#makani calipusan
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Context: Precious thinks about Makani’s death a year later
A year has passed since she died.
Staring at one of the cemetery’s many columbaria, where the name MAKANI DIWA M. CALIPUSAN and the dates APR. 13, 1991 - MAY 3, 2024 are etched into a square of granite, Precious recalls the suffocating darkness that consumed every object into its inky void, as she watched her closest friend take her last breaths, the magically manufactured blackness robbing Makani of air, a glimmer of amusement in her dark eyes. Amused by what, Precious hadn’t been sure. Amusement that she was dying at the hands of the one person she loved? Amusement that Precious had picked one of the methods that Makani had said she wouldn’t mind?
“I think asphyxiation would be a fun way to die,” she’d once said, her knees curled up onto the couch as she and Precious watched a movie in which a character was being choked to death. “There’s something erotic about it. And you get that final high before you lose consciousness.”
Precious hadn’t given the comment a second thought at the time. It wasn’t off-the-wall for Makani. And she certainly hadn’t suspected that someday she would be deliberating on how to kill Makani.
When the time came, when she confronted Makani in her small bedroom, Precious was just desperate for it all to end. She’d reached her breaking point. She was tired of witch hunters, she was tired of watching Makani string Ismena and Ashley along, leading them on wild goose chases. She was tired of wondering when Makani would unexpectedly appear. Tired of the late nights thinking about what Ashley and Ismena would do if they caught her. And worse, what Makani would do to them.
Makani must’ve known it was coming. Maybe she’d engineered the entire thing. Somehow.
Just a couple weeks before, she’d held Precious in her arms and in a voice that was uncharacteristically tender, told her, “Whatever happens, Precious, I’ll never blame you.”
But, Makani didn’t have to blame her. She blamed herself. The long nights of wondering what might happen when Ashley and Ismena caught Makani shifted into long nights of wondering what she could’ve done differently. The realization that her life had always been puppeteered by the people who supposedly loved her ate away at her, consumed her, kept her from finding any calm or peace.
Has she found peace since then? In the year that’s passed, what has changed? She’s free from her mother’s manipulation and she’s free from Makani’s manipulation, but still her life feels controlled by an outside force. She doesn’t know what it feels like to relax. Paranoia and anxiety keep her on edge.
Nothing had ever made Makani anxious or afraid. She seemed immune to it. Even in her last moments, as Precious blotted out the world in a sea of deep darkness, Makani had been devoid of fear. But, why should she have been afraid? Death would last no more than a moment for her, and then she would be reborn, her human body burned away by a demon with skin the color of the outer edges of a galaxy and hair like molten silver, who appeared in the bedroom as the darkness dissipated; and from the ashes Makani would arise anew, like an ungodly phoenix of chaos. No longer Makani Diwa M. Calipusan, but just Makani, a demon who had not yet earned an epithet.
Precious touches a finger to the cool stone and traces the date of Makani’s death on the granite slab that marks where the small amount of ash remains was put into the columbarium. Like this was just a typical cremation. Like she had stayed dead, the way people are supposed to.
Evidently, Precious is not the only one taking the anniversary of Makani’s death as an opportunity to visit her honorary resting place. Sandals traversing through grass and the jangling of bracelets alerts her to Ismena’s approach.
“I was wondering if I’d see you here,” Ismena says, her voice soft and gentle.
Much like with Ashley, Precious isn’t sure if she’ll ever feel comfortable around Ismena. If the tension on her end will ever go away. Ismena doesn’t blame her; she knows that. If anything, Ismena probably blames herself. But how is she supposed to behave around the woman who came before her? The woman who had driven her to kill Makani.
She knows now that it wasn’t Ismena that was a self-righteous agent of god, rabidly chasing Makani to the ends of the earth in order to cleanse the world of evils. Not really. She’d been possessed. After Ismena awoke from the coma she’d fallen into when she mustered the willpower to exorcise a literal god, she’d asked to speak to Precious. She wanted to explain. And she did. And then they’d spent hours rehashing their shared experiences, finally letting another person bear the weight and consequences of Makani’s actions.
But even with that conversation behind them, Precious can’t help but feel uneasy around Ismena. She’d been so vulnerable with her. And they weren’t even friends.
“I’m surprised she’s not here,” Ismena says dryly, glancing around the cemetery. “I thought she’d want to see if anyone is mourning her.”
“I don’t know if she cares,” Precious says, her gaze still fixed on the granite. “She didn’t show up to her ‘funeral’ either.”
It hadn’t been much of a funeral, and one Ismena couldn’t attend, as she had been in a coma in Ashley and Roman’s home. The memorial was just a small gathering at the Calipusan’s house. What were you supposed to do for someone who died but came back?
“Thank goodness for that,” Ismena says quietly.
A gentle wind blows over the cemetery. The two women stand together, each silently recounting old memories. Did either of them miss Makani?
“Have you seen her recently?” Precious asks.
“Yes.”
That isn’t the answer Precious is expecting. She turns to look at Ismena, whose lips are pushed together in a flat line of displeasure.
“She visited me not long after we talked,” Ismena says.
“Why?”
Ismena blows out a heavy sigh through her nostrils. “To taunt me.” Now her gaze is fixed on the granite.
“Oh,” Precious says with a small nod. She turns back to the columbarium. There always will be that big difference between her relationship with Makani and Ismena’s relationship with Makani. Makani never wanted to hurt or upset Precious, no matter what happened.
“Did Flor invite you for dinner tonight?” Precious asks after another beat of silence.
“Yes,” Ismena says. “Are you okay if I go?”
Precious raises an eyebrow, and says, “Why does it matter what I think? You should go if you want to.”
“You don’t deserve anymore discomfort in your life, Precious,” Ismena says.
The words are so tender, they send a shock through Precious, and for a few seconds she’s painfully aware of everything. Of the wind blowing, the bright green of the grass in the cemetery, the coffins beneath the earth, her own place in the world. To be cared about so sincerely by someone she’s not friends with hurts in a way she can’t describe. After everything they’ve both been through, Ismena still cares about the wellbeing of others. About the wellbeing of Precious.
Precious sucks in a deep breath, then says, “You should go. I think it would be good for...for both of us.”
“Okay,” Ismena says.
The pain Makani caused isn’t something they have to face alone, though they’re both inclined to try to do so.
#makani calipusan#ismena karagiannis#precious lebeau#mentions of roman and ashley#my writing#uf#urban fantasy
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Makani + her heritage, being a mangkukulam, weird habits :)
Makani + her heritage
Makani is Filipino, Maori, and Hawaiian
Heritage is really important to her family. They’ve recordedtheir history and lineage for several generations.
She doesn’t speak about her culture often but if someonebrings it up, she speaks about it proudly.
She always wears a greenstone hei-matau necklace (I think there’sthe same symbol in Hawaiian culture called makau) which represents strength,good luck, and safe travel across water.
One of her uncles in New Zealand got it for her when she wasyoung.
As she gets older, Makani gets several tattoos incorporatingPolynesian symbols.
Tattooing is sacred in Maori culture and Makani along withall of her siblings end up getting tattoos.
Her family eats primarily Filipino and Polynesian dishes.
As a general rule, Makani doesn’t like white people. Notonly is she infuriated by the historical destruction of her cultures, she hasto deal with modern day appropriation.
She absolutely hexes people who make fun of her food/culture orappropriate her culture.
Makani has extended family in New Zealand, Hawaii, and the Philippineswhom her family visits pretty regularly.
Makani + being a mangkukulam
Though Makani wouldn’t have very good morals regardless,being a mangkukulam definitely contributes to her lack of humanity.
She doesn’t care who she hurts (aside from her family – who she’lloccasionally hurt but they’ll make up in the end) and actually enjoys causingother people trouble.
From a young age she’s known how to hex people and has onlyimproved as time goes by.
Often she hexes people because someone hires her to do so(it’s the family business) and then lifts the hex when the hexed person paysher to lift it. But sometimes she’ll hex people just to cause trouble.
She’ll also mercilessly hex people who piss her off orinsult her until her brother tells her to cool it.
Makani really enjoys giving off a witch vibe. She wears alot of “witchy” jewelry and tries to intimidate people.
Makani is arguably a villain but she doesn’t really picksides. She’ll help people if it’s beneficial to her; she doesn’t really careabout alliances or loyalty.
It’s possible to gain her loyalty but you’d have to workreally hard at it.
Makani + weird habits
If there’s a way to do something more dangerously, shealways picks the dangerous way because she loves taking risks.
She carries around materials that she might need to hexpeople.
Makani collects skulls and candles. Because she likes thembut also because it contributes to her witch aesthetic.
She collects bugs too (though it’s not a huge habit of hers)especially creepy ones.
She’s really into horror movies and watches them to find onethat she actually finds scary. I’m considering this a weird habit bc she goes out of her way to try to scare herself
She constantly antagonizes people because she thinks it’shilarious
She hisses at cats
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Unfinished Business - ch. 1, pt. 3
Summary: Makani finds out why Ismena broke off their friendship.
