IGMS Issue 17 by IGMS Read Free Book Online Page A

hair moved as if touched by some otherworldly wind. Her eyes burned like the hidden stars; her lips were nearly as red as blood. She was beautiful, terrible and as untouchable as the fog itself. "For a price."
    "What?" Steve said. "What price? I'll pay it." He was too tired to be angry. Too worried to be careful.
    "Yourself," she replied. "If you swear to come away with me, to live with me and tell me stories always. To be mine, and mine alone," she said. "For that, I will use my magic. I will cure him."
    "You want us to go with you so I can tell you stories?" he asked, feeling slow and stupid. There had to be a catch to it. It couldn't be this easy.
    "Not the child," the sparrowjunkie answered. "Just you. It's you I need, Steven. Without you, I will fade away again. Worse than what you first saw of me. I will die."
    "Why?" he asked.
    "You believe," she said.
    He blinked. His eyelids felt like sandpaper, scraping against his eyes. Believe. He did -- yes. He believed in the stories, believed in her magic. Was that what had been feeding her? Was that her addiction? Had she been haunting him simply because he believed in the stories he told? Was that what she needed?
    "All right," said Steve. He heard the words almost before he'd even realized he'd spoken them. There really was no other choice. He did believe, and believing, knew her promise was a better chance for Matt than any combination of drugs and doctors.
    "My life for his. I can agree to that."
    It would leave Matt an orphan, alone in an unfamiliar city, but it was better than dying. It had to be. "You'll cure him? He'll be healthy, once and for all?"
    "This I swear," she said. She held out her hand. The soft pad at the tip of each finger had been pierced by something. She was bleeding -- a slow, red trickle against her white skin.
    "You won't hurt him," Steve said. His own hand was extended, but he hesitated, inches separating their fingertips.
    "He will take no harm from me," she promised. "But you will never speak to him or touch him again. You may look upon him, from a distance," she said, granting a lone concession. "But he will never know you. All your stories, all your love, will belong to me."
    "Yes," said Steve. "Alright. I promise." He touched her then, palm to palm, their fingertips aligned. Her skin was cold as ice, but her blood burned. He drew a long, hissing breath. It felt as though hot wires had been thrust into his bones His arm jerked and twisted. The nerves leapt under his skin. She leaned forward, touched her lips to his. They were soft, cool, and unexpectedly sweet. Like the clasp of her hand, the kiss burned, but Steve did not pull back.
    In the end, she was the one who let go.
    "Tomorrow then," she said, and smiled, beautiful and terrible. "You may bring him home, and say farewell. I will come for you at nightfall."
    She left, dissolving into the fog.
    Steve stood, his eyes glued to the white-painted metal of the fire escape where something bright lay waiting. He scooped it up into his aching hand, blood and meat and feathers, a sad, silent thing. He glanced up, remembering Matt's story about the nest, and the birds fighting for it. Yes, there --the nest. It, too, was silent. For all he could tell, it was empty. He looked down at the broken thing in his hand.
    "A bluebird," he said, to no one but himself. "The sparrows must have killed it."

    Matt was insanely healthy from the moment he woke at the hospital, full of energy. He ate every bite of his breakfast, as though he'd been waiting all his life for lukewarm pancakes, turkey sausage, and a fruit cup. He was still thin, but with good color, and clearly in excellent spirits, charming the doctors and nurses alike with a seemingly endless round of knock-knock jokes. Matt didn't understand half of them, but he had memorized them and loved making people laugh.
    There was obviously no reason to worry any more on Matt's account, but it was late afternoon before the hospital let them go. Steve had