Melchior ached to fall asleep. He ached in most other things, too. His stomach stung from hunger. Natheless, he knew if food had been provided, his teeth would have been too fragile to bite it through. His skin was sticky with sweat and stuck with grime. Beneath his shabby appearance were muscles bound so tight he worried his bones might snap beneath them.

The bed of his nails had crusted in blood. Some had even been torn out as he'd clawed the cement walls. He had screamed until he had no voice and fought until he had no strength, and now all he could do was wait.

His eyes searched the dark cell for any distraction, but he found nothing. The room was designed only to hold Melchior, not leaving much space for anything else. Just a simple mattress on the floor, which Melchior had collapsed into when his fit had first passed.

Despite his condition, he didn't harbor resentment for the small cell he now found himself in. Inside of his blurry, spinning, mind was only one thing: guilt. More wounding to Melchior, more than the state of his body, was the shame heating his cold cheeks. An unpleasant aching coiled tight around his heart.

He had lost control. That was not a privilege afforded to someone like him. Now he could feel the countdown; T-minus thirty minutes until D-Day. Thirty minutes because he knew it took five hours for his older brother to drive into the New Hampshire wilderness from his cushy city apartment--and his head had begun to clear a while ago. That was usually his indication that a great chunk of time had passed.

The basement, coated in claw-carved-cement and dirt, was still less confining than the city that everyone talked so grandly of. The forest was the only place Melchior identified as safe. Ironic, considering that even now, the grounds outside the cabin were crawling with beasts desperate for a taste of his cursed blood.

He could hear their low rumbling howls, but more than that he could feel as they electrified the air. They had been calling to each other in increasing frequency for the last few weeks. It raised the hairs along the back of his neck, but Ailbe would hear none of it.

If Melchior had learned one thing since taking up residence in a prison cell, it was that if Ailbe decided nothing was to be done, then nothing was done, and it was pointless to press the issue.

Ailbe had become a permanent and gruff fixture in his life. It had been just them for almost as long as Melchior could stand to recount. Everything else, anything from before, he tried hard to forget. The dim cellar was only made more uncomfortable by the ghostly touch echoing in his mind, the one from silk sheets in a loft overlooking Manhattan. His stomach only rumbled louder when he craved a taste of soft belgian waffles drizzled in honey, topped with raspberries. The ones his mother used to make. It was just about the only thing she could make, doing it special only on their birthdays.

So, no. No, he reminded himself. It didn't help to remember those things. He tried not to but on nights like this, when he stood waiting beneath the ground for his punishment--it was so much harder. It crept up in his mind, playful and teasing. Begging for his attention. Until, as desperately as a starved dog being taunted with steak, he bit. He sunk his sharp white teeth into the flesh of his old life--and he wondered what they would be doing now.

He imagined it might have been an early morning for the Brisbanes. The housekeeper would go along the curving white hall, knocking on their doors one by one to rouse them. His siblings, well-rested and freshly untangled from their silk sheets, would parade down the grand staircase of their tri-level penthouse.

They would each find a position at the table, watching mother and father fill the two head spots opposite each other. In silence, only disrupted by the gentle clinking of fine china and silver spoons, they would eat whatever breakfast had been prepared.

Or maybe that morning would be a good morning. A day when there weren't business calls flooding the landline, or taxis blaring their horns from the street below. Maybe their mother might even stand from her spot, walking along the lines of the table to pour the syrup over their pancakes. As she went, telling each of them good morning. Would she smile at them with her wide brown eyes? Would those kind eyes flinch over the spot he had once taken?

Did any of them notice? Any one of his eleven siblings. Or did they remove his chair and pretend the table had always been that spacious? He hadn't spoken to any of his family in six years, except, of course, for his keeper.

So, no. No, Melchior thought again. Thinking of those things certainly did not help.

He shoved himself violently outward. He pressed into the edge of his skin, where it was cold. Where it was painful. He kept himself contained there, far away from the siren song of his deceitful memories.

The minutes passed slowly by.

He adjusted his stiff back and pushed himself onto shaking legs, stretching his aching and popping joints.

He pushed a pebble across the cold floor with his toe, listening to the scrape of rock on rock.

Yes, this was what he deserved now. He was no longer someone fit for birthday waffles or petty sibling rivalry. He was someone else now. Something else. And that something belonged here.

Melchior had been told once that he was sick. He didn't like that word. It left room for the possibility of getting better, but Melchior was only seeming to get worse. He'd been in so much pain earlier he could have blamed it for why he'd lashed out at Ailbe.

It didn't matter why. He'd still done it, behaving more recklessly than a toddler having a tantrum, so he'd been sent to his room. And even then, the agony wrecking his shell was the least of his concerns.

The beasts in the trees had been slowly edging towards the cabin. They only wanted one thing; and it was in the basement of the house admiring the cement walls.

