Good Things: An Urban Fantasy Anthology

by Mia Darien

  There was something wrong with her. A sense of loss that had stunned her five years ago, and had stuck with her since. And there was no precise reason why.

  Hence why she was on her back in her therapist’s office, trying to explain it again. The voice of her counselor came through, questioning her.

  “Amanda, do you ever feel you are placing too much importance on your notions and fantasies that there is no one out there for you to love in the way you feel that you need to? You work with couples, help them arrange their perfect weddings. Do you think you place romantic love up on a pedestal? Don’t you feel that the fact that you never knew your mother and that your father was a war hero who died in the service is what troubles you? Or do you feel it’s something else?’

  Amanda shifted on the couch, closing her eyes. There were birds as well as traffic outside the window. “I love what I do. I’ve become good enough at it that I can choose who I work with. I don’t accept couples who would marry out of convenience or money. My dad’s sister did the very best she could with me. I’ve always had a romantic nature. I was always…anxious to love someone. But I am happy with me. This isn’t some thing where I don’t love myself enough. I mean…”

  She sighed. The therapist crossed his legs and coughed.

  “Amanda… These sessions have to work for you. And I must tell you.” He cleared his throat. “You are a very beautiful, very successful woman. You would have no troubles finding a relationship. Tell me how you feel about love.”

  Amanda opened her eyes and rocked her head from side to side. The skylight in the office made her feel exposed. She wished it was night. Sighing through her nose and splaying her fingers on the furniture’s cloth, she began again,

  “I feel that love is taken for granted. That it deserves almost…worship in its own right. I mean, all the evil and all the violence in the world is a result of people who begin to value violence and bloodshed, who value money and power over the sheer, satisfying beauty of mutual love. I think it is a sin not to love.”

  Her therapist was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Do you think that you sin? Or are blasphemous for not loving?”

  “I…devote myself to making the days of others special. But I can’t get past the fact that I can’t…I haven’t managed to love anyone. Not the way I should. Not the way I was meant to. But I can’t force myself to accept the offers of someone just because. But at the same time…”

  This was the worst moment. The awful moment when the tears burned her eyes and she fought for coherent thought.

  I am a weak woman full of fantasies and notions that don’t fit in the real world. And I can’t handle it. I’m a dippy, needy cow. I want to be professional and strong. Not like…not like this. Not broken in a way I can’t describe.

  But no therapist could get those words out of her.

  She swallowed her tears and said in a trembling voice, “Look, for five years I just haven’t been right. I wish I’d known my mother. I wish my dad was still around. I want a husband and a family, but that just isn’t going to happen. Because I won’t accept just anyone. But I know I’ve got to move past it and accept that it might happen on its own. If I stop feeling like this.”

  But it won’t. I know it won’t. Something is wrong. Something went wrong. But I don’t know what or who or where or why. And I can’t say that. It’s crazy.

  “Amanda, I think our time is up now. I’ll see you next week.”

  “Right.”

  The ticking clock that had been in the background, unnoticed beside the birds and cars, had stopped.

  Later, arriving back at Oxford Road Station where she could walk to her flat, she looked up at the still light sky, despite the fact that it was nine in the evening. The light irritated her. She longed for the oblivion of night.

  With a cup of tea in hand, Amanda sat down and went through her meetings for next week. The things she would have to arrange for her clients. She’d have to visit St. Ann’s in town again.

  Satisfied that all was in order, she took a sip of her hot drink.

  I shouldn’t do this really. It’s like torture. But I can’t not think of him.

  Amanda had a habit of cataloguing the specific details of her lover, even though there was never a full picture in her mind. Just flashes and sensations.

  The exact way he would hold her hand. The pressure of his fingertips. The texture of his palm. The spot where his shoulder met his neck.

  Their wedding day. Not a grand affair, but a simple one. Intimate and binding. That would have been her choice.

  There were handsome men who pursued her. Men clever enough to see past her exterior. To see that she was a committing type. They pushed her. But no amount of looks or cleverness lured her beyond a certain point.

