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Table of Contents

•Chapter 1. The Eviction Notice and Shattered Glass

•Chapter 2. A Serpent-Stag’s Sap-Wet Antlers

•Chapter 3. Cold Fries, Thunder Palm, Bleeding Forehead

•Chapter 4. The Warm Performance of Purity

•Chapter 5. A Silver Spark and His Mother’s Hands

•Chapter 6. Rusted Knuckle-Dusters Humming Static

•Chapter 7. Amber Sap Cages and Honest Pain

•Chapter 8. The Obsidian Ring’s Whispered Names

•Chapter 9. Smoke Inhalation and a Broken Stairwell

•Chapter 10. Rain Evaporating into Steam Ten Feet

•Chapter 11. A Crushed Hand and Flooded Basement

•Chapter 12. Bruised Purple-Gold Auras on a Mattress

Chapter 1. The Eviction Notice and Shattered Glass

I checked the clock for the fifth time in thirty minutes, my eyes darting to the phone that hadn’t stopped ringing all afternoon. Charlotte’s name flashed on the caller ID again—the third time today. I let it ring, each shrill tone another nail in the coffin of my dwindling options. The eviction notice taped to my door three days ago wasn’t a threat anymore; it was a countdown. Three months behind, and now Charlotte needed answers I didn’t have. Outside Mentor’s Gym, rain pattered against the grimy windows, the sky heavy with the weight of another Aberdeen summer storm. I returned to wiping down the mats, scrubbing at blood spots that never quite disappeared, trying to ignore the hollow feeling that had taken up permanent residence in my chest.

The eviction notice kept flashing in my mind—bold black letters against cheap white paper. THREE MONTHS OVERDUE. PAYMENT REQUIRED WITHIN 72 HOURS. The memory of my car came next, its seized engine sitting useless on a wet street two blocks from my apartment. I’d walked to work for a week now, arriving with soaked shoes that squeaked across the cracked linoleum floor of the front office. 

I tossed the dirty rag into the bucket of bleach water and sank into the squeaky chair behind the desk. The computer in front of me wheezed to life, the fan making that dying animal sound it always did when asked to perform even the simplest task. The gym was quiet between classes—the afternoon lull before the after-work crowd arrived to punch away their frustrations on the heavy bags.

The phone rang again. Not Charlotte this time. I picked it up, tucking it between my ear and shoulder.

“Mentor’s Gym, how can I help you?” My customer service voice was getting better with practice.

“Is this Catrina Darling?” The voice was formal, detached—the kind of voice that delivers bad news for a living.

“Speaking.” My fingers found one of my rings, twisting it around and around.

“This is Marcus Webb from Aberdeen Collections. I’m calling to inform you that the wage garnishment request from Northshore Restaurant Supply has been approved. Effective immediately, twenty-five percent of your wages will be—“

I hung up. My heart hammered against my ribcage like it was looking for an escape route. The restaurant supply store I’d walked out on two years ago—they’d finally found me. Twenty-five percent gone before I’d even touched it. The eviction notice. The dead car. And now this.

I pressed my palms against my eyes until I saw stars, trying to breathe through the panic rising in my throat. When I lowered my hands, Charlotte stood in the doorway, her baby balanced on her hip.

“Catrina.” Her voice was soft but firm. Not angry. Somehow that was worse.

I straightened in my chair, tugging at the sleeves of my dark top, suddenly aware of how small the office was. “Charlotte. I was going to call you back, I just—“

“I need to talk to you.” She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. The baby—six months old now?—stared at me with wide, curious eyes. Charlotte looked exhausted, dark circles underlining eyes that had seen too many late nights. Her cardigan had a stain on the sleeve—formula or spit-up, probably. She bounced the baby gently, more habit than conscious thought.

“I know I‘m behind,” I started, but she shook her head.

“Three months, Catrina. I’ve never let anyone go that long.”

I swallowed hard, shame burning hot in my cheeks. “I know. I’m sorry. The car, and then this job doesn’t pay much, and—“ I stopped myself. Excuses wouldn’t pay her rent.

Charlotte sighed, shifting the baby to her other hip. “I’m not here to evict you. Not yet.” She paused, and I saw something I hadn’t expected—vulnerability. “I need to be honest with you. That rent... it’s not profit for me. It’s formula. It’s diapers. It’s doctor visits for Emma.”

The baby—Emma—gurgled as if recognizing her name.

“The building is falling apart,” Charlotte continued, her voice dropping lower. “The landlord next door offered to buy me out last month, but I need tenants paying rent to keep the place running until I figure something out.”

The realization hit me like a physical blow. Charlotte wasn’t some faceless landlord. She was drowning too, just in a different part of the same ocean. My debt was now shared dread—my failure to pay meant her baby might go hungry.

“I’ll figure something out,” I said, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears. “I promise.”

Charlotte opened her mouth to respond when a blinding flash of white light erupted outside, followed by a thunderous crash that shook the building to its foundation. The front window of the gym shattered inward, sending glass shards flying across the mats. I lunged forward, grabbing Charlotte and the baby and pulling them down behind the desk as another flash lit up the office.

“What the hell?” Charlotte’s voice was sharp with fear.

I peered over the desk. Through the shattered window, I saw three figures in the street—two in yellow training gear circling a third person who stood with their back to the gym. Lightning crackled between the figures, not from the sky but from their hands, trails of colored light hanging in the air like afterimages.

“Stay down,” I told Charlotte, my heart pounding so hard I could barely hear myself think.

Outside, one of the yellow-clad figures—a woman with dark hair pulled back in braids—thrust her palm forward. The air rippled visibly, distorting like heat haze. The third figure dodged, moving impossibly fast, almost fluid. Something invisible collided with a parked car across the street, and the vehicle crumpled like it had been struck by a wrecking ball.