Monsters had been drawn towards Melchior since his disease began six years ago. If he could ignore their low calls shaking the trees, he might have had enough time to appreciate the humor in his situation. The youngest son of the legendary Brisbanes had become bait to the very creatures they'd been killing for centuries.

Melchior only had one thumb nail remaining, which he promptly popped between his teeth to bite at nervously. He worried that his brother might have trouble reaching him. He worried that he wouldn't.

The night was not going so well for Melchior. He exhaled deeply through his nose and pulled his hand away from his lips. He could hear hot breath steaming in the cold air. It seemed to him that more and more beasts had been collecting along Ailbe's land recently.

All Ze'ev, all hellbent on sending Melchior to Hell with a one-way ticket. First class. He wondered if they'd have refreshments on the train.

As a child, when he'd been choked by the collar of his last name and it's reputation, Melchior used to chastise himself for the silly spirals his mind would concoct. But that had been a Melchior who did not spend days upon days inside a windowless room. Now, he welcomed all the fantastical things his mind could conjure. It helped whittle away the time.

He searched now for anything to send him into blissful distraction. It was too dark for the human eye to see anything in the cell beneath the cabin, but even if he had been blind Melchior would know what stared back at him.

His eyes combed the outline of the tattoo on the inside of his left wrist. A brand, another thing he'd earned six years ago. He studied its repulsive shape; זְאֵב.

Some sick joke, he assumed. It was his greatest shame and most dangerous secret, and he wore it as plainly as day on his arm. Melchior kicked at the mattress, coughing at the dust sent sputtering up into the air.

With nothing left inside to settle his nerves, he was forced to turn his attentions outwards. Beyond the cellar walls. To the sounds of the forest. Where a Ze'ev bayed from the bushes, where crickets sang in the leaves of a dogwood, and where the night churned on. Slowly, and relentlessly. Minute by minute.

Melchior perked up to the sounds of footsteps descending the stairs. He grit his teeth behind his lips and stilled his trembling. The great iron door screamed on rusty hinges as Ailbe flung it inwards. Melchior suppressed a flinch in his broad shoulders, resisting the urge to press his hands to his sensitive ears.

Ailbe carried a lantern with him. The small flame sent orange light licking up his hollowed cheeks, making him appear even more ghostly than he already was. On his right cheekbone, brazenly obvious beneath the golden light, was the purple shadow of a forming bruise. Melchior had done it in their struggle. He couldn't bring himself now to look at it.

"Your brother needs help getting to the cabin." Ailbe said. He spoke as if they'd recently moved. It alluded none to the fact that someone had to go mow down the path of monsters.

"I can-"

"No." Ailbe snapped. He shook his head until wispy white strands of hair tumbled down his forehead. "Do you still feel sick? Did you take your pills?" It could have almost been mistaken for concern, but venom sharpened the edges of his words until they cut finer than polished Ossein.

Melchior crammed a fist into the pocket of his ripped and stained jeans. He retrieved the obnoxiously orange plastic container, holding it as faithfully as a cross. He gripped the vial tight between his fingers and shook it in the space between them.

"I emptied it."

The bottle had been quite full when Melchior had first been sent down to the basement, but Ailbe didn't mention it. And Melchior was grateful he hadn't. He didn't want to confirm it. He didn't want to say that he was getting worse. That it took two bottles to calm what had previously taken only one. Ailbe nodded and licked his dry lips. He didn't seem to want to say it either.

"You'll be too tired to fight then. And you've caused me enough trouble tonight. I don't have time for the paperwork that comes with a dead legacy." Ailbe grumbled. "I'll handle it, half a quiver of Ossein arrows, and they'll be running back to Hell with tails tucked between their legs."

Melchior just nodded. It didn't serve him much to argue with Ailbe.

"Do we have more than half a quiver of Ossein?" Melchior asked. "Uh, not implying that you could miss or-"

"Hush, pup." He sighed. "We have enough arrows to get out of the forest if we're lucky. We'll just have to get more from whatever we pick off tonight."

Ailbe said it as easily as one would ask for milk at the grocery store. Ossein was in short supply, and it was as hard to collect as killing a mythical creature and harvesting it for parts sounded. Yet Ailbe seemed sure in his conviction. Without another word, he turned and left the room. Their conversation had seemed almost entirely pointless, but Melchior knew the reason for it. Ailbe was testing the waters, seeing if Melchior had any more outbursts in store.

He wasn't quite sure yet. Neither was Melchior.

Once again left to stew in the stale cellar, Melchior paced the stone cell like an anxious animal, turning in a tight snap every time he reached the edge of his world. A bray echoed into the night, momentarily freezing Melchior in his steps. He looked up at the ceiling where he knew the forest was waiting for him. And a handful of furry Beasts. Less and less of them by the minute, if the noises polluting the night was to be any indication.

