Seth didn’t speak to her after that. He still stared at her in classes, squinting like he was trying to figure something out, which she supposed he was. But he didn’t crouch in the window of the library anymore, staring at her and Azzy? No, their name was Azriel, she had later found out when they decided they wanted to sit next to her in biology and she watched them scribble their name out on a lab packet.

Emi was good at ignoring things. It came with chronic anxiety and paranoia. Sometimes you just had to box up things and leave them in a corner of your mind and hope that they didn’t burst out of the box at an inopportune time when your brain got too full.

So she ignored them. She was used to being stared at before. Why, she couldn’t remember, because she was ignoring that as hard as she could.

Plus, for once, they were the weird ones. Was she human? Good grief.

And then.

The fight.

Two of her classmates in her Mythology and Philosophy class, Morgan and Celine, were known to have ridiculous fights. Emi was unsure if they were lovers’ spats, or if they just fully hated each other. She couldn’t imagine putting that much effort into hating someone unless there was affection involved in the first place, but what did she know?

So, there 75-ish people were, in the cafeteria, eating their lunch as people do. If you tuned in, you could probably hear Morgan and Celine’s argument escalating, but it was mostly hidden by the ambient dull roar of conversation.

Finally, Emi and the rest of the table heard Celine reach a screeching crescendo. Emi caught the tail end of it, something unpleasant about a horse.

The person next to her’s “oh shit,” was her only warning before Emi watched Morgan’s face go bright pink in rage, then her fist curled into her mane of red hair, coiled, and pulled.

There was a sickening smmmOCK sound as Morgan pulled her head off her shoulders.

Ah. Emi thought faintly, watching Morgan swing her detached head like Emi had seen an athlete do at a hammer throw event, and then Morgan’s head went flying, even as her mouth shrieked “at least my mother isn’t a LITERAL BITCH!”

“She’s a bisclarvet!” Celine screamed back as she dodged the head. It landed, uh, neck-stump? First against the wall with a splat before the head thunked to the floor.

Some students rushed to collect the head, others went to restrain the two girls, and the rest were jeering and screaming “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

Emi slowly got up with her lunch tray, staring intently at boiled broccoli. Her head was full of static.

The guy next to her laughed and said “too loud?” and she nodded and tried to give a smile, but she was pretty sure it just looked like a wobbly grimace if her shaking was anything to go by.

She threw her tray out and walked out of the cafeteria.

She didn’t know where she was going she was just walking—

Tendons fraying/muscles rotting

—because what the actual hell was that—

Ơ̷͙̋͛r̷͓͋̿̄͆͌͜͠ͅg̶̨̡̯̥̝̑̕͜a̶̛̗͖̱͉͉͖͐̾͂n̴̰͇͔̫͠s̵̪͚͙̃ͅ ̴̗́̅̐̎͑g̵̛̪̠̼̝̙̈́̉͝ȗ̶̖̙̃̓̂s̸̭̦̖̭̹͊̒ḥ̷̖͖̜̄͘͝͠i̶͙̰̱͚͗̀̒̓n̵̰͍̥̉͋́̾͒g̶̢̗͎͖͑͑́/̸̢̣̯̫̼̄̓͜ņ̵͐e̷͚̺͕͖͈̍̄͊́̄͒r̶̡̭̘̼̔́̂̄v̵̲͈͉̀̓̐̀ê̶̡͆s̸̹͕͕͔̈́͋̃̅͘s̴͖̩̮̗͂n̶͚̖̫̐͗͆a̴̧͖̦̥͆̏͘͝ṕ̶̩̠̰̪̰p̵̠̌̔̌̀̇̀i̵̛̩̦̚ñ̶̢̬͙̗g̵̟̭͛

Oh god, she was really going crazy this time. She should have known she can’t REMEMBER and she can’t remember why she’s here where was she what’s her name her name is Emi that’sthenameherfathergaveherandshe’srememberingshedoesn’twanttoremember—

