The cry sends a chill through me, as it does every time I hear it. It always arrives at the height of summer, yet I pray this is the cycle it will not come.
But it does. It always does.
I take out the muting silk and put it in my ears and those of my beautiful daughters.
Marjorie woke up strapped to a surgical table in an unfamiliar laboratory. One minute, she had been walking to her car alone, worried her life was going nowhere; the next, she’d fought for it as a pungent cloth covered her nose and mouth.
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Ziff pushed open the squeaky doors to The Crooner’s Saloon and took a cautious step inside. A goblin hunched over the keys on an old piano, pounding out a medley filled with far too many flat notes. Two she-elves stood on stage, both dolled up in an overabundance of petticoats and ruffles,
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