On my fourth attempt, my daughter, the duchess of life, grew too attached to her retainer, Nyx, and refused to share her love with the herald I wove for her. Riches, fame, and power proved inadequate motivators in place of a duchess, and the tower was never finished. Millia Gnu Aye succeeded the throne.
Decima stuffed herself in the ventilation. It wasn’t easy. That funny knuckle sticking out below her kneecaps caught on the bolts and sheet metal, her ankles chewing on the seams with vestigial teeth, soft molars, and dull canines.
Her good ones hadn’t come in yet.
She grunted, pulling on her legs, the soft pads of her heels slapping against the vents like a fish’s tail.
“Be quiet,” she said, glaring at her serpentine calves. “Morta might hear, remember?”
Her feet went still, the little fingers along her forelegs scratching under her knees, making a purring noise. Decima sighed, crawling deeper into the vents, her other half playing dead, dragging behind her like dirty laundry.
“Come on, Lia, it’s this way,” said the boy with the golden hair.
Decima blushed.
He was cute. His neckline wasn’t pronounced nor his shoulders broad, but the makings were there, a curl in his blond hair and a sparkle in his blue eyes. The boy was in love and boys in love at so young an age often grew to be handsome, so he would have been had he not died.
She frowned, squeezing the tattered remains of his fabric against her chest and plucking the herringbone rib stitches.
If only he chose a different seam. The one where he and Lia couldn’t wait to share their love. She’d conceive early, her children growing together in the warmth of her womb, beautiful baby girls. But theirs were fates Decima would never write. He and Lia were too nervous, even for mischievous young teens.
Decima humphed, crossing her arms.
She promised she’d weave twelve seams, but Bastion never told her there were rules against giving them a nudge. Yet, still, hormone-laced scallop stitches didn’t always work.
“Lia, what’s wrong?” the boy asked.
His form shimmered, becoming translucent and fragile, like the petals of a wilting flower. Decima kept her fingers pressed against the stitching of his tattered fate, desperately plucking the strands as he faded.
She was deviating too much off-script. What would Lia do alone with the boy she loved?
Decima leaned into him, pressing her breast against his shoulder and squeezing his arm. He became whole, warmth returning to his hands and a scarlet blush filling his cheeks.
She smiled. Lia was such a forward girl.
“I’m scared,” she said, her white hair brushing against his neck.
“Don’t worry. I think we’re close now.” He looked down the ventilation, avoiding her eyes. “We have to be close.”
They weren’t close. Neither one of them would make it out of the caverns, their desiccated corpses bedding for new life, but Decima liked to think they shared a tender moment in their final hours. No matter how depressing the seam, she always wove a little happiness in every chosen path.
“I—” Her voice faltered, her breath catching in her throat as their eyes met.
She licked her lips, his glistening in the dark, her cheeks flush and her palms sweaty. She squeezed his hand, rising on her knees until the tips of their noses touched. His whiskers tickled her upper lip, and she could feel the heat of his breath against her cheek.
The moment was right.
I’m sorry, Lia. She thought, closing her eyes and leaning in, her lips quivering, desperate for a taste, a drop of honey.
Lia was a lucky girl, but Decima was a girl, too, wearing ribbons in her white hair, purple, pink, silver, and gold. She loved summer gowns, sweetheart necklines, adjustable cami straps with string waist ties, and soft velvety skirts. Nona shared her frilly stockings, and Lachesis taught her manners at the dinner table. Forks on the left and spoons on the right. She sat with her back straight and hands resting in her lap, feet curled around the legs of her chair like a cobra’s butt in a basket.
She always cleaned her plate and never stayed up past curfew. She often laughed with Nona as they spoke of love, and squealed when Morta told her scary stories, hanging from the ceiling like a bat and refusing to come down until the monster was dead.
Decima was a girl, too, so why didn’t boys love her? Why did they always run away? Why did she have to pretend to be someone else?
Her lips touched a cold, lifeless surface, her first kiss a stale metallic taste, cutting the tip of her tongue. She opened her eyes, her face pressed against the ventilation, the boy’s spirit having faded away.
No, no, no!
She beat her fists against her knees. Where did she go wrong? Lia was a forward girl, she would’ve—no. Decima’s hands fell to her sides, the remains of the boy’s fabric turning gray and oily.
