Harlem, 1952.
Alice walks like she’s got secrets in her shoes and dust on her dreams. Blonde hair tied with a ribbon, blue dress smudged at the hem—storybook perfect, if you don’t look too close. America’s Black mecca doesn’t care for close looks anyway. It’s a neighborhood that keeps its eyes half-lidded
The sneeze quivered on Munya’s nose, and she opened her mouth. Mami clamped a hand over both, earning her a fistful of spit and snot.
It wasn’t enough.
The men shouted and came toward them.
“Run!” Her mother sprang from the underbrush and shoved Munya in the opposite direction. She stumbled and looked back.
Joe Enza was a practical optimist. Not in the way other people defined the term as they met with life coaches and plastered their walls with motivational posters. No, he was truly practical. He made his clients look at the proverbial glass as not half-empty or even half-full, but a hundred percent full.
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Grandmother would tell me stories about the Cliffs of Faerie—and the monsters that lived there. The creatures that crossed into that snowy realm would change in ways none understood.
But t’night was worth the risk.
I crept down the rough-hewn stairs of our cottage, lantern in hand. Grandmother tossed in fits
“I had been planning to spend my afternoon curled up by the fire with a good book and a cup of tea.” I picked a crumbling burnt-orange leaf out of my hair and tossed it to the ground. “Instead, I’m tramping through the woods on the hunt for an imaginary monster because you didn’t want to go on your own.”
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I made a last perusal of the place settings and brushed a hand down my cocktail dress. Perfect. The smell of turkey and buttered rolls filled our apartment.
Our friends would arrive any moment.
Gloria stomped into the room, still dressed in sweats and a stained t-shirt.
“What’s your problem?” I propped my hands
Moira turned the knob on the dashboard, silencing the radio. She sat quiet for a minute, listening. Funny. She could’ve sworn she’d heard something. She shrugged and leaned back in the passenger seat, singing a little under her breath. Dad was taking forever. How long did it take to pay for the gas and grab a soda?
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Back in my day, we didn’t have so many blasted cryptids running around in the woods. When I worked for Game and Fish, I took my job as cryptid hunter seriously, and I kept nasty beasts to a manageable level. But things changed after I retired, and hunters started using a “holistic cryptid management approach.”
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“It’s so cute!” Gloria cooed. She bent over the tiny, growling demon.
“That’s not a puppy, Gloria. You can’t keep it.” I glared at the ugly creature cowering behind my backyard shed. “Rip it apart like a good werewolf and send it back to Hell.” She ignored me. Crouching next to it, she extended her hand…
I had always lived for darkness. No other time were gargoyles permitted to come alive and feast upon delectable, cursed things. The hunt was all we knew—all we desired. Each night atop my cathedral, I approached twilight with the same anticipation, blissfully unaware that one evening held the power to alter my destiny forever.
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I’d spent centuries avoiding typical societal celebrations of love. If experience was any indication, this Valentine’s night was shaping up to be as dull and tedious as every other.
A sudden movement caught my eye. A woman ran for the alley, her hair streaming behind her like golden ribbons. She ducked around the corner
Ten minutes to midnight, the arrow sliced through the window. Glass sprayed. An arrowhead thumped, piercing the wall an inch away from my right eye. I dropped to the floor, army crawled toward the shotgun on the coffee table, and pumped a round into the chamber.
With the weapon ready, I slunk toward
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