She flinched and writhed in her sleep. The brunt of it propelled the unevenly legged bed into the wall; woke Francis on the other side. Soon enough, he was knocking at her door. She opened her eyes to a room clogged with darkness. There was no window, only the sliver of moonlight filtering through the old bark of the roof beam, its fibres thinning down to translucency.

  “Is everything alright?”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  Francis leaned his head on the other side of the door. He woke up choked by a fever, the words scraping past his swollen throat. “I’m finding it hard to sleep.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s the weather,” he said. “I’m afraid of the incoming winter. Even now I lie awake and shiver when a gust of wind blows across the room. My hometown was never this cold.”

  But it was so hot that Rui was clammy everywhere her skin folded onto itself. She was sobering from her dream. There was no angel. Only this village, only this house, only this man.

  Francis was shivering on the other side. He closed his eyes.

  “Can you hear me?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Rui said.

  He wasn’t really thinking. Rui had been in his dreams. She laid underneath him like a rug; the rest was hazy. He wiped the sweat from his brows and smeared it on his shirt.

  “Can I come in?” he asked.

  “No,” Rui said. She rolled out of bed and backed away from it. Her heartbeat pounded in her chest.

  But Francis wanted to see her. There was something fantastical about it, dreaming of real people: he owned a piece of her that even Rui herself had no idea of. He wanted to see the vision of Rui and the real girl eclipse each other, coalesce into something new. He missed her, felt feverish and close to God, like the prophets in delirium. The night air closed in around them, squeezed in tight.

  He could hear her breathing on the other side. He rested his head against the door, closed his eyes, and nodded off into the morning.

  On the other side, Rui sat in the furthest corner. Nothing but a ring of dust swirled around the ray of starlight leaking through her roof beam. The rest dissipated into darkness. She closed her eyes and thought of the angel. Whatever you ask of me, she asked, make it quick.

  The village was noisily asleep. On the edge of the land, field mice rustled through the tall grass. The boy’s grave was green with seedlings, worms ravishing what lingered on his bones. They spat out the offal, punctuating the soil with traces of hair, cartilage, and feather. No one would notice anything wrong, except for the child who ran face first into the ground, tasting soil, grass, and something like the smoke of incense.

  —

  When the first snow hit the ground cold enough to hold its shape, the village was almost entirely Catholic. Every Sunday, people congregated around the new chapel, sat quietly in the coal-warmed halls and heard the priests’ sermons echo around the arched ceiling. Outside the wind rattled on; shook the skinny and naked tree beams out, startling the shield bugs nesting on the swell of branches. Winter snaked down quietly and grew mean; killed everything but the weeds. No family was exempt from the scarcity of last year’s stockpile; the villagers lost half of it to the weather and half of it to the landlords. But religion was sweet on their tongues if not their stomachs: made them happy to sing, happy to worship a god whose own son was starved thin like the rest of them. Christianity came to China and slotted in just fine, helped grease the soreness out of poverty. They were going to heaven. It did not matter.

  That winter, old man Zhang, who skipped service every week, nursed an ulcer in his stomach until it bled through something in him. He laid on the ground until he thought he saw a man standing above him, bleeding through his stomach with towering alabaster wings folded behind his shoulder blades. Old Zhang picked up the axe beside his dwindling timber and headed to church. Religion did not sweeten him, it robbed him of a good bride price, of a daughter who ate at his table every day and could not deliver his reward. He walked with only a shirt on his back and summer slacks, thin and frost-brittled by the gnaw of the wind, sky already dark despite the time. He walked across the frozen river, the ice six-inches thick, his feet beating out the pulse like a drum. He strolled into service, halfway through the reading of the gospels, and stepped up to Father Phillip at the top of the podium. Then he threw the axe into his torso.

  Screams erupted from the crowd. The villagers scrambled to cover the children’s eyes, smuggling them out of the room. Auntie Huang flung herself at Old Zhang, who shrugged her off and continued his hacking. Rashes of blood sprayed across his face and torso, dripped down his shirt and the sinewy muscles of his arms. Dimly he recalled the days in the field, the reaping of wheats. Phillip’s stomach grew blurry. He was red everywhere, his skin, his organs, the cotton of his robes.

