09

WHEN MILO WAKES — HIS EYES HAVING BEEN assaulted by the blinding rays of the morning sun glaring through a gap in his curtains — he finds himself at his desk in his work clothes with an open book as a pillow.

He doesn't remember how he got here, only that he must have managed to drag himself up a flight and a half of stairs yesterday somehow and probably erased the process from his sleep-deprived brain after another late shift at the pizzeria.

A promising start to the Greatest Summer of His Life.

And, to add to the pile of things that have gone wrong within the first thirty seconds of his consciousness this morning, he realises he's slept with his contact lenses in. Which isn't good.

Milo doesn't consider himself a paranoid person, (which is probably a prerequisite of paranoia now that he thinks about it) but he's heard enough horror stories to scare him into taking his contacts out every night without fault. It's not a big deal, really. It was only one night—at least, this is what he tells himself as he fumbles blearily around the desk for his glasses. Unsuccessful, he decides to risk a semi-blind trip to the bathroom.

Living in what was once the attic means space is limited and the ceiling is slanted low to cause minor head injuries to anyone taller than five foot six (Milo does not fall under this category), but it's all Milo needs. While his desk and bed fill most of the space, a shelf filled mostly by books and vinyls, and a desk that's barely visible beneath final papers and empty Chinese takeout boxes from late-night cramming (of both food and historical timelines).

There are also plants, though unlike Anais, Milo doubts he could keep one alive for more than a couple of weeks without Lenore's aid, and Milo nearly knocks one entirely from its hook in his haste. His mother insists that he keep them there for reasons beyond him. Something about bad omens or restless spirits.

As Milo crosses the landing, he tries not to think about how his eyes are burning a little. And, how his vision's a little fuzzy.

"Milo?"

At the foot of the stairs is a gauzy silhouette of his mother holding a darker silhouette which Milo guesses could either be a bundled blanket, or the cat.

"Yes? Hi–" he says blinking rapidly in an attempt to bring the world back into focus, "I, uh... Can I take a raincheck on this conversation? I'll be back."

Before Lenore has the chance to respond, Milo ducks into the bathroom and goes straight to the mirror above the sink. In the misted glass, his reflection stares back — a hazy impressionist painting of himself. He takes out his contacts and splashes his face and eyes with icy water feeling considerably more awake. When Milo looks up at the mirror again he's startled by the sudden sharpness of his reflection despite his impaired vision. But what startles him the most is his complexion — no longer tawny, but a sickly, sallow hue. Even his dark eyes seem dimmed, almost faded.

He looks dead, almost.

You look like shit.

Quickly patting his face dry, he rubs his eyes until his reflection is out of focus, as it should be, and a little more alive. Milo blinks a few times, just to be sure.

"Is everything all right?"

Leaning against the doorframe, no longer holding the cat or a blanket, but a mug, is Lenore, concern and a hint of derision etched sharply enough into the striking features of her face that Milo doesn't need glasses to decipher the expression.

Her question is simple enough, but Milo can't ignore its weight.

Considering his options, he thinks he could play dumb and tell her he was changing his contacts before they irreparably damaged his retinas (not how contacts work, but definitely how Milo's brain works), and hope that she takes the hint and doesn't interrogate further.

Or, he could say nothing and try and sneak past her.

As if hearing this last thought, Lenore sticks her free arm barricade-style across the doorway, shaking her head solemnly.

"I haven't seen much of you this week, Mi," she states calmly, "Don't think I haven't noticed you making yourself scarce."

Milo bites the inside of his cheek, studying the space just beyond Lenore to avoid her scrutinising gaze.

"I've had extra shifts. And you know..."

"I do," Lenore says, because it's true. "I know that you've been keeping me and Valerie at a distance to delay the inevitable second reading that's been looking over you for the last couple of days."

Milo sheepishly allows his eyes to meet hers. They're a dark, mahogany brown like his own, only infinitely deeper. They're kind of eyes that can hold both a conversation a small kind of universe within them—the kind that belongs to people who probably know a great deal more than you do but in a way that's comforting rather than demeaning.