Ailbe had exited the cabin in a loud slam, and the cries had begun just a few minutes later. Sometimes Melchior forgot that beneath the husk of an old man was Ailbe Damianos, an Archbishop of the Progeny. Killing monsters was what he did. Raising Melchior was just a downside of the job.

A yelp cut the night air like glass, and suddenly, there was silence. As much silence as the forest ever offered. A red-tailed hawk cawed its abrasive screech, and crickets resumed their choir. But no howls.

Melchior squeezed his eyes shut tight against the dark room and pressed his left ear to the solid cement walls. His heart pounded in his veins, and he had to concentrate hard to hear the soft noises beyond it. He heard it then and had to grip the wall to keep himself standing upright as relief flooded his strained legs. The crunch of wheels on gravel. His brother had arrived.

Only a few brisk seconds later, the cabin door slammed shut behind a pair of heavy stomps.

"Where is he?" His eldest brother did not sound happy. It sent bolts of ice cold fear through Melchior's gut.

"In the cellar," Ailbe grunted in his no-nonsense way, "as I said over the phone, he was feeling sick earlier. I thought it'd be best."

"Is that why there were so many of them here tonight?" If the question had been asked in search of an answer or just for quiet contemplation, Melchior would never know because it had been said within a one mile radius of Ailbe Damianos. He was a man who liked to hear himself talk.

"He brings them from Hell," Ailbe whispered, "especially on days when he's. . .upset."

"He's just a kid--kids get emotional."

"Not all children have monsters under their beds." Ailbe grunted.

"My brother is a good boy!" Melchior winced at the desperation dripping from his older brother's voice. "He didn't ask for any of this. He knows what's at risk if he messes up. You've raised him, Ailbe, you can see it, right? he's a good boy, right?"

The cabin fell into silence for so long that Melchior began to think that Ailbe had killed his brother for daring to raise an argument against him. The minutes crawled by, Melchior paced beneath their feet, his sharp canine teeth digging into the cracked keratin of his one remaining thumb nail.

He knew an ax was being raised over his throat. He didn't trust Ailbe to have his back. The small cement room had no windows and only one door. It was three inches thick, made of iron, and locked from the outside. Melchior had no way out but it didn't matter. He would accept the fate decided for him, he always knew he would. Until then, all he could do was hold his breath.

"Ishmael," Ailbe sighed. "I've given you six more years than I should have. When you came to me, begging me to take on this child, I only did so in the hope that you would fulfill your end of the deal. You have not."

"Ailbe, please. I just need more time!" His voice shook. Melchior had never heard his brother sound so weak. Just as the bruise forming on Ailbe's face had been, he knew that was his fault, too.

"You have had six years." Ailbe reminded him softly. "If a cure could be found, I believe fully that you would have found it by now. You are my former Deacon. I do not train in half-measures, nor do I make poor soldiers."

"What. . . what am I supposed to do?" Ishmael whispered. "It was my fault."

The words cut Melchior as deeply as shattered glass. Stabbing so deeply into his grime-coating skin, for a moment he wished he could shut his ears and hear none of it at all.

"Take my advice, follow my plan." Ailbe said gruffly. "Jethro has finally submitted a request for his pupil to take pilgrimage. There have been rumors about your brother on the matter, your father agrees. It would benefit you to play along."

"My father? What does he know? He knows nothing of his true condition, I went beyond the lengths of my ability to keep it that way. Nor can you seriously think the Forgotten Prophecy is real." Ishmael scoffed bitterly. "It's just another false promise from the angels that abandoned us."

"Watch your tongue, boy." Ailbe snapped. "It does not matter what you or I think. It matters what the Progeny believe, and they're already quite convinced. The renowned Brisbane clan, their twelfth child, born the twelfth day of the twelfth month. Signs have followed him all his life. Ishmael, what life do you want for him?"

"You want me to throw him out into their gaze? He can hardly control his sickness! If they find out-"

"-then they'll kill him?" Ailbe interrupted, scoffing. "And if they never find out--they will still kill him. Saving his life, well, we should aim higher."

"No. No, Ailbe. It's just too risky. I want him to be safe." Ishmael snapped.

"He'll never be safe." Ailbe scoffed.

"There has to be a way-"

"There is a way. There is this plan. This is the only plan." Ailbe said. "We play along. We do everything they want of us."

"What they want is a lamb to keep the edges of their ax slick in blood." Ishmael said.

"No, they want a way out." Ailbe disagreed. "Ishmael, you know the threat we're coming to face. You can see it in the furry corpses outside. The wall between us and Hell--it's weakening. It's already begun to break. The only way to stop it--the only way to save your brother--is to give them exactly what they want."

Ishmael didn't speak. Melchior didn't breathe. And Ailbe continued. "You trusted in me to protect your brother, believe that that is still my goal."

"We can't protect him out there." Ishmael whimpered.

