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[Opening Scene] Of all the ways to celebrate Quinn Frost’s birthday, this was far from ideal. Too bad city officials gave residents of Calystan little choice in the matter. Had it been up to Quinn, she’d already be halfway down a flagon of crisp, sweet ale and all the way up the Nine Lives terrace. Impatience bubbled in her chest like a venom as Quinn scaled the familiar four flights of musty stairs. Up, up, dread rising with her altitude. It felt like just yesterday Quinn was standing before the Teller’s sneering face, trying not to inhale the centuries-old debris that no doubt carried every number of toxic molds known to the Gods. Like just yesterday she was told her prospects of going to Aetheria were “neutral at best,” and she’d better work a heck of a lot harder to earn her slot among the angels. After all, she was only human. Life was about five-centuries shorter for her than most beings on this planet. Like she needed the reminder. The creaking floorboards dipped below her feet as Quinn paused, throat bobbing, before the arched door. How many fled this room in relief? How many in tears? It was a cruel ritual to impose on an otherwise joyous occasion but, then again, this world wasn’t renowned for its kindness. Quinn knew that best of all. She didn’t bother to knock before entering the shabby attic—blinking past the dust particles that skewed her vision to find a humanoid figure propped in a makeshift throne along the backwall. Quinn’s hands found the fringe of her jean jacket as she skulked forward, pressing her clammy palm to the aura meter standing erect in the center of the room. It hummed beneath her skin. Or maybe that was her roaring pulse. “Quinn Frost,” the Teller acknowledged as her hand fell from the gauge. Let’s get this over with, is what Quinn wanted to say. But instead, she asked, “On your birthday, do you give yourself a future?” Clutter littered the tight space, pinning Quinn on either side with bookshelves and ancient statues. Some were offerings to curry favor with the gods, but then, other items appeared otherworldly. Hides of creatures she’d never seen. Artifacts from a distant past; a history that eluded her kind. The Teller didn’t bother to laugh before responding in a hoarse, hollow voice, “I exist beyond time, and thus bear no present, past, or future.” “So, you don’t have a birthday?” “The Gods have viewed your history, Quinn Frost,” the Teller ignored her question, “and have ascertained your Rising outlook.” Quinn studied the chipped woodwork, pulse thrumming in her neck with a violence that was surely visible to the Teller. Assuming the Teller—whose face she’d never seen—had eyes. The mustiness served a purpose beyond asphyxiation, she learned after twenty-four visits. It shrouded the Teller’s identity. For all Quinn knew, this humanoid being was part lizard, which would certainly explain the smell. “So,” Quinn muttered, squinting through the haze. “Is it the Maw for me, then?” The Maw. A shudder crawled up her spine despite the springtime heat. If Aetheria was the land of goodness, brimming with crisp-winged angels and lyre-strumming spirits, the Maw was a black pit. Riddled with demons of her childhood nightmares, the Maw beheld seven rings—each one step deeper, darker, into the depths of eternal agony. If her soul should fall there… “For you, it is…” the Teller began, shifting slightly, “it is…” they drew a breath, pausing once again. “It…” Quinn was at the precipice, anticipation swelling in her chest until it threatened to implode. Jittery hands tugged harder on her jacket. She told herself she didn’t care, but the more the Teller lingered…seriously, what was taking so long? “Well,” the Teller’s voice hardened. “The answer is none.” Oh good, none. Wait…none? When visiting the Teller, three answers were given: Good, Bad, and Neutral. Last year, Quinn received a neutral outlook, meaning the gods hadn’t decided if, after she died, her soul would rise to Aetheria or sink to the Maw. Her community service efforts this year should’ve tipped the scales in favor of ascension. “I don’t understand,” Quinn’s voice strained, throat tight. “What is none?” “What the gods have decreed.” “Right,” Quinn stepped forward, “but what does it mean?” “It means the gods have decided your outlook is none.” Quinn’s hands shook. She shoved them in her pockets to resist clamping them around the Teller’s throat—assuming it had one of those, too. With a slightly hoarse inflection, she demanded, “What kind of an outlook is none?” “Yours.” “And where would that take me?” “Nowhere.” “But that’s—” “Another inquirer approaches,” the Teller remarked, noting the floorboards’ groan behind the door. The hinges of her jaw groaned until she feared her teeth might shatter. Quinn heard stories of restless spirits scouring the planet, doomed to roam for eternity. Forgotten souls. Was that what the Teller, what the gods, meant? She opened her mouth to protest—to command an answer—but a knock on the door captured her words. “There’s no need to return, Quinn Frost,” the Teller gestured to the door. “My services are no longer required.” A druid entered, flooding the room with fresh light, party hat tilted to one side. His loopy smile was smothered by the room's tension. Quinn spun back to the Teller, a blistering retort bubbling up her throat to settle on the tip of her tongue. It wasn't worth it though; it never was, so she choked down her indignation and stormed from the room. Gratitude be damned.