Chapters: First | Previous | Next
They are fated to sit across from each other, separated by a circular table, Makani thinks as she picks at the frayed edge of a yellow placemat on the Karagiannis’s table. Under Ismena’s gaze, a calculating, analyzing gaze, Makani realizes she never asked Ismena what, in the end, made her decide to leave. As long as she’s making an attempt at self-betterment, she might as well learn what drove people away in the past. If she knows, she can avoid repeating those actions with Precious.
The question is abrupt and heavy in the silent room, a weight swinging in the air, “What did I do that made you decide to leave?”
If Ismena is surprised by the question, she doesn’t show it. Her expression remains unchanged, and she draws in a deep breath. “It was a build-up of things overtime,” she answers.
“Was there a specific moment that made you realize you wanted to leave?” she asks. She needs specifics.
Ismena sits quietly for a moment, leaning back in her chair again. Her gaze drifts away from Makani, and she worries her lower lip between her teeth as she considers the question. The clock on the wall behind Ismena ticks slowly, and Makani watches the secondhand move. The kettle begins to whistle. Ismena doesn’t move or pull herself completely out of her thoughts, but the burner flicks off and the kettle lifts into the air. The whistle falls silent. A cabinet door squeaks open, and two mugs drift down to an open space on the counter.
“What kind of tea do you want?” Ismena asks, staring into space.
“Whatever you’re having.”
The pantry opens. Two tea bags make their way out of the darkness of the pantry and settle snuggly at the bottom of the mugs. Still in the air, the kettle moves over each mug in turn, pouring hot water without a single drop landing on the countertop. The kettle returns to the stove, landing on a different burner.
“Milk? Sugar? Honey?” Ismena asks, her eyes flicking briefly to Makani.
“No, thanks.”
The mugs move across the kitchen, as if toted by an invisible waiter. Ismena holds her hand out for hers, grabbing hold of the handle without looking. Makani’s lands gently on the table in front of her. She’s impressed. She knows Ismena isn’t trying to show off – Ismena was never one to gloat – but to perform such magic without lifting so much as a finger suggests a deep understanding of the craft. And to do it while focused on something else is even more impressive. Makani smiles to herself as she gazes down into the steeping tea.
“It was when you suggested hexing the coworker that was annoying me,” Ismena says finally, turning her full attention to Makani. “That was my breaking point.”
“Really?” Makani asks, allowing herself a moment of genuine surprise. She suggests hexing people all the time, but unless it’s for business purposes, she’s usually suggesting it in jest.
“He was just a guy,” she says. “A bit annoying. But just a guy. An innocent person.”
“Nobody’s innocent,” Makani says. “Everyone is guilty of something.”
A sad smile touches Ismena’s lips, “That is an unfortunate view to have of the world.”
Makani shrugs, unaffected. She’s never met anyone who wasn’t guilty of something. Even Ismena has skeletons in her closet.
She asks, “Why that moment? I don’t remember it, but wasn’t I joking if the annoyance was so trivial?”
“You were,” she says. Her voice is low. The rich tone is enchanting without Ismena intending so. If only Ismena had had fewer morals. The two of them would have been unstoppable. “But I realized in that moment how little human life means to you. And I knew what you were capable of. I knew you would never care about me the way I cared about you, and I knew I didn’t want to become the villain in anyone’s story.”
Makani looks at Ismena, her expression neutral as she considers Ismena’s words. Ismena always had a way of pulling Makani out of her flippant, flirty attitude, guiding her to serious rumination, even if only for a few short minutes. As Makani lets herself be serious for a moment, Ismena’s eyes don’t venture from Makani. She’s not uncomfortable under Makani’s intense gaze, as people often are. She sits with the easy grace of a sage old witch, who has seen too much of the world to let herself be bothered by someone else.
What a pair they could’ve been. Ismena’s unflinching nerve combined with Makani’s brash boldness. The combined power of their magics. The way they could make others squirm with just a look. Nothing would have been able to stop them.
“Why do you ask?” Ismena queries. “You’ve never cared before. What’s changed?”
Makani is tempted to say she was just curious, but Ismena knows her better than that. She’d see right through the lie. But to tell the truth is a risk. To trust someone with information that could be used against her. If any witch can take her in a fight, Makani knows it’s Ismena. Not only does she know Makani better than most, maybe even as well as Precious does, she knows Makani’s weaknesses, her vices, her magic. And Ismena’s powerful. If the casual use of magic to make tea is any indication, magic has become as easy as breathing for her.
But, in all their years of separation, Ismena has never betrayed Makani’s trust.
As she answers, Makani doesn’t attempt to add false lightness to her words. She speaks delicately, bares her true feelings. “I’m making an effort to better myself.”
“Really?” Ismena asks. Her lip twitches as she tries to hold back an amused smile. “And why is that?”
“My roommate, Precious,” Makani says. She chooses her words carefully, trying to make it clear that for once, she’s being serious. “I care about her, maybe as much as you once cared about me. I’m not sure. Recently, I upset her by…by being me. Enough that she almost moved out. And I don’t want that.
“So,” Makani says with a smile, “I’m turning over a new leaf. A new me.”
For a moment, Ismena says nothing, just stares at her with a considerate frown. She’s never known Makani to change for anyone, to want to make anyone more comfortable. In her experience, it’s always been the opposite, with Makani trying to make people uncomfortable. But there’s no flippant cadence to her tone. Against all odds, Makani seems to genuinely care.
Ismena smiles warmly and says, “I hope that works out for you, Makani. I really do. She must really be special to make you question your morals.”
Though she doesn’t say it out loud, she also hopes it works out for Precious too. She doesn’t need to know Precious to worry about her. Ismena knows what it’s like to be the object of Makani’s affection. She knows how enchanting Makani can be, in spite of her cruelty.
“I’m not questioning them.” Makani says. “I’m just not acting on them anymore. As much.”
Ismena lets out a quick laugh, “Well, I guess that’s about all one could ask of someone like you.”
A comfortable silence falls between them. The room buzzes with the warm memories of old friendship, a few moments where they both let themselves feel the way they once did for each other, without the burden of animosity and years gone by between them. Silently, each woman turns over remembrances of happiness and camaraderie that she’ll never experience again, at least not with the woman who sits across from her.
The reverie is broken by the scrape of a key trying to find its way into the lock. Ismena stands, knowing her mother is due to arrive home with groceries for tonight’s dinner. The door swings open before she reaches it, and sure enough, her mother stands in the threshold, bogged down by two arms full of groceries. She’s a small, round woman, with tanned olive skin and the same pointed lips as her daughter. Her eyes are a warm honey brown, and they light up as Ismena meets her at the door and she sees Makani at the kitchen table.
Ismena takes the grocery bags from her mother, relieving her of the burden; a few bags float in the air alongside her. The pantry and refrigerator doors swing open as she begins to sort through the bags. Items surf the air to their allotted spots in the kitchen, drifting lazily past Ismena as they go.
“Makani!” Eleni says, spreading her arms wide. The cheery woman leans down a few inches, and wraps her arms around Makani in an affectionate, maternal hug. She smells of flour and rose perfume. Makani turns in her chair and returns the hug with a warmth she doesn’t actually feel, then lets the woman kiss her once on each cheek. “It is so good to see you! Are you staying for lunch? We love to have you.” She clasps her hands together, grinning broadly. How two people who express everything like an overzealous lead in a high school play ended up with a daughter so composed and reserved is a mystery to Makani.
“I would love to,” Makani lies. “But unfortunately, I have prior commitments I need to attend to.”
Makani exchanges a sidelong glance with Ismena. And your daughter doesn’t want me around.
“Ah, what a shame,” she tuts, her lower lip pushing out into a dramatic pout as she leans in to give Makani another hug. “You are welcome anytime. You can come for another day soon. When are you free?” She has the same Greek accent as Ioannis, and her words tumble out quickly and enthusiastically.
“I’d love to,” she says again. “I’m unavailable for the foreseeable future, though. After this week, I’ll be out of town for a while.”
Because she’s looking at Eleni, Makani doesn’t see Ismena’s head whip around, but she can feel her eyes on her, boring into the back of her head.
Makani continues, “I can pay you a visit when I return. I’ve missed your cooking.” That much is true. “I came by today to pick up an order and say hi.”
“Ah, yes, yes! Ioannis tells me that your order is ready whenever you are ready,” Eleni says. “But stay for a bit longer! It has been so long since I saw that beautiful face of yours.” She cups Makani’s face in her aging hands.
“I wish I could,” Makani lies. “But I need to get going. I have to deliver the order of lamb to my friend before a meeting this afternoon. I’m glad I got to see you before I left, though, even if it’s just for a moment.”
As Eleni pulls her hands away, beaming at Makani, Makani pushes the kitchen chair back and stands.
“Yes, so good to see you,” Eleni says. “Come to visit when you get back to Chicago, yes?”
“Of course,” Makani says with a grin.
From behind her, Ismena’s low voice says, “I’ll walk you out, Makani.”
