The night has never been as quiet as this—the crickets are silent, the freeway in the distance muted. It's all narrowed down to this girl in my arms and even though it's full dark no moon I can see her heart beat a staccato pulse in the side of her neck. It's the only sight, the only sound that is important to me. I lick my lips around these new teeth swelling from my gums. Magic trips along my ribcage, buzzes in my lungs. It is borrowed. I have claimed this magic with Diana's help, but life is cruel and it has not yet claimed me back. Her mouth is covered in blood that isn't hers and her lips are mouthing words for me and me alone.
“Please. Please, remember,” she begs on whispered breath. And for a moment, I do.
It was not supposed to happen like this.
* * *
It's a Saturday afternoon and my cell phone buzzes in my back pocket. The bakery is slow, and really there's only one person who would bother calling me. I make eyes at the new kid to cover the register, and step into the back near the deep freezer.
“Yeah?”
“Come over. I got something for you to see. Wait a sec—Granny! Can Ashley come over?”
“I didn't even say yes yet," I laughed. It doesn't matter much though. Diana's home is my second home. Wait. “Which granny?”
She laughs, a shiny thing. “Aw, you know. Granny Maeve.”
Which is a good thing because me and her Nish granny are cool, but her Black granny still doesn't like me. She caught us kissing in the sixth grade back when Diana's bedroom was the color of a sunrise and before she painted the walls a blue so dark it looks black in most light. She thinks I made Diana gay. Never mind that Diana dates dudes most of the time, or that she kissed me first or that, well, for me? It's complicated.
“I get off at three. I'll be over then.”
“What's that?” Diana is yelling into her house again. “Granny says bring her a chocolate muffin."
* * *
At 3:25 I'm parking my Ford Taurus in Diana's driveway. It's a long one-story brick ranch with a walkout basement and baskets of petunias along the porch. Diana's mom is an ER nurse and works long hours. She usually has one of Diana's grandma's over to—I don't know— watch her ? Diana says her mom's got trust issues, only it's not Diana she doesn't trust. It's the world. She doesn't have to explain it to me though. I remember Tommy and how things changed after he went away. Granny Maeve is always saying how the trouble with Tommy is he was always messing around with things that didn't concern him. And why go looking for trouble? He's big and Black and Indian. Trouble's always gonna find him on its own. We'll be for real grown by the time Tommy gets out.
I walk in the front door and set a bakery box of muffins on the counter, two chocolate and two blueberry.
“Hi, Granny Maeve!” I call out so that she can hear me over the sound of the game show she's watching.
“Ashley! Aaniin! ” Granny Maeve calls back to me as she raises herself from an armchair. “What are you two up to this afternoon?”
Diana appears out of the hallway. She's wearing an oversized sweatshirt that it's much too hot for. I'm not surprised—she still hasn't told anyone. Well, no one except for the kid's dad.
Me, I was there when she peed on that damn stick. I held her hand as we watched a little plus sign appear like a reverse magic trick. She took three more pregnancy tests before it sunk in. Then she crumpled against me as if I were hollow and she could crawl inside for safety. It was the softest I'd ever seen Diana. And I'll be honest, it scared the shit out of me.
She grabs a muffin from the box and tugs at my elbow. “Homework, Granny! We gotta go,” Diana says, hustling me out of the kitchen.
“C'mon. I figured it out,” she whispers to me.
This? This is the Diana I know. And it?
That would be her plan for retribution.
* * *
We go together, see? Since we were nine years old it's been Diana and Ash, Ash and Diana. Things were simpler then, before boobs and first periods. When things got complicated we still rode just as hard for each other.
In the eighth grade I got tired of watching Rick Turner pull her ponytails and asking if he could be her John Smith. I punched him in the back of his head and he hasn't done it since.
In the tenth grade I walked into a party just as Brady Mitchell was telling everyone I'd be at least a nine if my hair wasn't so nappy. Diana poured her beer over his head and marched over to me. She grabbed me by the waist and pulled me flush against her. We never talk about it, but I think she knows I wasn't into that kiss either. But she was doing it for show, so I guess it was okay. I should probably tell her I'm not trying to be kissed by anybody.
