Khanh, first of her name, mother of bunnies > Books: horror‎ (47)

I’ll have to decide: join Romeo or let the specter of my soul take me. I know I should be afraid for my future, but all I can think about is Ben.

I’ll have to decide: join Romeo or let the specter of my soul take me. I know I should be afraid for my future, but all I can think about is Ben.

He turns and our eyes meet, and that sense of knowing him hits, catching me in my empty gut. For a moment, the sadness and pain in his eyes is my pain, and I desperately want to make it better. I want to reach for him, hold him, whisper into the warm crook of his neck that everything is going to be okay, that I’ll make it that way.

...flesh in his teeth, blood dripping down his chin.

I’m suddenly very aware of him, as well, of his front warming my back, his thighs shifting beneath mine. I clear my throat, blushing for the first time in so long the strangeness of hot cheeks makes me blink.

“Then this really isn’t your lucky night, chica."

I stay and let him come closer, closer, until I can feel the heat of his lips and imagine just how perfect they’ll feel, how perfect he’ll taste, how—

I fist the damp wipe in my hand, reining in the part of me that aches for this boy with the big brown eyes.
I might feel an instant connection to Ben, but I don’t matter.

"Dulces sueños, Mermaid.”

And then I turn back to Gemma...lost in the rosy glow surrounding her chest.

Ben. Something in my gut twists and for a moment I’m dizzy, weightless, as if the floor has been ripped from beneath me, but I don’t know which way to fall.

I shake my head. This has to stop. I can’t go to pieces every time I see his face. I have to pull it together, be a good influence, make sure he commits to the love of his life and lives happily ever after.

Ben laughs. “Dios mio. Fine, crazy woman.”

Gemma’s thoughtless at best, mean-spirited and selfish at worst, and I want so much better for Ben.

“I’m not doing this right, and I know I sound crazy, but...I love you. I could see myself loving you for a long time.”

“I love you. I want to do everything with you. I want to marry you and have kids with you and get old with you. And then I want to die the day before you do, so I never have to live without you.”

These two are my job, and if I don’t do it, one of them will die. Either they commit to each other or one of them commits murder and becomes a Mercenary. That’s the way it goes. Every. Single. Time.

“Dios mio,” Ben says.

How can I think of loving someone again? How have I let this happen? Even if it weren’t forbidden, haven’t I learned my lesson?

I’ve seen centuries pass, but I died when I was fourteen and have spent less than twenty conscious years on earth.

She and Gemma are so different. It’s amazing they’ve stayed friends for as long as they have.
But they have, and it doesn’t matter what I think. I can’t let Ariel lose this friendship. I could be gone by the end of the day.

Romeo might have praised my loveliness with lyrical poetry, but he never made me feel as beautiful as Ben did when he said four simple words.
You matter to me.

"You’re the one who messed up when you got pregnant when you were nineteen."

She means that she cares, no matter how bad she is at showing it.

The hard light in Gemma’s eyes fades, and for a second I can see that she cares. Or that she wants to care.

Gemma is a vindictive, selfish, spoiled girl who doesn’t deserve Ariel and certainly doesn’t deserve Ben’s love.

“He was only protecting her.”
“Like he was protecting you today?”
“Ye-es.” Something in her voice makes me certain my answer won’t satisfy her.
“Ariel … violent people usually have a good excuse for why they’re violent. But even a good excuse is just an excuse.”

I would almost swear that Ben is flirting. With me. Right in front of his soul mate. Which is so bad that bad can’t even begin to describe it.

“I know you,” he says, with a quiet assurance that threatens to make my tears start all over again. “I know you’re strong and as beautiful on the inside as you are on the outside. I know you like to eat and hate Shakespeare—at least the love stories—and would do anything for a friend. I know you’re an artist, and you made a wall of bricks look like it should be hanging in a museum."

“Olvida la escuela,” he says, anger in his eyes.