Before Eleni can lengthen the goodbyes, making Makani promise to call and visit, asking if she can’t stay for just a little bit longer so she can take some food with her, lamenting how infrequently they get to see her, Ismena walks swiftly to the door and holds it open.
“Goodbye, Eleni,” Makani says. “I was good to see you.”
“Yes, goodbye, Makani. Come back soon. Do not be a stranger!” she calls after Makani as Ismena pulls the door shut behind them.
At the bottom of the stairs, Makani turns and reaches for the door to the small storage area, but Ismena stops her, placing her hand on Makani’s wrist.
“You’re leaving Chicago?” Ismena asks. Her warmth from the kitchen is gone. Makani meets her cold, untrusting gaze.
“For a little while, yeah,” she answers.
“Why?” Her eyes narrow.
Makani gives her a playful smile, “I don’t see how that’s any of your business, Ismena.”
She quirks an eyebrow.
“I have some unfinished business to take care of,” Makani says. Ismena continues to stare at her with suspicion. “Like Hugo; you remember him?”
Ismena jolts. She could never forget Hugo, as much as she wants to. Her words tumble out, caught off guard by the mention of him. She says, “Hugo? What are you going to do with him? You can’t kill him.”
“I know,” she says, curling her upper lip in annoyance. Then, she sighs, “Even if I could, I wouldn’t. New leaf, remember?”
“Uh-huh,” Ismena says, sounding not at all convinced. “Well, best of luck to you. And if you do see Hugo, be sure to give him my regards and tell him I hope he rots in the deepest pit of hell, forgotten by anyone he’s ever cared about.”
Makani raises her eyebrows and laughs sharply, “Boy, Ismena, why don’t I just stab him for you too?”
“No need. He’ll get what’s coming to him,” Ismena says flatly.
“Ominous,” Makani says with a grin, wiggling her fingers in Ismena’s direction.
This time, when Makani reaches for the door, Ismena doesn’t stop her, and they pass into the chilled storage area.
“I can help you bring the lamb to your car,” Ismena says, offering not out of kindness but a personal feeling of obligation.
Makani says her thank yous and goodbyes to Ioannis, which Ismena cuts short before Ioannis can let it to go on for too long. The two carry the meat to Makani’s car in a nearby parking garage and pack it into a large cooler that’s waiting in the back seat.
As Makani slides into the driver’s seat, Ismena crosses her arms and says, “I hope things work out for you, Makani.”
Makani smiles and says, “See you around, Ismena,” then pulls the car door closed.
Arms still crossed, Ismena turns, heading toward the parking garage exit. Makani turns on the car and watches her walk away as she considers which errand she should run next. Daisy or Carm? Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and she cranks down her window.
“Hold on, Ismena,” she calls out. Ismena turns with a questioning look, one eyebrow raised.
“What?” she asks, taking a few tentative steps toward the car.
“There’s something I should tell you,” Makani says. She pulls back from the window and grabs her bag from the passenger seat. She rummages through it until she finds a scrap of paper and a pen. As Ismena nears, Makani flicks through her phone and scribbles three names and three numbers onto the scrap of paper.
“What is it?” Ismena asks, still a few feet from the car. She bends down and tilts her head to get a better look at Makani.
Makani glances in her rearview and side mirrors, then to Ismena. The parking garage is empty. She holds the paper out to Ismena, held between her forefinger and middle finger.
“What is this?” she asks, taking the paper.
“There are witch hunters in Chicago,” Makani says.
The soft, natural glow of Ismena’s cheeks drains away, and her eyes widen. Old memories, old fears strike her heart. Then, she composes herself, straightening her back as she takes a deep breath. Witch hunters aren’t as much of a threat to her now. She can hold her own.
“Those are the numbers of a few witches I know in the area. Might be good to get in contact with them,” Makani shrugs.
“Precious, Aoife, and Carmen?” Ismena frowns at the numbers scrawled on the paper.
“Yeah. You’d probably get along with Carmen,” she says with a grin. “She doesn’t like me. And I wouldn’t complain if you kept an eye on Precious.”
Ismena nods, “I will keep that in mind. Thank you.”
“See you around, darling,” Makani grins. Ismena doesn’t have a chance to respond; Makani is already pulling out of the parking space and heading for the exit.
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Unfinished Business - ch. 1, pt. 2
Summary: Flashback of how Makani first met Ismena and how their friendship ended.
Chapters: First | Previous | Next
When Ismena walked into her life on a slow day in late May, Makani had been behind the dark purple curtain of her parents’ shop, a small, dimly lit store that sold teas, psychic readings, and hexes. On the other side of the doorway and the thick curtain that took the place of a door, her brother was at the wooden counter, flicking through a magazine as he waited for customers. The front door swung open and a gust of warm air blew through the front room. Melchor leaned forward on the counter with a charming smile and greeted the unfamiliar woman.
“Welcome, how can I help you today? Are you looking for a reading?” he asked.
“No,” the young woman said curtly. “I’m here to see Makani.”
There was a beat of silence. Makani perked up, from where she stood in the back room, straightening her back and turning her head toward the curtain. The back room, one of the two rooms where they did readings, was directly behind the front counter. To the view of someone who had just entered the shop, the curtain that led to the back was to the right of the counter, with a neon yellow eye glowing above the doorframe.
“This is where she works, right?”
“Yes,” Melchor said. “May I ask why you’d like to see her?” he asked. Makani recognized his forced politeness. Anyone asking to work directly with his sister made him wary. Either they didn’t know what they were getting into, or they were as shady as she was.
“I need her assistance. I was told she could help me.”
Another beat.
“Alright, just a minute,” Melchor said.
There was a soft rustling as Mel left his plush stool behind the counter and slipped through the curtain. Makani stood at the china cabinet on the right wall of the room. The shelves of the cabinet displayed crystals and candles, incense, small animal bones, and jars of herbs. Beneath the shelves, long drawers housed materials that the Calipusans used for spells. Makani had been sorting a selection of herbs in the drawers. She pushed the drawer closed and looked at Mel expectantly.
“Someone is here to see you,” he said. “Medium height, like 5’6” or 5’7”. She’s got intense blue eyes, dark brown hair. Kinda boho folksy looking. Sound familiar?”
“Nope,” she said. “But I’m intrigued. You can send her back.” She snapped her fingers, and the luminescent white overhead light went out as dozens of candles lit themselves, giving the room an eerie glow with dark, dancing shadows.
He nodded and slipped back into the main room. Makani took her place in the back corner of the room in a plush dining chair at a small round table covered in a midnight blue cloth. Crossing one leg over the other, she leaned back and waited for Mel to pull the curtain open and usher the woman through.
Mel’s description of her wasn’t inaccurate. She had a folksy but put-together appearance about her, like one who chose to embrace a rustic life and aesthetic, without giving up all of the luxuries of modern city living. Her outfit was made up of a knee-length, off-white linen dress, the bodice embroidered with blue, yellow, and red flowers, and light brown brogues with no socks. Beads of colorful stone hung from her neck, and brightly colored bangles wrapped around her wrists. Not an unusual appearance for some of the people who found their way into the Calipusans’ shop, but she was missing something that so many of those people had. Warmth. There was no airy lightness to her speech, or friendly smile on her lips. And her eyes. They were a harsh blue, the color of tropical seas when the sunlight glares off the sand and water and makes the whole world painfully bright. If she’d had the sense to fear anything, Makani would have bristled under the woman’s sharp gaze.
“Please, have a seat,” Makani said, gesturing to the matching dining chair across the table. The young woman kept her eyes on Makani as she crossed the room in a few short strides and sat. Melchor pulled the curtain closed and returned to his spot at the counter.
“You’re Makani?” she asked. She was clutching the strap of a brown leather bag that hung over her shoulder. She scanned Makani, taking in her appearance, taking her apart and putting her back together. Makani sat unflinching.
“In the flesh,” Makani said, flashing the woman that was more playful and taunting than comforting. “And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
“My name is Ismena.” She leaned forward, and sounding short of breath, she asked, “Can you help me?”
“I can certainly try,” Makani said.
This wasn’t the first time she’d had a client unrelated to her parents’ business. Makani was willing to do more than her parents or her brother, so long as the job was interesting, or the pay was worth it. She would soon realize that in the case of Ismena, it would be the former. Ismena would be unlike anyone she’d ever met.
“I’m being hunted,” she said in a hushed voice.
Makani raised her eyebrows slightly but said nothing.
Ismena straightened her back and eyed Makani critically. Apparently, Makani’s response hadn’t been satisfactory. “You’re a witch?” she asked.
“Yes,” Makani said, an amused smile slipping across her lips. “And you’re in need of a witch’s services?”
She hesitated, then stiffened, steeling herself. “Yes.”
Makani waited for Ismena to continue, but she said nothing, just watching with her calculating blue eyes.