Lia would’ve never made the first move. She’d wait for him to close the gap, to steal a kiss from her tender lips as he pressed against the middle of her back. The girl was desperate for someone else to take the reins.
But he never did.
“Hey, sis, I found you!”
Decima heard the crashing sound of a metal vent hitting the floor. She crawled further in, but someone grabbed the tips of her feet and pulled.
“Hey, hey, hold on, I’m no—”
Morta hauled Decima out of the ventilation with her feet draped over her shoulder as if she were tugging on an anaconda’s tail. “You’re so predictable,” she said, dropping Decima’s legs in a heap, a pile of rope after weighing anchor. “Gawds, pull your skirt down.”
“That’s not fair, Morta!” Decima shouted, tugging her dress over her knees. “You were supposed to count till one hundred!”
Morta shrugged, “One hundred, two hundred, three hundred. What does it matter when you always hide in the same places?” She smiled, staring at the graying tapestry hanging loosely in Decima’s hands. “Nona, look! She’s necking with her spirits again!”
Her face flushed, her cheeks burning, the melanin under her skin drinking her blood, her freckles becoming swollen, magenta-colored spots against her nose. “That’s not—I never—Morta!”
“Was he cute?” Nona asked, lying on her belly at the foot of their bed, swinging her feet and turning the page of her romance novel.
Decima played with her fingers, looking down at her lap. “Yeah,” she said.
“Did you kiss?”
Her blush deepened. “Almost.”
“Ah, well, let me know when you do.”
Morta dropped to her knees, pressing the back of her hand against Decima’s cheek and staring suspiciously at her swollen freckles. “Sister, are you hungry?” she asked.
“No, I—” Her tummy growled, the soft pads of her heels thumping against the floor.
Decima was a terrible liar. Sweet gawds above, she was hungry, her tongue swimming in her mouth and her pupils dilating.
Sautéed pork sausage links with stuffed bell peppers and a lemon drizzle. The marbled flank of a marinated, spicy vinegar peppercorn roast slathered with rose-tinted sweet wine and served with a drop of golden honey and toasted rye. A tender sirloin with a hot pink juicy center turned over boiled rice and garlic.
Sweetheart. Said a voice from within. You must control yourself.
Decima drooled, the feel of something tender and moist in her mouth, aged cracked pepper and honey mustard, a rib, a leg, a calf. What sweet bliss to gnaw on the knee, chew on the toe, and suck out the marrow.
But I’m hungry, Lachesis. Decima whimpered, something pressing against her wrists.
Not while your sisters are here. Can’t you smell sweetness?
Her nostrils flared, a tantalizing aroma enveloping her like strawberries and cream, biscuits and honey, lemon and lime, but this was different. The scent didn’t stimulate her hunger, but satisfied it.
Decima opened her eyes, out of breath, sweat glistening against her brow. Morta lay on top of her, pressing her hands against the floor, the hem of her sister’s dress torn and a shoulder strap broken, exposing the tenderness of her neck and the source of the scent. Morta was wrapped in it like a perfume, a hormone-laced sweat that neutered Decima’s appetite.
“Sister, snap out of it!” Morta yelled, squeezing her wrists. “Nona, don’t just sit there! Do something!”
Nona flipped to another page. “You seem to have everything under control,” she said, barely looking up from her bookmark.
Shattered glass littered the floor with broken chairs and teeth marks on the legs of Nona’s desk. The floorboards were ripped up, and the cupboards tipped over, clothes strewn about the shelves and bedposts with claw marks on the walls.
Did she do all that?
“Are you better now?” Morta asked, still panting.
“I’m sorry, Morta,” Decima said. She sniffed loudly, Morta’s scent growing less pungent. Perhaps it was something her body did subconsciously.
“Gawds, what am I going to do with you?” She let go of Decima’s wrists, holding her dress’s broken strap against her shoulder. “You cannot skip meals, sister!”
“I didn’t—”
“You so obviously did! Do you think I’m stupid?!”
Decima rolled her eyes. It was just tea and biscuits and hardly worth getting so bent out of shape over. Morta could be such a horrible lecturer, too, but there was an easy way out.