"All I can offer you is a chance for him to finally, truly, live. It may not last forever. Maybe not even get him through the week, but he will finally know what is beyond the smell of the pine forest. He will relearn the sounds of the city at night. He might one day taste the ocean air. I know your brother. I know that he knows a great many things that he shouldn't, even now he's probably listening to us. I know that he doesn't feel even half the fear he should. I know the rage inside of him, and I know the remorse he uses to hide it. I know that he would pick this for himself, Ishmael. Go give him the choice. It's the only thing we've deprived him of."

The little house was still. Melchior sunk into the stiff cot placed in the corner. His heart pounded painfully behind his ribs. He didn't raise his head as footsteps descended the stairs. He remained frozen, listening to the click of a lock and pull of rusty old hinges. His brother came into the room dosed in candlelight from a lantern. The scent of sap and night air clung to the sweat glistening on his russet skin. His heart hammered behind his solid chest. It reminded Melchior of a rabbit he'd found once.

"Melchi?" His tight curls hung down his cheeks, framing his face better than his thick glasses could.

"I hate it when you call me that. It sounds like milky." Melchior craned his neck to look his brother in the eyes, wincing as the stiff muscles protested.

"Sorry," Ishmael smiled. "I can't help it."

"I know." Melchior laughed. Ishmael hovered by the door and did not speak. He seemed lost to his own thoughts. "Are you. . . going to come in?" Melchior prodded.

He regretted it as soon as he'd said it. He didn't want the weight of rejection over him. He wouldn't know what to do if Ishmael turned away from him now--but his brother smiled and pushed off the doorframe. He came into the dark cellar and joined Melchior on the small cot.

"How are you feeling?" Ishmael asked. He pressed the back of his hand to Melchior's sweaty forehead. The flames cast his frown in shadow.

"Fine." Melchior lied, batting away his brother's hand. Ailbe moved on the floor above them, slowly shambling towards the kitchen. Melchior's ears twitched as he rattled around in the cupboard for teacups.

"So you could hear us." Ishmael noted. He laughed and tipped his head back.

Melchior flushed pink. "I-I didn't mean to."

"I know, kid. I just think that Ailbe might have been right about you." He ran his hand over Melchior's head. "Let's talk now, face-to-face."

Perhaps it was a side effect of being raised by an elderly man in the thicket, but Melchior had acquired quite a taste for tea. He held the warmed porcelain cup tightly between his scuffed palms and stared down into the light brown liquid. The steam rose from the cup, tickling his nose and filling it with the sweet scent of chamomile.

Ishmael had declined for a serving of coffee instead.

Finally allowed above ground, Melchior couldn't pull himself away from the opened window. A calm had settled between the trees, peace born from blood. Melchior had finally discovered the time, watching the fire red sun creep over the horizon. He watched the squirrels descend the tall fir trees, slowly sniffing the air for any signs of more Beasts. Ailbe and Ishmael murmured softly between themselves, allowing Melchior time to settle his mind.

"How many?" Ishmael grumbled over the surface of his mug.

"Seven that I got. Will you take Melchior and collect the Ossein? I'm getting too old for all this mess." Ailbe grunted.

Melchior perked up as quickly as Ishmael flinched. "Take Melchior?" His voice dripped with honey-thick apprehension.

"He is my Deacon, Ishmael." Ailbe raised a fuzzy white eyebrow and sipped his lemon tea.

"That's not my concern." Ishmael's tone was weighed heavily under what Melchior recognized as guilt, and regret. Melchior knew what was going through his brother's head now; a nightmare. One that had really happened, six years ago.

"I can go!" Melchior volunteered brightly. Melchior was a naturally upbeat person, but even more so when he was trying to shake his brother free from his own dark thoughts. "I want to go."

Ishmael leveled him with a big brother glare, full of affection and easy to break. Melchior knew he'd already won and came to join the adults at the table to finish his tea.

"After we talk, child." Ailbe rumbled. Hopes suddenly dashed, Melchior sunk into his seat with a whine. Ailbe withered him with a glare and snapped his fingers. "Sit up, pup."

"You old kvetch." Ishmael laughed. His eyes seemed distant, but he still smiled softly in Melchior's direction.

Ishmael grabbed the first aid kit that Ailbe had set on the table and turned his attention to Melchior's damaged fingers. It took much of Melchior's strength to pry his extremities from the hot tea-vessel. The cellar had sunken a coldness into his bones that he couldn't seem to shake.

"It's fine, I heal fast." Melchior protested. Ishmael frowned and turned his hand over in his grip. He dabbed at torn cuticles with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol and Melchior kept his face carefully still.

"Is it true," Ishmael pressed softly, "what you said earlier. Did Jethro finally submit for his Deacon's pilgrimage? I thought he'd never give in--the Cardinal must have changed his mind somehow."