“A story? You are recording your horrors?”
“How am I to accurately write about something unless I have been a firsthand witness to

“A story? You are recording your horrors?”
“How am I to accurately write about something unless I have been a firsthand witness to it?”

It seems the stories I have been told were untrue. The streets of America are not paved with gold but with uneven stones.

A sense of unease fills my stomach as I stare up at what is to be my new home.
Dark and foreboding, it appears just as unwelcoming as the rest of Philadelphia.

I hurry out of bed and reach for the bucket. “Let me help you with that.”
“No, miss,” she scolds. “It isn’t yer place.”

“Practice makes perfect. It shall certainly take time to prove this with someone of your limited background.”
Dropping my arms, I feel an ache in my shoulders.
Clearly, my education is going to require a vast amount of practice.

Father takes another step closer. Deep lines mark his face. He looks almost as old as Grandpere. “She bowed like a man, for God’s sake. Her manners are sorely lacking, and until they have been improved, I shall not encourage her.”

MURDER AT RITTENHOUSE SQUARE.
POLICE FIND GRISLY SCENE OF DISMEMBERMENT
...the limbs had been torn asunder from the torso and the head cleaved from his neck. POLICE urge all women and children to take heed of this atrocity and to take special cautions.

Every muscle in my body has tightened and my hand shakes when I place it upon the doorknob. I take a deep breath and try to steady my nerves, and just as I am about to turn the knob—

Someone grabs hold of me.

“Allan’s always a gentleman, that one,” Cook replies.
“He’s very different from his cousin, Edgar,” I say. “I’m amazed they are even related.”
The room instantly goes silent. Cook stares intently at her tea as Maddy and Johanna exchange glances.
“Just stay away from him, miss. Stay away. He’s a right nasty one.”

I did it because I thought
you would be scared.” He watches me carefully. “But I suppose it is in your blood. You were never going to be scared by any of this, were you? You are your father’s daughter after all, Annabel Lee.”

All I can make out is a large structure of pale stones, tall doors, and rows of windows gleaming like sharp teeth against the night.

His attention returns to me. “Have you ever felt a story was inside you, but you could not do it justice? It’s as if there were something standing in your way, blocking you from being able to write the story, and only this other piece of you could understand whatever it was?”

I am saddened that I have already offended Father with my rough manners and poorly chosen gift.
I wonder if I shall always be such a disappointment to him.

“When the swamp took my brother, it sent someone—something else to take his place. I don’t know what Lenora May is, but she’s not my sister.”

“When the swamp took my brother, it sent someone—something else to take his place. I don’t know what Lenora May is, but she’s not my sister.”

“The swamp ate my brother.”

For some reason, the swamp stays firmly on the other side. A few brave plants may reach across the line, but by and large, the swamp keeps as much distance from us as we do of it.

Her hand extends slowly and she hesitates before finding the fence. Dark hair hangs in her face, wild with curls and lovely in a way mine will never be. She climbs with something less than grace, fumbles with her dress, and nearly falls to the ground in my yard.

“I want to know who she is, why she’s here, and why you’re all acting like you know her. I watched her climb over the swamp fence, for crying out loud!”
“Now you’re worrying me,” Mama says. “Are you telling me you don’t recognize your own sister?”

I can’t remember someone who doesn’t exist. I can’t remember that her favorite color is purple but thinks Chevelles look best in red. I don’t even know her name.
Except I do.
Lenora May. May to her friends. Lenora to teachers and Aunt Mina. But Lenora May to me. Always Lenora May.

“Nathan Payola,” he says. He waits for me to react, but there’s nothing for me to react to. Angrily, he adds, “He was my best friend.”

Heath wasn’t a talker, but when he did talk, the words we shared were sweet and supplemented with notes of the flirting variety.

At any other time, I’d be stuck on him admitting he ditched me. But now, all I can think of is Phin.

We can’t fight something we don’t understand. But I remember what Heath said about hope. I’m not going to let the swamp have that, too.