Decima puffed her cheeks, rubbing her eyes until they were red and watery.
“Oh, gawds above, don’t cry!” Morta bit her lip. “You know what? Fine…” She stood, sifting through her drawers until she found a baguette hidden in a clean halter top. “I was saving this for a special occasion, too.” She shoved the bread into Decima’s hands. “Eat, and don’t let me catch you skipping meals again, even for a boy. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Decima smiled, her pointed fingers pressing on the loaf, producing an irresistible crackle. She gnawed on the crisp golden crust, which gave way to a soft chewy center. Her mouth swam with every bite: flour, water, salt, and yeast. She swooned, sucking on her fingers and picking the crumbs from her lap.
“That was frightening.” Nona hopped off the bed, leaving her book behind. “Did you even taste it?”
Every single bite. Decima had a filing cabinet in her stomach with a ledger in the folds. Every morsel cataloged with the appropriate date and time called upon at a moment’s notice. It wasn’t just a loaf of bread, but mangos, shrimp, olives, and wine.
“Yes,” Decima said, a blush returning to her cheeks.
Morta pulled on her skirt, which was torn up to her thigh. “Gawds damn it!” She clenched her fists. “You owe me for two of these, you little brat.”
“Decima.” Nona sat, rubbing her shoulder against her. “I’m curious. Why the vents? I can think of places far more romantic.”
Decima touched the black, oily surface of the boy’s torn fate. “This fragment won’t work anywhere else,” she said. “Echoes only respond when the conditions are right, but I can’t seem to play Lia well. He keeps fading away whenever I make a move.”
“That’s because they weren’t thinking of love,” Morta said, zipping open a roll of masking tape and patching her gown. “They were cold, alone, and scared. Only you would want to swap spit in a situation like that.”
“But what better time is there for love than in their last moments?”
Morta snorted. “You’ve been reading too many of Nona’s novels.” She sat next to her sisters. “Grow up, you two. Life isn’t like that.”
“Is death’s mule presuming to lecture me about life?” Nona said, crossing her arms.
“As if you’d ever be able to birth an acorn through a pigeonhole without Clotho.” Morta made a rude gesture with her tongue.
“And what about you, huh?!” Nona jumped to her feet, grabbing the edges of her gown. “I saw you with that kitchen knife! Is it hard to cut bread without Mommy Atropos holding your hands?!”
“You bitch!”
“Rake!”
“Whore!”
Steam rose from their necks, Nona and Morta’s faces red and their diodes flashing brilliant blues and greens. Decima rolled her eyes, her feet kneading against the floor like a kitten desperate for mother’s milk. She didn’t want to fight, but Morta was wrong. The heat of his breath, the sparkle in his eye, and how he blushed when she pressed her chest against him. Fear? Sure, but love is hard to fake, especially in the jaws of death. There was tenderness and depth of feeling beyond the primal. She was sure of it.
“Hey,” Decima said, interrupting her sisters’ argument. “Do you think a boy will ever love me the way Lia was loved?”
Nona flicked her hair, giving Morta the cold shoulder. “I think so,” she said. “You’re a pretty girl.”
“Why do you always lie to her like that, Nona?” Morta crossed her arms. “Look at her feet for gawds sake.”
Decima winced.
“Morta! She has other things going for her! Stop treating her like she’s different from us!”
“But she is different from us!”
Silence fell between them, Decima curling up, hugging her knees where her flesh contorted into that cursed tail. She chewed on her lips, unable to hold back the tears dripping against her dress.
Morta was right. What boy would ever love her? She was a monster.
“I’m sorry, Decima,” Morta said, fidgeting with her fingers. “It’s not that I don’t think you can be beautiful… It’s just that, well—Gawds, damn it!” She blushed. “I love you. Nona loves you. Isn’t that enough?”
Nona wrapped her arms around Decima, who sobbed quietly against her shoulder. “I love you too,” Decima said. “But it’s not the same.”
— ✦ —
“But she is different from us!”
Morta’s words stuck with Decima, repeating like a record. She wasn’t a girl but a monster, the very thing Morta talked about in her stories—the ones with sharp fangs and claws hiding under beds and in the back of closets.