  The feeling wasn’t there. They didn’t have his face. Their skin wasn’t the right temperature. The tenor of their voice wasn’t right. The rhythm of their breath was all wrong.

  It was in this stream of thought that Amanda began to prepare for bed. By the time she got there, the sun had finally set.

  “Thank goodness…” she said, slipping into her sheets and placing her hand over her mouth.

  Amanda had begun to perspire in her sheets, turning her body in an attempt to get comfortable. She’d finally settled on her back, when a noise quickened her pulse.

  There was the sound of fabric rustling. A smell of smoky incense. It made her think of exotic, older places. Hot earth and inky skies. For a moment, her bed was the warmest summery ground.

  It was reminiscent of a summer holiday in Greece, where her auntie had taken her one year.

  The warmth on her back was soothing. Drifting off, the sights and sounds outside and within her head began to blur.

  Amanda turned her head and groaned. The heat of the ground materialized into a cloak. In her mind’s eye, blue-black cloth slid around her and held her still. Amanda opened her eyes.

  Standing over her was a woman. The lady’s ebony hair blended with the midnight cloak that surrounded her.

  “Well, well, well. No wonder I could feel your appreciation. It isn’t exactly worship, but I felt your admiration. Strong it was too. Sleep, dear one. And may the sweetest dreams comfort you.”

  Then Amanda, immobile, watched the woman’s aquiline nose turn away. Her olive skin glowed, haloed by the moonlight outside the window. The lady addressed someone not in Amanda’s line of sight.

  “Morpheus, leader of the Oneiroi, come. See what you can do here.”

  A man appeared at the lady’s side. Young, with the swarthy handsome features of an Italian or Greek. The type popular with sunshine-starved British girls. Yet inside, Amanda began to panic. He looked down at her with interest.

  What are they going to do to me? What’s this?

  Fear welled up inside her, crowding her chest with paralyzing heaviness.

  The midnight cloaked lady disappeared. Morpheus’ brows lowered over the black opal eyes continuing to study her. Waves of sedation washed over her. Her veins felt as though they were humming, buzzing with a substance other than blood. She was able see him, watch him.

  I don’t know if I’m asleep or awake.

  At this, the one called Morpheus’ mouth curved up like he’d heard her thought. His voice came through. Focused on her. Like a practiced hypnotist. Some sort of master of meditation.

  Something way beyond any therapist she’d ever spoken to.

  “You are, for the moment, awake. What a beauty you are. And you’ve lived here all your life. I wonder…where is your mother?”

  The Oneiroi leader was in her head, gathering every scrap of emotion and thought, scrutinizing every memory. For a moment, it made her feel uncomfortably vulnerable. He spoke again.

  “Ah, I see. Don’t worry. I can’t touch you, and I fear the repercussions if I play too much. But I can certainly show you things. Do you want to see?”

  Amanda wasn’t sure if she did. At any rate, she could neither speak nor move.

  “
Of course you do. Watch me.”

  And he began to change. His olive features shifted to a paler complexion. His hair was no longer black but a very short-cropped light brown. Yet even in the dark, she could see his natural colors were burned by a harsh sun. He was straight-backed, strong.

  A soldier’s stance.

  Only her eyes could move. In the moonlight, she saw where his shoulder met his neck. Her gaze looked to his palms. She knew their texture. The precise pressure of his touch. The scent of his skin. She knew those things, yet now could not sense them.

  It’s him! Oh my goodness, it’s him…

  Morpheus’ voice even changed when he spoke again.

  “It’s me, darlin’. I wish we could have met. You’re so gorgeous.” His words were full of wonder. He sounded local. What got her the most, however, was that his voice was the correct tone.

  She ached to have him closer. When he sat down, still staring at her, Amanda’s heart rate and breathing stayed the same. Unable to move, it was like being barred from any excitement.

  Yet he held her in his spell. Everything was falling into place. There was nothing unnatural about him being here in her bedroom.

