She was on fire, Anastasia.

She stood ankle-deep in the crisp white snowbanks, burning like a beacon. Wind broke her flame, but it fought the gale until it was bright and glorious again. A sweltering star in the nexus of a dead and frozen world.

It wasn't his place; there were no fir trees. Instead he was in her dream. He was in her place. He didn't know how, but he could feel it. This world belonged to Anna, in life and after.

It was cold here, but different. An icy tundra, not a snowy mountaintop. Where his world was clustered with canopies of evergreen trees, hers was unboundedly open—so vast and ethereal and endless. An island of nothing beneath the milky way. A twinkling opal sea of celestial lights, ribboning above in the perpetual sky. And just like his world, it was peaceful.

And she looked so happy, standing in front of him and smiling—one deep divot in her pinkish cheeks. So happy while the fire consumed her.

It wasn't reality, what he saw. Maybe that was why Jaylin didn't panic. Because her flesh didn't burn and flake, her hair didn't flare into crisps. The snow didn't even melt around her. Instead she turned to smoke, from her ankles onward. Dark smoke, deluging slowly like ink into water, turning her to nothing one horrible inch at a time.

But she was happy, so happy. And she didn't say anything, Anna. She just reached out for Jaylin's cheeks and he let her hold them—cold in her phantom hands. And then the fire consumed those too, and Jaylin watched her lessen from his world until the last flame burned out and Anna was gone. Gone to the endless sky.

But the sound of a roaring fire still whispered to him. He could feel the heat of it on his face. Jaylin's dream sunk away to darkness and he emerged to a different kind of light, and when he opened his eyes, there was fire again—this time contained in masonry and trapped behind a metal cage.

He traced the mortar between bricks until he could escape his sleepy labyrinth. And when he could truly focus, Jaylin found himself gazing into the photographs that crowded the fireplace mantle. His eyes traveled the frames until he found a face he recognized.

Curly-headed and grinning emphatically, a young Alexander hung from the branch of a pine tree, reaching for the largest cone he could get his hands on. Lisa was in the frame beside him—thirty years younger, slim and bright and somehow so colorful beneath the monochromatics. There were some of Mr. Sigvard, some of family pets that had come to pass, some of grandparents—decrepitly old and looking somewhat begrudging beneath with their Mona Lisa smiles. But none of Quentin and none of Anna, and it felt incomplete without them.

Jaylin could smell old blood before the door had even opened—and once it did, he could recognize the muscle structure of Quentin's body stepping through, even with a towel over his face. His hands were in the cotton, tousling his hair dry, and Jaylin dragged himself away from his abdominal muscles long enough to catch wounds in his arms. Not clean cuts, but serrated lesions that would never heal the same. Instead they would scar the perfect skin beneath. It made him sad, the sight. Such beautiful skin.

When he pulled the towel off, Quentin met his eyes in fleeting surprise. And then that smile broke through like sun through storm clouds. "You're awake. I couldn't feel your heartbeat."

"You couldn't?" Jaylin asked—or tried. Something faulted in his vocal cords and his voice only came out part-way, hoarse and harsh like television static. "What time is it?" Jaylin rasped.

"It's six in the evening," Quentin said, wandering over to a black sack that rested by the fireplace mantel. He pulled the zipper open and dug inside for something. "It's going to start soon, Jaylin."

He knew already, and he was so much less afraid now than before. Maybe Ziya had shown him true fear when she locked him in that place. Maybe the curse didn't sound so bad to him anymore.

"Where..." he croaked again, taking in each corner of the room. The entire place looked to be made of log and brick, the furniture mostly wicker, save for the couch he rested on and the rocking chair beside it. There wasn't much to see in this dark place—only what the fire touched. Taxidermy animals and the busts of slain elk, displayed proudly from the wooden rafters.

When he looked back to Quentin, he was standing above him, reaching for his face with a definite uncertainty. Quentin, uncertain. Maybe there were stranger things than the bad moon. He hardly felt the touch beneath the rough surface of his skin, but he could feel the heat of Quentin's fingers, cupping the lining of his jaw, tilting it back just a bit. With his other hand, Quentin pressed a capsule to his lips and Jaylin opened for the pill he offered.

"You're safe," he said, then he did the same with a bottle of water, tilting it gradually until Jaylin had taken enough and the pill was down.

He didn't know why Quentin tended to him like this until he tried to raise his arms. The muscles flexed but his limbs didn't move. Everything was dead weight, nearly to the strength in his neck.

Quentin's fingers left and he allowed Jayin to lower his chin, and the moment that touch was gone, he missed it. He'd hardly felt a thing the whole time, but he missed it.

And as Quentin took a shirt from the closet and pulled it on over his bare chest, Jaylin watched the muscles in his back with a sad kind of longing. A bleeding wistfulness.

He'd wanted to be back with Quentin so badly, but now that he was, it felt surreal. Maybe Tisper had turned him into a romantic somewhere along the line. Part of him expected more than this. Part of him thought that whatever invisible force held Quentin such a distance away would wither. Crumble into nothing or burn up into smoke like Anna—as cruel as that sounded. But it was still there, the moat he'd dug around himself. He was safe in his castle, Quentin. So untouchable.

The door behind him slung open with a hard smack and Jaylin felt his heart flip at the sound. Slamming doors didn't sit so well with him anymore. But despite his fears, there were no women in masks, keen on wheeling him away—only Tisper, standing there with a grin and a spoon in her hand.

"You hungry, Jay? I'm making mac n' cheese."