What boy would ever love her? Worse, she couldn’t manifest a conduit like her sisters. Even the machines were afraid of her…
She sniffed, wiping her nose as she crawled into the cathedral kitchens: stainless steel frying pans, multi-colored ceramic measuring spoons, and wooden-handled nesting cups. She could smell a garlic blend, ground cloves, cumin, onion powder, and salt. Her stomach growled, and she rubbed her elbow against her moist lips, her feet thumping against the floor.
Sweetness, you’ve already eaten. We shouldn’t be here.
“I’m not hungry, Lachesis!”
You’re always hungry, dear heart. That’s why I love you.
Decima frowned, the little fingers along her calves scratching the floorboards and the vestigial teeth in her ankles gnawing on an ornate silver pickle fork. “Let go,” she said, yanking on her calves.
Decima lifted herself onto the countertops, her feet dragging behind her, catching on every cupboard, drawer, pot, and pan. She lay across a cutting board, gulping as she rolled her dress to expose her knees. Her fingers and toes twitched, scratching the tymbal muscle under her kneecaps and making a buzzing noise.
“Stop it!” She pinched her legs. “Why don’t you ever listen to me?! Because of you, boys are afraid of me! Because of you, I’m not a normal girl!”
Butcher knives hung above her head. Hand-forged carbon steel with hickory handles, the blades reflecting a sinister light, sharp enough to shave a gnat. She reached for a curved cleaver, pulling one from the ceiling. It crashed against the countertop, heavier than she thought. Decima grunted, lifting the blade over her head.
“I want to be normal,” she said, her lips quivering. “I want to be like my sisters.”
Sweetness, please stop this at once.
Her legs grew still, and the buzzing stopped as a blister formed over her knees. It split open, revealing an eye, its golden pupil looking back at her with such sadness she hesitated, tears of pus running down her legs.
“I’m sorry,” Decima said, her hands shaking uncontrollably. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
She swung as hard as she could, bringing the blade down on her knees. The knife struck, and she screamed. White hot pain raced up and down her legs like a scarlet lance. She tumbled off the countertop, letting go of the handle as she collapsed against the floor.
Decima whimpered, bleeding like a stuck pig, the knife still lodged in her knee, seesawing against the bone. Her legs went wild, a disturbed centipede, thrashing her body against the cupboards, pots, and pans. The knife came out, clanging against the tiles, blood spurting from the wound.
Sometimes, it just felt right to bleed.
“My lady!” The Gnatu poured into the kitchen, cats, and dogs with pincers, razors, and claws. “What are you doing?!”
Decima lay in her blood, battered and bruised, her legs still twitching, causing her to wince with every movement. “I’ll never be free,” she said with tears in her eyes.
The Gnatu gathered around her, fetching clean towels, water, and ice. She hissed as they pressed against her wound, stemming the flow of blood.
“I’m a monster,” Decima said, her face as pale as the moon. “I’ll never be loved like Lia, will I?”
“That’s not true, My Lady,” said the Gnatu, hugging her with metal pincers, fingers, and toes. “We will always love you.”
— ✦ —
Decima lay in bed, a strange layer of stitched coaxial cables acting as sheets. She was a restless sleeper, rolling the middle of her back against bullets, splices, and lugs. What she wouldn’t give for wireless communication, but the Gnatu swore by the old male and female insulated terminals. Extension cords with piggyback quick disconnectors and T-type 2 pin way electrical automotive wire terminals, everything a growing girl needed for a splitting headache and a night of constantly disturbed sleep.
Decima grimaced, her knees itching badly, her legs throbbing, and her heels nipping at her butt whenever she curled them against her thighs.
“I just wanted to be normal,” she said, gingerly touching her calves.
Decima yelped, fangs sinking into her finger as her toes slapped against the bedpost, her ankles hissing like a snake.
Serves you right, dear heart. You must earn our trust again.
“I’m so sorry…” She sucked on her finger. “Please don’t hate me.”
There was a knock on the bedroom door, an oval-shaped, water-sealed stainless-steel hatch converted into a bulkhead from the Sargo-class submarine, Seawolf. Morta had such strange tastes but, until they were old enough, they had to learn to share, so Decima tied pink ribbons around thirty-two caliber rounds and Nona swaddled M18 claymores.