/̸̢̢̧̺͈̭͓̮̝̼̖͓̟̹͈̺̙̩̤̳͈̗͙̻̺̼̼̬͖̱̝͍̞̥̂̊͜͜͜ͅt̸̩̎̂̊͗̀̿́̂̽̉́̊͆͒͐e̶͍̜̗̜̙̤̹̼̿̑̀̋̔͐͒̃͗̉̊͒̆͆̏̉̌͗̓̚̕͠͝ņ̴̨̨̨̨̮̗͕͕̞̗̱͇͕̠̜͕̻͔̰̮̙͓̠̬̠͚͖̱͍͕̗̭͇̑̅̈̐̀̈̑͒̒͋̈̋̇̾̂̈́̕͠͠ͅḑ̷̛̞͍̰͈̭͍̬̥͙̲̗̝͓͇̯̦̜̟̥̘̲̲̣̝̞̻̲͙͚̹͇͉̟̦͔͇̫̬͑̒̋̈̿̏̔̿̀̀͑͌̍̿̋̃̃̄̄̀̓͌̆̊̋̋͐̀́̽͆̿͘̕͘͜͜͠͝͝͝ò̴̢̢̨̳̳̱̱̭̣͖͉̼̤̗̻̭̲̦̘͙̹̜̹͙̭͖̪̯̱̮̥̻̙͓̼̫͍̏͊̍̍̅̐̐̊̆̏͊́̂̋͝͝ͅͅn̶̢̨̢̨̡̢͓̳̹̹̟̮̼͉̞̼̪͍̬͇̙̫̲̻̫̖͎̥̳̖̝̹͍̤̈́̎̊̎̍̐̔͒͊͆́̀̄͋̈́̉̔͋͛̌̓͗̆̏͂̇͐͛̀̿͋̿̌̒̾͑̕͜͝͝s̷̡̛̛̛̪̻̫̝̏́̓͋̓̅̈́̃̌̋͗͆̃̇͒̊̃́̊̄́͗͘͘͘͘͘͜͝͠s̶̡͎̝̻̮̤̳̳͙̣̝̩͖̩͖̞̗̠͖̱̙̝̹̩̣̥͈̈́̀̌ń̷̨̛̮̤̥̞̣̙̣̮͈̞͎̔́̈̿̉̇̉̈́͊̍̈́̈́̍̅͐͊̄̂͌́͆͂̅̅̅̄͗͊̀͊͛̐̎̑̚̕̚͝͝͝͝͝a̵̛̩̬͔̜̲̮̝͚͌͛̋̆̔̾̆̉͂̌̿̄͝͠p̵̨̡̨̢̛̛̝͙͕̟̳̪͇̝̞͈̣͍͓͔̩̥̺̫̪̳͍͍̮͔͕̬̺̥͇̝̖̼̤̺͈̲͋̎̄́̇̑̋̇̚͜͜͠͠ͅp̸̧̡̰͇̳̟͕̜̫̝͈͔͍͔̝͉̦͉̤͓̻͎̫̫̣͎͎̦͙͇̟̰̩̍̑͜͜i̶̧̧̡̞͔͔̫̪̣̣̦̙̖͈̱̤̤̙͉̣̹̬̳̙̓͐́̾̐͒̓̃̽̅́̈́̕ͅņ̵̡̨̩͓̭͎̫̫̤͈̠̹͉̳̤̲̟͉͖̞͔͎̫͚̮͒̒̽̊̅͋͋̍̓͋̓̓̓̇͌̈́͗̋̌̏̕͘ͅg̸̢̛̼̰̺̥̯̘̻̪̝̊͊͗̀̓͋̑̒͑́͂̌̀̏͜/̸̛̛̱̙̗̯̣̱̑̒͂̈́́̆͋͑̒̀̇̓͊̈́̏̒̔̍̀̄͐̑͂̀̈͛̓̎͌͋̐̅̕̚̕͘͝m̷̡̧̢̡̘̩̞͉͍̜̜̱̞̞̺̮̬̩̮̂ū̴̳̉́̋̿̋͑̚ş̵̡̨̢̥̝̦̥̜̪̖͖͇̟̤͎̻͚͕̭̫̘̭̱̝͔̺͖͉̝͉̀̓̀̍̊̃̐̐͂͌̇̄͐̄̇̽̂̚̚͜͜c̶̡̨̡̟̝̝̤̦͎̗̼̩̳̞͈̤̟̠̖̦͉̩͎̤̩͍̦͕̹̣͕̗̪͎̹̲̦͙͗̃̈́͛̓̈̆̆͂͌͋̈́̋̐̄̔̈́̍̀̚̚͜͝͠ͅl̶̛̘̣̳̺̼͙͓͍̱̎̂̌̊̊̈̈͐͠ͅę̴̨̧̧̡̨͇̝̗͉̫͔͓͖̭̞̝̺̳͖̞̦̮͔̹̥͓͚̯͓̖̺̺̹͚̰̘̜̼̙̩̳̜̇̈