There are a hundred ways to die all cloaked in the twist of pale trees—gators fast enough to catch a grown man, mosquitoes teeming with disease, stinging plants, hungry black bears, and nasty cottonmouths all filled with spite and patience.

But what’s in ours is worse.
Ours is a creature all its own. We don’t stare into its depths and we don’t ever go inside.

Most of the good folk of Sticks consider it’d be faster to throw your money in a fire if you’re that keen on wasting it, but then, most of the good folk of Sticks think the periodic table has something to do with birth control.

“I’m hungry,” he says, a sound that seems to crawl from his throat. It’s devoid of the warmth Phin’s voice should have, all mud and gravel. He reaches with webbed hands, each finger tipped with a sharp, black claw.
Not my brother, I think, a trick.

he was gone.
And it’s my fault.
If I was afraid to live in a town without Phineas, I’m plain terrified of living in a world without him.

The first time she asked me about this, I’d tried and failed to explain that it wasn’t about wanting to be thin; I couldn’t think of food when the threat of losing Phin to college was so near.

The swamp continues to beckon.
I can do this.
“Phineas Harlan Saucier,” I say to whatever might be listening. “I’m coming for my brother.”

“You’ve been so safe all your life. So safe you might as well be dead. Phin did that, he kept you from living, but I won’t. I promise you, I only want to live as fiercely as I can.”

Lenora May doesn’t care that she’s in the dirt or that she’ll have to wash her dress three times to get rid of the stubborn smells that follow you home from the track, and not caring makes her both vulnerable and beautiful.

I feel small and secure in his arms with my hip balanced against his thigh. This is different from the kiss. That felt chaotic and delirious and like something beginning. This is the opposite. Together we are solid and smart and somehow not new at all.

“Sterling Saucier,” he says.
His eyes narrow in a smile. Sunlight shines through them, illuminating too many rings of brown and brass to count. He bends closer.
“May I kiss you?” he asks.

Lex turned her scythe over in her hands once more, unable to take her eyes off it. “It’s amazing.”
“And so dark, too,” said Zara. “I’ve never seen o

Lex turned her scythe over in her hands once more, unable to take her eyes off it. “It’s amazing.”
“And so dark, too,” said Zara. “I’ve never seen one that dark before.”
Uncle Mort rolled his eyes. “So it’s agreed, the scythe is totally dreamy.” He stood up and grinned that unglued smile again. “But it’s nothing more than a butter knife until you put it into action.”

Sitting atop a black and purple–streaked motorcycle was, in a startling number of details, the exact type of villain depicted in the Never Talk to Strangers! picture book that had been drilled into Lex as a child: a man six feet tall, in his late thirties, lean but strong, roguishly attractive.

She had begun acting out in every way that a frustrated bundle of pubescence possibly could: she stole things, she swore like a drunken pirate, and she punched people. Nerds, jocks, cheerleaders, goths, gays, straights, blacks, whites, that kid in the wheelchair—no one was safe. Tyrannosaurus Lex, as they called her, was an equal opportunity predator.

She just felt angry, all the time, at absolutely nothing. And whenever she tried to pinpoint the reason why, no matter how hard she tried, she was never able to come up with a single, solitary explanation.

Peeking out from underneath his sleeves were samplings of what was undoubtedly an impressive array of tattoos, and a red, craggy scar ran from his right earlobe to the corner of whatever sort of eye hid behind his sunglasses. Clearly, this was a man who would waste no time in snapping the neck of anyone who happened to piss him off.

“You don’t look like family. You look like a freak.”
“Okay, Lex,” he said, revving the engine once more. “I didn’t want it to come to this, but you leave me no—” His eyes widened at some unknown horror behind her. “Is that a bear?”
“What?” screeched Lex, twisting around to cower at —nothing.
But that millisecond of falsely placed terror was all Uncle Mort needed. Deftly grabbing her around the waist, he chucked her onto the seat behind him, kicked the bike into gear, and tore down the road as if blasted from a cannon.
“I can’t believe you fell for that!” he yelled over the roar of the engine.