Ailbe nodded his gray head and set his tea cup on the wooden table with a soft clink. "I've had people looking out especially for the news. It seems not even Jethro Pine can outrun the Cardinal. His Deacon is nineteen now, but I suppose late is better than never."

Melchior had planned to take his pilgrimage at fifteen, and even that had been pushing it on the older side for a Brisbane, but that was before he became a monster magnet. And then something worse.

"I can't blame him for waiting." Ishmael sighed. "Knowing the talk surrounding his Deacon, I can't even imagine the task he'll be assigned. Finding an angel? Killing a greater demon with his bare hands?"

"Fulfilling a prophecy," Melchior mumbled. Ishmael's steady hands froze, his grip tightening on Melchior's thin wrist. He squeezed him hard before releasing him to sit back in his chair.

"What do you know about that?" Ishmael hissed. "You're just a kid."

"A Brisbane child, raised by the Progeny for his first twelve years. I'm sure it was taught to him directly, and if not, well, we both know how much our Melchior likes to eavesdrop. He'd have to be stupid to not know." Ailbe huffed, sounding slightly amused.

"The Cardinal decreed it not to be spoken, written, repeated-"

"Yes, yes, all interesting stuff, now irrelevant." Ailbe waved his hands dismissively. He propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward, placing his chin on his gnarled knuckles. "So, pup, tell me what you know about the Forgotten Prophecy."

"You think it's about me?" Melchior set his cup down and puffed a deep breath out his nose. The words scared him, but it didn't change anything to keep them to himself. "Then you know I'll have to die."

"Melchi!" Ishmael snapped. He set his mug down on the table hard enough to send coffee spilling over the lip. "Don't say something like that!"

"Why shouldn't he, if that's how he feels?" Ailbe shrugged. "How much time does the boy really have left anyways. If the Progeny knew the full extent of his disease, they'd have had him killed years ago. He's on borrowed time, Ishmael. Maybe the prophecy is his best shot at making something of himself before he croaks. Who knows, inaction now may have even the angels cast him from the promise."

"There's more to life than legacy." Ishmael protested.

"That's a luxury not all of us can afford." Ailbe countered. "Melchior, you have an obligation to try. If you are the boy the angels warned us of, you could bestow humanity with the first Vestige since the Demon-Born wars. It would clear your family's name of the blight your curse put on them."

"Stop it, Ailbe!" Ishmael snapped.

"I'll do it!" Melchior pushed himself from the table and stood on his legs. They shook beneath him, and he tried hard not to stumble.

"Melchi," Ishmael breathed. "Our family is fine. You don't have to throw yourself away for them."

"It's not for them. It's for me." Melchior shook his head until spots bloomed behind his eyes. "I want to give my life meaning. Ailbe was right." Ailbe snorted and puffed his chest, too full of himself to detect the lie Melchior was selling. Ishmael watched him with honey eyes and took a careful sip of his coffee.

"Okay." He sighed. "We'll talk about this later."

• • •

Melchior had loved the scent of pine since the day he'd left the city. The thicket was unlike anything he'd experienced his whole life. He was more himself beneath the wide open skies, where the last crest of stars burned away under sleepy morning light. The orange-fire glow of the sunrise washed the world in gold.

Melchior had the sinking feeling he wouldn't see these constellations ever again.

"Melchior, focus." His brother's curt bark shattered his peaceful illusions and brought him back to the thick stench of blood. He swallowed hard to dislodge the thick reek of it from his throat.

He trudged through the forest as weighed as a burro. His arms ached under the strain of his load, but he didn't dare complain. His left arm was pressed tight to his side, keeping a flashlight fixed in the crook of his elbow. His grip further down was preoccupied by a jug of holy water. Melchior eyed it anxiously, not wanting to know what would happen to his cursed skin if the water was to drip on him.

In his right hand was a pair of pliers. The teeth of the tool was made of Ossein and shimmered as beautifully as the moonlight across a stream.

And of course, Melchior carried another Ossein instrument. It was a small throwing knife, tucked safely in his back pocket. He didn't feel the immediate need to bare arms. Ishmael had them both covered.

He was holding a bow, stretching it taunt with ease. Bows were the preferred method of anyone trained beneath Ailbe Damianos. He had an Ossein-tipped arrow nocked in the mouth of his weapon, holding the slender wooden shaft perfectly still between two fingers.

There were only a few materials chosen by the Progeny to serve in their weapons, and Ishmael's preference was for cedar. Even cut and polished and battle-worn, Melchior could smell the rich earthy scent of the wood.

Ishmael's pose was perfect, like a statue Melchior had once seen on a school field trip.

"You'll wear yourself out holding in that position." Melchior didn't feel the need to add that he was also stressing his bow. He shuddered to think he could be accused of scolding his brother, Ailbe's prized Deacon.