Aida Pemble was an abomination, but there were worse things to be. A turtle-murderer, for example. She was definitely better than a turtle-murderer. Or that guy in the city who fondled his willy while he walked around, Priest Saint Donahue or something like that. Oh, and definitely any bastard who felt the need to whistle. She fucking hated whistling. Sing or don’t sing, play an instrument or don’t, but to try and pretend curling your tongue and eschewing spit was anything more than an insult to those around you was absurd. Gods, she hated whistling. She hated it especially right now, as she wrestled with the stubborn wheelbarrow over the tangled brush. The bad wheel always snagged at this stretch of the woods. Everytime she made this trip home with the splintered wheelbarrow, she would curse herself for being paranoid and swear to take the main road next time. It was unpaved, but at least it existed. But even as she struggled to free the ensnarled wheel, she knew it wasn’t true. She would always take the backwoods home on these trips. Even at one in the morning, it was too risky. One in the morning didn’t mean the same thing in a rural town that it did in the city. One in the morning here might get’ya a boozehound with bloodlust and a broken bottle in their hand. They would be yelling, of course. “I’ma getcha!” they would cry, shaking the bottle so that droplets of black liquid speckled their shirt. Usually, except for maybe once or twice, they were as full of shit as their eyes were brown. The next day that same drunkard would be stopping by your porch to trade town gossip, or warmly welcoming you to chapel. There was just something about priests and their drinking. Maybe the gods let them in on something that required copious, sloppy amounts of booze to forget about. She might just ask, except she wasn’t fully allowed at chapel. They wouldn’t kick her out but they would all sit and stare at her in silence, which was worse. At least a boot to her ass would save everyone some time. But no violence shall be made in the Big’Uns’ house, the priest liked to remind. Save it for outside. There’s plenty o’ room in the courtyard. Aida squinted as a bead of sweat ran into her eye. Just another…. “Aha!” she cried in triumph as the wheel at last groaned forward. “Almost there,” her voice came out between pants. Now if only she could forget the gods-damned horrid tune stuck in her head. Ever since her night’s selection, his name had been Thomas, began whistling some tune on their way to his place, she’d known she made the wrong pick. It would take ages to forget the annoying whistle. It’s not like musicians were scrambling over lute and limb to introduce new music to her town. “Come on,” she hissed to herself. “Almost….So….close…” It was dark as the devil’s asshole but she could just make out a pale yellow light ahead. Her porch light. Her beacon calling her tired muscles home. She longed for the bed inside, even if it left splinters in her cheek and had to be supported in spots by a growing pile of lingerie, courtesy of the men who thought it strange to buy their date a pillow, but would gladly splurge on a chiffon unitard. The trick was to ask for the really gaudy ones lined with feathers. Those made the best pillows. The woods receded as she neared the dimly lit porch, as if sucking in its gut to allow the small clearing behind her home. It was here that she finally dropped the wheelbarrow. “I am too old for this,” she huffed, hands on knees that ached too much for twenty-four. The air was crisp. It chilled the sweat on her skin and drew up tiny bumps across her arms. Hen-flesh, she was pretty sure it was called. It was one of those things that you were supposed to learn the word for while still young, and she had only a rusty memory to go off. Once she had remarked on a boy’s hen-flesh and the look on his face made her wonder if she remembered wrong. He hadn’t corrected her though. Once she caught her breath, Aida grabbed the heavy burlap bag from the wheelbarrow and heaved. It moved begrudgingly, falling onto the grass with an annoyed plop. It was dinner time. Aida stepped back until her right heel scraped the porch step. She grabbed for the railing with one hand and raised the other to her lips. “Mom,” she called, then cleared her throat. “Mom! Dad! Dinners here!” She expected to wait a few minutes. Her heart did an odd little jump when almost at once, the brush moved. She heard them first, smelled them next and finally, as they crept from the thick brush into the watery porch light, saw them. They advanced in tandem, their wide, blob-like bodies contorting with the movement. She again thought, despite her best efforts, that slapping their gray skin would feel slapping a bowl of jello. Then they opened their mouths, their jaws sagging down to reveal a black pit broken by three rows of pointed yellow teeth. Their eyes were round and black. If you were unlucky, you could catch the ink ripple in them as they took in whatever it was they could see. “I picked the best of the crop,” she said, sitting down on the porch step as they approached the burlap sack. “Not too much fat this time.” Last time she had settled on a more substantial cut of meat, it had taken until almost dawn to push the damned wheelbarrow home and her arms ached for days. She told herself it would be worth it, that her parents would be