So when she showed up at my front door one evening with a busted lip and eyes hard and shiny like volcanic glass and told me Kyle's out of the picture, I nodded and said okay. I knew what was supposed to come next.
* * *
Diana ushers me into her bedroom and clicks the door shut behind us. It's not navy black anymore, these days Diana's room is a rich purple flecked with gold. Something royal. I collapse onto her bed and wait for the reveal. Diana is nothing if not a showman. Except the flourish never comes.
Instead she's on hands and knees digging through her closet which is barely contained chaos on the best of days. Today the barriers have slipped and pair-less shoes, shredded denim, scraps of underwear are spilling forth, unfurled like a tongue. At last she stands and she's holding something she's wrapped in a black satin cloth.
She sits on the bed and sets the bundle between us.
“I found it at Granny Deb's house. In her library.”
I haven't seen it since middle school, but I remember it well. Diana's Granny Deb has this little room off the kitchen. Floor to ceiling shelves built right into the walls. In the center of the room there was a low-back loveseat, a short round table with a reading lamp. I never did like reading as much as Diana. But I did enjoy the hushed mystery of exploring that room, and the ritual of sitting shoulder to shoulder with Diana as she read aloud.
Diana pulls the satin away revealing a journal-sized book with a soft brown leather cover. There are symbols that remind me of the zodiac embossed in the leather, and I drag my fingertips across them. The book is humming with energy.
So here's the thing about me—I'm not superstitious or nothing, but I'm not dumb either. My Mom always burned the hair she pulled clean from brushes and combs or after a trim. She told me she does it because her mom taught her to. I asked my grandma about it once, and she says she does it because it's the way her mother taught her to. But not only that, otherwise birds make a nest of your hair and it'll turn you crazy. Listen. I don't think the sparrows and pigeons in my neighborhood got it like that. But I do know that when I'm sitting next to her and she's burning clumps of black coily hair, I can feel it. Like a tautness in the air begging to be released and doesn't let up until the last of it is choking smoke. So yeah, I burn the hair that comes loose after a good detangling. It doesn't have anything to do with the birds though, and everything to do with power. And this book, sitting on Diana's constellation-patterned comforter? It has power.
Curiosity gets the better of me. I pull the book onto my lap and flip through it. It's not unlike flipping through my grandmother's rolodex of recipe cards. These pages are bound copies of someone's narrow, angular handwriting. There's lists, drawings, numbered procedures. And that's when it hits me. I snap the book shut and all but fling it towards Diana.
“That's a spell book!”
Diana is looking at me. She's chewing her lip and her eyes are wide, expectant.
“You think it's real?” There's an eagerness in Diana's voice that I've never heard before. So here's the other thing: Diana's not dumb either. And more than that, she's spiritual . It's been almost a decade since she chewed me out for conflating her daddy's side's, her Anishinaabe side's, medicine with magic—I haven't forgotten. But she believes in both. I know she feels whatever I feel thrumming through that book, so I don't even answer that.
As much as I want to say ‘This is crazy!' or ‘Fuck it I'm out,' I don't. Even though every hair on my arm is standing on end, I want to know what's in this book. What's in it that calls to me so strongly, creeping up my fingertips and across my skin?
“What are you gonna do?” I ask.
Diana slides close to me, until we're shoulder-to-shoulder, flipping through a book like we used to. Except the book is in my lap this time, and she's just looking over my shoulder. There's a truth serum, a love potion, a fertility curse and a vitality blessing. I see ingredients like willow root, chamomile, moon water and crow feathers. There's pages with one word spells, there's pages filled to the edges with cramped writing, words scratched out and re-written. Orishas are named next to the Lords of Xibalbá. I don't think this book belongs to any one religion, not to any one group of people, but instead it's someone's collection of Old World tales and tonics expanded and blended into something new. This is diaspora magic . Scattered but not forgotten. New blossoms, same roots. I find the page that Diana has in mind; I know it without her saying a single thing.
