The crickets sang their evening tune as Ana turned the truck into her driveway, grimacing as the rickety machine bumped its way over the gravel road. It had been three days since Marchosias told her the Motloes were lurking around town, and she had been paranoid ever since. He said she was safe within her house, but he seemed to be picking up the habit of lying lately. He hadn’t visited her since telling her, so she assumed he was still looking for them. It kept her awake at night, wondering when they would come and kill her.

She killed the engine and unbuckled her seat-belt. She was about to push the door open when something on her porch caught her eye. She squinted in the dim evening light, and her eyes caught a man resting against the door, his face covered by a hood and face mask. Her face paled and she pulled up the back of her shirt and touched the tattoo on her lower back, a heavy revolver forming in her hands. It was a spell she had learned without the help of Marchosias, believing if she ever was in danger the last thing her attacker would expect was her pulling a gun from a tattoo. The tattoo was of two old revolvers surrounded by purple crocus flowers. She called it an illusory tattoo, humans called it a ‘tramp stamp.’

She hesitantly pushed open her door and kept her eye on the man as she stepped out. He was blocking the door, and so she would have to move him to get in. He didn’t move at all, and she swore he was dead until she noticed his ragged breathing. She cocked her gun and held it before her as she drew closer, her hands becoming sweaty as she thought of the worst outcomes of this situation.

He was wearing a black jacket, the hood pulled over his head. The face mask, appearing like the ones worn during the pandemic, covered the bottom half of his face, but his forehead had a sheen of sweat on it and his eyes were closed. Her gaze moved to his body, and noticed his hand clutching the right side of his waist. Blood seeped from in between his gloved fingers.

A Motloe? No, it couldn’t be. A Motloe wouldn’t show up to my door, wounded. Maybe a hiker? But he wasn’t wearing hiker gear. Just a jacket and jeans, but he was in obvious pain. Was he hurt by something or someone? Maybe a Motloe. She wouldn’t put it past them to hurt a random person. She was a product of their malice, after all.

“…Hello?” She tentatively called out. He didn’t respond. He was out cold. She lowered her gun and walked closer to him, up the porch steps. She could hear his ragged breathing now. He seemed to be in great pain, if his breath and bloody hands didn’t show it enough. Some part of Ana told her to summon Marchosias, just in case this man was dangerous. But what use was he now? He couldn’t even find the Motloes, and he was skilled at tracking spells. She was, too.

She kneeled beside him and lifted his wrist away from his side. His head twitched from the movement, but he did not wake. She couldn’t see anything except blood on the dark jacket, and in his current sitting position she couldn’t look at it correctly. Taking him into her house wasn’t an option, since he was still a stranger, so he would have to be put in the barn. She also considered taking him to the hospital, but an ambulance would take too long to get there and her truck was only a small two-seater. His wound looked too serious to wait around.

The barn was empty, Ana having sold the animals just after her dad died, having no energy or will to take care of them. He kept a couple of goats and a horse as a sort of hobby, despite having many other hobbies. Ana wasn’t much for animals besides dogs, and decided it was better they went to loving homes than staying here.

She rose from her spot and rolled up her sleeves. “I can’t pick your heavy ass up, so let’s hope magic doesn’t freak you out.”

—_—

Ana sighed and stretched out her arms, magic leaking out of her hands and fading into the air. She had set the man down in the far corner on top of an old horse blanket she knew Jazzy slept on. He lay on his back, his breathing still uneven and worrisome.

She kneeled next to him and unzipped his jacket, pulling both sides away from his body. His dark green shirt was caked in blood, and Ana grimaced. She pulled the med kit she had grabbed from her house closer to her before gently lifting his shirt up. A deep gash marked his stomach, at least a couple inches long and bleeding profusely. The cut was a problem, but there was also something about his skin that confused her. The light terracotta skin almost looked leathery and shiny in the dim barn light. She pulled his shirt up further, and realized he was covered in severe burn scars, twisting and stretching his skin in gruesome ways. They were almost too gross to look at, and Ana refrained from shying away from the sight. Is he covered head to toe in these scars? She pulled his shirt far enough to where she could still see the cut.

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She took a deep breath and placed her hands over the bloody wound. Her mind went to the smell of sharp pine and heady smoke, swirling in the dark and filling the air. Purple fog of magic flowed from her hands and covered the man’s stomach until Ana focused on the wound underneath her hands, eyes trained on the way his stomach moved up and down under her touch. The fog obeyed her will and seeped into the wound, her fingers tingling with unnatural power. The veins on her wrists became restless after awhile, but the wound was not fully healed. She focused harder, holding her breath as she willed more mageia from her hands. She could feel it absorb into his skin and spread throughout the wound, stopping the bleeding and attempting to close the deep cut. She felt something else, too. His fast heartbeat calming, his blood rushing through his veins, and…something else. Something made of mageia.

