. Masha sat down on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath.
“Hoo. Okay. So. In the second week of camp, I noticed that Luz had wandered off into the woods…”
---
1. As for whom or what exactly he was intending to get revenge on, the jury was still out. If Jacob actually tried to put into words the myriad vendettas and unsustainable emotional stakes that drove him forward on his quest, the end result would most likely be a variation on that old classic: “They said I was crazy, but they’ll see! They’ll all see!” [↺ go back]
2. Jacob’s hodgepodge of personal cosmological theories, through a roundabout series of coincidences and self-contradictions, put him quite close to the Enlightenment-era deists. He had always felt that everyone was being too mean to Robespierre about the whole Supreme Being thing. It was wrong, obviously, but he’d been so excited about it! It wasn’t Robespierre's fault that the revolutionaries weren’t able to discover and destroy the Jesuit counterreformational mind control engines until it was too late. [↺ go back]
3. It’s the way they smile at you, like there’s some great big joke, probably at your expense, that they can see and you can't. “Oh, but don’t you worry,” that sepulchral grin says. “You'll get it one day, and then you’ll be smiling too.” That kind of thing can really get under your skin after a while. So to speak. [↺ go back]
4. Alexei would be pleased to learn that his beet-wrangling attempt was so appreciated. He wasn’t sure how else to offer comfort to Masha, mostly because they wouldn’t tell him what was wrong, but he had narrowed down the potential Teenager Problems enough to guess. He had deduced that his original plan (offering to hunt down the culprit and kill them) might not A. be seen as a joke, as his grandchild was surely sharp enough to see some of the holes in his story about emigrating in the fraught days of the early Cold War, or B. be necessary, because Masha’s own occult skills could probably do the job better. [↺ go back]