I stroke my thumb across the creature drawn in the upper right hand corner and my mouth goes dry.
“We do the spell. Give Kyle a scare or two. Teach him a lesson and maybe he won't be such a dickhead to the next girl…” she trails off.
“But?”
“It's just, with the baby. It doesn't say anything about changing with a baby.”
“I get it,” I tell her. It takes two tries to pry the words from my parched throat, but it's true. I do get it. She may be scared as hell to tell her family, but I know how much she loves that kid already.
“But for you, it should be safe. Then we do the healing spell before the sun rises and you should be back to normal.”
Should be. Those words rouse me.
“What if it doesn't work? How do we know any of it works?”
I follow Diana's gaze across the room. There's a terrarium taking up the entire top of her dresser and I can't believe I didn't notice it there before. In it are origami cranes, giving the impression of having been hastily folded. At least two are made from soft college-rule. Some are still. Others flutter-hop around each other. There's no mistaking it, they are all alive.
She takes the book from my lap and flips a few pages then hands it back to me. She points to the title: Minor Animations.
“What counts as a Major Animation?”
“I asked the same thing,” she says as she flips two more pages. In the margins is written: Mammals preferred. Best if the intended sacrifice is at least half the weight of the corpse you intended to revive.
I shut the book; I don't need to read anymore. Instead, I go to get a closer look at the flock that Diana has created. With my nose pressed against the glass I can see lines where the paper has gone soft, from Diana's folding or wear on their own bodies I can't tell.
“What do I need to do?” I ask without turning away from the glass. I can hear Diana ruffle the pages.
“Mostly be a willing participant.” She's holding up the page with the creature again. It looks like a cross between a bear and a bat, and I wish I could laugh at it but its mis-proportioned body turns my stomach. The arms are too spindly, too long. The jaw too loose. The knees might be backwards, but I don't want to look close enough again to tell. “Consent is underlined three times here. The rest...the rest is kind of easy. I'll need to grab a few things. It only works under the right conditions. Needs to be a new moon, for one.”
“When's the next one?” I ask turning to face her. Diana looks up at me. She has already done this math, and I don't know if I should be impressed at her thoroughness or pissed at her for making assumptions.
“Three days from now.” So I have three days to decide if I want to go through with this. I'll never say it out loud, but there's a small part of me that is thrilled by the prospect; to put on a monster's skin, wield all the power and damn the consequences. And that small voice? It scares the hell out of me. But this is Diana I'm talking about. She's never asked me for a damn thing she didn't need. And besides, has there ever been anything I wouldn't do for her?
* * *
Diana outlines the supplies, the steps with clinical efficiency, but it does nothing to mask her simmering excitement. When she finishes I stand up and tell her, “Let me think about it.”
Diana nods. “It'll take me a day or two to get everything we'll need.”
“I'll let you know by tomorrow.”
Then Diana takes me into one of her bone crushing hugs. I feel the tight swell of Diana's baby pressing into my own belly. It's firmer than I expected.
The drive home is one of those drives that feels like an out-of-body experience. My hands guide me down familiar streets, my eyes seeing—but not really—and the next thing I know I'm parked outside my house. The driveway is empty, but I never pull in. I let my dad use the driveway so it's a shorter walk inside. He'd never admit it, but I think his hip is getting worse.
Dad's worked night shifts as long as I can remember, and he always leaves me a note before he goes. It used to be in a lunch box for me to find at school the next day. Today he's left a note on the kitchen counter saying that there's lasagna in the fridge: Preheat the oven to 400°. Cook for one hour. Signed with three hearts. I put the lasagna in the oven and pour myself a bowl of cereal.
Before the oven chimes I know what I will tell Diana.
