***PRESENT*** The demon's arm skidded across the snowy asphalt, a hiss of acidic blood bursting from the stump where Abott had made contact. Its roar was like an unholy lovechild between the Predator’s howl or the Jurassic Park T. rex’s howl, or Godzilla’s, blasting the air with hellish fury and the acrid smell of brimstone. Marsha wanted to cry. But instead, she gripped Abott by the hilt tighter, golden light emanating from every inch of the thin blade, and she slashed forward once more, skimming the edge of the demon’s other arm as it flailed away, still making that godawful sound. “Marlowe is not your place to conquer\!” she said with more courage than she actually felt. *You’ve always been a coward*. She stumbled as she tried to go on the offensive, thrown off by the intrusive memory. *The smell of beer and vomit and the sound of all those teenagers laughing.* The demon whirled around, its face a mashup of a boar and a mantis, with both tusks and mandibles to match. His mouth lunged and nearly clamped around her head, but Costello, the flaming little bastard imp, finally reappeared and pulled Marsha by her hoodie just out of reach of the jaws of death. “Betcha missed me, Marshie\!” he crooned and spun around her. “SHUT UP AND BECOME A SWORD\!” she screamed at him, tripping backwards, trying to pluck him from the sky. Her fingers closed around him, and his red skin compressed, then exploded out into the shape of a flaming sword, identical in shape to the radiant angelic sword she held in her right hand. *The cold night air, the house party booming behind her, the warm body of that girl that she hadn’t expected to reach so close.* Just as Costello formed into a sword, the beast lunged, and Marsha cleaved the fiendish blade across its face, shearing off flesh and spattering her own face with that burning blood. She hissed and ducked out under the beast’s reach as it took the damage and toppled onto its front. Marsha tumbled across the sidewalk, slamming into a lightpost with a *oof*. She screamed in pain from the acid boring across her face, and with a trembling hand, released Abott, the angelic sword. It spun into the fluttering form of a small cherubim that flew across her face. “Do not be afraid, Marshie\!” Divine powder flew off his wings and hit each spot of acid exactly, turning the blood to hot steam and healing over the pockmarks. Marshie shook her head, dizzy from the pain and release, then muttered a tired, “Thanks, Abb.” She reached out her hand and plucked him from the air, transforming the cherub back into a radiant blade. She looked across the parking lot, assessing the situation. Ylthor was a boar-mantis demon that was at least eight feet tall, but had been shorn down in mass from the severing of his limb (which was now slowly crawling back towards him), and lots of blood loss (which was burning holes in unfortunate cars nearby). The sun was low in the sky, and it was a weekend, so the only people who were likely in the school nearby to hear this commotion were a stray janitor or maybe the Key Club cleaning up this morning’s bingo fundraiser. She sliced each sword against the other, sending sparks of both red and gold flittering off the blades, as she stepped around the parking lot. The demonic monstrosity reeled, calling out to the sky and clawing at its stump of an arm. As he stood taller, she began to drag her swords against the ground, drawing a simple glyph. Just one more, something to bind his gasping, breaking body, and end this. She was good at drawing, maybe that was the one thing she was actually good at. “Ylthor, Demonic Wretch, the Beast of Burden, I’ve told you twice to leave this place. You understand that if I say it a *third* time, the consequences will be dire? Even a brute like you understands that the will of a witch has power.” She needed to work to believe her words. In fact, it hurt her throat so much just to speak this loudly and firmly, without stuttering or jittering. God, Evangeline had been so much better at this part. Well, she had been better at every part. Her mentor would be thriving right now, calling down a swarm of terrifying imps and cherubs to rend this thing apart in seconds, all while having the time of her life monologuing. Marsha was not like Evangeline. She wasn’t a performer or a savant, or a fearless old woman with nothing to lose. She was a kid in over her head… *but I guess I don’t have anything to lose either*, she thought to herself. She could see herself sitting at that table. *Mama and Dad’s screaming match was dulling in the background as she sank deeper and deeper in the chair, sipping on hot cocoa that had gone cold. The thrum of footsteps through the school’s hallways as people moved around her, or kept moving to shove right through her. The sterile taste of the air in the healing pod as a masked occultist stitched the places Thatch had carved over a month ago.* *“Where are your strings, little girl? Where have they all gone? All alone.” Thatch’s voice had almost sounded gentle.* Her body was so tired that night. She had no quippy response for Thatch that night in the cornfield, abandoned by that smarmy devil and Jonny Asphodel to fight him alone, and she still had no quippy response now. Because Thatch was right. She tried to imagine his dark, hollow eyes, but instead of that devouring black, kept seeing blue ones. Blue ones without mercy. Ylthor's ungodly voice rang out, shaking her from her stupor. It was so pained, so angry, so full of madness. She almost understood it. “I’ll send you home,” she muttered. “I’m sure even you have one.” Ylthor charged forward one last time, right towards the glyph she had carved in the ground and Marsha grit her teeth, ready to meet him with her twin blades and a scream in her throat. ***PAST*** Would cherry-flavored candles be too much? Correction \- cherry-*scented*. Dad always got mad at her when she said something inedible, like candles were *flavored*. *Are you going to eat wax, Marsha? No, Dad, I’m not going to eat wax.