“You may have gotten away with this childish, petulant bullshit back home, but I assure you, it’s not going to fly here,” he said, letting go of her arm. “So I’ll cut you a deal: you behave like the mature individual that deep down I know you are, and in turn, you will be treated as such. Sound fair?”

His face was inches from hers, his eyes fiery. “Lex, if you’re not just being a smart-ass, if you really do have a problem with all this, now’s the time to say so. If you’re hesitant, you’re a liability, and if you’re a liability, you sure as hell are never going to be a Grim.”

She had a job to do, and she sure as shit was going to do it.

“I told you it wasn’t here, Quoth. Has anyone seen my cravat?” he shouted to no one in particular.
Lex fell right out of her hammock. “What the—are you Poe?”
“Regrettably.” He sighed, smoothing his pants. “Call me Edgar. Or the Tell-Tale Fart, that’s Teddy Roosevelt’s favorite.” He shot a distasteful glance at the crowd of presidents. “Jerks.”

"You’re here because you’re special, and you’re special because—well, I don’t like throwing around words like ‘destiny,’ but let’s put it this way: this job chose you. Whether or not you reciprocate is completely your call.”

It was as if her psyche had been infected with an insidious pathogen, like the viruses in all those zombie movies that turn otherwise decent human beings into bloodthirsty, unkempt maniacs who are powerless to stop themselves from unleashing their wrath upon the woefully underprepared masses.

Lex sat, stupefied. Over the past two years the various authority figures in her life had scolded, pleaded, lectured, cajoled, reprimanded, and threatened bodily harm, but none of them had spoken to her with anything resembling respect.

Ten minutes and two fights over the bathroom later, they slid into their seats at the kitchen table. Uncle Mort took one look at their matching black eyes and nodded.
“Yep,” he said to himself, drifting back to his newspaper. “That’s about what I expected.”

“You can’t hit a girl,” she said, rubbing her face.
“You hit me first.”
“So?”
“So I was defending myself.”
Lex huffed. This was going terribly. “You can’t do that!”
“It seems I just did,” he replied with a stilted laugh.
She scowled. “You are not normal.”
“Neither are you.”

“Why do you care so much?” she asked.
Driggs sighed. “Don’t you know?”
Then something happened in the next two seconds, but neither Lex nor Driggs would be able to recall exactly what. All they knew was that after it was over, their eyes met once again, this time in horror.
“Why did you just kiss my ear?” Lex asked nervously.
Driggs winced. “Because you turned your head.”
“I thought that tree...moved.”
“Oh.”
Another moment of silence.

I am not sick, or crazy, or broken.

I am Meda Melange, demon-saint monster girl. I make full-grown men scream in terror. I

I am not sick, or crazy, or broken.

I am Meda Melange, demon-saint monster girl. I make full-grown men scream in terror. I break bones and drain blood. I turn nightmares into reality.

I am the most powerful creature on earth.

I stand, near-giggling over the destroyed corpse, surrounded by the sweet scent of blood and revenge.

I am what I am and I am not ashamed.

Why am I lying? Never say it’s to impress this boy-man-monster? That’s both embarrassing and probably pointless, as I’ll most likely kill him before morning.

Stupid Crusaders with their stupid rules. For a homicidal group, they’re appallingly restrictive.

No, Meda, you can’t leave campus.

No, Meda, you know we have a curfew.

No, Meda, you can’t eat that guy.

She walks toward our guest, but stops with five feet still separating them. “On Tuesday morning, what did I tell you I would be having for lunch?” she asks him.

“Tuna on wheat. With relish,” Art answers, promptly.

The Sarge smiles and strides forward to shake his hand. Apparently it was a test to make sure he wasn’t a demon in disguise.

“War is coming.”