́͆̑̕͘̕͜͜͜͝͝ş̶̧̢̧̛̛̭͇̤̰̻̟̫̠̹̦̗̼̼̂̐̈́̓̒͘̕͘͠ͅř̶̨̨̨̘̤͉̲̞͖̘̘̞̞̲̗̗̮̤͇͇̫̖̩̎̄̋̎͆̐͒̊̈́͐̎͑̎͒̐̏̏̉͗͆̍͆̏̌̄̒̃̎͊̋͂̑͑͆́̈́̄̇͒̈́͘͘̚̚͜͜͠ơ̸̡̛̖͓̜̥̠͕͙͔̫̲̳͍̹̜̮̪̤̹̖͎͇̙̣̤̖̹͙̩̤̲̭̯͛̇͒̔̃̃̐̐̇̊̌̐͗̾̎̑̇̉̈́́̚͘͜͝͠͝͠ţ̶͕̙̝̭̌̏͛̃̒̕̚ţ̷͇͍̩̭͍̪̳͕̦̘̭̞̱̻̙̳̫̥̻͍̟͑̏̑̊̈̀̎̐̑͌́̉̍̉̚̕͠͝͝i̴̧̡̛̤̝̗̦̳̜̥̜̘̘͍̭̙̱̜̜͈͈̞͕͚̙̝̥͖̹͉͚͖͍̪̬̘̠͎͐̇̃́͗̔͒̀͊͂̅̉͂̓̎̍͆̓͋̊̕̕̕͘͜͝ͅͅn̸̡̛̰͖̼͕͙͍͖̜̰͓̖̪̟̗͚͙̪̳̰̭͙̱͛̓̊́̋̎̍̏́̂̊͛́̐̔̍͘͘͝͝g̴̡̢̛̩͉̒̓̔̀͊̋͑̋͋̇͘̕͠͝͝ͅ/̵̨̛͙̠̞̭̌͋̇̅̑͆̋̔̌͋̽͛̀̇̈́̊̾̑͗̚͝͠ọ̷̢̠͈̫̙͖̩̞̥̥̱̬̣͔͉͖͙̼͎̟̖̘͕̩̠͖̱̞̝̺͍͑̄̀̐͂͌͂͊́̓̈́͑̈́͒́̀̽̓̂̋̆̋̓͗̿̄͆͋͊̋́̊͐͗̓̾̇̾͐̕̚̚̕͘͠͝ͅͅř̷̢̢̛̺̯̜̺͙̲̝̜̘̘̝̮͈̗͚̙̠̞̤͉̦̜̤̬̺͔͙̩̝̝͚̺͍̟͇̀͛͆́̾̈́̀͆̈́́͑̄͑̑̽̋̆̄̈́͐͋̔͠g̵̢̨̨̖̠̗̱̮̞̬͚̬̟̤͖͈̞̻̜̻̥͔͖͑̍̌̀̾̒̔̉̓́̑̕͘͝ą̴̡̱͖̪̣̲̜̳͈̼̖̣̎̾̇͗̒̿̑͑̈́́̓̎̌̆̀̍̌́̿͋͐͗̏͒̂̉̏̎̈́̃̊̾͑̓̍̕͝͝͝ń̷̢̧̧̡̢̨̩̘̺̪͎͖͎̖͓̰̭̥͇̣͔̫̺̮͇̺̭͕͓̥͖͕̳̪̜͔͉͙͍̟̬̬̫͉̔̇̔̽̌́̈́̕̚͝s̵̨̠͚̙͔̥̼̺͈̭̞͚͕̟̙̮̟͕̺̺͋̀̎̀̕͝͠g̸̡̡̡̛̻̣͓̱̻̬͔̳͚̣̞̯̪̻͍̯̘̗͓̬̅̈́̃̅̽͛̈́͒͌͗̒̔̐̓̌́́̆̔̇̊̈́͆̏̋̔̑̄̀̃̀͆̀̽́͆̌̚̕͘̕͝͠͝ư̶̮͕̰̲̘̺̟͎͙͍̫̝͇̹̟̱͍͕̝͕̗̋̌̂͗̋̒͑̒̌̇̂̈́̈̒̓̿̇̍́̐͌̂̔̔́͘͜͝͝͠s̴̢̧̡̛̭̯͍̺̻̰͎̠̙̺͎͇̮̭͕̞͍̹͙̙̻̮̻͇̭̖͉̩͖͙̭̙̈̾̓͗̌̿̽̔͐̽͛́͒̃̆͐̀̀̔̎͊̀͌̋̅̊͐̚̚͝͝ḫ̷̡̢̢͍̟̖͈̟̳͔͍̬͚̠̖͕̥̹̜̠̪̭̮̫͈̻̞̊̇̄͜ͅi̸͎̭͎̻͉͓̬͍̺̔̀̃͗͒̃̃̍̀͆̾̌̎̈́̏̽̐̍̆͊͊̓̀̏̍̒̄̽̓̕͝n̴̢̢̨̛̬