A bystander screamed. Someone shouted about calling the police.

I couldn’t move, couldn’t process what I was seeing. The woman with braids—something about her seemed familiar, though I was certain I’d never met her. She turned slightly, her profile visible for a moment, and I felt a strange resonance, like a tuning fork struck inside my chest.

Another flash, brighter than the first. The third figure disappeared into an alley. The two yellow-clad people gave chase, leaving behind a smoking crater where a parked car had been just moments before.

“What just happened?” Charlotte whispered, clutching Emma tight against her chest.

I shook my head, unable to form words. My pulse hammered against my ribs, each beat a question I couldn’t answer.

*

Two days later, I sat on the fire escape outside my studio apartment, chain-smoking and trying to convince myself that what I’d seen was a gas leak explosion. Something rational. Something explainable. The news had called it a “street violence incident,” with witnesses reporting conflicting stories about firecrackers, improvised explosives, or gang activity.

But I knew what I’d seen. Light trailing from hands. Air distorting. A car crumpling from impact with nothing.

I took another drag, watching the smoke curl into the night air. Something scratched inside my skull—not a headache, but a whisper that wasn‘t quite words. I’d been hearing it since the explosion, growing louder each night.

Standing to close the window, I reached for the stack of bills on my kitchen counter. My fingers passed through them.

No. Not through them. My fingers were solid. But the papers rippled like heat haze where I touched them, the same distortion I’d seen in the street. Panic spiked through me. I stumbled backward, knocking my phone off the counter. It hit the floor with a crack, the screen spiderwebbing on impact—another loss I couldn’t afford.

My angel tattoo burned hot, suddenly alive against my skin. And then I heard it—rain falling three blocks away, the drops hitting pavement with a rhythm that felt... angry. I could hear rain that wasn’t here yet. I knew it was angry.

A knock at the door made me jump. “Catrina?” Charlotte’s voice, concerned. “I heard something fall. Are you okay?”

I moved to the door, pulled it open without thinking. Charlotte flinched, taking a half-step back, her eyes widening.

“What?” I asked, suddenly conscious of my pounding heart.

“Your eyes...” she whispered. “There’s something... never mind.” She forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I just wanted to check on you.”

I slammed the door shut as soon as she turned to leave, leaning against it, sliding down until I sat on the floor. Alone again. Shaking. My phone broken. My landlord terrified of me. And something inside me that whispered and burned and wouldn’t be ignored.

I pressed my hands against my ears, but the whisper was coming from within. What was happening to me?

Chapter 2. A Serpent-Stag’s Sap-Wet Antlers

I arrived at the shuttered gas station as the first hint of dawn pierced the horizon, pale fingers of light reaching through clouds heavy with unspent rain. No one came here anymore—the forecourt cracked and sprouting weeds, the rusted pumps standing like silent sentinels over a forgotten battlefield. The building’s windows were boarded up, the price signs long blank, but it was private. I needed private. Three days had passed since the incident at the gym, and the tingling in my hands hadn’t stopped, like static electricity trapped beneath my skin with nowhere to go. I needed answers, and if they wouldn’t come to me, I would force them into the open.

My leather jacket hung heavy on my shoulders, already damp with morning mist. I flexed my fingers inside my motorbike gloves, feeling the tingling intensify. Closing my eyes, I tried to focus on the sensation, to will it outward. Nothing happened. I opened my eyes and stared at my palms, as if I could intimidate them into revealing their secrets.

“Do something,” I whispered, my voice too loud in the empty forecourt.

Still nothing.

Frustration boiled over, sudden and hot. I slammed my fist into the nearest pump, the rusted metal cold against my knuckles. Pain shot up my arm, but it was clean, honest—nothing like the phantom electricity humming beneath my skin.

“Work, damn you!” I screamed at my own hands, at the gas station, at the indifferent sky.

A crack of static jumped between my palms, blue-white and sharp. I stumbled back, heart racing, staring at the space between my hands where the light had briefly existed. Before I could process what had happened, a low, grinding sound came from beneath my feet—metal scraping against metal. The hatch to the underground tank, its edges nearly invisible beneath years of dirt and weed growth, began to move.

Something was coming out.

I backed away, my spine hitting the edge of the payphone booth as the hatch fully opened. First came antlers—bone-white, branching in impossible configurations, scraping against the canopy that had once sheltered customers from rain. Then a serpentine body emerged, scales iridescent in the early light—green-gold shifting to deep emerald as it moved. It wasn’t a snake, wasn’t a deer, wasn’t anything I’d seen outside of ancient artwork or fever dreams.

Its eyes fixed on me—amber pools leaking what looked like sap, hardening into golden tears that clung to its scales. The creature—a serpent-stag, my mind supplied from nowhere—slithered fully onto the forecourt, cornering me against the payphone. It made no sound, but I felt its attention like a physical weight.

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t run. My mind scrambled for explanations—hallucination, dream, psychotic break—but the creature’s presence was undeniable. Real as the concrete beneath my feet.

“Don’t move.”

The voice came from behind the pump nearest the road. A man stepped into view, moving with liquid grace—each step placed with precision, his body held with the kind of control that comes from years of training. His skin was warm brown, his dark curly hair cut close to his scalp. His eyes, nearly black, stayed fixed on the serpent-stag as he positioned himself between it and me.

His hands were wrapped in what looked like leather, iron studs catching the early light. The wraps hummed—not a sound I could hear, but a vibration I could feel in my teeth, in my bones.

“Your bloodline has awakened,” he said, his voice low and measured. “It’s not a gift. It’s a curse.”

“My what?” I managed, my voice embarrassingly small.