Lenore hands him the mug she's been holding—slightly chipped and printed with an image of a cheerful stock image golden retriever, faded with use. Milo takes it reluctantly.

Satisfied, Lenore lets her arm fall to her side, assorted bracelets and cuffs sliding down to her wrist in a dissonant jingle. "Drink, and then we'll talk."

Alone once more, Milo takes a careful sip of the dark beverage. As the bitter liquid hits the back of his throat he gags a little. Herbal tea, he thinks, and a strong one. It tastes a little like sage and a lot like dirt.

Not wanting to prolong his suffering any longer than necessary, he downs the rest of it, burning his tongue a little in the process and leaving a bit of liquid at the bottom. Idly, he swirls the remains of the tea three times counter-clockwise and carefully tips the rest of the tea into the sink. As the leaves settle to the bottom of the mug, he tries to make some kind of shape or symbol out of them, but all sees are dark clumps of soggy plant residue.

Milo leaves the mug beside the sink and heads downstairs, his head clearer and his paranoia slowly ebbing away.

- ✧ -

This time there is only one bowl, and no Anais.

In a way, Milo is relived by his best friend's absence given the outcome of his previous reading. He tries not to think about how he hasn't spoken to her since.

On the couch beside him, Lenore stirs another dubious beverage (for herself, thankfully), and Beatrice sleeps peacefully on Milo's lap. Being the non-conforming idealist that she is, Valerie is perched on the arm of a sofa chair opposite them, clearly unwilling to be restricted by society's prescribed methods of correct furniture usage.

If a stranger were to walk in on the scene, it would have appeared almost normal, if not for the sage burning in a mug on the windowsill and the ominous bowl of water on the coffee table before them.

Lenore takes a long sip, leaning back into the couch's pleather cushions before speaking.

"Are you ready?" she asks gently.

Milo nods, seeking solace in stroking Bea between her velvety ears. With his free hand, Milo takes the stone that Valerie hands him, closing it within his palm. Though her exterior radiates disinterest, Valerie watches Milo's every move with a hawk-like gaze.

Milo breathes in, acknowledging the pit in his stomach, letting it grow into a gaping chasm until he breaths out. The chasm closes and he is calm as he releases the stone letting it fall soundlessly into the bowl. It does not splash.

"As Anais isn't here, you will need to ground yourself, Milo. Valerie and I will be visiting the astral plane with you so you mustn't let your soul wander too far. Understood?"

Milo nods again, his throat tightening a little as he begins to stir the water clockwise.

"Remember, Fate is quite elusive. It will try and obscure itself from you so what you see will not make much sense. We'll discuss-"

Before Lenore can finish, Milo feels himself being dragged under, or away. Away from his physical body and into another. A part of himself that doesn't exist, or will exist.

He closes his eyes.

- ✧ -

Milo wakes by the river. Is he dreaming again?

No. This is his fate. His future. His inevitable truth.

But he is not alone.

He senses a figure beside him but he cannot move. He reaches out his hand but it's heavy; every slight movement an insurmountable effort, until he touches something. Someone.

Another hand — a palm — ice-cold like death itself. He turns his head, his neck straining with the effort.

He sees it.

Him.

A reflection of himself.

No?

The body is much paler. Taller. Blonde. The figure is turned away from him, his face unknowable.

This is when Milo sees own his palm. Stained with red, red, red. The same deep crimson that's beginning to pool beneath the body next to him.

This is the year he will have death on his hands.

No, he thinks; says; screams. But sound doesn't exist. Not here.

The blood— blood? — grows darker, deeper, running like ink into the river, coating the exposed roots of surrounding trees. Liquid shadow dark enough to rival the starless night sky.

He cannot move as the darkness spills towards him, coating his palm with viscous black that burns and hisses.

And all he can think is,

it was supposed to be me.

Then the owl arrives, its single white feather glinting under a sickly pale moon. It swoops down from the tree, landing on Milo's chest, feathers brushing against his cheeks and neck, claw digging into his collarbone, reopening the wound that had been once healed.

And then he wakes.