Quentin spun around to look at her, tugging his shirt down at the hips. "Hey, wait. I told you, he can't—"

"Jesus, I know. It's organic, yeesh."

"He needs protein."

"Cheese is protein."

"Meat, Tisper. He needs meat."

Tisper flicked her spoon at him, noodles airborne. "You can't tell me there's no such thing as a vegan werewolf."

"I can because there isn't. And vegans don't eat cheese."

"Vegetarian, then."

"He's not a vegetarian!"

"Guys," Jaylin found his torn and tattered voice just long enough for them to hush and look his way. The sight of them was just too much. Of all the wars to be waged at a time like this. He laughed, though it nearly tore his throat up the middle. "I'm kind of starving here."

"So mac n' cheese?" Tisper dangled the offer.

"Or I can make you an actual meal," Quentin intervened. "Chicken cordon bleu? Rack of lamb? I can make a mean tuna poke." Jaylin knew it was more than a simple offering by the way he smiled—too charming. But not charming enough to compete with Tisper's mac n' cheese.

Jaylin pointed to her.

"Ha," Tisper jeered as she swung out of the room, her voice long behind her. "You've got a lot to learn, Bronx."

There was something hidden in those words, but Jaylin didn't ask—he didn't have the opportunity. Tisper left to cook and Quentin fed him more pills and water and rushed out the moment he smelled something burning.

A time would come when he could tell Quentin about Anna. A time when he had his voice, and a time when Tisper wasn't around. A time that felt right. Chances were, he wouldn't believe him. Without the folder—without the proof, Quentin would always blame himself. But maybe it would bring him closure. Maybe it would bring him something.

Tisper had to feed him like a child, but he ate every bite from the spoon she gave him. He hated it, missed his arms. But in all honesty, he missed her mac n' cheese so much more

Quentin had made her add bacon to the mix, and once the food had settled in his stomach, Jaylin could sit up—just barely. No matter how hard he tried, he still ended up slouched into the pillows at his side.

He could move his arms too. He couldn't lift them but he could grip things and hold things and maybe feed himself if he weren't so tired. It was strange though. After all the fuss over the food, he hadn't seen either one of them eat. They just watched him, trying and failing to hide the uneasy looks on their faces.

When he couldn't eat anymore, Tisper ran off to the kitchen to wash the dishes and Quentin took a seat beside him and offered him a pad of paper and a pen. "You've got questions, don't you?" he asked. "I know you do."

Jaylin gripped the pen—too small in his freakish fingers—and scribbled down a barely legible,

How many questions?

Quentin's lips cracked to a smile as he watched Jaylin craft one sloppy letter at a time. "As many as you want."

Jaylin scribbled down more words and turned the paper to him.

How's mom?

"Happy," Quentin said. "Lisa visited her yesterday with some fruit from the garden. It's all going to go bad once winter hits."

Jaylin bit his lip and scribbled once more, You got hurt.

"It'll heal."

Is everyone okay?

"Everyone's fine. The others you freed too. They're safe now."

How did you find me?

"The same way I always do."

Jaylin looked up to him then, his face flooded red in the light of the moon—black locks slicked back from the lingering dew of his shower. He wrote this time, without looking.

Stay?

There was a fiery iridescence in Quentin's eyes. Burning gold and brilliant as they sunk into Jaylin like teeth.

"I'm not leaving you."

He was thankful, so thankful Quentin couldn't hear his heartbeat. For whatever reason, he couldn't hear it—they weren't synchronizing, either. Jaylin knew because he could hear it. His own, Quentin's, fighting for metronome where there was no harmony between them. He didn't know why. Maybe the curse had taken his heart. Maybe it was his bullet-proof flesh. Whatever the reason, Quentin couldn't hear how loudly it thundered. Thank god, he couldn't hear.

And then that feeling—that wonderful feeling turned to pain.

Jaylin dropped his pen and curled into himself with a sob, tears rushing to his eyes. Every part of him was shaking, trembling like he'd been dropped in an ice bath. He didn't feel cold, though. He burned. But it was the pain in his chest that hurt the most—like his bones were being torn from one another. Like the cartilage between his ribs was ripping apart and he could feel every awful tear.

He didn't know when Quentin had picked him up, but Jaylin was in his arms and every step he took felt like knives, gutting him from the inside out. Quentin had shouted for Tisper at some point, because she shot through the door with a pot in hand and a dish towel over her shoulder.

"The basement," he said and Tisper tossed the useless things aside and rushed back the way she'd come. Quentin followed her, down a hallway where lamps mounted the walls beside paintings of scenery and portraits of strangers. Everything became a bleary excuse of what was. Mud clouded his site, and it was only when they passed an antique mirror at the end of the hall that Jaylin knew why.

His eyes were red, dark and clotted with blood—or what looked to be. The black had grown over his cheeks, breaching the bridge of his nose. The taste of copper tainted his tongue.

And then a door opened and Jaylin was in the darkness, listening to Quentin's heartbeat against his ear. They were moving down stairs, he could feel Quentin's arms coil tighter around him, less impact with every step.

They reached the floor below as the pain overtook his lungs and Jaylin couldn't breath any longer. He was clutching at Quentin—too hard. His claws sharp against his skin, pierced through the fabric of his shirt. Quentin didn't wince.

"It's alright," he heard him say, "It's alright. This is going to help you, okay?"

And then he felt something cold against his lips—a bitter taste on his tongue. And in moments, there was nothing but the perfume of Quentin's skin and the thrum of his heart against Jaylin's cheek. Nothing but Quentin. He wouldn't mind dying in a place like this.