Velli

“Anne? How’s your baby?” Dream speaks again.

Who’s that? No mental image of such a person reaches my mind. Dream’s the one who knows the Cursed. I make it my business to know others.

“Thank you, Dream,” the woman known as Anne says, each word wet and tired.

Slow, cautious, squishy steps mark her presence in the room. Something’s not right about her. She should be panicking, excited, or displaying some strong emotion if she needs help. The relief in her voice doesn’t match her slow, subdued movements .

The water from Anne’s clothes violates the carpet in inconsistent, relentless gushes, a constant hammering on Dream’s floor. I didn’t even know about the storm outside, but the thunder’s bang is clear now.

“Oh,” Dream says. “That’s a big guy. What do you have there?”

Another set of footsteps enters the room—two feet, heavy and filled with the stench of the woods. A loud crack follows every footstep the thing takes.

“How are you?” Dream asks.

The thing does not answer in English if it’s an answer at all. Two huge huffs of breath pour out from it, filling the room with heat.

The door slams shut. I’m unsure who shut it.

“I didn’t know it was you, Anne. Would you like to sit?” Dream asks.

Dream, can you please stick to the plan? It’s hard not to smack my face in frustration.

I, for one, love how trusting Dream is. Just forgetting the plan because, apparently, this is a friend of hers. Truly, my favorite Dream quality.

“No, no thank you.” Anne rejects the offer.

“Are you sure?” Dream presses. No one on this planet is more capable of frustrating me than Dream.

“You just had a baby. Didn’t you? Congrats, by the way, but you need your rest.”

The big thing, whatever he is, spits breath like he hates it for giving him life. The cracking never stops.

Relatable.

A thick silence fills the room that even the words of Michael Corleone on the screen can’t interrupt. They’re just words in the background, salt on what’s cooking.

“Anne, where’s Davie?” Dream asks. “Where’s your husband?”

“Dead,” Anne replies, not missing a beat.

The beast does something wilder than a howl, something like a self-torturing chant.

“Dream,” Anne says. “Could you tell whoever’s hiding to come out? It can smell him.”

For the love of Division, the Heirs, the Rain, and every God in the universe, lie! Dream, lie!

“Velli, come out,” Dream says.

Told you she hates you.

She doesn’t hate me. She’s just naive.

Same thing in the end.

I rise from the corner, shoulders back, hands up, smile wide, attempting to look as nonchalant as possible, and I take a seat on the couch. My gun stays ready in my hand.

Anne is not in good shape at all—from my guess, neither mentally nor physically. Her eyes bounce from me to Dream to no one and back again, telling me her anxiety is off the charts. She has drooping, swelling black bags on the pale skin under her eyes that could be from violence or lack of sleep. Lack of sleep makes her decision-making poor. Her tight jaw and fist clenching and unclenching are signs of aggression. From her appearance, I can tell she just left her house. She’s wearing a white nightgown that did nothing to keep the storm’s wrath from her. I would guess a bout with pneumonia is in her future if she doesn’t pass out. Her skin is ghost pale. Her long, tangled orange-red forest of hair drips water, and in her hand is a leash to something that looks malignant.

It’s definitely a Drowned Beast. It can’t be natural. Or it could be a man that the Rain changed. Its stance resembles a man before a fight. No, that’s not right because he’s not like a boxer. This is more like a man right before an assault, a pounce no one will see coming—bent knees, bouncing on bare toes, and tense, raised shoulders. He’s not all man, though. He has antlers. Long, thick, bastardized geometric shapes sprout from his head. They make a cracking sound.

Crack. Crack. Fate mocks the sound it makes and creates an echo in my head. By reflex, I flinch. Dream looks over at me with embarrassing concern.

Good job, lover boy.

I shrug at her, pretending I’m fine.

I’m sure she’s bought it. Your plans have gone very well so far.

Let’s focus on the thing before me. He isn’t quite a man-moose. He’s too colorful. Black like a bat with aged, leathery flesh. His cheeks are bright blue, and his gangly throat is an evil red with a sagging, prevalent Adam’s apple. His eyes are black dots that look drawn on.

Dream and I slide nearer each other.

“Oh, it’s you…Velli.” Anne Graves says. “Sorry about your mom.”

“You don’t need to be,” I say. “She’ll be fine.”

“Well, we all should be fine.” She laughs twice in a sort of hiccup.

I nod. She can’t meet my eyes.

