Happily Ever Afterlife

by J A Campbell

  Zach frowned. "Perhaps Zoya truly didn't know. If you can withstand the sunlight, you surely could withstand her deadly little spell."

  Peter was now certain that the Hunter had no idea Zoya was the Firebird. That small bit of knowledge he had that his rival didn't made him smile, though he had little hope of getting out of this alive. It wouldn't be long before Zach started investigating.

  "How?" Zach stood and walked in front of Peter, crossbow ready.

  Peter didn't bother to answer.

  Frowning, the Hunter stared at him. "A glow at your throat," he muttered to himself before darting forward and ripping open the collar of Peter's shirt, revealing the glowing feather. Buttons plinked across the floor. Peter struggled to get away from the Hunter, but he still couldn't escape.

  "Beautiful, and, I suspect, the answer to my question." He reached out and grabbed the feather, ripping it away.

  "No!"

  Both men turned at the desperate cry. Zoya stood in the doorway, her hand at her throat, as if the feather had been torn away from her instead.

  "Zoya, you should leave."

  Peter was about to say the same when the pain hit him, as if thousands of tiny fires ignited on his skin. He gasped in pain.

  "Pyotr!"

  He jerked, trying to escape, but his bonds wouldn't give. Smoke trailed up from his skin, and he knew flames weren't far behind.

  "Zoya, no," the Hunter shouted.

  Something slammed into Peter, cooling the fire instantly and sending him and the heavy chair crashing to the floor, out of the direct sunlight. He was dazed for a moment, and then the chains slackened and he was free. He sprang to his feet and leapt into the shadows to hide.

  "What have you done?" Zach grabbed Zoya's shoulders and dragged her to her feet, shaking her.

  Zoya's eyes were wide and her beautiful hair in disarray. Peter swore he'd never seen her look more beautiful. His instincts told him to run, but he couldn't leave before he knew she'd be safe.

  "What have you done?"

  "Zach, please. You don't understand."

  "You're right. I don't." He snarled at her.

  Peter moved from the shadows where he hid and snatched up the crossbow that Zach had dropped. He stood just outside the rays of sun and cleared his throat.

  They both turned. Zoya looked relieved. Zach looked angry enough to hurt Zoya.

  "Let Zoya go." His tone left no question as to what would happen to Zach if he didn't.

  Zach reluctantly stepped away, and Zoya stepped into the sunlight, her hair blindingly golden. Peter wanted to gaze at her beauty, but he didn't dare take his attention from the Hunter.

  "Are you going to take her as your prize now and leave?" Zach sounded disgusted.

  "Of course not. Zoya can never be possessed. I simply want to make sure she is safe before I make my exit."

  "She is safe. I would never hurt her. Zoya, please forgive my harsh actions. I was simply surprised."

  Peter glanced at his Firebird. She nodded.

  "Then, good day." He melted back into the shadows, leaving the crossbow on the floor before running for the exit. Leaving again was one of the harder things he'd done recently.

  He heard Zach say, "What were you thinking?"

  "I love him, Zachariah. It is a very long story."

  Peter stumbled in surprise. He almost turned around and went back.

  "I will not share your love with anyone, let alone a vampire. You must choose."

  Peter didn't hear Zoya's response. He was too far away, standing on the west side of the building and realizing he had another problem. He'd lost his feather, and it was getting bright. Still, the loss was minor compared to what he'd gained. The knowledge of Zoya's love burned through his chest and filled him with a fierce joy that would sustain him through the centuries.

  He dashed into the light, running as fast as he could to another abandoned building in this district of warehouses, so that he could hide until the sun set.

  * * *

  Though he knew he should leave immediately, he wanted to go back to the little café one more time and thank the waitress for telling him about the play.

  He stashed his few belongings in a new hotel, changed into a fresh, undamaged shirt, and brushed the dust off of his coat. He felt the loss of the feather, but the old lethargy didn't return. His step was light as he walked down the city streets to the small diner.