  Francis and Rui were at the back of the room. The sight of her father shot panic up Rui’s spine with a spasm. She stood up. Then Francis grabbed her wrist. “He’ll come for us next,” he said, voice vitreous from a cough. “Stay hidden.”

  “Don’t touch me,” she said.

  His fingers dropped into the icy air. “He came because of you,” he said.

  He brought her into his home. He brought her – defenselessly, magnanimously – into his home. He was confused and ashamed. Then he grabbed her face, squeezing at the base of her jaw. “This is because of you,” he said, voice low. The winter cold had long choked out his composure. Beneath him, Rui grappled with his hand, feet kicking the ground.

  Old Zhang made his way to them, his body slick with blood. Rui caught him out of the corner of her eye and barked out something unintelligible. Francis turned around, and Old Zhang pointed the axe at them.

  “Are you fucking her?” he asked.

  Francis paused in shock. Then he shook his head, looking between Rui and her father.

  Old Zhang shook the axe between them. He raised his chin. “You don’t get to fuck her for free,” he said. “Give me my money.”

  Francis, incredulous, started to laugh. He laughed so hard that he dropped Rui, who raised her hands to her bruised jaw. Red marks gilded the contour of her face, and already the purple was blooming to the surface of her skin. She looked around. The church was almost empty, all the villagers gone except for her father and the priest.

  “I’m not giving you anything,” Francis said.

  Old Zhang raised his arms and swung, the axe slipping from his hands, grazing the skin of Francis’s shoulder and tumbling off the stage. Then he threw himself into the priest, knocking him into the ground. They wrestled. Blood-soaked, the acid of Phillip’s stomach lining clinging to Old Zhang’s skin, they pressed teeth and nails into each other, bruised cheeks and cracked the cartilage of their noses again and again. The room dwindled to the wet sounds of their movements, like they were the pumping heart of the church.

  Old Zhang looked up and saw Francis’s blood-streaked face. Francis looked down and saw his swollen eyes. Old Zhang looked up and saw his cankerous mouth, his white, lustrous wings. He swung a punch into the face before his nerves pulled his muscles back into recognition, and he kicked himself backward. Francis could not look; he could not look at all: his eyes burning already. He moaned into his hands.

  The creature crawled toward Old Zhang. He was naked and luminescent, his flesh covered with scales and feathers and mucus, strings of sap coating his skin like a newborn. His wings unfurled, then, almost stretching the entire length of the stage, beautiful, opalescent. Old Zhang watched him, enraptured, growing delirious.

  The angel turned to Rui. She looked back, unsteady.

  “What now?” she asked.

  He opened his mouth to silence. Grey light filtered through the smog of the winter sky, illuminating the blood tracing the seams in the floorboards. He shook his head. Then he pointed to her father on the floor, slack-jawed and beguiled.

  She nodded. The angel leaned forward, enveloping Old Zhang with his own torso. Then he leaned down, spine bent, and tore his hand into Old Zhang’s ribs. The crunch of cartilage and bones; then he held his heart in his hand, red dripping down his arm, thick as honey. Rui thought of roses, wild ones that grew on the outskirts of her old house. She thought of the bees that nestled between the petals, their wings crystalline under the sun. They did not worship the nectar; they were themselves divine.

  Francis was still moaning into his hands, blood trickling down the crevices between each finger. His eyes were hemorrhaging, as if fissuring from his skull. He could hear Rui, her footsteps encircling the chapel, making her way to him.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “Paenitet,” she replied. “I don’t.”

  Then she brought the axe down over his head and made a clean ending of things.