“Care to elaborate?” Makani asked. She picked up the deck of tarot cards off the table and shuffled through them, giving her hands something to do. Her smile had faded. She hoped this wouldn’t be boring. There was nothing unique about a desperate young woman approaching her. If Ismena wasn’t going to explain why she was here, Makani wasn’t going to force it out of her. It wasn’t worth her time.
“I…I am also a witch,” she said.
Makani resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Some new age witch being paranoid because an old man looked at her funny. Or she was trying to garner sympathy and learn some magic from a more experienced witch. That wouldn’t work on Makani.
Ismena slumped back in her seat and pressed her right thumb against the palm of her left hand, and for the first time since she’d entered the room, her eyes slid away from Makani. She looked at her hands in her lap and drew in a shaky breath before she looked back up.
“I was turned into a witch about a year ago,” she said.
The cards shuffling between Makani’s hands froze, stopping on the skeletal form of Death, and she looked at Ismena, raising arched eyebrows.
“You were…turned into a witch?” Makani asked. That was a new one. She’d never encountered someone who’d claimed to be turned into a witch.
“Yes. It wasn’t…I wasn’t…well, it wasn’t supposed to happen,” the woman’s confidence was faltering. “At least I wasn’t supposed to be the person turned, I don’t think. I…I got involved in something I shouldn’t have. And then…”
She placed her hand on the table, palm up. An angular symbol was burned into her palm. Makani reached for her hand, taking it in her own. She turned Ismena’s hand, moving the skin with her thumbs and examining the symbol. The scarred symbol was pale, bright against Ismena’s tanned olive skin, and shimmered rainbow in the light of the candles and salt lamps. The shape was geometric, like a dodecahedron that had been stretched and pulled so the sides were no longer the same length. She ran her forefinger over the symbol, tracing the shape, and goosebumps rose on her arms. The scar was cold to the touch. It was a symbol she didn’t recognize.
“Okay,” Makani said. She pulled her hands back and looked up at Ismena. “And? What is this?”
“I got it when I became a witch. There was a…stone of some kind. A large one, surrounded by other smaller stones. I was snooping around where I shouldn’t have been and I touched the stone, and it burned my hand. A feeling of…” she gestured vaguely, searching for the right descriptor, “…of power washed over me. Then, the stone began to glow a pinkish-white color, and then my skin was glowing, and my palm felt like it was on fire. There was a blinding light, and I must have lost consciousness, because I woke up on the ground a few minutes later with a…a friend pressing a wet cloth to my forehead, and someone else I’d never seen before examining my palm.
“They brought me to a room that I’d never been allowed in before, and a council of people in pale pink satin told me that I’d been blessed with magic from Anlyth and—”
“Who?” Makani asked.
“Anlyth. He’s the god they worshipped.”
“This sounds like a cult.”
“I didn’t realize that until too late,” Ismena said. Her cheeks flushed dark pink, and the look in her eyes dared Makani to judge her, shame her for falling in with a cult. Makani said nothing, and Ismena continued, her expression still sharp. “They told me that I’d been blessed with magic and power from Anlyth and I needed to begin my training. I didn’t believe it. Why would I?” the question was sharp and bitter. “I thought that their dedication to Anlyth had obscured their abilities to see reality. So, I…I ran. The first chance I got, I ran.
“Then unusual things started happening. Like the power in a hotel I was staying at shorting out when I thought about how I didn’t want to get up to turn off the light. Or when I wished a pot would boil faster, and it immediately started boiling and spilling out of the pot. I thought they were just coincidences at first, but they kept happening.
“Over time, the little things became bigger things, and I didn’t know how to control it. I started to think that maybe Anlyth really did grant me powers, so I returned to the followers.”
“That was a choice,” Makani said, her tone dry.
Her eyes flashed, and her words were sharp as she said, “I know; you don’t need to tell me it wasn’t smart. I didn’t know where else to turn. They welcomed me back with open arms and started to teach me to use my powers. But they also started isolating me, keeping me from my friends and family and anyone who wasn’t a follower of Anlyth. They said it was for my own good and for the good of my loved ones. I believed them. I couldn’t control my powers, and I didn’t want to hurt anyone I cared about. I did what they told me and followed their advice. That is, until my great aunt was hospitalized. She was on her deathbed, and they didn’t let me go say goodbye to her. When I protested and argued that I would just be gone for a few days, they physically restrained me in a room by myself until I agreed to cut all ties to my previous life.
“I agreed to their terms,” Ismena said. “And then I ran again.”
“How’d you get away?” Makani asked. This certainly wasn’t the boring new age witch whining she’d been expecting. “I’m sure they were keeping a close eye on you.”
“They were. I set the building on fire, and then in the ensuing chaos, I got away from my guard and put up a glamour to look like someone else,” she said.
“Arson is always a good way to go,” Makani said, tilting her head with consideration.
Ismena narrowed her eyes, but she continued, “I came back to Chicago. My parents live here, and they were happy to have me back. I told them everything that had happened. They didn’t believe me about the magic at first, of course. They thought it was delusions caused by the trauma I’d experienced. I proved to them that it was real, and since then, they’ve done everything they can to help me.”
Her shoulders had relaxed as she told her story. Her speech was more even, less breathless and rushed. Talking was lifting the weight off her shoulders. Makani got the sense that she was the first one to hear this story aside from Ismena’s parents. The witchy atmosphere and otherworldliness of her parents’ shop had that effect on people. People’s lips got looser, comforted by the knowledge that the only place their story would be released into the world was a place that claimed to provide magic services. And most people didn’t believe in the magic. Not really.
“Okay,” Makani said with a slow nod. “You said you were being hunted. It’s the Anlyth cult?”
She winced at the word cult.
“I…don’t know. I was attacked by a witch hunter three days ago. I don’t know if they sent him after me or if he just recognized I was a witch,” she said.
“You got away,” she commented. “And it sounds like you’re more of a warlock than a witch. Granted power from a deity and all that.”
“Tell that to the witch hunter that tried to kill me,” Ismena said sharply. She crossed her arms over her chest. “He attacked me as I left work, and with some of the magic I know, I was able to escape and lose him. He claimed that I need to go the way of all witches, to hell, and that he was going to deliver me there himself.”
“Ugh,” Makani said, curling her lip. “Witch hunters are so dramatic.”
“I haven’t left my house since,” she said, ignoring Makani’s comment.
“How’d you find out about me?” Though Makani wasn’t hard to find, she wasn’t well known outside of the magic user community. Given that Ismena’s experience with magic was so insular, Makani doubted Ismena had heard of her from another magic user.
“I remembered that a friend of mine visited you a while ago. She had a stalker that had chased her all over the United States, but he stopped after she came to you. She’s always believed in things like astrology and witchcraft. At the time, I assumed there was some other explanation for him stopping. That was before I found out about magic, of course,” Ismena said. It would be a few months before Ismena would realize that Makani may have killed the stalker. Or more likely, done something worse to destroy his life.
Makani vaguely remembered that job, though as she thought about it, she might have been confusing it with a woman trying to vanish from her ex-wife’s life. It was hard to keep them all straight.
“So you want me to get rid of this witch hunter?”
“I…are you going to kill him?” Ismena asked, a small frown forming on her dark brows.
She would learn that Makani much preferred hexes and curses to murder, but at that moment, she’d been overwhelmed with the queasy feeling that she was speaking to someone who could and would take another person’s life at the drop of a hat.
Makani smiled, an omen of trouble to come, and she said in a low voice, “That’s illegal, Ismena.”
For a few seconds, Ismena stared at Makani, her brow still wrinkled. She didn’t want to be the cause of a man’s death. Then again, that man fully intended to take her life. Being given the gift of a powerful deity was forcing her to question her morals. Her eyes flicked over Makani, this woman who sat with ease, who seemed to find amusement in the idea that Ismena was being hunted. Ismena felt like she should be infuriated, or at the very least annoyed, but for the first time since the Mark of Anlyth was burned into her palm, the tense fear and anxiety that held onto her relaxed its grip.
Then, Ismena laughed. The frown melted away, the sharp angles of her lips curved into a smile, and a warm burst of laughter filled the space between the two women.
“Forgive me,” Ismena said, an amused lilt to her voice as she leaned forward on the table. Her eyes were breathtakingly bright as she said in an equally low voice, “But you don’t seem like someone who cares much about legality, Makani.”
Makani grinned.
Thus began one of the best times in Makani’s life. For almost a year and a half following their first meeting, Ismena and Makani were a team. Them against the world. Them against witch hunters and a cult. Tracking down the witch hunter proved to be a more difficult task than Makani anticipated, as it turned out there wasn’t just one. Not only had the Followers of Anlyth sent people after their escaped witch, a group of independent hunters had caught wind of her.
As they tracked down the hunters, Makani helped Ismena hone her craft. She was an eager student, a quick learner who hungered for knowledge. And she was powerful. More powerful than she knew; whatever the mysterious Anlyth had bestowed upon her was an intense and strong magic. And Makani was the one who got to mold this power. To nurture and shape Ismena’s gift.