"I'd rather be tired than unprepared." Ishmael grumbled, but he slackened his bow and lowered it to a half cocked position at his hip. He'd been jumpier than Melchior had ever seen him. And he suspected that he knew why.

Beneath the last breaths of the full moon, hunting for Beasts together. It had been like this six years ago. The night that Melchior lost everything. Then, Melchior had been sent away, and Ishmael had returned to the city to build the lies Melchior could hide safely in. There hadn't been time to monster hunt together, this was the first time since.

Ishmael's chestnut eyes scanned the fir trees, glimmering effervescently beneath the gentle wash of first light. Melchior knew what he was looking for because he saw them often in his nightmares. The glowing yellow eyes that always stared back at him.

"Do you see anything? Your eyesight is better than mine." Ishmael asked. As if to enunciate his point, he wiggled his nose beneath his pair of thick-rimmed glasses. Melchior scanned the air between the branches, the crawlspace under the brush, and found it comfortingly still. He shook his head, and Ishmael exhaled in relief.

Ishmael didn't ask, so Melchior didn't tell him that the forest was soaked in the fetor of abhorrence and carnage. The smell was growing stronger as they neared the first body.

Melchior shuffled along behind his brother, his eyes taking in great gulps of the land surrounding them. When he looked over the tops of the trees, he could see the smoke rising from the cabin as Ailbe prepared breakfast. Ishmael paused a few steps ahead of Melchior, his back tensing beneath the thin cotton of his white shirt.

He'd begun to climb over a small boulder until his boots froze on the smooth surface. "Stop, Melchi. Take my bow and hand me the pliers."

"What?" Melchior scoffed. "I gotta have your back, I can't just let you leave my sight!"

Ishmael glared at him over his shoulder. "I'm not asking, kid."

"I'm not a kid!" Melchior snapped. He had lost that six years ago--like everything else.

"And you're certainly not grown, either." Ishmael bit. He sighed and shook his head. "Fine. Come along, but you better not throw up."

"I promise." Melchior nodded. It had been something he was sure of until he crested the top of the boulder. Ailbe had warned him to never waste dolor on demons. He'd warned him more times than Melchior could count, and all of it had been for nothing the moment his flashlight's beam settled on the pool of blood soaking into the foliage.

He found the beasts face in the dark, eyes still glowing with the sunrise. It's maw hung open in a cry, one that would never be heeded. And Melchior knew pity for it. And then he knew disgust with himself for feeling so weak.

If Melchior ignored the immense size of the creature, he could have fooled himself into thinking it was nothing but a wolf.

Ailbe had filled the hide of the cur with more than enough arrows to bring down an elephant, and it still hadn't stopped the demon in its rampage. The furry belly of the beast was split down the middle, spilling gore into the lawn from the place Ailbe had run it through with a sword.

Sometimes, arrows were not sufficient. Melchior pulled his thin shirt up over his nose, trying hard not to choke on the nauseous smell.

"Pliers, Melchi." Ishmael asked again, and Melchior did not argue. Melchior handed his brother the tool but made no move to collect his bow. Ishmael must have expected as much. He leaned it against a stump without much insistence. "You're lucky Ailbe isn't really raising you as his Deacon, he had me collecting Ossein the first night I met him."

Ishmael's voice was held light between them, full of childish teasing that didn't suit the scene before them. Melchior turned his eyes away as Ishmael fit the first tooth between the jaws of the pincer. The white bone glimmered in the dusk.

"Did you know that we used to harvest Ossein with iron. Do you know why such an ordinary thing can pull out fangs when it took twenty-three arrows and a lance to put this Beast down?"

"No." Melchior admitted. He winced as the pearly white tooth slipped from the bubblegum flesh holding it in place with a wet slucking noise.

"Angels," Ishmael scoffed, "the old man is too soft on you. See, earthly metals can damage Beasts, but if it was alive it would simply heal in a matter of seconds. Especially Ze'ev. They're a nearly infinite source of Ossein, at one time the Progeny kept a few on hand for picking."

Melchior gripped his shirt tighter beneath his fingers. Ishmael plowed ahead, in his rambling and his harvesting. "Anyways, Ossein is the only thing worth taking into battle. Now we use it in all our tools."

"Why?" Melchior asked. "If iron is easier to get-"

"Would you want to be out here with a pair of garden shears if another beast came around?" Ishmael cocked an eyebrow.

"Oh," Melchior mumbled softly. "And the water?" He lifted the jug for emphasis but his stiff shoulder popped beneath the burden. He stifled his wince and set the jug on the forest floor.

"Same as the metal, I guess. It'll dissolve whatever we don't need." Ailbe explained.

"And what about Greater Demons?" Melchior asked, when all he really wanted to say was; what about me?

"Earthly metals would do nothing, neither would Ossein. Might be able to tickle them with blessed water, but nothing but the Vestige can kill a Greater Demon." Ishmael lectured.

