Binsa loved my tattoos. Absolutely adored them.

  “They’re so cute!” she told me, carrying a bowl of freshly-cooked spaghetti out of my kitchen. Instead of putting it on my coffee table, she put it in my lap, because during the first month of living with her, after I’d been adopted by the Hesters, I’d put my face over a bowl of steaming fresh spaghetti during one supper to enjoy the smell and warm feel of the steam. I gave her a look, this time, and a sigh.

  “I was twelve years old back then,” I told her.

  “Still are,” she said, and went back into the kitchen. The moment she turned around I held the bowl of spaghetti beneath my face and inhaled the steam. It felt good. I’d definitely go to a spaghetti-based sauna. That would be amazing.

  “Is this cat yours now?” Binsa asked from the kitchen.

  “Cat?” I asked. What was she talking about? I put the noodles on my coffee table next to a dish of warmed black olives and a bowl of Parmesan cheese that was far too much for two people to eat, though Binsa and I were game for the challenge. My sister was warming two sauces on the stove. A white sauce with copious amounts of alcohol, and then a tomato-based sauce with an array of spices. I hadn’t yet decided which direction I’d lean. It was likely I’d have some of each.

  Charles the cat was on my kitchen floor. There’s a window in my kitchen. It has a fire escape outside of it. Cats have no sense of trespass.

  “Oh,” I told Binsa. “Not my cat. That’s Charles.”

  “One of your neighbor’s cats, right?” Binsa dipped a finger in the white sauce, and then the tomato sauce, testing for heat and taste. She sucked her fingers and looked at the cat.

  “Not a neighbor’s cat,” I said. “Charles is… hmm. I don’t really know. A general populace cat? He belongs to the people.” Charles was on the floor, curling into “I own everything” position. Binsa reached down and scritched him behind his ears.

  “I think you should adopt him,” she declared. “Isn’t this the one that watched us moving you into the apartment?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Well, he’s yours, then. That’s how the law works.”

  “There are no laws when it comes to cats. Every cat is a criminal conspiracy.”

  “Well, at least keep him away from your foxes,” Binsa said, reaching out to tap the fox on my arm. “Foxes and cats are natural enemies. I think. Maybe? I don’t know. Maybe they’re friends. What do foxes eat?”

  “Rodents,” I said, which was a good answer. A correct one, I mean. What I didn’t say was, “Foxes eat your brother’s life, and also the life of a witch that used to live next door. They stalk their victims over time and devour them with snapping jaws and inescapable flames.” That would’ve also been a correct answer.

  “Just rodents?” Binsa asked. “Like, mice and rats and stuff? Eww.”

  “I think they eat other things, too. Berries. Vegetables.”

  “Better.”

  “Frogs and snakes.”

  “Again, eww. Why’d you decide on the tattoos?” Binsa carried the sauces to my coffee table, arranging them on a dishtowel so the heat of the pots wouldn’t damage the wood. Burns are a terrible thing.

  “They just came to me,” I said.

  “Women will probably adore them. Foxes are equally predatory and charming. That’s exactly the way women like their men to be.”

  “You wouldn’t know. No context for you. And I still think you’re reading too many men’s magazines. It’s skewing your world view.” I was wondering how, in the future, I’d explain it to Binsa when my tattoos changed, when the foxes moved closer together, preparing to turn me to ash.

  “Everyone’s world view is skewed,” Binsa said, using a pair of forks to grab decadent amounts of spaghetti for her plate. “Any time an individual has a world view, it’s wrong, because no single person can have a perspective on the rest of the world and how other people live their lives.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” I doubly supposed it was true now that there were two worlds in my view.

  “Did they hurt?” Binsa asked. “Your tattoos?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Especially the one on my chest.” It was the full truth, this time, barring the omission of context.

  “I wish I could get tattoos,” she said, holding out her arm. Her dark skin would obliterate any tattoo. I’ve seen a few white tattoos, but they never seem to work. They look more like those Rorschach inkblot tests.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “You wouldn’t like tattoos like these,” I said. More truth.

  “Well, no. Brother and sister with matching tattoos? That’d be weird. Like, artistic incest.” She smiled at her joke. I tried to smile along with her, but I was picturing my sister with the Fox Geas tattoos. The way she’d be watching the time ticking away, the foxes gathering closer, dragging the end of her life along with them. The agony on her face when the flames first started. The moment her life was gone. I was trying to avoid any thoughts of how Salena had endured those ticks of the clocks and the heat of those flames. I was desperately avoiding any thoughts of how my own clock was ticking. It was impossible to function if I dwelled too much on how the foxes and the heat were gathering.

  Charles jumped up into my lap.

  “It’s cute how cats get so affectionate whenever there’s food around,” Binsa said.

  “Cynic.”

  “Realist.” She poured sauce on her spaghetti. One side of the plate had tomato sauce, and the other had white sauce. There was a thick stripe of virgin territory in the middle, because my sister has always enjoyed the taste of cooked spaghetti, alone, with no additives. Often, back when we’d lived together, she would eat entire bowls of spaghetti without any sauce at all.

  “Close your eyes,” she said.

  “Huh? Why?”