She shakes her head. “You need to try harder. Try to look…” she fumbles for the word, “cheerful.”
“Like this.”
It appears to be a T-shirt, but…“Jo,” I say in dawning horror. “That’s pink.”

“I’ve always thought you’d look good in yellow. A bright, sunshiny yellow.”

At the thought, I turn faintly green. “Yellow, Jo?” My voice is a tiny thing.

“Everyone looks happy and harmless in bright yellow.”

You don’t have a choice. I hear footsteps close in behind me. You don’t have a choice. We will slip in your mind, take over your body. We will steal your freewill; we could plunder your thoughts, your memories, your every private moment if we wanted.

Jo wants me to be someone else. Someone who kisses ass and follows rules – a tamed tiger who sits and purrs until she shouts “attack” at her enemies. But I am not a pet.

And I won’t be locked in a cage.

I’m at a crossroads. One path is a slow, painful, righteous trudge uphill to a place where my nemeses see the light. The other is easy and fun, downhill and dark. Armand takes my hand.

I won’t walk this path alone.

The grin that dances across his face finds a partner on mine.

A real monster is too clever for that. A real monster shakes the hands of elderly couples as he invests their life’s savings in his Ponzi scheme; she kisses babies and runs for political office; he waits until she’s in love. A real monster knows that an attack hurts; but a betrayal scars.

One day I will have the opportunity to do some great good, a good so great as to change the course of human history. But the potential to do good and choosing to actually do it, are two very different things. Apparently a lot Beacons turn out to be duds.

“You treat living here like a joke.” She hasn’t turned back to me. “You float along, barely civil, and act like they owe you. You act like they should be grateful the Great Meda Melange didn’t kill them today. You want them to treat you like a Crusader?” Now she does look at me. “Then stop acting like a demon.”

I allow myself a sway in his direction, an inhale of spicy boy scent, a minute in demon dark eyes.

Then I shut the door in his face.

“I give a girl something she thinks she wants more than anything else in the world.” There’s another pause. “Then I take it away.”

We’ll face each other in battle, and when that day comes, we will do our utmost to reduce the other to bloody pieces. And we will do it unapologetically.

We know what we are.

I consider the many tools at my disposal, eyeing his large blood-splattered frame, and settle on my weapon of choice – one so infrequently used I need to dust it off first.
My eyes fill with tears. “Wha–” I swallow hard “– what were those things?”
“Demons.” Thanks, Einstein. I got that part. I let a tear trickle over.
He hurries to reassure me. “Don’t cry – I’ll protect you.”
Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.

Cue innocence! My sweet lashes flutter against my helpless cheeks, my useless hands wring the edge of my guiltless, blood-soaked nightgown. My lovely lips quiver over my pearly white teeth.
Jo isn’t buying...Damn, that gimp bitch is a hard sell.

I’m ashamed of my wickedness – when I’m not reveling in it.

“I just get so mad sometimes. I’m never going to be a Crusader, never get married, never do anything. But who do I get to be angry at? The demons? They’re constantly trying to destroy mankind and, if at all possible, Heaven too. There’s enough reasons to be angry at them – my leg’s superfluous. The other students, the Crusaders for how they treat me? They’re not trying to be cruel, I am damaged. They’re so very kind, so full of pity. I’d rather they hate me than feel sorry for me.”

“You don’t deserve to be a Crusader – and it isn’t because you don’t have the legs, but because you don’t have the heart.”

The new attendee, a man, crouches in the doorway. Well, not really a man, a human teenager. One of God’s most misbegotten creatures – big like grown-ups and yet dumb like children. Selfish, moody, reckless, with a tendency to sleep too much and complain too often.

It’s just another blasted secret of his. I’m considering keeping a tally of all the questions Kiaran evades, so that when each answer is finally revealed at some incredibly inopportune moment, I can look at the count and remember how much he hides from me.