* * *
When my dad was nineteen he totaled his Chevy Impala with his best friend in the passenger seat. A last minute decision behind the wheel saved his friend's life and ruined my Dad's left leg. They pinned my Dad's hip back together and Uncle Dave came over every other Sunday for dinner with us. Until one time Uncle Dave left and mom left with him.
Dad goes through every day with screws in his hip and a knife in his back, and he's still probably the most thoughtful and patient person I know. I asked him once if he regretted that split-second choice. He looked me in the face with his lips pressed into a fierce line and a furrow to his brow. “Never,” he said. “Not even once.”
There's a business card on the fridge for the specialist he has a referral to see about a total hip replacement. The card has gone yellow from the sun.
I don't call or text Diana the next day. I skip school Monday. On Tuesday after school I find her leaning on the hood of my car.
“Let's do it,” I say. My smile feels watery. But if it looks shaky she doesn't mention it. She just smiles.
“You're the best, Ash.”
The praise settles warmly in my chest. “Where next?”
She rummages through her bag a second and her hand emerges holding a small re-purposed jam jar.
“Drink this.” Turns out Diana has been busy with or without my answer. But she knows me. Knows me best.
If Diana told me this was creek water I wouldn't be surprised--brownish specks are suspended in an off-yellow liquid. Some of the particles are already starting to fall to the bottom. She frowns then gives the jar a hard shake and cracks the lid. Diana leans forward and sniffs it before grinning brightly and extending the jar to me. It smells citrusy and warm, like the burst of fragrance from the black walnuts that cover Diana's yard. I'm not sure if the chill snaking its way up my spine is a warning or excitement but before I can consider or change my mind I take the jar from Diana and swallow it down in three long drinks.
Whatever she gave me is cool and more viscous traveling down my throat than it felt sliding past my tongue. The residue left on my lips is sticky and acerbic. I wipe my hand across the back of my sleeve.
“And now we wait,” Diana says, rocking back on her heels. “Pick me up at eight?”
“And Kyle? What about him?”
“I've got that covered. Just pick me up at eight, yeah?”
My stomach is a tangle of nervous excitement, the promise of power trembling through me. If this works...damn! Things are never going to be the same for either of us again.
* * *
I park in Diana's driveway at eight exactly. Even more surprising, Diana is waiting for me. Neither of us have been this on time in our lives. She's sitting on the front step and there are two backpacks beside her. Diana flashes me a smile and I toss her my keys. My hands are shaking too much to drive, and besides, she knows where we're going.
Soon we're outside of the city. The windows are down and energy crackles between us, as if the very night knows what we are going to attempt to do and is urging us forward. Diana takes the next turn too fast. I brace my hands on the dash and root my feet to the floor and try to melt into the turn. She is lightning, and I am the cloud that carries her. Diana trills into the night. For the first time since she taught me, when we were in overalls and training bras, I trill back.
We pull up at a public access entrance for Reed's Lake. I look at Diana.
“We used to come out here to watch the stars fall,” she says without looking back.
There is a space of silence between us. I know what it's like to feel discarded. But there are threads of a different sort of heartsickness embroidered in her pain. She shakes off the memories of her and Kyle and it's all electric business again.
“Let's get you ready.”
I follow Diana down a path of crushed grass until we're out of view of where she parked the car. They say hurt people, hurt people. And I know Diana's hurt goes deeper than that busted lip Kyle gave her. He's a shitbag for the way he treated her after knocking her up, but I still wonder how far this is meant to go. It's all in Diana's hands now though. She gives me four palm-sized rocks, only distinguishable to me by texture in this darkness. She instructs me to place them as if I were making an X and to stand in their center.
From the other backpack she pulls out a large mason jar full of a dark liquid. For the first time I feel doubtful.
“I don't have to drink that too, do I?” Shame on me for not reading the fine print.
“No, but I do need a drop of your blood.” I laugh at first, but then I make out the smoothness of Diana's face. She's serious. “Only, like, a drop though." She produces a safety pin.
I hold my hand out to her, but she shakes her head. “You have to do it. Remember that whole willing and consent thing?”