  He ate her with his eyes. Then he lifted one hand up and reached back to the side of his neck. He’s touching where his neck meets his shoulder.

  Soon as his hand touched his own skin, his eyes appeared to shine. As though he wanted to weep. As though he’d just been struck or pushed away. Denied something.

  He removed his hand and faced his palms towards her. Anticipating his touch, powerless to react, Amanda watched his hands move closer and closer to her face.

  The details of his skin and the lines crossing his fingers were so familiar. His gaze looked to her and then looked to the top of his arm. There, she could make out a faded gold smear. Some strange mark. He smiled at her.

  If this is a dream, I’ll take it. Anything to be united with him. I can see him, I can finally see him!

  Then his hands stopped millimeters away from her face. His fingertips lingered over her forehead. Her vision was obscured by the top of his palms. Breathing was slow, she wanted to inhale deeply and acquaint herself with his smell.

  Yet only the chilled air of her room, already known to her senses, met her nostrils.

  His hands moved. There was no feeling, no fragrance. Only the tormented sight of him. His brows furrowed and lids closed. He turned as though she’d spurned him.

  How can I react to you? I can’t bloody move.

  Then the expression shifted, and the corners of his mouth curved up. His eyes, in their ceaseless intensity, confounded her. Amanda wasn’t sure whether he was being playful or dangerous.

  Now, the lighting began to toy with his skin tone. It marred the way he looked. He didn’t appear tangible. Natural sunburned flesh gave way to a gauzy grey. His features dulled.

  Now her heart ached with his absence, even though he was still before her eyes.

  He gazed in her direction, but it was like he couldn’t see her. Like he was trapped behind a veil.

  And she was trapped on the other side.

  Then Amanda sat up. Control over her own breath and blood flow returned. She looked around the room, finding nothing and no one there.

  Unease remained with her. Like she wasn’t alone. It appeared that both her house and heart were haunted.

  It was times like these Amanda wished she had her mother. Someone who understood her nature and who could reveal the secrets behind her dreams.

  * * *

  Nyx stalked through the city. Ever ready for specific attention, ever seeking worship. She’d felt the pull of the woman’s attention. It was heady and focused.

  No ordinary woman, but a demigoddess. Yet completely unaware who she belonged to. THAT Goddess’s daughter? Lonely?

  But then, powerful Nyx knew too well love and desire’s fickle nature. She knew of loneliness. The one she’d desired did not return her affections with the necessary intensity. He wouldn’t bow to her.

  Great Poseidon.

  The bastard.

  She moved further to the city centre, taking a mortal form, and moved into the area known as St. Ann’s Square.

  Her opaque eyes spotted the church in the distance. The sound of her fingernails scraping on the stone of an old shop met the murky air.

  This was a shade. The ghost of a fallen mortal. He sat upon a wooden bench, staring at the church. Nyx approached slowly. So transfixed was the shade in his prayer, he did not notice her.

  Will you speak with me?

  She moved closer. Approaching the courtyard where the benches were, Nyx stepped off of the cobbled road and onto the pavement surrounding the church. Her boots clicked on the old stone slates.

  Two trees rustled in front of the church, though there was no midsummer breeze. They were acknowledging the presence of an ancient deity.

  The shade’s grey face turned in her direction. Despite the curved wooden back of the bench, the shade sat straight up. The ghost faced the church. His hands folded in prayer, willing the powers that be to make his life what it once was. So that it could be more.

  Mental connections tethered him to this earthly place like a stubborn piece of thread. But the Fates had cut his life’s thread some time ago.

  Nyx addressed the shade aloud, “You were young, when you departed. Injured in a battle far from here.”

  His voice sounded like an echo when he responded.

  “I want to be here. She’ll come. It will all be fine. You can’t make me go anywhere.”

  Nyx reached out and laid a hand on his arm. His eyes became the deep blue they once were in life, and they widened as the shade felt touch for the first time in years.