“I’m sorry.” Every word Anne says is sharp and quick—she doesn’t want to be cut off—and yet scratchy, her voice hoarse. “We all know it shouldn’t be this way.”

“No, I guess it shouldn’t.” I nod to the beast she has on the leash.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

The beast’s jaw drops in stupid ecstasy and makes a strange crowish sound ascending from the pits of its throat.

“Can this thing leave?” I ask.

“No, I need him,” she snaps back.

“Hey, Anne,” Dream says. “If we could not make a mess, this is my parents’ house.”

Maybe Dream keeps talking, but her words get lost in the firecracker sounds of the horns coming apart. The horns fall off the moose man’s head. Dream and I leap in our seats. The horns twitch on the floor. A constant vibrating, shaking, heart-thumping motion from things that should be inanimate. The rattle they make on the floor builds in intensity, and I’m afraid to look away.

I want to ask a variety of questions. What is happening? Who are you, Anne? Why did you bring a Drowned Beast? Can you leave? However, none of those would benefit my survival. Dream may not have had survival class in high school, but I did. There are rules to follow to stay alive when facing a Drowned Beast.

Rule One: Do not make eye contact with a Drowned Beast.

Rule Two: Leave doors and windows open. Hopefully, they’ll leave.

Rule Three: Do not speak to them or touch them or anything they bring.

Rule Four: If you don’t have powers, do not try to fight them. Run.

Rule Five: Do not upset whoever holds the leash of a Drowned Beast.

Based on Anne’s look right now, we never had a chance to follow rule five.

The horns on the floor freeze belly up like a dead bug. Only the beast’s breaths and Anne’s dripping clothes dare stain the room with sound. Dream and I sit in dreadful, anticipatory silence. The horns turn themselves over and crouch, spiderlike. They crawl to the wall in tiny bug-like steps. Thick silver liquid pours from their backs, leaving a track like a snail’s trail. Up the wall and to the ceiling they go. The liquid that flows out of them solidifies into something sticky, familiar, and uncomfortable. My brain yearns to find out what it is and yet is denied.

Something thuds above me, and crumbs of ceiling flakes fall down. I don’t want to risk breaking rule number one, so I don’t look up, but I hear. The scampering of six tiny legs across the ceiling beats against my eardrums. Sometimes, it’s above me, ready to drop. Dream, of course, looks up.

“I need your help,” Anne says. “I have a dilemma.”

“We’re happy to help.” Dream is somehow cheerful. “Do you think you can bring it down, though? This is my parents’ house. Remember, like I said before?”

“Are you Cursed, Velli?” Anne asks me.

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me what it is?”

“No.”

It’s rude to ask. She should know that. What’s her game?

“Dream.” Anne looks up at the ceiling. A crust of debris falls on her eye. “Do you have a Curse or, so sorry, I mean Weakness, Dream? I know your religion doesn’t like to call them Curses. But—but—seriously, I need to know, do you have a Weakness that no one knows?”

“I don’t have a Weakness, actually.” Her voice holds a hint of shame at her lack of imperfection.

“Then, why do you do this? Why do you really care?”

I’ve asked Dream the same question. So I know she’ll shrug and hide her real answer, whatever that may be. She’ll just say, “People should do the right thing.”

“People should do the right thing,” she says, like she does every time.

“And what is ‘the right thing’?”

“Helping other people in this case. It’s what everyone should do.” Dream says it with a surprising amount of confidence, considering the situation.

“I need a real answer.” Anne stares at the floor and yanks on the moose man’s leash. He lets out one loud bark that causes my heart to almost stop in my chest. That bark is close to a real word. “No more, Dream. No more of that. Real answers.”

“That is a real answer.” Dream puts extra sweetness on her words to contrast the bitterness that’s coming from Anne.

I risk a glance above me. Shaking, egg-filled spiderwebs cover the entirety of the ceiling directly above us, and the living horns work on filling the rest of the room. The webs look more like the tangled gray hairs of an ancient giant. They’re thick strands, disgusting, and I need them to hold. They don’t look like they will. White mushroom-looking spider eggs hang inside them, and they shake. Not much, a small rattle, but the things in them want out.

Constant debris rains on us from the ceiling. Crusty flakes of blue get in our hair and hit our faces. And I know it’s all in my head, but I feel it. I feel the spiders crawling on me.

“That is not a real answer!” Anne spits. “Do you honestly think if you were Cursed”—she says the last word with palpable frustration; we never had a chance of not breaking rule number five—“you’d be so anxious to ‘do the right thing’?”

