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216 pages, Paperback
First published July 7, 2026
I should fear you. All the tales I’ve read and heard about you tell me to. Fear the monster! And it’s like—you’re not a hideous beast. There’s such beauty to your nature. There’s a sense of freedom. It’s as if we call you a monster, because we envy you
"Before we begin with the important questions, I think the first thing our listeners would like to know is: how does it feel to fly?" [There's an echo and multiple growls synchronise into a wave of vibrations. The choir speaks as one with a rumble.]
"You always dream of flying, don't you? (...)"
"The forest called to him! The forest called to him!" Lublyana repeats over and over. (...) Control over our parents wanes quick as their minds are consumed by whatever ailment turns their joints to bark and their flesh to sprouts.
"Varadin Karamazov found the raspberry blooms one late afternoon in August–a whole month after the last bush had been picked clean and every berry had been boiled into jam."
When he told his family he'd drive to the mall, his mother wept openly. His father paled; he prided himself on not crying. Not when the Mall first appeared thirty years ago, not when so many had driven out, not when his own parents left him one Saturday afternoon with a babysitter for a drive and never returned.
She comes at night, his great aunt, not as she was when she died, but as a young girl. (...) That's how he knows he's delirious and the course of antibiotics has done nothing more than kiss the infection in his leg better and hope for the best.
It's the cell phone duct-taped around my left bicep that wakes me up. Not the late October noises in the deep night, nor the ice-cold water that cleaves my body in half at the abdomen. It's the desperate ringing, muted under layers of plastic to keep it dry, and the death-rattle vibration that bruises my skin.
Throat open, head tilted back to align gullet with gut in a sharp vertical, you swallow your father's ring at the last stroke of midnight.
I learn early that some children are born to be stalked in the dark. (...) I fear him as he makes his entrance from below the bed. (...)
Don't look at him as he leans over and smacks in your ear, waiting patiently.
This is how you survive the night.
This is how you survive the monster in the dark.
Something I've had to do for years now.
It was a time for hauntings; close to midnight in early November. A time the House on the Hill anticipated. (...) It had been meant as a home once, but had lost all its hospitality. (...) Gabriel loved the house exactly for its refusal to be loved.
A long, silent day awaits you and your daughter as you prepare to cut your husband's body. You remove organs from flesh, flesh from bones, bones from tendons–all ingredients for the cake you're making, the heavy price of admission for an afterlife you pay your gods; a proper send-off for the greatest of all warriors to walk the lands.
Inside the stasis gel, I awaken to Mother's incoherent ravings corrupting my circuits; heart detonating in exponential elevation.
Spring, who still had a name of his own and did not yet know he was selected to die, was dyeing the high priestesses' clothes purple when the sinkhole opened, heralding the end of winter. (...) "The Dark One is hungry,"
It's four o'clock in the morning when Baba Yaga kicks her grandson awake. He groans in surprise and rolls onto his other side, which earns him another kick to his legs. (...) If only she gave him a bed, then he'll rise with much less irritation. He should have been used to waking at all hours by now, but he is not a witch. Sleep matters to him still.
I feel guilt. I feel inhuman. I feel like a monster.