Catherine grasps the sleeve of Kiaran’s frock coat, twisting the fabric to pull him to her, her eyes dazed. The faestruck will rip and tear clothing for another touch of a faery’s skin. She hasn’t reached that point, not yet, but any further contact with him and she might.

‘Is that right? The fellow teaches you to slaughter his own kind and you don’t believe that’s a wee bit worthy of suspicion?’

‘But your friend offered it,’ Derrick complains. ‘So she might not have explicitly said, “Derrick, please eat all of the honey in my kitchen,” but it was implied by the mere fact that she has a kitchen.’

He turns to look at me, and our faces are a mere breath away. Everything around me fades and blurs and my gaze drops to his lips.
Gavin’s voice sounds so very far away. ‘Get back, faery. Now.’
Bloody hell. I recoil from Kiaran, suddenly aware of what I almost did. My cheeks flush and my heart speeds up in embarrassment. I swear, I was tempted to kiss Kiaran, and in front of Derrick and Gavin, no less. What is wrong with me?

“The story is beloved by the Amish for its example of faithfulness and servitude to God. For perseverance in the face of overwhelming odds.”

“The only thing that can save her from poison is to be full of the Holy Spirit. We have to pray.”

He grabbed my elbow. He tore the white bonnet off my head, stuffed it into his pocket.
I snatched at the strings. “Don’t...”
“This thing makes you a target. I could see you from all the way back there.” He stabbed a thumb at Ginger’s retreating figure on horseback, melting into the grass. “It shines like a beacon.”
I lifted my chin. “Ja. Maybe it should.”
This was an argument we repeated often. Though the end of the world had come, I adhered to the old ways. I was born Amish, and I would die Amish.

I closed my eyes and prayed in the darkness, prayed that Alex would survive, even though he had turned his back on God’s plan for his human form.
I was pretty sure that even if he did survive, God would not accept him into heaven, no matter how much he might repent for it later. The only lifetime he would have was this one, here on earth.

I swallowed, stared out the kitchen window at the scrawny animals in their enclosures. “We can’t leave them out there.”
“They’ll eat us alive if we let them go now,” Ginger said.
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “We can’t. I can’t, and I won’t.”

“Who the fuck are you, Ms. Lane?”
Rage filled me. Rage at what had been done to her. Rage at him for bringing it up. The thought that no one could s

“Who the fuck are you, Ms. Lane?”
Rage filled me. Rage at what had been done to her. Rage at him for bringing it up. The thought that no one could see or judge me was liberating. I swelled with grief and anger.
“Now tell me who you are.”
“Vengeance,” I said in a cold voice.

I turned around slowly, and looked up at him. He stiffened and sucked in a shallow breath. After a moment, he touched my cheek.
“Such naked pain,” he whispered.
I turned my face into his palm and closed my eyes. His fingers threaded into my hair, cupped my head, and brushed the brand. It heated at his touch.
“Never show it to me again.” His face was cold, hard, his voice colder.

He began bringing me gifts. One day he brought me chocolate that wouldn’t make me gain weight, no matter how much I ate.

“Say you love me, vampire girl,” he whispered, his voice low and husky. “Tell me...that this is f

“Say you love me, vampire girl,” he whispered, his voice low and husky. “Tell me...that this is forever.”
“I love you,” I said immediately. “And if we have forever, there’s no one else I want to spend it with.”

“Puppy, I am getting so tired of listening to you whine about this,” he snarled at Zeke. “This isn’t rocket science. If you don’t want to be a monster, don’t be a bloody monster! Be an uptight stick in the mud like Kanin. Be a self-righteous bleeding heart like Allison. Or you can stop agonizing about it and be a fucking monster."

“Two lives for the rest of the world?” he continued. “Are you willing to sacrifice everything to save one and destroy another?”

“I want you to understand exactly what you are deciding, right now. If we return to the city for Jackal and Ezekiel, Sarren could reach Eden, complete whatever he is planning, and unleash a virus that could destroy everything. And if that happens, everything we’ve done here will be for nothing. Do you understand that?”

