So after Anne left I sat as darkness completed after sunset, leaning against a tree in the copse, trying to not think about eating, or the fact that my blackberries wouldn’t actually start feeding me until three days after consumption. But after the incident with Raven and Ms. Floros and almost killing myself in Lake Simcoe I was somewhat interested in having no external task and just observing a new thing, even a new kind of discomfort. The night passed slowly, and then dawn came on September 5.

If tolerance to a craving could be trained for, this might be something that I should have tried first before assembling my little team of inner defense. Do it yourself, lazy.

Some version of the Devil had pointed out that God was a sadist who made humans with self-destructive instincts. And the desire to attain some of that sweet ‘transcendence’ by getting away from it all was just more of the same, another instinct to misfire regularly. Some religious sects died out because they weren’t allowed to have kids, and a few people literally starved themselves to death on the path to this ‘nirvana’ or ‘release’. They took drugs that were supposed to crack open the mind and ended up needing the drug. They believed things that they knew to be wrong just to get the faintest whiff of above-it-all-ness.

There I was, twisting anything that could be helpful advice.

Doing nothing for hours was actually getting hard. I was starting to look forward to the energetic redhead with the blackberries just as a distraction even if I wouldn’t be enjoying the food at once.

I toyed around with the idea that Anne was as crafty as Bethune and had just conned me into weakening myself in a known location, which would make me easier to dispose of if Dr. Best made good on his threat. Well, the optimal time to strike would be around now, before noon on this overcast day. I could know the time rather closely even without the sun, feeling the subtle inhale and exhale of the day that switched over at noon – if I was ever trapped underground I’d always know the time at least to the hour.

Before noon I was just making a list of foods that I wished I could eat again, a thought that had never penetrated my head in my non-human weeks until now. Ice cream, bacon, just a nice crisp apple cracking in my mouth … fuck. If anyone was coming to kill me during the easy hours, they missed their opportunity.

That afternoon I watched a leaf turn, staring at it, watching the yellow march across millimeters so slightly.

(hungry)

(but in this language there are no adjectives so it’s more like ‘I hunger’ instead of ‘I am hungry’)

(we have to say ‘she strongs’ instead of ‘she is strong’, it’s all verbs, can’t be evil or good, just doing bad or good things, just badding or gooding …)

“There you are, skinny.”

(more than one shaman has tried to fast me away … nothing works)

“Well, there’s a difference between jerking off in your room or in the park. That’s all I’m asking for. Baby steps.”

I ‘faced’ her, feeling much of the pressure that I get at the bottom of a lake. She was coming like the dawn from inside me, a fuzzy greyness that would strengthen in the coming weeks.

(you prepare an army against me like a coward, so hungry to live and let others die)

(I can do this creepy foggy center-of-the-head talk too, skinny, make it echo and hum just like you)

There was screeching and hissing beyond the horizon in the darkness where the coalescing greyness was lurking. The thirst in my throat kicked up a notch.

(so predictable! C’mon, give me priapism, that’s more along the lines of my personal weakness)

A howl in the murk made half my skin crawl, but that was another trick. Live for a thousand years, pick the scariest scream and the scariest howl in the night, and the scariest face, and you had a nice intimidating trick up your sleeve.

(ah-whoooo, werewolves of London! Ah-whoooo … little old lady got mutilated late last night … his hair was perfect!)

I liked to think that I was pissing her off. The next mind-snipe sounded rather furious.

(you think I’m just a bitch playing monster? Nocome was simply my previous meal, and I’m OLD, little kavdlunait, and I don’t wear a mask when winter is darkest)

Eldritch or not, she wasn’t very original. Sure, claim to be ancient, that just means you’re less familiar with the present – and in the present even the mortal humans are a bit more troublesome with all their tricks and stories. I could twist threats as well as good advice.

(I’ve heard that boast before, of having seen endless eons. It’s what all ancient evils say. This feels like a game a tennis, so here’s my next serve: ‘In his house at R’lyeh dead Cthulhu sleeps dreaming’)

The howling and gnashing of teeth in the darkness where Nocome hid was interrupted by a smacking sound. I’d delivered a clean hit with another spell.

(See, I’ve got a story I can turn into a reference and a joke for that one too. If enough people feel and believe a thing it starts to manifest in our little goofy ecosystem, so the idea in a human brain came first and you’re just the shoddy outcome, borrowing human thoughts and feelings to try and get me. So you’re not a ‘real’ monster because there are no real monsters, just a more complicated bit of Freudian or Jungian gibberish. I’m going to Twelve Step all over your boney ass!)

This time I felt the power leave me, just before the impact and the renewed howling of the possessing monster. I’d managed to elevate our confrontation to a game of battleship, and we tried to smite each other across great mental distance. That sounded like a hit.

(kavdlunait! You riddle and snicker like a boy, but winter comes anyway! No words or bread or wine from the missing-corpse god will block me! I will eat of your body! I will drink of your blood! My communion was first, and will be last!)

“Don’t worry, I also got Anne of Green Gables mad and confused. It’s okay. I’m going to watch the leaves now, please come back later. Simon, I know you guys are chatting among yourselves for now – but if she gets close again, see if she likes the smell of napalm in the m-morning.”

Only at the last word did my fake bravado crumble and my voice waver. As flippant as I acted that voice talking back to me was harsh and sinister and grinning with each word. She – no, it – claimed to have no fear of the ‘missing-corpse god’, and the pure dismissiveness of that name for Jesus startled even an atheist.

But I had learned one important thing: it could be teased.