̩̺͖͍̣̱͈̘̝̖͖͚̼̤͎̘̹̹̦͇̳͌͐̿͌̿̌̊̒̈̾̍͊̊͗͒̈̆͊̇͋̅̏͋̈́̚̚ĝ̷̛̘̻̫̗̻̏̃͑̋̅̓̾̀̆̇̔͂̓̔̈͆̽͝/̵̧̛̯̬͉͉̘̲̩͉͓̮̫̤̺̣̱͇͙̤͇̗̰̪͕̻̼̬̟̦̱̉̑̑̔̂̈́͂̈́̅̈́̾͌͂́̏̂̄̈́͂͛̐͌̎̑̅̅̍̌͂̂͒̎̅̍̚̚͘̚͘͘͜͝͝͝͠ņ̷̨̨̧̡̦̞̻̮̫͈̩̯͍̲̞͙̗̠̫̮̫͕̼̼͇̳̰̮͚͇͈̫̈̿̏̀̒̋́̄̈͂̀͛͆̂̎̽̓͘͝͠͝͝͝͝͝ͅê̵̼̩̗̹̠̙̮̤͙̜̺͚̙̙̝̠̺̼̯̻̮̍̒͊̇͛̏̀̅́͛̐͛̅̐̐̑̂̔͛͆̉̽̑̎̾̔́͂̑̀͂̕̕̕͜͠͠͝ŗ̸̨̨̡̧̛̩̲̤̥̟̥̝͍͇̞͚̜̰̝͔̻̯̻͔̲̠̘̜̞̬̲̄͌̎͒͆̽̍̓͗̉̈́̿̌͐̾̍͆͐͐͆͆̍̀̽͋̽̿̉̅̂͛͌̂͘̕͘͜͝͝͝ͅv̵̢̡̼͉̝̪͇͕͕͈͍̮͉̹̬̱̮̬͓̩̹̙̞͍͎̓͜͜͜e̸͕͔̪͕̼͈͉̳̝̞̜̼̬̩̪͔̳̙̭̩̖̬̙͚͖͇̟͈̙̫͊̂̾̌̑͋̽̓͗̈́̀͜͝͝ͅͅş̵̢̖̟͖̱̣̤̫͉̭̪̬̻̲͎̻͇͙̻̻͉̦̬̪̝̜̠̤̞̟̪̤̣̖̟̽̓͒̒̓̈́̈́̅̔̓͜͜s̵̡̯̘͎̬̤̥̖̮̟͎͌̎̿̎̈̔̉̿̔̀̿̍̒̍͗̒͘͝n̸̨̛̛̜̣̭̪̮̹̠͙͍̭̲̯̘̯̪̟͈͈͔̫̲̝̥̰̼̞̱̲̺̲̝̲͙̞͔̿̍͒̃̉͑̈̎̋̅͂͆̓̑̎̋̉̀̅̇̒̇͒̈́̂̾͋͐͛̾̓̈́͌͛̄̾̚͘͠͝a̴̢̨̨̨̨̨̛̛̛̛̛̜̱͖̭͖̼̼̥͖͔̥͎͕̬̝̘̞̞͈̬̣͓̦̯̮̠̞̺͍̻̖̮͈̺̲͖̞̒̅̿̈̀͗̆̃́̉̓͆͊̐̈́̉̉͌̅̍̈́̾̚͜͝ͅͅp̶̨̧̧̛̭͙͚̦̦̪̯̠̖̦̻͚̗̜͉̲̩͚̭̪͙̰̙̞̰͖̹̝̋̇͆̂̄͋̍̈́́̈́̑̋͌̽̀͐̏̇̔̃̆͊̿̍͋̈̎͋͘͠͝ͅͅp̵̨̧̘͈̙̱̟̬̰̰̮̰͔̮̮̦̥͙̫̤͈͉̫̅͗͛̓͒̈́̀́̎̔̀̉̏̇͑̏̃̈́̂̀͑̔͘͜͝͝į̷̨̡̛̛̛͔̻̰͓̫̳͔͈͚͙͕̫̟͔̰̠̥̳͔̥͔͚͎̗̖͍̖̘̣̫͔̘̯̞̠͍͚̠̎̓̃̅̍̃͐͌͛̈́̄͊̄̇̌̽̈́̄̈́̅̏͒̓̓͛̏͋̍̑̀́̄̆͂̌͗̃̕̚̕̕̚͜͠͝n̷̢̨̡̨̗͉̺̯̤̙̻̫̳̙̘͎̺̫̳͍͔̺̣̻̦̥͓̹̣̖͔͓̙̹͖̺̩̗̼̯̺̆̌̀̐̑̈́̏̀̈́͆̂̅͛̌͗͒͊̓̈̍̏͌̉̚͠ͅg̶̨͙̹̺̪̰͇̜̰̩̮̩̦̳͍̥̯̭̦̤̳̩͙͕͙͚͍̫̗̿̆̍̐̽̀̽̃͛̆̉̀̆́͘͜͜͝

