If they truly knew, would they still look away?
The neighbors might murmur about them being “fancy women” and the scandal of women owning strip clubs, but they didn’t pursue their talk beyond the occasional, and quickly silenced, remark. They didn’t speculate aloud at the family’s methods of keeping peace; there were no titillating rumors voiced about the beautiful murderesses who lived inside the modest house.
Eavan’s family was a clan of true glaistigs: they devoured people. They were many men’s—and a fair number of women’s—darkest fantasy, but sometimes with a steep price. They didn’t kill many, but they did kill. Glaistigs swallowed the last breath of mortals or strangled them, preferably during sex.
Monsters.
She walked around to the back of the house. It was part of the routine she’d clung to in order to keep herself from believing the façade. Routines were her anchor, innumerable little tricks to keep from believing in illusions, to create her own illusion of normalcy. Going through the front door, the door for guests, was walking into the illusion. The truth was what kept her from surrendering to the role her family wanted for her.
This is not what I am.
Steeling herself for the sensory shock, she pushed open the door.
She wasn’t but a step inside the room, when Mother Chloe appeared in front of her. Uncharacteristically, her legs were hidden away. There must be guests. Even now, no one in her family seemed able to keep her chest, stomach, or arms covered. Given a choice, they’d roam in lingerie.
Eavan straightened the sleeves of her suit jacket. I am not like them. She’d worked hard to cultivate a modest streak and had gone a bit overboard lately with being so close to the edge. No one else at the office dressed as conservatively as she did; even the senior marketing consultants looked at her oddly.
She stood silently for her birthmother’s inspection. They were always like this, greeting her at the threshold and assessing her like a stray dog returned to the pack. Chloe glanced at Eavan’s stocking-covered calves approvingly. She smiled—until she looked up and saw Eavan’s tightly wound bun. “Well, that certainly sets a mood, doesn’t it?”
“You asked me to let it grow again,” Eavan reminded. She sat her briefcase at the front door and slipped off her pumps.
“I don’t understand you.” Chloe walked away, her boots striking the tile floor in a regular rhythm, sounding out the familiar cadence, bringing to mind memories of a lifetime of late night music sessions. Chloe insisted on wearing boots that would resonate on the floor as her own cloven feet would. She liked music, even that made of her own movement.
Despite her irritation, Eavan smiled at the sound. For years when she’d lived in the house, she’d been happy. Things had made sense, but back then, she’d known little of what she’d one day become. It wasn’t until she was a teenager that she understood the parties, the musicians, and the strange cries. Her mother-family, glaistigs all, fed on acts of sex and death. It was essential that they feed; it kept them alive. Eavan understood it—but understanding didn’t equate to wanting to be like them.
Far better to live a mortal lifespan and die naturally than to transform into a monster.
Chloe paused and stamped her foot. “Evvie! Come now. Your grandmother isn’t feeling patient tonight.”
“Is she ever?”
Chloe scowled. “She’s far more patient with you than I would be.”
“Yes, Mother Chloe. I do realize that.” Eavan followed her mother into the sitting room where the rest of the family would be waiting. Of course, calling it a sitting room was a bit of a kindness. It was something between a bawdy house and the results of a Victorian decorator on acid. Aunt NeNe had her foot propped on an honest-to-goddess stuffed elephant foot that was fashioned into an ottoman. Gold tassels dangled from the cushion atop the atrocity. All around the room, floral patterns clashed with one another; gilt-framed art cluttered walls and shelves. Dressing tables that had no place in a front room were scattered about, like the desks in an untidy classroom. On each table, Eavan could see a jumble of silver hand mirrors, ivory combs, feathered hair barrettes, and crystal bottles of perfume with elaborate atomizers.
And her family sat—in dishabille—on overly plush divans. In the center, like a queen holding court, was Nyx, Eavan’s grandmother and matriarch, her judge and torturer. Nyx held herself regally, watching with serpent-cold eyes. “Eavan.”
It wasn’t a warm welcome, but no one there thought Eavan deserved Nyx’s warmth.
Even me.
Ever since Eavan had told Nyx she wasn’t moving home after college, things had been more strained. Glaistigs didn’t live away from the clan. It simply wasn’t done. Of course, no other glaistig clan would be foolish enough to challenge Nyx’s decision to violate tradition by allowing Eavan a touch of freedom. The same cruelty that had left scars on Eavan’s back allowed Nyx to defy tradition now: crossing Nyx was painful more often than not.
Beautiful monsters. My family.
The three of them looked like sisters, like her sisters. They appeared to be only a couple of years older than Eavan—wrinkle-free, lustrous hair, bodies as sculpted as professional dancers. In high school, her “guardians” had incited equal parts envy and curiosity when they attended school events. In college, people assumed they were her sorority sisters or asked if she was part of a modeling agency. Luckily, they hadn’t visited her en masse at the office yet. Their unchanging nature would eventually elicit too many questions. As will my own. Eavan wasn’t sure when it’d started bothering her, but it irritated her more and more—their immutable nature, her own now-unchanging body.
For now. Choosing mortality meant Eavan would eventually age and die. She’d age more slowly than mortals, but it would still happen. Glaistigs didn’t. They brought death, but didn’t suffer from it.
“What are you wearing? It’s so”—NeNe fluttered her hands around as she took in Eavan’s skirt, which reached just below the knee—“opaque.”
“It’s wool.” Eavan leaned down and kissed her aunt’s cheek. They might be monsters, but they were still her family. “Just like I’ve worn to every other meeting.”
“I must’ve repressed it.” NeNe sniffed. Like the rest of the women, with her gauzy camisole and thick tumble of hair, NeNe looked as if she were awaiting clientele, not expecting a visit from the girl they’d collectively raised as their daughter.
“You know, what this place needs is a stripper pole.” The words were out before Eavan could stop herself, but no one flinched. Eavan could say whatever came to mind here. Home wasn’t where Eavan wanted to be, but she couldn’t deny how right it still felt to be there. Glaistigs were clan creatures, and although Eavan was clinging fiercely to her humanity, she was still part of the clan. “A pole would fit right in,” she added. “Just like at your clubs.”
Grandmother Nyx nodded. “I was just saying that, wasn’t I?”
Chloe handed Eavan a brush before answering, “She’s joking, Mama.”
Nyx shrugged, lifting one delicate shoulder in a graceful move that belied her centuries. “It matters little. She’s right for a change.”