  His waitress, Susan, was there when he arrived, and she smiled tiredly when she saw him.

  "What'll you have, hon?"

  "Just coffee."

  She winked. "Coming right up."

  Peter found a booth in the back. There were a few other patrons, but none looked up as he passed. Soon, Susan was there with a steaming mug.

  "Well, did you go?" She slipped into the booth, obviously remembering him from that night that seemed ages ago.

  "I did." He kept his face bland, though she squirmed with impatience.

  "And," she finally asked.

  He smiled. "It was her."

  "Oh, how wonderful." Her tired smile turned up several watts and lit up her face. "And did you sweep her off her feet and declare your love?"

  Peter laughed. "Not quite, but we were able to talk a little and that is enough for now." He didn't mention that Zoya'd had to rescue him twice, and she was the only one who had declared her love, though not to his face.

  "Well, a happy ending then?"

  Peter shrugged, his expression falling. "Maybe someday."

  The bells on the door chimed, but Peter didn't bother to look up. Susan turned and stared. Peter inhaled the aroma from his mug, ignoring her for a moment.

  "Peter," she said.

  "What?" He glanced up and felt his eyes go wide.

  "Is that her?"

  "Yes." He stared as his Firebird scanned the diner. Once she saw him, she came to his table. She was smiling, though her expression fell a little when she saw Susan in the booth.

  "She is beautiful, like you said," Susan said just loudly enough for Zoya to hear.

  Zoya looked surprised, and Susan slid out of the booth.

  "Can I bring you anything?" She was positively beaming with delight.

  Zoya seemed slightly taken aback. "Yes, please. Fruit."

  "Right away."

  Zoya slid into the seat Susan had vacated and stared at Peter as if she didn't know what to say.

  "She is the one who told me about your play," Peter finally said to break the silence.

  "Then I have her to thank." Zoya's smile lit up her face. "Oh, Pyotr. It is so good to see you. I couldn't say before. I was afraid Zach would think too much about you. He is an excellent Hunter and was a good friend." A touch of sadness clouded her voice.

  "Was?"

  "Well, he's very inflexible when it comes to vampires. He promised to leave you alone, however."

  Peter smiled. "I don't blame him."

  Zoya laughed. "To tell you the truth, I'm not too fond of most vampires either."

  They fell silent when Susan returned with Zoya's fruit, although Zoya did thank her for directing Pyotr to the play. That made Susan smile even more.

  "It's been years. Have you searched for me all this time," she asked when they were alone.

  "No, only once I was forced to leave home."

  "I thought you were dead. What happened?"

  Peter frowned. "How did you know I was gone?"

  A delicate, rosy flush colored her pale cheeks. "I have a confession. You intrigued me, so after I left, I came back and watched to see what you made of my gift."

  Peter's hand strayed to his throat and touched the spot where her feather had rested for centuries.

  Zoya grinned. "Once you discovered it could replace your cherries, I expected you to hoard them, or hand them out as favors, as nobles often do. Instead, you used their magic to heal the sick. I was pleased that you became known as a great healer. I left for a time, but I found I'd given you more than a feather. It seems I'd given you my heart."


  Peter didn't know what to say, so he let her finish her story.

  "When I returned to tell you this, I found the castle burned and the tree gone. My heart was broken, and I left Russia. I thought you must have died. What happened?"

  "A vengeful prince." He could tell Zoya wasn't satisfied by his answer, so he continued, though the tale embarrassed him. "Boris' grandchild was deathly ill. It wasn't quite midsummer, and I was down to the last golden cherry. Boris was very old at this point and enjoying his retirement. His son brought the child to me, and, of course, I agreed to help her. At this same time, a neighboring Prince brought his wounded son, and heir. The boy would live, though he'd be uncomfortable for a while, and really, I couldn't have chosen a child I barely knew over the family who had served me faithfully for generations. I refused him and saved Boris' grandchild. The prince's child did survive, but the prince was angry that I would choose a peasant over nobility, no matter the circumstance. He returned and burned everything. No one died, but the tree perished in the fire. Once the tree was gone, I thought you'd never have a reason to return. I'd remained in one spot for a very long time, so I moved on."