  —

  Winter pulled the village into a long slumber. Snow stretched out into the fields as far as the eye could see, then softened into rain. When darkness finally retreated from the mornings and surrendered them to spring, sprouts erupting from ice-cracked soil, the long night hours of whispers had become obsolete. Starvation had driven old Zhang into the church, then into the icy river. The tragedy wore off its spell, looked less like a myth and more like banality. Rui sat on top of the chapel roof, overlooking the early blossoms and the awakening butterflies. The hills beneath tumbled into the horizon.

  She smelled soy sauce and garlic and the sizzle of cooking oil rising through the chimneys, then heard the clatter of metal and porcelain interlacing through the conversations. There would be dumplings for the New Year, then firecrackers in the village square. Then later, after the grandparents are drunk and the kids are asleep, after the bellies are filled, there would be singing.

  Resta Con Me

  Ian Haramaki

  Content Warnings: graphic descriptions of dead bodies, mentions of alcoholic/abusive parent, violence, open door smut

  Elia stared down at the body that had been dumped in the nave. The woman’s wide, glazed eyes weren’t quite as unsettling as the grin on her face, stretched further than possible. Her hands clawed at her face, fingers rigor-locked into strained curls. Equally curved was her spine, likely shattered into pieces from how it contorted.

  “Poor creature,” said Nicola, the bishop training Elia. The bishop seemed bored, scrubbing at the dappled stubble on his chin and humming in thought.

  “Another possession, Your Excellency?” Elia asked. He swallowed hard, barely managing to not vomit.

  Nicola nodded, folding his hands behind his back. “No doubt, Father Elia. That’s the fourth in this past week?”

  “I think so. I… I wish they’d stop leaving them in the middle of the church.” Elia dabbed at his forehead with the cuff of his sleeve.

  Nicola scoffed, beckoning Elia to follow him to the library. “Somebody else will deal with her. Let us consult the literature and see if we can’t solve this matter.”

  “Of course, Your Excellency. Do you suppose it’s a specific spirit? A demon? Who?”

  Nicola flashed him a smile, gaze lingering. “We shall find out.”

  The two passed through the cloisters, spring blooms beginning to open to the warmer temperatures. Dozens of flowers bordered the lush green grass, hedges trimmed into shape. When he had time to himself, Elia loved sitting on the benches in quiet contemplation, watching the bees pollinate the garden. He breathed a sigh of relief, grateful for the peaceful imagery before they crossed the threshold to the library.

  While the gardens had the gentle buzz of life, the library was almost silent. Soft footsteps on stone tiles and the occasional, gentle sound of papers shuffling was the only thing to be heard.

  Nicola beckoned Elia closer, leading him to a set of shelves toward the back. His hands shook from the thrill; books were a rare commodity before he joined the church, and while he had more access here, he hungered for whatever knowledge he could get. The books were chained to the shelves; they were particularly rare texts that couldn’t be removed without penalty. Elia had never been allowed access, but Nicola’s authority would clear them.

  “Try not to be too excited, Father Elia,” Nicola whispered, followed by a chuckle. His hand trailed down Elia’s back, stopping at the dip of his waist. Elia’s face burned, pale eyes meeting the charcoal black of the bishop. His skin prickled under the bishop’s touch, lips parting slightly.

  “Do you two mind? This is a library.”

  A gravelly, irritated voice came from the main aisle. Elia didn’t recognize the clergyman glaring at the both of them. His hair was long and dark, shining like the fine eastern silk he’d seen merchants carrying. His skin was a warm brown and absolutely dusted with freckles. His eyes were similarly dark to the bishop’s, but there was a warmth behind them that Nicola lacked. Elia leaned away from the bishop’s grasp, drawn to this mystery man.

  “Apologies,” Elia spluttered. “The bishop was just trying to calm me down, we’ll be out of your way shortly, Father–?”

  “Daniele,” the man replied, “But you may call me Dani.”

  Nicola scoffed behind him. Elia could feel how the bishop rolled his eyes. Nicola replied gruffly, “And what are you doing in here, Daniele? You are not one of the attendants.”

  The way Dani’s hands tensed around the book in his hands was difficult to miss, knuckles going white. Elia made mental note to never refer to him as anything but Dani.