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She was suddenly yanked to the side and she stumbled after the pull, halfway rag-dolling.

Something was shoved into her hands. She looked down and wondered if maybe she was having a stroke, because there’s an apple juice box in her hands? Why was there an apple juice box in her hands? She just saw someone decapitate—was it decapitation if it was a yoink instead of a cut—themselves and there’s a fucking apple juice box in her hands.

“Drink,” someone said, and her hands moved on autopilot, taking off the straw and jabbing it against her thigh to cut through the plastic and stick the straw in the foil.

She stops there again. A hand gently grabs her wrist and moves the juice box up to her mouth and she drinks.

The sweetness got to her brain first, and then black dots clouding her vision she didn’t realize were there started to clear up. She blinked, and once her brain processed the view, that being of the city, without glass and bars, just open air, the chill of wind brought her fully back.

“Am I on a roof?” She gasped. “Why am I on a roof, who’s roof am I on?” She twisted around frantically to see Azriel next to her.

She blinked.

“Why are we on a roof?”

“Seth has a key to the roof and I made a copy,” they said. “And it’s the school roof.” Their eyebrows rose. “Do you go onto random roofs often?”

“…yes,” she admitted. “It—it calms me down.” The nausea and vertigo reminded her that she was alive.

“Huh. Well, Seth would like that.” They sat down and pulled out another juice box—where did they keep getting those? “I brought you up here because you looked like a zombie, and I figured you’d like to return to the living in relative solitude.”

She glanced at her juice box, which had the life squeezed out of it in her white-knuckled grip. “And the juice box?”

“Sugar makes everything better. And drinking stuff apparently reboots people’s ability to breathe normally.” They tapped two fingers against their temple.

“Thank you.”

Silence befell them, and unlike in the library, it felt terribly awkward.

“You’re taking this awfully well, all things considered. Dullahans freak everyone out, no matter what we are.”

“Sorry?”

“Morgan.” They tilted their head. “The redhead?”

“Oh. Yes, she’s in one of my classes.”

“…and she pulled off her head,” they said slowly. “I think that’s the important bit.”

Was that what happened?

The memory came back to her, mostly the sounds, and Emi felt queasy.

Tendons fraying/muscles rotting/organs gushing/nerves snapping

“Do you have more apple juice?” She asked weakly.

They once again pulled one out of seemingly nowhere. She sat down shakily and punctured the box.

She decided she was not going to think about Morgan. Too much going on there, and not enough mental stability on her part.

“Do you want to talk about—“

“No,” she said quickly. “No. Just, uh, tell me about you, I guess.” People loved talking about themselves. And she needed to not think or talk about the past ten minutes.

“Alright then. I’m Azriel, the Ouroboros.”

The what.

“The what?”

“The Ouroboros.” They grinned. “Also known as the Endless Serpent. I’m not quite as well known, considering there’s only one of us at any given time. And also because humans seem to love the humanoid monsters over the rest of us.” They rolled their eyes. “The vampires will never forgive Stephanie Myer for that one. And the shifters are just annoyed that it’s only the wolves that get shown. Anyways—“

There was a strange series of gusts of wind, along with accompanying beating noises and the smell of French fries.

“Oi! Azzy!” Came an unseen voice, “I got your apple juices!”

A shadow formed on the cement in front of them, getting bigger rapidly before something slammed onto the roof. Emi let out a small scream and scrambled backwards.

The thing stood up. Gray skin, textured like the concrete she was sitting on, with a few cracks filled with copper here and there, bronze in thin strands on its head as if someone had made a full scalp of hair out of metal, and wings. Big, webbed wings that somehow both looked leathery and stony.

Amethyst eyes—quite literally amethyst, as in the rock, blinked down at her.

“Oh, it’s the crazy girl.” He turned back to Azriel, holding up four bags with grease stains and the McDonald’s logo. “Apple juice.” He had large fangs sticking out from his lips, seeming to be made out of marble.

And that.

She didn’t know if it was the McDonalds or the juice or the memory of Morgan deciding that it was going to burst back into her mind despite her forgetting on purpose triggered by the winged monster in front of her.

But she snapped.

She leaned over from where she was sprawled on the ground, braced one hand on the stone, and vomited.