He didn't mock Melchior for how little he knew on the subject. People were always a little skittish to divulge monster-lore to the monster beacon, especially after he'd left society. He didn't get out much.

"What if they were dead?" Melchior prodded.

Ishmael fixed him with a careful glare. "No one's had the chance to find out. Now, bag, please. If you aren't going to help, go salvage any arrow points you can find."

Melchior pulled the sack from the pant pocket he had stuffed it into and placed it on the gore soaked ground. The fang held in the grip of the tool was as long as Melchior's thumb and would be fit to the tip of an arrow as soon as they reached the cabin. It fell into the fabric hood silently, Melchior thought it should have made a sound.

Ishmael was staring at him expectantly, so Melchior shook himself from his stupor. He paced the length of the beast to the soft hide of its furry ribs. Melchior placed his boot against the coat, wrapping his hand around the shaft of one of Ailbe's arrows.

He braced himself and pulled until the Ossein tooth came loose from its flesh. The giant wolf had been killed with teeth and claws mounted on thin pine sticks. "Why can't we just get a Vestige?"

"You'd need to be favored by an angel." Ishmael laughed.

Melchior blushed defensively. "You don't think an angel would favor me?"

"I don't think the angels would favor anyone." Ishmael scoffed bitterly. "They've been radio silence on the topic since they gave us the Forgotten Prophecy. I guess we're supposed to figure it out on our own. I don't know, Melchi. Maybe we don't deserve blessings anymore."

Ishmael turned himself back into the plucking of teeth from sinew. The body shook beneath Melchior's steady heel as the two Brisbane boys harvested the beast of resources.

"You don't trust the Forgotten Prophecy?" Melchior asked. He gasped in shock as the pine arrow he'd been struggling to dislodge splintered beneath his palm. Pine--the preferred wood of Ailbe Damianos--was strong and durable. Melchior wondered how tightly he'd been absent mindly squeezing the arrow. His fingers were slick with cooling blood. He rubbed it off on his pants and grimaced.

"You're my little brother, Melchi. I'd never advocate for some pipe-dream over your happiness. And I don't think you believe it much either. It's impossible to lie to me, I practically raised you." He huffed around each ripped tooth.

"I lied to you my whole life!" Melchior protested childishly.

"First of all, I always knew you broke Mother's two-hundred dollar vase. I was just being responsible by covering for you. Second of all, if this is about you being bi-"

"Okay, okay!" Melchior interrupted. Ishmael laughed, an odd thing to do while harvesting fangs.

"So, assuming you really intend to play along and this isn't just a chance to escape, why do you want to take part in the Forgotten Prophecy?" Ishmael asked.

"I'm not running away." Melchior promised. "And the rest. . . well, I guess you'll just have to trust me."

"I don't like that answer. Sounds like trouble."

"Trouble? Who? Me?" Melchior's fingers froze. His head had been pounding since he'd embarked from the cottage, full of rot from the carcassess in the thicket. The smell of blood had made him too dizzy to realize until it was too late, and now he was out of time to do anything about it.

"Ishmael! Look out!" He screamed, but it was already upon them. The wolf tore through the trees and into the small meadow they'd been working in. It soared through the air in great bounds, wells of spit dripping from its open jaws.

Melchior's stomach dropped so hard a rush of sick welled up in his throat. The beast was heading straight for Ishmael's back. Alerted by his brother's horrified expression, Ishmael spun around, eyes wide behind his glasses. The black dog howled, loud enough to shake the earth. Melchior covered his ears and sunk to his knees.

The cry had filled him with dread as heavy as cement, or maybe it was the half a bottle of pills he swallowed earlier. He was paralyzed. All he could do was watch as the wolf's massive paw slammed into Ishmael's chest. His brother grunted, falling to his back on the bloody grass. The bag of teeth spilled into the lawn, flung wide by his flailing arms.

"Stop it!" Melchior screamed.

The black wolf froze, perhaps amused by his cries. Slowly, the beast craned its head, its glowing golden eyes roamed over the body that Ishmael and Melchior had been taking apart.

The cur seemed lost in thought, almost still enough for Ishmael to roll away without the wolf taking notice. Then its headlight eyes found Melchior in the dark. The wolf rumbled deep in its chest, a sad and hollow noise that filled the air around them.

Melchior swallowed hard and shook his head because it felt like the wolf had asked him a question, and he had no answer. Time seemed to stall, Melchior pinned under a golden gaze that didn't waiver.

They stared at each other for so long, Melchior wondered if the sun would soon rise. He put his foot beneath himself and slowly pushed himself up onto wobbling legs. The movement seemed to shock the wolf into action.

The cur bayed again, loud enough to send Melchior back to his knees. "I don't know what you want from me!" He screamed. The wolf brayed again and again, barking as insistently as a housepet warning of an approaching mailman.

"Stop it! Stop it!"