I shove the safety pin into my pointer finger and squeeze until I coax two droplets forward.
“I love you, Ashley. You really are the best.” I can feel her smile even in the dark.
Diana brings the jar up to her mouth and whispers words she must have memorized. I don't hear them, but they sound soothing, like the tone you'd use to hush a baby back to sleep. Then she spreads the liquid around me in a circle, connecting the rocks I've laid. She begins with the one in front of me. A flash of headlights shine through the trees in the distance. Kyle must have arrived; Diana works faster.
The spot where she has poured her trail begins to sizzle with cold smoke that drifts straight upward rather than wherever it pleases. Diana completes her circle and steps back to admire her work. She gives me one last smile through this swirling column I am ensconced in, then heads back towards the dirt parking lot to do whatever she has planned to do to get Kyle out here.
The only direction I can see clearly in is up. I tilt my head to take in the starry night; The new moon is heavy in its absence. I can feel it like bated breath. And that's when it begins—my lungs spark like there's been a match lit behind my diaphragm. Each breath in drags sandpaper down my trachea. There is a searing pain that ricochets from my elbows through the pads of each of my fingers. My shoulders bulge and shift, the sound of them dislocating and relocating bringing wave after wave of nausea. The fibrous things that hold me together are becoming undone. I am becoming remade. And though I am standing I can feel the backs of my hands brush through damp grass as my knuckles pop and contort. Spasms flash up and down my spine—it bends and bows of its own accord. There is a wrenching in my gut; My arms wrap around my body twice and I can feel my stomach torque and expand. My head is pounding and I feel like I might be split in half from skull to soles. Perhaps I have.
I don't have to wait for Diana to bring Kyle to me. The smoke column fades and I am unleashed. Voices from their direction shiver against my ears. My jaw unhinges and a long dry tongue undulates out of my mouth towards the promise of something filling. I can smell them, in my nostrils, under my tongue.
I like it.
There is a moment in which this realization fills me with revulsion, but the call is too strong, my legs tensing and twitching with the impulse to hunt.
I oblige.
I take a running start toward the lake, scamper soundlessly up a pine and then launch into the night. There is a thin membrane from thumb to torso and I don't even have to think about how to use it. I glide on an updraft. I am obscured, nightmare dark against night sky. Kyle and Diana are arguing and before he can raise his hand I land on his back claws first.
Diana yelps backward, though we tumble well away from her. It is over almost before it begins. I pull Kyle up struggling and swinging and without ceremony, I gnaw into the soft part between his jaw and his shoulder. Slick gristle works its way down my throat. There is a roaring in my ears; I am spilling more blood than I am swallowing, the urge to consume overwhelming the urge to savor, and the part of me that was disgusted is nowhere to be found. I revel in the iron tang that coats my tongue and the sticky warmth running down my chin and—
“Ash? Ashley?”
I drop Kyle. It occurs to me that she might have been calling my name for a minute now. Diana's eyes are wide, fear rolls off her in sour waves, but she doesn't tremble.
I approach her, she remains cautious but still.
“The healing spell. I have it ready already, Ash. It's in my bag. Let's go get my bag, okay? This is all okay still. You're still Ash, okay?”
This close, I am taller than Diana now. I hunch over her until my muzzle is flush with her face. Each snuff blows her hair off her forehead, her shoulder as I inhale. Flinch, after flinch. A giggle burbles out of me at the wrongness of it all. Tears form in the wells of her eyes. I can see her heart beat a staccato pulse in the side of her neck. It's the only sight, the only sound that is important to me. Her face, her mouth are covered in Kyle's blood and her lips are mouthing words for me and me alone.
“Please. Please remember, Ash.”
I lick my lips around these new teeth swelling from my gums, sharp and long and throbbing. Something small inside me reminds me that she is important to me, this girl, and smaller still: this is not how this was supposed to happen. Blood-lust is an ache in my sternum. So I soothe it. As gentle and silent as the beating of moth wings, I slip my teeth over her heartbeat and begin to drink.