“I just want you to understand the potential consequences of tonight,” he went on. “If we are killed, if we cannot get to Sarren in time, everything could die. It will be like it was sixty years ago. You aren’t old enough to remember the days Before, but when Red Lung was at its peak, the entire world was madness and chaos. And when the rabids appeared, it became hell on earth.”

“It is...a very heavy weight to carry, Allison, the damnation of a world. I want you to be very certain, before we go any further. Is it worth it? Is he worth it?”

I already knew my answer. It was selfish, it was unreasonable, and I knew it was the wrong choice. But I looked up at Kanin, into his impassive face, and whispered, “Yes.”
“You are willing to let others die for this. To let Sarren win.”

“I’m a demon, and the sooner I take myself out of this world, the better.”

“I only have to understand one thing—I’m a demon. I may not have wanted it, but it’s what I am now.”

“This is what I am, Allison! I’m a demon—you know it as well as me.”

“I’m terrified that I won’t be able to fight this, that I’ll turn into a demon and lose my soul forever, if it’s not already gone."

“Still incredible, vampire girl,” he whispered, sounding almost like himself again. “Dangerous, beautiful and unstoppable. You haven’t changed.”

“Oh, isn’t that sweet,” came Jackal’s loud, mocking voice before I could reply. “Let’s make goo-goo eyes at each other in the middle of a stinking corpse field, how very romantic.”

“Aw, isn’t that sweet.” And Jackal sauntered into view, smirk firmly in place. “But don’t wait around on my account. It’s not like I can’t wait for yet another riveting night of listening to you people whine at each other. Oh, woe is me, I’m a vampire. I’m a horrible monster who eats babies and murders bunnies, boo hoo hoo.”

Names have power; to name something is to domesticate it, or to try. Naming a tornado would be like naming a shadow. What ha

Names have power; to name something is to domesticate it, or to try. Naming a tornado would be like naming a shadow. What happened in Oleander that day was simply the storm. A cloud that faded back into sky before it had a chance to enjoy what it had wrought.

...Oleander’s era of democracy had drawn to a close.
This was how she learned of the town’s rampant “disorderly conduct,” law and order giving way to anarchy: people walking off their jobs, crimes committed in broad daylight, an armed pied piper herding packs of feral children into the woods, their parents not much seeming to care.

In blood as in drought or in poverty or in flame, Oleander was Oleander, and there were still crops to be sown and meth to be harvested, pies to be baked and pigs to be prized, bargains to be hunted and farms to be foreclosed, cherries to be popped and hearts to be broken, worship to be offered and sinners to be shamed.

The new Oleander bustled and shone, its determined noise drowning out any echoes of the past. Grass and flowers and trees sprang from fallow ground. The scents of corn and life drove out the lingering smoke, and finally, the fire and its carpet of bones could be safely buried in the past and allowed to slip through the cracks of collective memory. But the earth had memory of its own.

“Sweet,” I said, astounded at my acting skills. I should’ve gone to Hollywood when I had the chance, but when that old man offered to take me that

“Sweet,” I said, astounded at my acting skills. I should’ve gone to Hollywood when I had the chance, but when that old man offered to take me that one time at an abandoned gas station in the middle of nowhere, I wasn’t sure I could trust him. Mostly because he had rope, duct tape, and lots of condoms in his backseat. Still, I’ll never know what could have come of it. How far I could have risen.

The poor guy needed to be done with whatever it was he’d left unfinished. I couldn’t have him running around naked forever. It just seemed wrong.
“I’m having a hard time not looking at your penis.”

“I tend to forget how beautifully your plans work when each and every one goes awry, including the one that left you stranded on a deserted bridge with a man who had every intention of burning you alive.”