"Melchior!" Ishmael shouted. "My bow!"

Melchior couldn't move. He couldn't shake the howls from his head. The black wolf lunged, taking an effortless leap over its fallen comrade. Melchior fell back on the heels of his hands, pushing desperately to crawl away. The dog barked, snapping wickedly white teeth. It lowered its head, pacing closer and closer to the cowering boy. It barked again.

"I don't know!"

"Melchior!" Ishmael called. "Duck!"

Melchior barely managed to crumple into the dirt as the arrows began to soar over his head. The wolf yelped as the Ossein tips met its living flesh. It howled terribly, twisting up Melchior's insides until he thought he might pass out. The dog's head snapped back towards Ishmael, and he was charging.

Melchior broke free of his daze and sunk his hand into his pocket, pulling free his small throwing knife. It was the perfectly polished front fang of a Ze'ev. Melchior didn't stop to think. He arched his arm back and chucked the knife forward.

The small dagger sailed through the air on a whistle, hitting and sinking deep into the side of the Ze'ev. The wolf stumbled to a halt, slipping in the blood-slick grass. Its golden eyes found Melchior, a low rumble easing from its throat.

In the cellar of the cabin, Melchior heard more than he should. He could hear Ailbe pacing nervously across the living room floor. He could hear his brother's curses and fears whenever he came to visit. He could hear the Ze'ev calling in the trees: and he could hear this now. The dog looked at him with eyes wider than saucers, and it whimpered; why?

Melchior opened his mouth, but he didn't know what to say. And it didn't matter. The cedar arrow embedded in the soft throat of the Beast, and it collapsed, wheezing a few final gasps of early morning frost.

Ishmael rushed to Melchior's side and grabbed his shoulders. He yanked him to his feet and pulled him into his chest. "You idiot." He sighed.

Melchior was just happy to be held. Too soon, Ishmael pushed him to an arms length away. His warm palms cupped his cheeks. "Melchi, why were you. . . talking to it?"

"N-no. . .I wasn't," Melchior said. It stung as it came over his tongue, the unmistakable taste of deceit. Ishmael flinched. He bowed his head and exhaled through his nose.

"You think you're ready to go out there? What if I hadn't been here?" Ishmael asked.

"This is why I have to go out there, Ish." Melchior protested weakly. "I think I need help."

"I'm here to help you!"

"You can't fix this!" Melchior snapped. "My very being invites chaos. I don't know how much more this curse will take from me before I. . . I probably don't have much time left, and I've never gotten a chance to do anything with my life. Maybe it's selfish to want to do something just to protect my opportunities, but I know that living as I've lived will not see my soul sent to the domain of the seraphs. You can only protect me for so long, Ish. Eventually, I will die."

He'd probably meant some of what he'd said, but eternal salvage had never seemed much of an option for a boy cursed, and it didn't drive him now. Not even Melchior fully understood what drove him now, only that this journey was something unmistakably urgent. As if the very idea had been carefully planted in the tissue of his brain. He knew he was following nothing but madness, and yet he knew he had to follow. His punches seemed to land where he needed them to. Ishmael rubbed the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses and scowled.

"I've taken care of you for your whole life. If you do this, I won't be able to follow you." Ishmael pleaded.

"I know." Melchior said.

"Everyone out there will lie to you, and you will have to lie back. You'll play the part of their cursed boy, but if they ever knew how deep it really ran, they'd kill you immediately. If you hide it all your life, they'll still hope you die. They want you to follow a prophecy that ends in sacrifice." Ishmael's voice shook.

"I know." He said.

"You'll be all alone." Ishmael whispered.

"I know." Melchior agreed, but it didn't feel entirely true.

He'd be straying out of the forest for the first time in six years, hiding a secret that would have him executed, to try and rush his way into the Sect of Saint Francis' one and only prophecy. Partner in crime to the Deacon under the heaviest scrutiny in all of the Progeny.

As with all pilgrimages, he'd be unable to speak to Ishmael or Ailbe until its completion. And yet, he wasn't scared. Excitement bubbled just beneath the surface of his russet skin. Beyond it all was one truth; if Melchior Brisbane was one half of a promise, and Ira Rule was to be the other, then maybe they had more in common than anyone could guess--and maybe from one cursed boy to another--Ira Rule could tell Melchior Brisbane why he could understand it as plan as words when the monsters chasing him howled. And how much more of his humanity he had to see slip away.

Ishmael considered this with quiet contemplation. "Then promise me one thing."

"Anything." Melchior swore.

"When the time comes," Ishmael whispered beneath the dying light of the last stars Melchior would ever see in these woods. "If one of you has to die--if he must kill you. Then make it impossible. Make it so that he can't live without you."

"I. . ." Melchior swallowed hard, choking on the rich iron smell of decay. "I promise."

2 | Melchior Makes Monsters

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