  Zoya reached forward and put her hand on his. His skin tingled where she touched him. He covered her hand with his other one.

  "The tree is lost, but I do have this." Peter reached into his pocket, pulled out the small silver box he'd carried for centuries, and handed it to her. Thankfully, Zach hadn't searched his pockets, or he might have lost that, too.

  Zoya cracked the lid, her eyes widening. The glow from within the box lit her eyes until they were almost too bright to look at. She snapped the lid shut. "How'd you get it if you used the last cherry?"

  "I sifted through the ashes before I left and found that. I thought I'd save it for you, if I ever found you again."

  "Maybe it will grow?" She cracked the lid again, looking at the single golden cherry pit nestled in the silver case.

  "Maybe. It's yours."

  Her golden eyes shown more brightly. "I hardly know how to thank you."

  Peter smiled. "Your pleasure is enough."

  "And I have something of yours." She reached into her jacket and withdrew his feather.

  He took it from her, his hand shaking. "Thank you, and, thank you for saving me." He didn't want to ask the next question, afraid to know the answer, afraid she was going to leave again. "Why are you here?"

  "Well, I wanted to return that to you and, well…"

  Displaying patience he didn't feel, Peter waited for her to finish.

  "And, well, I wanted to see you again. To talk to you and to ask if maybe we had a future."

  "Zoya," he whispered and clutched her hand. He still wasn't sure what to say. "What about Zach?"

  Her hand went stiff in his, and he thought that was, perhaps, not the response she wanted.

  "He will not share my affection, and I would not lose you again if I had the choice."

  "Why me?" Peter still wasn't sure how to reply so he clutched her hand more tightly; trying to show his love even if he couldn't yet say it.

  "You are the only one who has ever truly been willing to set me free."

  He hesitated, but he had to tell her. "I love you. After all these years, I love you even more. I would follow you to the ends of the earth if I had to, even if all I could do was listen to you sing."

  "Truly?"

  "Yes."

  "Pyotr, take me home. Let's find some wilderness, grow golden cherries, and leave this world behind."

  He took her hand again and cradled it gently. "Truly?"

  "Truly. I love you, Pyotr."

  She leaned across the table, her face softening with her radiant smile and filling with light. Her golden eyes pulled at Peter until their lips met, and the unbearable space between them melted with warmth. His Firebird was found, and, with her, he felt more alive than ever before. Not caring what anyone thought, he tossed some bills on the table, stood, and swept Zoya from the booth and into his arms. Peter carried his love from the diner, her laughter pealing like silver bells singing joy into the night.

  * * *

  I've always wanted to write a Firebird story. I love the legend and all the different takes on it, the beautiful bird who can't resist the magical fruit, the quest, the reward, the hint of love. One of the original legends even has a talking horse, which is pretty entertaining. When Untold put out the call for a story based on a fairy tale I knew just what I was going to write. It was even better that I got to combine vampires and the Firebird. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  ~J.A. Campbell

  In the Belly of the Wolf

  by

  Amanda Carman

  I have been eaten by the wolf.

  It is my understanding that this is somehow my fault. When the wolf was about, disguised as an ordinary person until it was too late for me to escape, it was my fault. It was because I didn't listen to my mother, because I talked to a stranger. It was because I strayed from the path. A wolf is a wolf, they say. It's not his fault. You should have been more careful.

  Grandma was eaten too, but no one's blaming her. No, it was my dallying in the woods that led to her death, as if it were some kind of crime to stop and appreciate simple beauties when you're young.

  When I first enter the belly of the wolf, everything is dark and damp and smells of old meat. I can hear whisperings around me, voices of other young girls, like myself, who had been eaten. Their whispers are indistinct and it takes some time for me to pick out words and phrases, little sighs of blame.