Between the thrill of chasing witch hunters, forcing a cult to leave Ismena alone unless they wanted to face the combined magic of Makani and Ismena, and teaching Ismena how to control her magic, that year and a half featured some of the best moments in Makani’s life. For the first time in her life, she was bonded with someone. She and Ismena shared jokes and experiences, shared a bed, shared stories and emotions. She cared enough about Ismena to be genuinely upset if anything happened to her. Makani had a friend.
And then it came to an abrupt end.
Makani never knew what the final straw was, the breaking point that caused Ismena to force a wedge between them. The change was sudden, and came without much warning, but Makani wasn’t surprised. She’d known from the beginning that it couldn’t last, because Ismena was, at her core, a good and honest person. She didn’t want to hex people or ruin lives. The more she learned about magic, the more she wanted to use her powers to help people. Her morals were incompatible with Makani’s.
Ever practical, Ismena hadn’t abandoned their friendship without explanation. She arranged for them to meet at a small café they both enjoyed, where hipster college students sat writing essays and screenplays, and young entrepreneurs sweeping through during their lunchbreaks. The furniture, walls, and floor were all shades of brown and black, and the dimmed yellow lights cast a glow that gave the café the atmosphere of a warm hearth on a snowy evening. Soft jazz played through the shop, and the drinks were served in ceramic mugs.
That morning had been a chilly one in late October. Gray clouds hung low in the sky, hanging over the city with a mute indifference toward the people below. The few trees that lined the sidewalks, planted in small squares of earth that were carved from the concrete, were turning to shades of autumn. The wind plucked the flame-colored leaves from the branches, swirling and twirling them through the air. Dried leaves skittered across the ground, tiny lifeless creatures that couldn’t help but be underfoot.
Makani sat at a small, round table by the large front window, nursing a latte. She spun a black pen between her fingers and idly watched the people of Chicago pass by with indifference. A cab pulled up to the curb and seconds later, the back door swung open. Ismena, clad in a dark green check wool dress, black leggings, and a large beige cardigan, stepped out of the car. She ducked her head to say something to the driver, then closed the cab door. As she turned to face the café, Makani knew that something had changed. Ismena walked with solemn confidence, her gait wide and purposeful, her expression closed and guarded. A burst of cool air entered with Ismena as she pushed open the café door. In her manner, she looked much as she had the first time they’d met, like a woman on a mission. There was a tropical storm in her eyes as she sat down across from Makani.
Ismena didn’t dawdle, didn’t bother with small talk. With no malice or anger in her voice, she told Makani, “I can’t be around you anymore.”
Makani said nothing. A flicker of defensive rage burned in her, but she kept her expression neutral.
“You’re not the person I want to be,” Ismena said. Her eyes were trained steadily on Makani, unwavering, unflinching. Makani had to admire her confidence. The ember of rage burned out.
Ismena’s words were calm, without emotional charge as she said, “I will always be indebted to you for everything you have taught me and everything you have done for me. I will always care about you. But you’re not the person I want to be. You bring chaos with you, Makani. You corrupt the people who get close to you. You’re cruel.” She was stating facts, speaking like she was reading straight from a peer-reviewed textbook.
Makani eyed her, waiting for more, but Ismena wanted Makani’s reaction now. Her back was straight, and she returned the gaze with her chin tilted slightly up, defiant and daring.
“You don’t want to see me anymore,” Makani said with a slight tilt of her head. She spoke it as fact, just as Ismena had, but there was a touch of curiosity.
“No, I don’t,” Ismena said. “You can drop by occasionally, if you have a reason to be in the neighborhood. My parents like to see you. But don’t make a habit of it.”
“You’ve made up your mind,” Makani said.
“Yes,” she said.
“And there’s nothing I can do to change it.”
“No,” she said, softly but firmly.
Makani sat back, twirling her pen between her fingers, and tried to identify her feelings. She’d known this day would come. She didn’t want to let go of Ismena, but Ismena had made up her mind. It would be an exhausting and taxing waste of time for everyone if Makani tried to make her change her opinion. And she respected Ismena too much to try to control her or own her.
“Okay,” Makani said quietly, with a slow nod. A small smile tugged on her lips. “You have specifics you want to get into?” She knew Ismena wouldn’t leave anything open-ended. There would be no loopholes for Makani to exploit.
Ismena nodded. She’d spent the past several days planning what she would say to Makani, dwelling on exact wording and plain speech. She committed it all to memory. In the next twenty minutes, she made the new rules of their relationship clear, setting boundaries and limits that Makani couldn’t find a way around.
Not that Makani wanted to. She liked Ismena, and even if their friendship was ending as quickly as it had started, Makani wanted to keep things cordial with her. She’d follow the rules.
As the conversation continued and Makani easily agreed to the new rules, Ismena’s shoulders relaxed, and she leaned back in her chair. She rested her hands on the table, her bangles jangling together. In the yellow lights of the café, Makani could see the iridescent shimmer of the symbol branded on her palm.
The women fell silent, giving Makani time to consider everything Ismena had said.
After several minutes, she asked, “Do you hate me?” Though her tone was light and mildly curious, the question sounded puerile and insecure to Makani’s ears, and she inwardly recoiled as the words left her lips.
“No,” Ismena said softly. “The opposite. I care about you, Makani. More than you’ll ever care about me.”
Ismena had known from their first meeting that Makani was bad news. She was conniving and cruel, but Ismena had needed help, and she’d had nowhere else to turn. Circumstances drew them closer. Makani was there for her in the most terrifying moments of her life. Makani was a bad person, but never to her. So, despite every cell in her body shouting that getting close to Makani could be fatal, Ismena found herself falling for the witch.
Fortunately, she enough self-discipline and self-preservation to convince herself she needed to cut Makani off.
Makani smiled, an easy, friendly smile that boded no ill-will. She reached across the table, placing her hands atop Ismena’s. “Can we have one more coffee date before you go?” she asked, her smile turning playful.
Ismena had made up her mind; Makani wouldn’t be close to her anymore. One last coffee date couldn’t change that.
“Yes,” she said, returning the smile. She took Makani’s hands in hers and brought them to her lips. The last bit of warm affection she would give her.
Just as they had when they first met, the two witches sat across from each other at a round table, enjoying each other’s company for one last time.
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hunted - part 1
Characters: Precious and Makani, brief mentions of Roman and Ashley, tiny mention of Aoife
Summary: Precious confronting Makani about the threat of witch hunters and getting angry because Makani isn’t taking it seriously.
The world has gotten dark around Precious, the sun setting and leaving the apartment lit only by a few candles. She stares at the three-wicked candle on the coffee table, the flames burning an impression in her vision. She’s sitting on the edge of the couch, her elbows on her knees and her chin resting on one hand. Her right knee bounces as a nervous tension pumps through her. Every so often, another jolt of fear strikes her heart and makes her entire body tremble.
The key in the lock of door makes Precious jump, and for the first time since she got Roman’s message, she looks away from the flickering candle. Adrenaline pumps through her as she watches the door with wide eyes, her pupils dilating. The door swings open to reveal Makani. Precious doesn’t relax.
“Why are you sitting in the dark?” Makani asks, dropping her bag onto the floor as the door shuts behind her. Her trademark playful smile tugs at her lips, a smile that usually bodes illy for the unfortunate soul that’s caught her attention. “Are we having a séance?”
“Makani,” Precious chokes out, her voice thick and strangled.
“What’s the matter with you?” Makani asks, her smile replaced by an inquisitive frown.
“Makani,” Precious says again. “Makani, what the fuck?”
“You’re gonna have to be more specific, babe,” she says. “There’s a lot of what the fuckery in the world.”
Precious jerks up in a sudden, violent movement, and Makani raises her eyebrows as Precious lurches toward her. In her mild surprise, she maintains her usual ease and lack of concern, crossing her arms and leaning back against the wall, unshaken. Words won’t form on Precious’s lips. There are too many aggravated, buzzing thoughts in her head. It’s like trying to parse a conversation out of a screaming crowd.
“Witch hunters,” Precious manages to say.
“Oh, is that what this is about?” Makani’s shoulders lower slightly. She’d been on the defensive. She waves a hand. “Don’t worry about them. They’re a bunch of self-righteous jackasses.” She pushes off the wall and turns toward the kitchen. “What do you want for dinner?”
“Makani!” Precious snaps, her mind clearing as her fear is taken over by anger. Makani turns back to her, one eyebrow raised. “Roman was just nearly fucking murdered by a witch hunter.”
“Who?” Makani asks.
“The storm witch.”
“Oh, her,” Makani sounds disinterested.
“In Chicago, Makani. She was just almost murdered. By a witch hunter. In Chicago.”
“Okay?”
“There are witch hunters in Chicago!” Precious yells. She likes to consider herself a level-headed person, someone who can face issues with a calm, logical mind. But she’s never been in legitimate fear for her life before, and she’s discovering that when she’s in fear for her life, she’s less stable. Though, perhaps that can be in part attributed to Makani’s infuriating lack of concern.
“I know,” Makani says.
“You know?” she repeats. The fury is building.
“There are witch hunters everywhere,” she shrugs.
