Fungal Halo

Venom dripping from her fangs into my eager mouth. I hunger for it, but it does not fill me; it empties me. I am devoured from the inside, and all I can do is crave more.

With a kiss I break the skin, and my tongue comes alive with the distinctly metallic taste of blood. The electric sensation of life itself dances in my mouth, carried by the flow. She whines and flinches, but my grip holds her firmly in place.

In a house full of dolls—each delicately handled, meticulously kept in pristine condition, all kept immaculate in their display cases when not in service—this one stands out with scuffs and gouge marks, creaking joints, fading paint, wrinkled dress, all the signs of ungentle use.

It isn't your friend who joins you and the others at the diner, but for some reason everyone else in your group treats it exactly the same as if it were her.

Do they notice? Or are they all going along with it the same as you because everyone else is doing so?

The angel quivers in my grasp as I hold her by the neck.

"You shouldn't be here, pretty thing," I breathe. She whimpers when I let my fangs graze the gentle curve of her ear as I whisper into it. "This is *my* realm."

It's her again. Not just another worshipper, by now all the temple priestesses know her face.

Her schedule is her own, her arrivals dictated by impulses only she knows. She offers social pleasantries to those of us she sees but wastes no time traversing the temple grounds.

Dolls filled with venom hide among the empty ones.

Somewhere a doll, once well-behaved, bites a sister. That night, for the first time, that other doll dreams.

They are wild dreams, full of running naked in the woods, screaming, howling, laughing exultation with others.

What a lovely afternoon to relax with an old friend and reminisce over tea.

We laugh over stories of our adventures together, and for a moment, it's like we were never apart.

She reaches across the table and takes my hand, and I smile like I haven't in years.

She wraps her arms around me just like always, tilting her head to one side, offering me her delicate neck.

We've done this countless times, but she still gives a tiny shiver of anticipation as my lips touch my favorite place and my fangs pierce deep into my thrall.

It was all over. The forces of light victorious. The Dark One banished to wait for another turning of the cycle to clash with another destined Hero generations from now.

Still the Priestess grieved her love, the Hero who gave her life to win this victory.

Your angel is so sweet, so pliant, with her collar around her neck. Such a wonderfully docile creature since you learned how to leash her more firmly than even her halo.

The defiant warrior swinging her flaming sword is long, long gone now.

In the dream, the Queen of Spiders sneaks up from behind you and sinks her fangs into your neck.

Your Gem is missing. Your power does not answer your call. But the venom in her bite fills you with indescribable heat and desire, and you don't care.

They call this place an infirmary. They act as though this is a place of medicine, as though they offer treatment for the illness that saps us of strength and dignity and independence.

It is not. It is an altar on which they sacrifice us for the sake of worthier souls.

From the once-brilliant First Temple of Lyenne, the light of Wisdom fades out.

From the once-brilliant First Temple of Lyenne, the light of Wisdom fades out.

It's a house party for witches, and you thought you'd just be able to enjoy a calm and relaxing evening with a couple friends, something of a break from the chaos of managing the affairs of your own house. The host, however, seems to have something more in mind for you.

Delicate doll of glass, a thing not meant for labor or for play, a thing made to be admired from afar, on display where you can see it and ache to explore it as much as it aches to know the touch of anyone at all.

Graceful figure, catching the light in such a haunting way.

My colleague and partner—the only one who understands me on any meaningful level—ignores my pleas and my thrashing against these restraints to inject me with the same substance that killed all our test subjects.

She is a monster, and it was me who encouraged her to be so.

Sure, ICDMs seemed like a great idea at first. Dollistic missiles guided by a poor lonely thing seeking out high population targets to hug? Worked like a charm!

Then the arms race started with anti-dollistic missile systems built to intercept ICDMs with even lonelier dolls.

I accidentally summoned the ghost of a dead empress who lives in my head and makes me dress slutty, and I think I like it?!

An angel should have nothing to fear from the typical vampire. With a bit of concentration, her halo can flare with enough dazzling, holy brightness to instantly vaporize those who cannot survive even the mundane light of their local star.

A bar isn't home. It doesn't feel like home; it can't be home. That's obvious, though, isn't it? Hardly an observation worth stating at all except to call attention to just *how* far from home it feels.

She's so fucking infuriatingly vain, isn't she? Whatever the topic, whatever the context, she thinks everything is about her. And if you try to make it about anyone else? She'll find a way to twist it right back around to herself.

You can't stand her.

The greasy, spindly woman who wormed her way into the king's court should not, by any reasonable estimation, have been able to get as close to him as she did. She was foul, unsavory, and with a sharp tongue that did her few favors in the great courtly games of diplomacy.

I plan for only a brief visit at your house. I have places to go, but somehow you've talked me into staying for dinner. For drinks. For drugs. And now it's so late, and I'm in an unfamiliar place…

The way it usually goes is this: you take your vitamins, you draw the door on glass, you speak your goodbyes, and then you slip through to the other side.

Then your life is hers to play with for a while, and oh, how her pleasure makes you smile!

The edibles came on stronger than I thought, but it felt nice to just let myself lean on my friend's shoulder and melt into the couch.

"We all miss Reisa," my friend told me. "And we all want to see that bastard pay, believe me, but this is too much."

My fingers intertwine with my sister's as we approach our destination. We are dressed for the occasion, bright smiles painted on perfectly sculpted faces, wearing dresses of sumptuous crimson cloth with sable lace and gold accents, complementing the beauty of our bodies.

The two of us carry our witch to the house of its rival. Hidden from sight, gliding across our bodies, it roils with expectant energy and restless teeth in the shadows that play across our limbs and trail behind us.

I remember Emilia. I could have loved her, but in the end her heart was set on another.

I gave her everything—all my hate and all my power—and we would have had the world if she hadn't thrown it all away for that foul priestess of hers.