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When I was in high school, I used to hate that Sylvia Plath poe the bottoreat taproot and that it hat everybody else feared, but she didn’t, because she’d been there

I still hate it

But I get it now

—Mac’s journal

Prologue

Mac: 11:18 am, November 1

Death Pestilence Famine

They surroundUnseelie Princes

Who’d’ve thought destruction could be so beautiful? Seductive Consu

My fourth lover—War? He er of Chaos, creator of Calamity, maker of Madness—if that is who he is I cannot see his face, no matter how I try Why does he hide?

He caresses my skin with hands of fire I char, my skin blisters, bones fuse from sexual heat no hu for ue, cracked lips As he fills my body, he quenches ue, drips down limpse of skin, muscle, a flash of tattoo Still no face He terrifies me, this one who keeps himself concealed

In the distance, sos, understand none I know that I have fallen into eneer know even that Pri-ya, a Fae sex addict, I will believe there is no place, nothing else I would rather be

If h to form sentences, I would tell you that I used to think life unfolded in a linear fashion That people were born and went to … what’s that human word? I dressed up for it every day There were boys Lots of cute boys I thought the world revolved around them