  “Well, Your Excellency,” venom dripping off each word, “I’ve just transferred in from Venezia, and I am in charge of the tomes here starting today. Now, if you would mind yourself, and your hands, it would be appreciated.”

  Nicola’s hand trailed along the small of Elia’s back before pulling away. Elia’s face was on fire. He was so ghostly pale it would be obvious, his ears scorching hot in further embarrassment.

  “Father Dani, we’re researching the string of demonic possessions that has been happening recently. Do you know anything of it? We were attempting to look back here for research materials.”

  “I was informed, yes. You won’t find anything here, follow me to the archives.”

  Nicola jeered, “I’ve known this library longer than you, Father Daniele, I shall stay right here.”

  Dani paused, face blank as he turned to the bishop. Elia glanced between them, both men still as stone. Elia broke the silence with, “Your Excellency, let me see what Father Dani has for us. It can’t hurt to look everywhere, yes?”

  Nicola turned his attention back to the forbidden shelves. “So be it.”

  Elia followed Dani quietly. They wove through the shelves, stopping at a locked door made of a dark stone. It was intricately carved with dozens of angelic visages, the figure of San Michele in the center. Dani rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he pulled out a ring of iron keys.

  “Not a fan of Michele, Father Dani?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Elia couldn’t help a laugh, cheeks warming. “Michele is one of the Lord’s greatest warriors, he struck down Satan. What’s not to like?”

  Dani flipped through the keys muttering under his breath, “Pompous, thick-headed…”

  The mysterious priest shook his head, finally picking out the correct key for the door. The sound of the pins turning echoed through the library, earning a hissed “Quiet!” from another of the librarians. Dani cast him a glare before pressing the door open.

  “You speak as if you know Michele personally, Father Dani.” Perhaps Elia should be upset with such insinuations about San Michele, but Dani was too funny about it.

  The archives were smaller than he’d imagined. Elia knew the archives existed, but he’d always imagined they were a vast network under the library, as far as the eye could see. Still, a room half the size of the main library was nothing to sneeze at. Elia scanned the room in wonder, shelves full of chained books and artifacts locked behind glass and metal.

  “You’ve seemed particularly excitable about the tomes, Father Elia…”

  “I-I didn’t get much chance to read at home. I’ve learned so much since joining the church, and I just love learning everything I can. Is that silly?”

  “Not at all. Just don’t get so excited you let bishops get handsy, hm?”

  Elia spluttered, face going hot again. It wasn’t his fault! And who was to say it was any of Dani’s business to begin with? Ridiculous man. Nicola was important to him. That was all.

  Dani appeared bemused, pulling out a book of matches to light the candelabras. Elia huffed and took a few to do the same. The room slowly came into a faint orange glow, vision returning to them. Dani then reached for a high shelf to pull a black leather tome. Next to it was a small, delicately painted icon of the Virgin, gilded in gold and glowing even in the dim light. Elia made the sign of the cross, folded his hands together, and bowed before acknowledging Dani again.

  “This is the best text on demons in the entire world. If it can’t tell us who we’re working with, I don’t know what will. Too many Princes and Dukes of Hell to count, I swear.” Dani scowled as he examined the book on a nearby lectern, gently pulling the cover back. Elia signed again as Dani thumbed through the pages, illustrations of horrific beasts in black india ink on vellum. Demons with multiple heads, many with twisted bodies of differing parts stitched together.

  Dani smiled. “They’re not going to jump off the page, mio caro.”

  Elia blinked, shaken out of his fear by the endearment. He leaned forward to look at Dani’s face. Dani’s eyes flicked to meet his. “Is this the same priest who was scolding me for letting the bishop get close?”

  Dani rolled his eyes. “Perhaps. I don’t trust him.”

  “You’ve only just arrived, how could you say that? He’s the bishop, Father Dani.”

  “Forgive me, Father Elia, but you’re rather naive. I’ll simply suggest you be careful around him. He has power over you… I would hate for something bad to happen because of it.”