  "…talked to a stranger…"

  "…she tarried…"

  "…should have listened…"

  As more time passes, I am able to make out the forms of the other dead trapped in the wolf's belly. At first, they were indistinct shadows surrounding me, but now I am able to see their faces. They're all young girls, like me. Cheer and innocence have been replaced by weariness and a worldly wisdom beyond their years. There is hurt in their eyes, and resentment. They hate me for making the same mistakes they did, for joining their ranks, and taking up more space in the belly of the wolf. They were probably hated and blamed when they came here, too. Sometimes it just feels good to hate someone else, as respite from your own self-loathing.

  There appears to be a sort of hierarchy among the dead. The ones who have been trapped here longer are colorless and transparent, fading away under the weight of guilt and memories. The fresher dead have more substance to them, but they have still lost most of their color. As the newest victim, my rosy cheeks and poppy-red cap stand out like a beacon.

  We are not the full number of the wolf's victims, we young women who talked to strangers and strayed from the path. My grandmother is not here, and from the whisperings I hear, she is not the only dead unaccounted for. Plenty of lost loved ones have been caught in the wolf's appetite as he hunts for us. I am not sure why it is just us in his belly, or where his other prey is trapped. Maybe they are stuck in our own bellies, so that we carry the weight of our victims as surely as the wolf does.

  Sometimes, one of the dead will break down and wail over her fate. She'll collapse on the ground, pull on her hair, and beg answers to impossible questions. Why me? What did I do to deserve this fate? How can I get out?

  All of the dead around her will answer with the same explanations they've heard since their arrival. You didn't listen to your mother. You talked to a stranger. You didn't stick to the path. You asked for this.

  Eventually, she will start to take comfort in the blame and come back to herself. After all, it's much easier to believe that you deserve a terrible fate than to know that, sometimes, awful things happen and there is no reason for them. When the next of the dead breaks down and asks the same questions, she will join the rest in doling out the blame and think nothing of it.

  No one blames the wolf.

  * * *

  It is dull, among the dead. They have been here for a long time, it seems, and they clust
er in impenetrable groups. I try to break through the ghostly susurrus, hoping that perhaps death could be more bearable with a friend.

  I ask a pale shadow of a girl in rags, "When did you die?" She looks at me, surprised and confused, and shuffles away without answering. The girls around us give me accusatory stares and turn their backs to me, whispering amongst themselves. I try a more tactful approach with the next, a slightly less translucent girl a few years younger than I.

  "I like your hair," I say, gesturing to the braided and coiffed locks. "Did your mom do your hair before?" She stares up at me, horrified, and begins to cry. I never knew what to do with crying kids when I was alive and I am at a loss now, but she is shuffled away by the angry masses before I can apologize.

  I wait for a long time for the incident with the girl to be forgotten, thinking over the things I might say to befriend someone in this pallid crowd. I watch them from a distance, trying to find someone who looks promising. After a while, I single out a girl about my age who whispers less frequently than most of the pale forms around me. I watch her and wait until I feel like I have a good opportunity to approach.

  "Hello," I say, friendly, but quiet. She glances sideways at me and nods once, but does not say anything in return. I shuffle and fidget with my hands, running through a hundred different things I could say. The silence stretches between us like a valley. I try to fill it with babble.

  "I miss the trees, don't you? I miss birdsong and berries, too. My mother used to make little cakes every summer covered in fresh berries that I picked in the woods, and they were sweet and bursting with flavor and juices. I think that's what I miss most about living: picking berries in the woods and knowing that cakes were coming. What do you miss?"

  The girl wears a dumbfounded expression for a moment, then sneers in disgust and wanders off.

  I will go mad here.

  * * *

  The wolf's belly is more expansive than I expected, and there is land beyond the huddled dead that serves as a much-needed respite from their morose whisperings. I have taken to walking past the crowd of victims to explore the world beyond them. I have never run across another dead girl who has thought to do the same.