  “Who are you?” he asked, his body jerking back, unaccustomed to being solid. The novelty of his own voice in his ears made him gasp.

  Nyx paused, looking behind her at the old church with a raised eyebrow. She turned back to him.

  “Let’s just say, you likely did not come here to speak with me. But how lucky you are that I found you.”

  The man furrowed his brows. His mouth began to form a smile, yet the sensation was so strange, so foreign. It was as though the muscles of his face couldn’t recall the procedure.

  Nyx crossed her arms and scanned him with her black gaze. His eyes were familiar. In life, they had turned up to her in gratitude. Then, just on the side of his arm, she saw something glowing behind his clothing. A golden smear. Not a tattoo but something gifted to him without his knowledge.

  He’d been marked by another goddess.

  In life, he was marked by the mother of comely Amanda, who now lays in the arms of Morpheus.

  The Night Goddess turned and grinned at him.

  Nyx reached out and touched his face. Eyes, mourning the future denied him, looked back at her. She unveiled his name and began assessing him.

  “You are a handsome man, Scott. Perhaps I could make things happen for you?”

  He would be a beautiful devotee. A servant for me. Ever indebted. And his soul is strong.

  The shade shifted beneath the stare of Nyx. He broke through the silence.

  “I guess some girls thought so, but they never wanted to wait or commit. I…never had a lot of money. I became a soldier. My dad had been a soldier…”

  “War brings Death on swift wings to many mortals,” she said.

  “I could hear them.”

  “Hear who?” Her voice did not betray any knowledge.

  “When we were ambushed, I could hear these…shrieks. It was like something between a bird of prey and hysterical women. There were wings. It was like the pits of Hell were calling for me. Nobody else heard it. I thought I was going crazy.”

  Nyx knew the memory of his terror. Penetrating, sickening fear rolling in his stomach at the war cry of the Keres. The adrenaline galloping through his body to battle for life.

  His own screams wailing in his ears.

  Nyx also knew their bloodlust. That of the Keres. Sh
e knew of ruthless slaughter and how one could develop a taste for it. The Keres could be summoned to satisfy the grimmest needs. The unexpected pleasure of killing in those with a debased heart. Nyx understood the Underworld and all its demons.

  “You heard the Keres.”

  “Aren’t they death demons or something?” he asked.

  They are my mad daughters.

  But Nyx merely replied, “Something like that.”

  She reached out again and placed her hand on the side of his face, then moved it down to the side of his neck. Stopping to place her hand where it met his shoulder, her grip tightened slightly.

  I could mold him. Loyalty is his strongest suit. If he were to believe I am his “one,” he could be mine forever. He is certainly handsome enough. He could learn to be happy with me.

  His eyes were wide again and Nyx sensed his fear. Removing her hand from his shoulder, she folded her hands in her lap. Scott looked down at her dusky fingers, entwined on the black folds of her skirt.

  Nyx said nothing for a few moments more. It was apparent to her that he was trying to assess what she was. When Scott appeared to have calmed, she spoke.

  “You should not stay here. Go to the home that will welcome you. You were a good man. No doubt your faith will see you through the necessary gates.”

  Nyx’s eyes darted to his hands. They had begun to tremble. Goddess and soldier were alone in front of the church in the dark hours of the morning.

  Scott struggled with his newfound breath. He swallowed and nervous words stumbled out. “No… No, I will not. My life was unjustly taken. Those….things hurt me. It wasn’t even like the gunfire or an explosion. It was them. I was supposed to meet someone here. I don’t know what you are, but…you’re not human. You are…like them, somehow.”

  His voice overcame the fear that attacked with a tremor in his speech.

  Then, he watched Nyx’s eyes change. She stood, and appeared taller than before.

  “My nature is not wholly consumed by lust or murder, though I know the Death Demons and all their ways. You have not deduced at all who I am.”

  The goddess’s voice had gone deeper. The air around them murkier. Scott moved his head back and forth, trying to reassure himself of his surroundings, but the buildings and the flagged stone paths were smothered by shadows.