I hate cemeteries. Funny, right? It’s not ghosts that bug me but the lingering memory of standing in rain – just like this – a too-tight suit, muscles quivering as they lowered my mother’s coffin, my face sloppy with tears and snot. Maybe if I killed the sons of bitches who had a hand in her death, I’d get over it. Maybe.
His voice, everywhere, “You know the prophecy is
fabrication, yes? We created legend, made you in her to fulfill empty
Deep breath, steady. Magic ready, raging. “Not so empty now. Come and see.”
Like the moon, he rose, shining.