Precious is speechless for a moment, unsure where to direct her anger. Maybe she should’ve assumed there were witch hunters everywhere, but it sure would’ve been nice if someone had let her know about that. She shakes away that concern, and instead says, “The witch hunter who tried to kill her is Ashley Rivers, of the apparently notorious Rivers family, a family that makes it their mission to kill witches. A family of witch hunters that’s been hunting witches for centuries is here in Chicago, where we – two witches, in case you forgot – live.”
“We’re fine, Precious,” Makani says calmly.
“We’re fine?” She must be in the Twilight Zone. Not even Makani can be this flippant about a very real threat. “Makani! You might as well have a neon sign outside that says, ‘Witches Live Here’! You practically advertise the dark magic you do and where you live. Where I live.”
Makani scoffs, “Precious, no witch hunter is getting in here. Even if they knew protection sigils and wards and how to counteract them, they don’t know the ones I’ve created. They’ll have other things to worry about if they get too close.” That playful smile returns, darkened by the ominous threat.
Precious breathes in deeply. “I leave the apartment, Makani. I have a day job. I go grocery shopping. I see friends. I run errands. Who’s to say a witch hunter won’t get me when I’m out?”
Makani’s smile shifts into an intense and serious gaze. It’s more off-putting than the smile. She says in a low voice, “I’d never let anyone hurt you, Precious.”
With Makani’s words, the candles flicker, and a chill runs over Precious. She shivers. She knows there’s no horror Makani wouldn’t face, no horror that Makani wouldn’t create, to protect her. The shadows seem to cling to Makani, ready to lash out at anything that would deign to hurt Precious. It’s not comforting.
“You can’t promise that,” Precious says quietly, holding a steady eye contact. “You can’t control everything. You’ve put me in danger. What if something happens to you, Makani? What do I do then? I can’t rely on you to protect me! I know a tiny fraction of the amount of magic you know. If something happens to you, how do I protect myself? I’m fucked. You’ve put a target on my back, and I wasn’t even aware of it. Did you know the Rivers family was so close to us?” Makani doesn’t respond, and Precious raises her voice, “Did you?”
“Yes,” she says, her tone flat and unaffected.
“Of-fucking-course you did,” Precious throws her hands up. “Of course! And you didn’t mention it. What the fuck, Makani?”
Makani says nothing, and Precious begins to pace, the built-up anxiety forcing her to ambulate.
“You’re not the only person who—who cares about me,” Precious says. She turns on Makani, the beads in her braids clacking together as she whips around. “You may not have meaningful relationships, but that doesn’t mean I don’t. I have people who would miss me. My dad has lost enough people. It would break him to lose me too. His daughter, murdered by witch hunters, and he would have no idea what really happened to me.
“I have friends who would miss me! You know, all the people you dislike because you’re selfish and don’t like that anyone else gets my attention? They would miss me. And I have a job! I want to open my own funeral home someday. I can’t do that if I’m dead.
“There’s a legitimate threat to my life, and I knew nothing about it. You’ve been teaching me magic for years now and you never thought to mention that witch hunters exist? Or that they were so close? You didn’t think that I might want to know that?”
Her face is hot and flushed, her chest heaving from the energy of her tirade. She watches Makani, eyes flashing. She waits for Makani to say something infuriating. Something like “Are you finished?” To continue to take everything in life as one big joke.
Instead, Makani surprises her by taking her seriously. She looks at Precious with solemn consideration, her brows slightly furrowed. Precious waits.
“I could kill him,” Makani says quietly, looking into space thoughtfully.
“What?”
“The Rivers guy. I could kill him,” she says, her eyes focusing on Precious.
“How would that help?” Precious demands. Makani opens her mouth to respond, but Precious cuts her off. “He comes from a family of witch hunters. You don’t think that if you killed one of them, you wouldn’t attract the attention of the rest of them? You can’t solve everything with murder!”
“I could—”
“Don’t say you could kill the rest of them, Makani,” Precious says. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “You’re powerful but you aren’t that powerful. One of them will get you eventually. And I’ll still have a target on my back because we’re in the same coven.”
The weight hits Precious again. The fragility of her life. The imminent threat that she feels so powerless against. A fear like nothing she’s ever felt before. It all consumes her, creeping over her skin, through her veins, into her heart. She can’t breathe. Her body trembling, she collapses on the couch and buries her face in her hands. The tightness in her throat builds until she can’t hold back anymore, and she lets out heavy, racking sobs.
Life has dealt Precious a fair share of hell to face, but she’s always been able to handle it. She got into magic to connect with her grandmother, whom her mother had tried to prevent her from seeing. And she got into magic to help her face life’s hardships. Now, she’s facing the scariest thing life has dealt her yet, and she’s helpless. She doesn’t know enough to protect herself. And this is a mess she’s gotten herself into.
The weight of the couch shifts as Makani sits beside her, leaving about a foot of space between them. If Makani touches her, tries to comfort her, Precious is going to snap. Makani doesn’t get it. She doesn’t fear death. She doesn’t fear anything. She can’t understand.
Makani doesn’t try to comfort her. She sits, unmoving, and then the weight on the couch shifts again as she stands. Precious hears her walk to her bedroom, and the soft click as she shuts the door behind her. Precious remains on the couch, crying until her eyes are red and raw and her throat is sore.
With a final trembling gasp, Precious forces herself to stop crying. She wipes the tears from her cheeks and looks back up at the three-wicked candle, still flickering in the darkness. Outside the window, a waning moon lights up the night sky. Precious stands and pulls the curtains shut, then snuffs out the candles, leaving curling smoke.
The crying has dulled her fear and her anger. Her level-headed attitude has returned, and she begins to plan. She shuts herself in her bedroom and texts Aoife. She looks up moving companies on her laptop, then starts sorting her belongings into piles to pack up as soon as she gets some boxes.
Around four in the morning, Precious wakes up to the sound of movement outside her door. She’s still in her clothes, curled on top of her comforter and surrounded by piles of trinkets and clothes. The lamp on her nightstand is still on. With bated breath, she listens to the movement. She recognizes it as Makani. Makani paces across the room. Precious hears the jingle of Makani’s keys, the front door opening and closing, and the lock clicking into place. She lets out her held breath and sits up in bed. She gets up to lock her bedroom door, strips out of her clothes, and curls up on top of her comforter. She won’t let herself think about what tomorrow will bring.
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Unfinished Business - ch. 1, pt. 1
Summary: Makani begins her quest to pay some debts and favors, beginning by visiting a former friend.
Chapters: Next
A small bell jingles above Makani as she pushes open the door to the deli, and she’s greeted with spiced, refrigerated air. The shop is small and chilled, with a deli display on the left, and the register counter to her right. At the register, a man of average height emphatically talks to a customer, his expressive hands punctuating each word. He’s handsome, middle-aged, his dark hair striped with streaks of gray. Stubble darkens his cheeks and the sharp angles of his jaw. His mustache is thick and perfectly groomed, and his blue eyes are bright and clear. When the tinkling bell announce Makani’s entrance, the man’s attention is pulled to the door, and though she’s three meters away, she can see his eyes light up. He turns back to the customer in front of him, hands the man a packed paper bag, then wishes him a good day in two languages. Makani steps to the side to let the customer pass her, the bell tinkling again as he leaves.
“Ah, Makani!” the cashier says, a smile taking up most of his face.
He walks around the counter, spreading his arms wide. Makani allows him to grip her shoulders and kiss each cheek. He smells of aftershave, and his stubble is rough against her skin.
“Ioannis,” she says. “It’s good to see you.”
“It has been too long, Makani!” Ioannis says. The man is a walking exclamation point, with each sentence he speaks full of passion. “I thought maybe you have forgot us.”
“Impossible,” Makani says. She gives him a friendly smile and looks at him through dark eyelashes.
“You must come upstairs,” he says. His blue eyes are wide, and his smile reaches from ear to ear. “Ismena love to see you.”
“I really shouldn’t,” she says deferentially. “I have a list of errands to run today.” While that’s not untrue and she does have plenty of errands to run, that’s not why she declines the offer. She knows Ioannis expects her to politely decline at least once before accepting.
“Ah, but you must! I insist,” Ioannis says.
“Are you sure it won’t be too much trouble? I don’t want to bother Ismena or Eleni,” she says.
In truth, Makani doesn’t care whether or not an unexpected visit is a bother. Other people’s time has little importance to her. But her relationship with the Karagiannis family is one she wishes to maintain, and that means pretending like she cares and following social conventions.
“No, no,” he says. “No trouble! You are always welcome.” He pats her shoulder affectionately, then raises his voice to the young man standing behind the deli display, where the sandwiches and meats of the day’s menu sit behind a pane of glass. He says something in Greek, and the young man nods.
“Come, Ismena is home. Eleni will be home soon. They love to see you,” he says.
“You flatter me, Ioannis,” she says. Ioannis begins to direct her to the door at the back of the store, but before he can take more than three steps, she interrupts and says, “But first, I’d like to buy a few things.”