My heart broke all too often. Even when people passed through me who’d gotten past their hardships, their heart-wrenching pain, and had lived long, full lives, seeing that part of them still cut me to pieces. So, maybe all this time I’d been hanging with Mr. Wong, I was really putting off the inevitable, the truth, not for his benefit, but for my own.

I dialed her number. Got her voice mail. Waited for the beep. Then I did my best creepy kidnapper voice. “This is a ransom demand,” I said, my voice raspy. Kidnapper-y. “Deliver one hundred boxes of Cheez-Its to the unmarked—ignore the license plate—cherry red Jeep Wrangler sitting in your parking lot by noon today, or you will suffer the consequences.” I paused to cough. Raspy was hard on the esophagus. “They will be dire.”

“I’m not stupid,” I said, growing tired of his questioning everything I did. “I do use common sense.”
“You have to have common sense to use it.”
I stiffened. He did not just say that. “You did not just say that.”
“When it comes to humans, Dutch, you are blind. You do things for them that no other person alive would do.

“When are you going to answer him?” Cookie asked, drawing my attention.
“When he deserves an answer,” I volleyed.

A hopeless sigh slid through Cookie’s lips as she finally looked at him. “You’ve set the bar too high now. No one will live up to—” She gestured to all of him. “—all of that. You’ve ruined my daughter.”

It seemed to me that in this confluence of cultures, we had acquired one another’s superstitions without necessarily any of their comforts.

It seemed to me that in this confluence of cultures, we had acquired one another’s superstitions without necessarily any of their comforts.

They had all my favorite kinds of kuih—the soft steamed nyonya cakes made of glutinous rice flour stuffed with palm sugar or shredded coconut. There were delicate rolled biscuits called love letters and pineapple tarts pressed out of rich pastry. Bowls of toasted watermelon seeds were passed around, along with fanned slices of mango and papaya.

I had seen some of the painted hell scrolls that depicted the gruesome fates awaiting sinners. There were people being boiled in oil or sawed in half by horse and ox-headed demons. Others were forced to climb mountains of knives or were pounded into powder by enormous mallets. Gossips had their tongues ripped out, hypocrites and tomb robbers were disemboweled. Unfilial children were frozen in ice. The worst was the lake of blood into which suicides and women who had died in childbirth or aborted their children were consigned.

My father’s withdrawal from the world meant that he had sought out no friends with sons and had arranged no match for me. For the first time I began to fully comprehend why Amah was continually angry with him on this subject. The contrast between the realization of his neglect and the fondness I had for my father was painful. I had few marriage prospects, and would be doomed to the half-life of spinsterhood. Without a husband, I would sink further into genteel poverty, bereft of even the comfort and respect of being a mother.

...my father said, “What, you don’t want to be a widow at almost eighteen? Spend your life in the Lim mansion wearing silk? But you probably wouldn’t be allowed any bright colors.” He broke into his melancholy smile. “Of course I didn’t accept. How would I dare? Though if you didn’t care for love or children, it might not be so bad. You would be housed and clothed all the days of your life.”

Despite my terror, I felt a slow burning in my stomach. Why should I be married to this autocratic buffoon, alive or dead?
“I don’t think so.”
“What?”
“I said, ‘I don’t think so.’ I don’t want to marry you!”
Lim Tian Ching’s eyes narrowed into slits. Despite my bold words, my heart quailed. “You don’t have a choice in this matter. I’ll ruin your father.”
“Then I’ll become a nun.”
“You don’t know the extent of my influence! I’ll haunt you; I’ll haunt your father; I’ll haunt that meddling amah of yours.” He was raging now. “The border officials are on my side, and they said I have a right to you!”
“Well, you are dead! Dead, dead, dead!” I shrieked.

What was happening out in the world of men? Had Tian Bai talked to his uncle again? What were we to do with our debts? How I wished I could go out and make inquiries by myself. If only I had a brother or a cousin to rely on. Despite the fact that my feet were not bound, I was confined to domestic quarters as though a rope tethered my ankle to our front door.