* But the cherry-*scented* candles were half-off for some reason, a good deal compared to the lavender and cinnamon apple ones. Mrs. Gertrude sat patiently at her little booth, telling Marsha to “Take your time, doll,” as she deliberated what would work. Would Cherry be annoyed that Marsha had gotten her something cherry-themed? Maybe some people would have thought that getting someone a gift based on their name seemed like a surface-level gift, but Marsha and Cherry had a long-running inside joke about getting Cherry cherry-themed merchandise and acting like they were inspired by her. Last Christmas, she had gotten Cherry some cherry socks, and that girl seemed to wear them every week. She made any outfit look good. But maybe this childhood gag was getting old. They were seventh graders now\! Marsha sniffed the homemade cherry candle once more, then glanced around the rest of the holiday boutique. The auditorium of Marlowe Junior High School was loud with the sounds of bartering, shuffling winter boots, and the clinking of various mugs, friendship bracelets, or earrings being sold by the local art vendors who had all gathered here to mooch money off of children. She’d scrutinized every stall, managing to get a cheap bath bomb for Mama and a mug for Dad that said \#1 HANDYMAN, even though the man only seemed to break things. *That was mean, sorry Dad.* She had gotten a couple of plushies for her younger cousins and a scarf for her grandma, but she was still stuck on what to get her best friend, leaving her back at Mrs. Gertrude’s familiar shop. The thing is, Cherry, didn’t even smell like cherries. Sure, her best friend was sweet like a fruit in a whole butt-ton of other ways (helping Marsha with her science fair project, and lending her the shirt with the sequins, and inviting her over for sleepovers where they filled out personality quizzes all night and ate really bad dollar store knock off cheese curls). But Cherry had a fresh laundry kinda smell. Like the breeze on a perfect late-August day, not too hot and not too cold and just kinda perfect and blissful and whenever Cherry let Marsha braid her hair she’d let her fingers wander and feel the tangles and take in the smell of the breeze \- God, she was being weird again. She slapped herself slightly on the back of her head, just to knock some sense in, as Mama would do. Okay. The cherry candle was option one. Option two was another friendship bracelet, but they had already gone through the whole Unicorn-Loom rubber bands bracelet phase two years ago, and the Crazy Bands rubber bands bracelet phase was even MORE long dead. Option three was… She looked down at the candle she held and saw that ink poking out of her jacket sleeve on her arm. She looked around, made sure Mrs. Gertrude was busy chatting with the woman running the booth next to her, and rolled up her sleeve. Under her jacket sleeve was her doodles of the anime characters from the show she and Cherry liked. She’d inked them this morning in Integrated Math class. Yumi Hoshi, the Starry Night Guardian, was smudged, but Marsha was still proud of the way the pigtails spiraled around like ribbons around her forearm. Cherry had liked looking in her sketchbook. She was the only one who got to glance through it. Marsha had wanted to draw Yumi Hoshi on Cherry’s arm too, but Cherry had muttered something about her mom getting mad if there was even the smallest stain or blemish on her skin. A whole anime ink drawing would probably kill the woman. Maybe she didn’t need to buy Cherry something. Maybe she could draw it\! She placed the cherry candle down, thanked Mrs. Gertrude for her time, and skipped along her way. ***FUTURE*** Her thumb drew circles over Marsha’s shoulder blade, over and over, a comforting ritual. Marsha stirred with a lazy groan, blinking the rheum out of her eyes, and flopped over onto her back, slowly as not to crush the warm hand. The other girl was buried in the fluff of endless blankets, nothing but her hand reaching out to spin those little touches on Marsha's body. Marsha let out a small hum of approval. Marsha blinked as trace rays of green light peered in through a slit in the thick blackout curtains. “Morning, Mars,” the other girl said, voice like chimes, even this early in the morning, this quiet and close. Marsha reached out her hand, dug into the folds of the blankets, and touched something soft and smooth. “You’re hiding in the fluff,” Marsha said, her voice low and husky after just waking up. “I know Mars... It’s too bright out there.” Marsha watched the mound of blanket beside her rise and fall with slow breathing, before scooting over closer and putting another hand into the mess. She found a bunch of curls and combed her fingers through the other girl’s hair, breaking up knots and tangles. “You waited for me,” Marsha said softly. It was a stupid question, all things considered, but the other girl answered with utmost sincerity, like she did every morning. “Always,” the girl said, still under the blankets. Marsha sighed and dug under the blankets to join her in the dark abyss of fluff, finding the perfect spot to tangle herself with her. The room rocked back and forth. The waves were gentle, strangely so. But if *she* made this place her home, the seas seemed happy to play along. The boat rocked back and forth on the deep and rolling seas, a speck on a roiling, boiling canvas of dark emerald waters. Massive shadows of beasts larger than islands swam underneath, but none seemed to pay any mind to the boat. Minutes or hours later, Marsha sloughed out of the blankets and off the bed while the other girl remained perfectly still, only a bit of curly brown hair poking out. “Not coming out yet?” Marsha asked. The other girl groaned. “Never,” she said with a dainty laugh. Marsha chuckled and shook her head. Marsha stumbled into her pair of slippers and out of the room and into the hallway, moving to the rhythm of the seas, pushed her way into the bathroom, and found herself staring in the mirror, covered in dozens and dozens of black tally marks. Her wolf-cut had gotten unruly, and her eyes were still a little red for some reason. A couple tattoos poked out of her t-shirt, a little angel and a little devil on each shoulder. *Rest easy.* She washed her face with warm water and a cleanser, then she picked at the hickey on her neck with a shy smile. Poked it just to feel it. Felt almost proud of it. She dried her face with a small green towel, then snatched the dry-erase marker from the medicine cabinet and added another tally to the mirror. She did a quick mental count, thought back to the past few weeks and nodded. It must have been Christmas by now, unless the time-dilation had changed. God. She rolled her shoulders, easing out the aches and stiffness, and sighed a long one. She didn’t know if she should feel happy or sad that she wasn’t that bummed to be spending Christmas away from Marlowe. Away from everything. “Mars?” Like a tug on a string, she felt herself pulled back to the voice. But first, she gave the reflection a small smile in the bathroom, then headed back, happy to be brought back into bed, and to know someone was there waiting for her.