thrilled by the extra food. Instead they consumed the bones, the flesh, the muscle and all those other tasty morsels, like the brain or fibula. They’d somehow avoided the fat, though she couldn’t imagine how with the way they ate. But when she went out the next morning, the air smelled like a washing factory on sweaty sock day. There had been strings of fat, pale and corded, strung around the yard and stinking in the sunrise. There was nothing to be done that would make the cleaning any easier or more tolerable, but she could at least drown some of the memory, and the lingering smell, with a few drinks or five afterwards. Her mom scuttled closer to the sack and grabbed the ends with taloned arms that morphed from her soft body. Her eyes stared forward, centered on Aida as black talons picked the opening wider and reached inside. There was a subtle, wet glimmer in her eyes as she pulled the corpse out. “His name is Thomas,” Aida cupped her chin in one palm and watched her dad pluck at bits and pieces of Thomas. “He was very nice, even took me to dinner and—Oh!” She reached towards her neck and grabbed the beautiful necklace that rested there, holding it so the green gem caught in the porchlight. “He bought me this? Isn’t it pretty? I thought it was.” She smiled as she remembered the way the dentist had held out the pretty piece. “For you,” he said, his smile revealing a half-row of perfect teeth. The other half was only pink gum. He was not a rich dentist, which she found odd until she noticed the large sign on his shop that read: TOM’S TOOTHERY We’ll Pull Your Tooth For Free* *In Exchange For One Good Tooth “What if they don’t want to give up a good tooth?” she asked, stretched on the dental bed, spreading her knees apart as he stared. “What?” he asked, clearly distracted. “What do you charge them then?” She sat up so he’d pay attention. She was curious how a dentist in the big city could live in the backroom of his dental shop, sleeping on what appeared to be a crusted piled of newspaper scams and threadworn pants. “I don’t.” “You do it for free?” “No.” She hated the puzzled look on his face, like she was the odd one for asking such a question. “So you only accept teeth?” “Well, yeah.” He still had that stupid, puzzled look on his face. “But what about money?” “I have money.” She stood now, almost angry from the confusion. “So you have money, but you sleep on the floor of your shop and only pluck teeth if they will give you a good one in return?” “Exactly! You’ve got it now.” He smiled kindly, as if she were a child just figuring out which way to pull her nappy on correctly. “But why?” “I like teeth.” The way he said it, it had been so genuine and disarming. Before she could think of what to say next, he produced a small copper tin. The rattling gave away its contents even as he opened the lid and plucked a tooth out. It looked a little like a dried bit of cow patty, pushed into a squarish shape. Thomas proceeded to stick the brown tooth into an empty gap in his gums. She actually gasped at the squelching noise it made as it pressed against the gum. “What do you think?” he asked. Nothing about his face told her he was joking. In fact, his brow lowered in a way she did not like. He took a step forward and unbuttoned the top button of his blouse. “Do you….think it suits me?” he purred. Actually purred, like a fucking cat shoved up the ass of a man’s body and trying to make the best of the situation. “That’s…Can I have a drink of water?” “Of course, you wait right there.” She killed him the moment he returned. Sometimes she liked to have a good romp before she saw to business, either for their sake or just because she was bored. Sometimes she even waited a date or two so they would buy her some trinket if she asked for it. But Aida Pemble, abomination or no, was not about to fuck a man who stuck rotten teeth in his gums and purred at her like a cat in heat. It gave her some pleasure now when she saw her parents had eaten every last bit of bone and grit that had once been a deranged dentist with an unfortunate habit of whistling and wearing other’s teeth. Honestly, it was almost as though she’d done his patients a favor. Or at least any future romantic endeavors. There might have been some man or woman who was either too bewildered or polite to properly react. Now they never need worry about getting necked by Thomas the Tooth Taker. They were fucking welcome. “All I do…” she murmured into her cupped palm. Her eyes felt heavy. The muscles in her arms were beginning to pulsate from the long day’s activities. She climbed to her feet just as her parents absorbed the last bit of meat. They stared at her, or at least in her direction, as they dissolved the remains of Thomas. Then without any fanfare or hesitation, they turned and scuttled into the trees. The thick forestry concealed them within moments. “Goodnight!” Aida called. “Goodnight mom! Goodnight dad! Don’t eat the neighbors!” They didn’t respond, but again, they almost never did. Aida stretched her tired muscles and watched the dark forest for a few seconds more, then went inside to get some much needed sleep. Her parents were fed and satisfied for now. Which meant they most likely wouldn’t eat the neighbors. And if they did, well, that was a problem for later. For now, Aida the Abomination was ready for sleep. Tomorrow would bring problems enough.