“Ah, of course, of course!” he says. He puts his hand on her upper arm, and his tone and expression turn comically serious, “What do you need? Anything for you.”
“A lot of lamb,” she says. “Oh, and do you have any goat meat?”
“Goat meat? No,” he says. His tone is despondent, as if he’s committed the greatest offense by not having what she wants. “No goat meat.” Then, his eyes light up again, “I know a place has goat meat. I can special order for you!”
“No, that’s alright,” she says, giving him the warmest smile that she can muster. “Thank you, though.”
“But lamb! We have lamb. How much lamb?” he asks.
“How much do you have? I was hoping for fifty to sixty pounds, if possible.”
Ioannis’s eyes widen, his brows jumping up his forehead, and he says, “That is a lot of lamb! Normally, we do not sell so much to one person without special order. But anything for you, Makani! You have a party?”
“Yes,” she says. The lie slides off her tongue with ease. “My friend is hosting an event and her caterer backed out last minute. I told her I might be able to get a large order of lamb for her.”
“Ah, too bad, too bad,” Ioannis says. His dark brows lower, shadowing his eyes as he shakes his head. “Do you need help cooking all the lamb? I am sure Ismena and Eleni be happy to help.”
“No,” she says with a smile. “Fortunately, she has a few chef friends who are willing to help out. I appreciate the offer, though, Ioannis.”
Ioannis beams, “Of course! Anything for the lovely Makani. Come, you can say hello to Ismena while I get your order ready. Come, come.”
Again, he directs her to the back of the store, and this time she follows without interruption. Past the register and deli display, the remaining two-thirds of the store is packed with Greek and Mediterranean snacks, spices, sauces, and breads. One wall is taken up by freezers packed with plastic-wrapped meat. They pass the shelves and freezers, through a black door tucked in the corner. The door leads to a storage area with several more doors. Makani has been back here several times, when Ismena still looked at her with affection, and she knows without Ioannis’s directions to pass through a door on their left, which leads to a small hallway with a narrow staircase on the left and a door leading outside on the right. She follows him up the stairs to a landing with a single apartment door.
As he unlocks the door, he calls out, “Ismena, we have a visitor!”
The apartment door opens to a dining area, where a young woman sits at a wooden kitchen table, painted white. The space is cramped, the table less than a meter away from the door. Beyond the table is the kitchen, with light brown countertops and chestnut cabinets. The walls are lined with utensils and appliances that don’t fit in the cabinets. Makani knows the cabinets are packed to the brim with spices, food, and dishware.
The young woman at the table sits with a notebook in front of her, a black pen in her hand. As the door swings open, she looks up and her eyes alight on Ioannis and Makani standing in the threshold. She has the same clear blue eyes as her father, with thick dark lashes and strong, expressive brows. Her face is softer, rounder than Ioannis’s, though not as warm and inviting. Where Ioannis’s features invite friendly conversation, hers are closed off and critical. There’s something about her penetrative gaze and the sharp curves of her lips that suggests she knows things she shouldn’t. That she sees right through you. That she’s up to something.
She gives a sharp smile and says, “Makani, what a pleasant surprise.” Her voice is rich and warm, but there’s a sardonic lilt. Her father doesn’t notice.
“Ismena,” Makani says, matching her tone. Polite, but with a touch of mockery. “It’s been a while.”
Ismena quirks an eyebrow, her smile unwavering, and Makani knows what she’s thinking. Not long enough.
Playing the role of a good hostess, she stands. As she rounds the table, her white cotton maxi dress flutters against her ankles, and she holds her arms out, making the bracelets on her wrist jangle against each other. Makani walks into the hug, keeping her touch light and formal. There’s no warmth in the hug from Ismena. Both women are acting for the sake of the man in the doorway.
Ioannis is beaming. “I will let you two girls talk,” he says. “Your order will soon be ready, Makani.” He says something in Greek to his daughter, then chirps to both of them, “Have fun!”
Ismena’s closed, angled smile doesn’t drop as her father closes the door behind him. His soft footfalls fade down the stairs.
“What are you doing here?” she asks. She’s curious and wary, but not unkind.
“I need a lot of lamb meat on short notice,” Makani answers. As Ismena returns to her chair, Makani pulls out one of the white wooden kitchen chairs and settles on the yellow cushion and rests her arms on the table.
“Ah, yes, Dad said you were helping out with a party.” Ismena asks, “Do you want anything? Water? Tea? I’m going to make myself a cup of tea.”
“Sure, I’ll have some tea,” Makani says.
Behind Ismena, the stove clicks on, blue fire igniting beneath a yellow tea kettle. She leans back in the chair and crosses her arms over her chest. Her gaze is piercing, scrutinizing. Makani has never felt afraid the way most people do, but even she can understand why Ismena’s gaze would make people squirm. Ismena looks at the world like she already knows it’s darkest secrets, like she’s already passed judgment and decided the world is guilty.
“So, why do you really need a lot of lamb meat on short notice?” she asks, arching a dark brow.
“A party,” Makani says, a smile sliding over her lips. Ismena won’t believe her. She’s not as clueless as he father.
“Uh-huh,” Ismena says. She leans forward and rests her arms on the table, still crossed. “But, what’s the real reason?”
“I need some information,” she answers. “There’s a troll near the city that will exchange information for meat or valuables. She prefers goat meat, but that’s a little harder to come by than lamb,”
“A troll?” Ismena repeats.
Makani nods.
Her tone is neither angry nor reprimanding when she comments, “Dad wouldn’t be happy to know you’re giving quality lamb meat to a troll.”
Though her experience with the magical creatures of Chicago is limited, Ismena isn’t surprised that a troll lives nearby, nor is she surprised that Makani knows where to find them. Even before she knew that magic was as real and pervasive as the concrete sidewalks of the city, Chicago had been a hotbed of fantastical activity and creatures that she’d never expected to find outside of books. Becoming a witch hadn’t compelled her to acquaint herself with the creatures she’d once thought to be mythical, but she knows they’re there. She prefers to stay out of business that isn’t hers, but Makani has never been so courteous.
“That’s why I didn’t tell him,” Makani says, and they both know Ismena won’t tell him either.
The feelings between them are messy and complicated, especially on Ismena’s end. She’s made one thing clear: there’s no room for friendship anymore. Their relationship is one of mutual respect, but not closeness. The embers of their friendship have long gone out. Despite that, Makani trusts her more than she trusts most. Their relationship began with Ismena putting her trust in Makani, and though Ismena’s since learned better, Makani still trusts her.
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And he cries confess (confess)
Vile succubus
How you beguiled
And defiled my innocence
You’re a bitch
You’re a witch
You’re the reason for all my sins [x]
idk man I’d let them hex me
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hunted - part 2
Characters: Makani, Makani’s mother, Melchor (Makani’s brother), mentions of Precious, brief mention of Ashley
Summary: Makani swallows her pride and asks her mother for help
As she speeds down the freeway the wind whips Makani’s face, tugs at loose strands of hair, through the open windows of her car. Her left hand hangs limply out the window, but her grip on the steering wheel is tight enough to turn the knuckles of her right hand pale. The sun won’t come up for a few hours, and the road is dark and mostly unoccupied. Makani lets the speedometer swing higher, listening to the roar of her engine. Maybe she’ll catch the attention of a cop, someone to be the unlucky recipient of her frustration and displeasure.
In the few years that Makani has known Precious, Precious has managed to get a grip on her heart like no one else. Even Makani isn’t quite sure what it is about Precious that she finds so enthralling, but she hasn’t had many qualms about it. She enjoys having someone occupy her attention, to flatter and please, to protect. Mel says Makani’s relationship with Precious is creepy, that Makani has a weird infatuation, but Makani has never cared what her brother has to say. She’s not going to start now. And Precious has been unbothered by Makani’s attachment, so Makani has had no reason to pull back.
Earlier tonight, however, Makani was confronted by the negative aspects of caring about another person. Previously, she’d never had a reason to feel guilty or ashamed, at least not in her opinion. If other people have been hurt by her actions, that’s their issue. She’s never cared. She can’t remember a time where she’s even felt sad or bad on someone else’s behalf. But, tonight, when Precious collapsed onto the couch, her entire body shaking with each heaving sob, Makani’s insides twisted, and her heart ached. It was a weird, uncomfortable pain, unlike anything she’d ever experienced.
At the time, Makani considered putting an arm around Precious, to comfort her in some way, do something to stop her crying, but she suspected such a gesture wouldn’t be welcome, not after the verbal reaming Precious had just given her. She left Precious on the couch and shut herself in her room.
For hours, Makani sat on her bed, staring blankly at her bedroom door, her eyes unfocused as she tried to sort through previously unencountered feelings. She could hear Precious crying for a heartbreaking amount of time, before Precious got up and disappeared into her own room. Makani wanted to annihilate the cause of Precious’s distress, to appease Precious and rid herself of her own discomfort. She was nagged by a persistent instinct to eliminate the reason for Precious’s fear and unease. Eliminate the threat. Precious is afraid of witch hunters. The obvious solution was to get rid of said witch hunters. But, as she so often was, Precious was right. Killing one witch hunter would attract the attention of more, and Makani probably couldn’t take them all. She liked to believe she could, but for once in her life, she wasn’t willing to take the risk. Risk makes life fun, keeps everyone on their toes, but there’s one thing Makani would never be willing to risk: Precious’s safety.