She pulled her hands away and rose to her feet, taking a few steps back. Humans aren’t supposed to have mageia. What was that? She studied the man, how his breathing become slow and even and his pained face visibly calmed. Was it possible it was just leftover mageia from when the Motloes attacked him? If they attacked him, that is… It was possible he was a hitchhiker who was unfortunate enough to run into the Motloes, but that meant they were closer to her house than she thought.

Or maybe it wasn’t the Motloes, but some random cambions, she kneeled next to him again and pulled his shirt back down, and my father just said that to scare me.

It was night now, and she was tired. The man was still unconscious, but she would visit him tomorrow in the morning with breakfast. Hopefully, he will be awake by then.

Before she left, she pulled his face mask down, mostly out of curiosity. Under the mask was a large nose and bow-shaped lips. She felt a strange sense of deja vu, as if she knew him from somewhere.

—_—

She cooked for once. No cereal or takeout. Real, hot scrambled eggs and sausage patties. She would’ve had cereal, if not for the wounded man in her barn. She walked to the barn, a plate of the warm food in hand. It was only morning, but the early June sun was already heating up the day. Jazzy was at the entrance to the barn, looking in on the stranger. When she approached her, she shooed her away from the door. With an angry tail flick and airplane ears, she trotted off around the corner.

She entered the barn and walked over to the man. He appeared to still be asleep, but when she kneeled next to him, he opened his eyes and appeared startled. He quickly moved away, flinching at the pain it caused in his stomach.

“Hang on, it’s alright. I ain’t gonna hurt you. You showed up to my door, remember?” Ana raised her hands in a silent plea.

He looked at her with wide eyes, his shoulders drawn back in a defensive posture. Eventually, his eyes flicking to the plate of eggs next to him. Ana stood and backed away, and he visibly calmed down. He hesitantly took the plate and grabbed the fork in one hand. He seemed to hold it awkwardly, the last three of his fingers only half-bent. He also kept his gloves on, and Ana surmised he may be horrifically scarred all over.

“Where did you come from?” She asked.

He looked up at her before quickly looking back down at the eggs. “North—north of here. In Tennessee.”

His voice was rough and gravelly, as if he screamed it hoarse too many times. It was hard to listen to, and especially to decipher his words. He seemed to be anxious about her being there, too. His fingers shook as he tried to calmly eat the food.

“You a hitchhiker? Who gave you that nasty cut?”

He hesitated, his fork stilling. He glanced at her, his dark eyes searching her face. Ana had the same feeling of deja vu from last night, but she still couldn’t place it. Where have I seen you before?

She turned and looked at the wall behind her. A tool rack lay in a mess, tools spread across the ground. Damn Jazzy. She walked over to the rack and began placing the tools back on the rack.

“You mind answering my question,” She spoke up, “Or are you going to keep staring?”

She placed a shovel back on the rack, brushing off the dirt on the handle. She didn’t wanna look back at him. His face confused her, and she couldn’t discern why.

“From…from Judas.”

Her breath hitched. Judas. She knew that name. She knew that name all too well. Her brain started working, the rusty cogs kicking back into motion. There it was, in the back of her mind. The deja vu feeling wasn’t just a feeling. It was recognition, it was memories. Her hands began to shake, and she clenched them into fists. She slowly turned back to the man and his familiar face.

“Who are you?” She swallowed. “Tell me your name.” She already knew the answer, but she needed confirmation. Or, maybe, assurance that he wasn’t the man that she thought he was.

“Beau…Beau Motloe?”

Ana, a younger Ana, with bleached white hair and too many earrings to count, opened the locker door as she glanced at the nervous, awkward-looking boy next to her. His black hair was long, tied to the back of his neck. Acne sprinkled his jawline, and his fingers anxiously tapped his other arm.

“Motloe, huh? So that’s why you’re asking about Judas? You’re his older brother.” Ana replied, hanging her backpack in the locker and taking out her books.

“He shouldn’t have given you that grimoire. It’s a family heirloom. Return it to us before our father gets mad.”

“Ooh, your father! I’m so scared! Have you forgotten who my father is?” She pulled out a notebook and a binder before shutting the locker, a grin on her face. She fully turned to Beau, silver hoops jangling.

“Last time I checked, it was his grimoire. Not only that,” She walked closer to him. “You both don’t have the same daddies. Maybe you should ask your father whether or not its worth going against a demon for a nasty old book he can’t even use.”

He glared at her, dark brown eyes saying words he could never say himself. “My family is none of your business. Give the book back to Judas.”

He turned and walked off, but stopped after a few steps. He turned his head back to her. “Besides, you can’t even use it yourself.”

She blinked. She was back to the present, with a much older Beau only a few feet away from her. His hood was down, and his hair was now shoulder length and messy. His face was strangely smooth and clean compared to his neck, which was also covered in ghastly burn scars. He had lost weight, but was still broad-chested and a little pudgy. He was almost a stranger, but he was also still Beau Motloe.

Oh, how times have changed.