“I hope so.”

I know that answer annoys Anne because it annoys me. Dream, Anne, and I exchange glances.

“What is he?” Dream asks.

“A Drowned Beast.” Anne calms at the words. “My husband and I took extra shifts to save up and buy him for protection. So much work. Work we did together, though.” Anne can look us in the eye now, and she’s so happy. “Always together, my best friend and I, and it was going to be so worth it. Our baby was going to be safe.” Anne rubs her not-pregnant belly. Her empty stomach snatches her back from her past and into the present moment. Disappointment consumes her body, sagging her shoulders and curving her lips into a thick, rock-solid frown.

Empathetic as always, Dream slides forward, prepared to comfort Anne. I pull her back. Still mourning, Anne reaches into the pocket of her nightgown. I move to point my gun at her. Dream pushes my hand down. I would swear by my name that the moose smiles at me as I put away my gun.

“You have no idea how much time we wasted working for this,” Anne says. “Wasted. It’s wasted because he’s gone. And my baby’s gone.” Rightful spite coats every word. She pulls out a small silver coin. “All for this. It’s a one-shot protection for any threat, no matter how powerful they are.” She nods in the direction of the heavy-breathing brute and points one finger up. “Whatever I throw this at, they will destroy. We were supposed to buy more than one coin, but we could only afford one.”

The gray webs stretch and shake across every inch of the ceiling now. It’s too much shaking. The eggs fall off one strand to land on another. And the walls. A wall of eggs covers the kitchen and door. So much for rule two. Every exit is covered.

Gunshots come from the TV screen. A battle has started.

The living horns plop onto the floor to the left of the couch. I risk a glance. They scurry away behind the couch. Appearing on the other side, they crawl on top of the coffee table, knocking over the popcorn. Lemonade spills on the floor. Dream and I freeze. The horns crawl toward us, pitter-pattering, to hop in Dream’s lap. She freezes. Egg-filled shaking webs pour—thick and slow, soup-like—from the back of the horns onto Dream. I grab the thing by its base and yank it off of Dream. I go eye to eye with the moose beast.

“No, not her,” I command.

The beast gives two mighty huffs. I toss the horns aside. That’s fine. Let’s just break every rule.

“Thanks, ghost.” Dream adjusts herself. “Anne, why don’t you sit?” Dream begs, patting the spot on the couch beside her. “You really should. Your body’s been through a lot. You just had a baby.”

“You don’t even know.” Anne’s eyes bore into Dream before finding solace elsewhere.

“Anne, I know your baby is gone but, um, gone where?”

“Gone.”

We’re dealing with an emergency. In normal circumstances, those with Weaknesses come to us for assistance. The baby is gone, and in the first minute of her visit, she has not attempted to get it back, meaning she has no hope we can get it back. Therefore, she does not seek that assistance. So why come? I would hypothesize she wants our destruction. Fingers crossed. Not sure why, though.

“Anne.” Dream’s aware of the danger we’re now in because she’s clever, but it’s not even on her priority list. I can hear it in her voice. She’s heartbroken for Anne. “Anne, Anne, I’m so, so sorry, Anne. Come here.”

Dream! I don’t know why Anne’s here, but I’m going to end up having to shoot something. For the love of Division, Restoration, and every Heir, do not hug her!

“I need an honest answer, Dream. If you were me, if you were Cursed, would goodness really be a priority?”

Okay, she’s lost her child, and she’s holding something back, something she wants to let out. Think more. Her line of questioning—she’s questioning Dream’s morality. She wants to know more morals because she’s about to make a morally questionable decision. Perhaps to get her child back? Yes, a way to get her child back and maybe kill us in exchange? Okay, who would want us dead and would kidnap a child?

Ooh, better hurry, Fate chides. This is your job, isn’t it? You don’t know the names of the people you help—not because they remind you of yourself and you secretly hate yourself but because you’re too busy memorizing all the threats that could come your way. Right, champ?

Can you shut up? I’m trying to get out of this.

Dream does not answer Anne’s question. Dream rises and steps toward Anne. I reach to stop her, and the moose roars, keeping me in my seat. I know what I’m shooting first.

“Don’t touch me!” Anne yells at Dream.

The Drowned Beast barks, knocking Dream a step back.

Dream does not sit down. “Sorry, sorry. I want to help in any way possible,” Dream repents.

Anne makes a noise that’s as close to a human growl as it comes. Her frustration is building.