Page 7 of Fang Fatale

"I could make them literal," she says. "Usually feels like overkill."

She glances toward the little stack of unopened mail.

"Have you checked your letters?"

Twenty milliseconds of panic bloom before common sense catches up. No one here has my address.

Today's lone envelope bears the familiar sticker from the Coven of Respectful Correspondence, Dandy's preferred method of sending me horoscopes and coupons for the produce stand.

She catches my expression and waves her donut dismissively.

"No one's coming for you."

Coming from her, I believe it.

We eat donuts in silence, which is the only proper way to eat donuts.

I choose a plain glazed.

Dandy selects the one covered in disco dust.

Her tongue is iridescent after one bite.

"So," she says eventually, "how does it feel to be a genuine missing person?"

I'd like to say liberating.

Instead, it feels like waking at three in the morning convinced someone is outside the window and sleeping with a kitchen knife beneath my pillow.

"If I see one more headline about what a tragic, beautiful, fragile waif I was," I say, "I'm throwing my phone into the bay."

"They'll welcome it with parades," Dandy assures me. "An entire flotilla of mermen holding signs that say We Do Not Miss You, Leland."

I laugh so hard I inhale donut crumbs.

Her smile softens.

"You know," she says quietly, "you can stay with me as long as you want."

I shake my head.

"I have to try somewhere."

A beat.

"I hope it's here."

She nods, accepting that answer, then begins carefully measuring salt around the cottage. Tiny runes appear beneath her fingertips as she murmurs spells that sound suspiciously like inside jokes.

I love that about her.

All her magic is built on the scaffolding of affection and absurdity.

"Can I help?"

"You're already helping."

She smiles.