Truly Elemental: And Other Retro Faerie Tales

Over Your Grave

Maebean is not mortal.

She runs a curious finger along the dead girl's neck, tracing the uneven track to the simple fabric collar. "Time has slowed for her, she should be dust. See Cat, how her gift spoils the earth?"

Castor grimaces, "She's disgusting."

"She's beautiful. Elf-blessed."

"She's a dead thing."

Maebean hooks her finger into the skeletal mouth and pries it open. A loud crack sends Castor scurrying out of the hole. He raises a clean wrist to shield his nose, his jeans filthy. "Yuck! What could your Grandma—"

"Granmére."

"—Granmere possibly want from a corpse?"

Maebean smiles but keeps the answer to herself. She grabs a tooth, still whole and unmarred, and pulls.

Static on the radio jilts Elvis mid-chorus. The first tooth comes free, and she pulls and pulls and pulls until her fist is filled with the rest. The skull screams silently now, its grin plucked out.

"Help me, please," Maebean says when her work is finished. Her empty hand poses for Castor again, and he lifts her from the grave with one strong arm, her body weightless as a box of wedding tulle.

"Baby, really, why are we doing this?" Castor sighs, watching her spill the contents of her clenched palm into the teacup. Incisors, canines, molars—uppers and lowers—clatter against the porcelain like sugar cubes and swirling spoons. He counts the sounds:

Thirty-two.

Maebean holds the cup by the scrolled handle, pinky finger crooked. Catching a piece of his crimson jacket, she tugs Castor closer. "Because I love you, stupid."

He melts into her lips, warm blood racing to their cheeks. Hearts flood heat between them. Hers pumps ahead of his, fast, like it might wear out before they're done. She tastes his tongue. He feels hers against his teeth.

Castor shivers. His grip ripples, tense, on her waist.

Maebean smiles, planting coy kisses along his cheek. "Someone's walked over your grave, baby," she whispers in his ear. Her fingers lace with his and she leads him to the car.

• • •

Granmére's house looks as sane as the rest of the neighborhood—on the outside. A grand old saltbox colonial with more windows and diamond panes than Castor has ever seen. The clapboard siding oozes a deep deep purple. Under the midnight sky, it looks black as a gumboot. Uninviting.

The inside is full of dirt.

Maebean leads Castor through a long tunnel that should have been a foyer or a hall. Tree roots thread in and out of the chiseled ceiling like bunting or crepe paper at a party. Lanterns dangle from the thickest roots, wedged in the bark where sap bleeds hardened amber. The scent of rot fills the cool air. The same smell from the dead girl's coffin.

Maebean stops before a listing door set in the tunnel wall. The strap hinges do little to hold the slats together. The latch sits at chest height, rusty metal waiting to be lifted.

"Granmére will adore you, she must," she says, straightening his collar and running her free hand along his stomach, taking her time with his shirt, tucking it properly into his jeans. Her other hand balances the teacup.

And the teeth.

Maebean knocks on the door.

Castor wedges himself a step behind her as they enter. The glow of a lit fire drowns the burrow beyond in ochre hues. Red clay walls rise high enough to clear their heads under a low ceiling. Maebean's pointed heels leave imprints on the dirt floor.