“My lady,” said a voice from outside. “Breakfast.”
The iron wheel spun, clicking in place at the end of a full rotation, the door creaking open as a Gnatu the size of a house cat peaked around the corner, its lens flashing.
“Go away.” Decima rolled over in bed, hiding her face under a pillow. “I’m not taking visitors today.”
“My lady, no skipping meals.”
“I’m not—”
Decima’s nostrils flared, the irresistible smell of sugar and honey wafting through the air. Her stomach growled, a warm bowl of sweet cream and soft dough resting in her lap. She closed her eyes, and woke, startled, milk dripping from her chin, the bowl in pieces on the floor, her fingers shaking and her heart beating wildly. Beads of sweat dripped from her forehead as she desperately licked the tray for another taste.
Oh gawds, what she wouldn’t give for more!
“Feeling better?” asked the little creature. He checked and replaced the bandages around her knees, his metallic digits brushing against her pale skin.
“I’m sorry, Hinge. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.” She wiped her lips with her elbow.
“No trouble.” The machine shook his head, his arms coming out of the loose toolbox drawers he wore like a turtle shell.
Hinge really liked toolboxes. His, a red craft series 19-inch steel hip roof with tray, a faded sticker on the side saying “Murphy’s law” with a piece of old chewing gum stuck to the bottom.
Value to the Gnatu was in the beholder's eye.
“So beautiful,” he said, reaching for her hand.
Decima blushed, her freckles swelling. “Hinge, what are you saying?”
“You’re beautiful, my lady.”
“I—I am?” Her neck flushed, her heart skipping as he spaced his fingers between hers.
Hinge rummaged around within his shell, many arms and pincers flailing, his head bobbing up and down as he tossed bolts and stripped screws. He returned holding a red tungsten washer.
Decima recognized the color—an ideal electrode for novice TIG welders, but she always thought he was more of an orange-tungsten guy. Cerium shedding with impressive arc starts at lower amperage.
Her lips quivered, her cheeks turning a deep crimson color.
Learning a Gnatu’s welding preference was truly an intimate affair.
What would Nona say?
“Um.” Her tongue froze, her breath catching in her throat. “I like purple tungsten.” She blurted out, fumbling with her words. “Blended oxide diodes are stable with cooler ignitions…”
Lies. Decima liked purple tungsten because it complimented the color of her favorite dress, an Edwardian-era French ball gown with green lace, soft sleeves, and a collar.
Gawds, Decima was bad at this. She wasn’t Nona; she didn’t know drill bits, washers, universal sockets, or gimbal ratchets.
Her grip tightened against her dress, sweat dripping down her cheeks.
Hinge jumped, his toolbox scraping against the floor, lugnuts bouncing around like flees as he slipped the red tungsten washer on her ring finger, a perfect fit.
He’d sized her up before.
Decima held her breath, staring at the scarlet washer. A feeling of déjà vu. She was another woman now. A woman staring at a 14-karat white gold engagement ring with an oval cut diamond.
She felt a pang of guilt.
His was a black-plated tungsten band with a yellow-gold plated sleeve—12 karats at best.
She could’ve done better, but he didn’t seem to mind. The rings were the only things they wore that night. Her loins ached, but it was a good ache because she knew in her heart that they had conceived at last.
Tears dripped from Decima’s eyes. She’d borrowed the persona of so many women because she never thought she’d experience it for herself.
“Will you marry me?” Hinge asked.
The other Gnatu gathered from the vents and out under the floorboards. Utility outlets, toolboxes, and paint cans. Square two-hundred-amp sixty-circuit indoor breaker boxes. The kind with forty-eight spaces, an aluminum bus bar, and an enamel finish. Lenses flashed from beneath loose lids and black elastomeric insulation sheets, little arms producing hundreds of colorful washers.
Green tungsten for wave welding with aluminum and magnesium. Blue, pink, purple, and gold, for AC, DC, and all-purpose applications. Men with a preference for alternating currents.
“Will you marry us?” The creatures gathered at the foot of the bed, tugging at the corners of her dress.
“Of course I will!” she cried, wrapping her arms around Hinge and squeezing. “You’ve made me so very happy!”
It may not have been the love she wanted, but it is what she had.