  “Because I’m going to put an embarrassing amount of Parmesan cheese on my spaghetti. You’ll think I’m a glutton. That’s one of the seven deadly sins.”

  “I’m a fellow sinner. On Judgment Day we can make excuses for each other.”

  “I like you, Fellow Sinner,” Binsa said. “Our pact of silence is now sealed.” She began sprinkling the cheese on her spaghetti. Pouring it, actually. When she was only halfway finished, it was already too much. I made my own plate of spaghetti, using the tomato sauce and being equally as liberal with the cheese. I added the black olives as well. It was a chore to prepare the spaghetti because I had to do everything with a cat on my lap. Charles was of absolutely no help, not adjusting at all. If I moved too far to one direction, or stood up too much, the cat would’ve fallen off. Good luck on Judgment Day if you’ve made a cat fall off your lap. No excuses accepted.

  I’d gotten sauce on my fingers. I let Charles lick it off. He cleaned my finger and then gave me a look as if he wasn’t sure he was grateful for the treat or ready to condemn me. Binsa cooks a fair amount of spice in her sauce.

  We were halfway through our meal—and halfway drunk on some bourbon Binsa had claimed would go well with the spaghetti but didn’t—when I remembered the bread we had warming in the oven. Luckily, it wasn’t too burnt, just a little dry. When I came back out with the bread, Charles had moved to Binsa’s lap.

  “I’ve adopted him,” she said. “He’s mine now.”

  “You’re the one that’s been adopted,” I countered. “You’re his.” I was settling back onto the couch when I heard a bump in my old bedroom. The door was closed, of course. I looked nervously over my shoulder. Binsa hadn’t heard. Charles sat up in her lap, concerned.

  “Bourbon makes me think of women I should text,” Binsa said. Her attention was on her phone. Charles leapt up onto the back of the couch, stared at my bedroom door, and then dismissed everything and curled back up on my sister’s lap. I decided that if the cat hadn’t cared, maybe there was nothing to care about? It’s very possible the bourbon influenced this decision.

  “Isn’t it weird how alcohol makes people more interesting?” Binsa said, flipping through her phone. “It’s like, we spend our lives not caring about things, or holding back, and then with a few glasses of booze we’re suddenly open to trying new things and seeing people in new lights.”

  “You just want to see girls in your bedroom,” I told her. “You’re not all that interested in the lighting.”

  “Oh, but I am! I like the lights on.”

  “I like less information about my sister’s sexual proclivities.”

  “Trade me in for a new sister, then. But the exchange rate is shit. Now here, help me.” She handed me her phone. Just as she did, there was a solid thud from my old bedroom. There was something or someone inside the room. Something had come through the door. Binsa ignored it completely, but Charles climbed up onto the back of the couch, at one point using my sister’s phone—which I was holding in my hand—as a stepping stone for his paw. It swiped through a couple of photos.

  “Oh god!” Binsa shrieked. “Cat! No! Who did you just message?” She grabbed her phone back. I wasn’t paying much attention to my sister, though. Charles had leapt to the floor and hurried to my old bedroom door. He was sitting there, repeatedly looking up to the doorknob, and then back to me.

  “Fuck,” I said.

  “Right?” Binsa said, caught up in her own problems. “The fucking cat just rang the bells of two women on my dating app! Oh, she’s not so bad. Hmm. Okay, I can live with this. Sleep with this, I mean.”

  “Be right back,” I told her. I began walking toward my old bedroom, but what was I supposed to do? What was waiting behind the door? If it was a monster, I didn’t want it out in the living room with my sister. If it was the blurred man, I didn’t want him anywhere at all. If it was Molly or Gerik or Fridu, how would I explain them, and what did they want? And if I needed to cut loose with a Lightning Bolt I could totally forget about getting my deposit back on the apartment.

  “Fine,” Binsa said. “Break time. I need to take a pisser anyway. When I get back from the bathroom, you and the cat are required to help me compose a couple messages. Charles, it’s your fault I need to write these women, so I’m expecting utter genius on your part.” She’d reached the bathroom. As soon as she went in, the moment the door was closed, I planned on opening my old bedroom door and confronting whatever problem was lurking. Binsa was almost in the bathroom. I reached for the bedroom door.

  “Josh,” Binsa said, stopping. I moved my hand from the doorknob, nervous, and waiting.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are there any nymphs in your bathtub I should know about?”

  “Maybe? Just close the shower curtain and do your business.”

  “Fair enough.” She turned to go into the bathroom.

  “Binsa?” I said. She stopped.

  “Yeah?” She was giving me a look. I supposed I deserved it for the way I’d said her name, the emotion behind it, owing to how it had suddenly occurred to me that if something happened to me in my old bedroom, this would be the last time I ever saw my sister.

  “I love you.”

  “Because I’m taking a piss? That overwhelms you emotionally? How much bourbon have you had?” She went into the bathroom. I heard the click of the door. The clack of the lock. Charles let out a mewl of impatience at my feet.

  “Hold on,” I whispered to the cat, and then raced to my bedroom for my dagger. I also threw my cloak over my shoulders, because you never know when a +1 advantage will save your life. Then I hurried back to my old bedroom, moved Charles out of the way with my foot, and opened the door.

  Molly was inside.

  With a rhinoceros.