Her stomach turned. She’d been risking Precious’s safety. For months. Years. In her complete disregard for her own safety, she’d put Precious at risk too.
Again, Makani was struck with the compulsion to eliminate the witch hunters. Eliminate the threat. But a quieter voice in the back of her head, one that sounded like Precious, told her that the witch hunters weren’t the only issue. They weren’t the only reason Precious sat on the couch sobbing for over half an hour. Makani was an issue too. Precious was afraid, and that was in no small part due to Makani.
Makani sat on her bed, thinking in circles. Blaming the witch hunters, forcing herself to acknowledge her own involvement in Precious’s fear, wondering how to fix the situation and make Precious comfortable, twinges of discomfort and anger as she remembered Precious falling onto the couch, blaming the witch hunters…
Somewhere in that time, Makani became aware of movement in Precious’s bedroom. Hangers sliding across the pole in Precious’s closet, the removal of books from shelves, opening and closing drawers.
She’s packing, Makani thought.
Precious had always played an active role in her own life. She’s decisive and won’t let the world make decisions for her. It shouldn’t have been a surprise that she was taking action to remove herself from a situation she’d decided is dangerous.
Makani stiffened. Frustration bubbled up within her, and again she wanted to lash out at the witch hunters for driving Precious away. Again, she reminded herself that they weren’t the only ones to blame. She won’t stop Precious if she wants to leave, but she would put up a fight first. She put Precious in a dangerous situation. If she could fix it, maybe she could convince Precious to stay. If she does fix it, and Precious still wants to leave, Makani won’t stop her. But she has to at least try.
Her usual method of fixing problems was off the table. She couldn’t kill every witch hunter in the world. Probably. And even if she could, it would take a long time, and Precious might end up as collateral damage. That wasn’t an option.
Makani’s thoughts started to circle again. She felt…helpless. Small and powerless. What an awful, pathetic feeling. It was revolting. She didn’t know what to do. What could she do?
There was an option that Makani found wholly unappealing. Thinking about it made her curl her lip in disgust. But she couldn’t think of anything else.
She would have to ask for help.
Around four in the morning, Makani accepted that she needed advice. She needed someone to guide her, help her brainstorm and come up with a solution that didn’t involve massacring every witch hunter. So, she got in her car and headed to her parents’ house.
She knows her mother won’t be awake for a several hours, but Makani couldn’t sit on her bed staring into space for any longer. She wouldn’t have been able to sleep, knowing Precious was one room over, afraid and readying herself to move out.
Makani reaches her parents’ house without incident, begrudgingly lowering her speed as she pulls onto residential streets. The dirt driveway is hidden among looming trees and winds off an isolated cul-de-sac. Her car rocks over the crunching gravel that covers the ground in front of the house. The house is quiet and dark, aside from the rustling of nighttime creatures and the small pools of light from solar garden lanterns that line the drive. It’s an unassuming, modern home, with gray vinyl siding and white trim. The shutters are black, and a snaking ivy clings to the siding, climbing up the side of the house. Bluestone steppingstones lead from the gravel to the wooden front porch, grass and clover growing between the stones. An old rocking chair with white, chipping paint sits on the porch. It’s the picture of mundanity; there’s nothing from the exterior that suggests a family of mangkukulam lives inside.
The house remains quiet as Makani traverses up the bluestone path and unlocks the front door. There are wards and magic alarms protecting the house, but none that protect against her. After all, it was her house too for almost two decades. She leaves the lights off as she locks the door behind her, then ventures into the den. As much as she’d like the instant gratification of talking to her mother right now, she knows that won’t be taken well, so she settles on the couch. While she waits for her family to wake up, she might as well try to get some sleep too. She unties the laces of her boots, kicks them to the side, and grabs the blanket that’s folded over the back of the couch. Despite her anxieties about Precious, she has no difficulty falling asleep.
Makani wakes up to the sounds of her mother’s and brother’s voices, overpowered by the pops and sizzling of hot oil. The aromas of longganisa and fried eggs waft into the den from the kitchen. Sunlight pours through the sliding glass doors that look out into the backyard. Makani sits up and swipes her fingers beneath her eyes, rubbing away last night’s smudged make-up. She makes her way into the kitchen, where her mother stands at the stove, cracking an egg into the skillet. Her mother’s dark hair is streaked with shocks of white and gray, and plaited into a thick, long braid that hangs down her back. Her blouse is off-white linen, with short butterfly sleeves, showing off the toned muscles of her arms. Her skin is marked with age, with spots and scars, including a thin scar that starts at the bottom of her left cheek and crosses over her lips. She looks tough, like someone deserving of respect.
Makani’s brother, Melchor, sits at one of the four stools at the kitchen island, shoveling a still steaming hot breakfast into his mouth. He looks far less deserving of respect. He looks like an almost-thirty-year-old leeching off his parents, with his messy hair, scruffy beard, and sweatpants stained with hot sauce. Makani wrinkles her nose at him.
“Good morning, Makani,” her mother says pleasantly, not glancing up from the stove. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Yeah, what are you doing here?” Mel asks, speaking through a mouthful of sausage and rice. “You get in a fight with your girlfriend? She kick you out?” There’s a mischievous glint in his dark eyes.
Makani doesn’t bother to explain that Precious isn’t actually her girlfriend, nor does she gratify him with a response. She opens a cupboard to procure a plate, then serves herself a helping of rice and longganisa. Her mother wordlessly adds a fried egg to Makani’s plate.
“So, what do you want?” Mel asks, shoveling another forkful of food into his mouth. “You only come here when you want something.”
“I came to spend quality time with you,” Makani answers dryly. She slides onto the stool beside him at the kitchen island.
Mel barks a laugh. “Bullshit,” he says.
“You’re right,” she admits. “You’re insufferable.”
“At least I’m not a bitch,” he says.
“I don’t know,” she says. “You seem like a little bitch to me.”
Mel reaches to snatch a sausage from her plate, and Makani smacks his hand away then raises her fork to stab him.
“No bloodshed at breakfast,” their mother says, not taking her eyes away from the stove. Makani decided as a child that her mother must have eyes in the back of her head. She and Mel have never been able to get away with anything if she’s in the room.
Makani raises her eyebrows at Mel, daring him to try again, but he only gives her a sardonic smile.
“You get in trouble with the law? Piss off some demonic entity?” Mel asks. “Run out of some ingredient you need? What could be so important that you had to show up in the middle of the night for it?”
“Remind me why that’s any of your business?”
“We’re family.”
“Not a compelling reason,” she says.
“Precious kicked you out, didn’t she? I knew it wouldn’t last. She’s too sane for you. What was the final straw?” The enjoyment he’s getting out of this makes Makani want to suffocate him with a pillow. Or hex him. Or hex him and then suffocate him with a pillow.
“Precious and I aren’t dating, Melchor,” she says. She kicks him in the shin under the counter as he reaches again for her plate.
“Whatever makes you feel better,” he shrugs.
He stands and brings his plate to the kitchen sink, where he washes off the leftover bits of food, then places it on the bottom rack of the dishwasher. He leans back against the counter, watching Makani with an amused smile.
“Stop hovering,” their mother says, shooing Mel away from the sink.
“I wanna know why Makani is here,” Mel says. He crosses his arms over his chest.
“Go help your father with whatever he’s doing,” she says.
He tries to protest, “But—”
“Go, shoo!” their mother says, waving him away.
Mel rolls his eyes but obeys. He flicks Makani in the back of the head as he passes her on his way out of the kitchen. Makani mutters under her breath, side-eyeing the carpet in the hallway, and the carpet bunches up beneath Mel’s feet. He trips, barely managing to catch himself by throwing one hand up to the wall. He turns and glares at Makani.
“Bitch,” he says.
She grins and gives a small wave before he turns and disappears down the hall.
Makani’s mother lets her finish her breakfast in silence. She packs away the leftovers into Tupperware containers, leaving the lids off so the food can cool. When Makani brings her plate to the sink, her mother says, “Your brother is right about one thing; you don’t come here unless you want something.”
Makani grimaces. “He’s right about two things.” Admitting her brother is right about anything makes her want to gag. “I upset Precious.”
“Oh?” Her mother’s tone is light, interested, but not overly interested.
Makani grabs a sponge from beside the sink and begins to scrub the utensils her mother used to cook breakfast.
“I made…a mistake,” Makani says. “Maybe a few mistakes.”
Her mother is quiet for a few seconds, then says with an amused lilt, “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard you admit to making a mistake.”
“I don’t make mistakes,” Makani says without hesitation.
“Until now?”
“Until now,” she agrees. She glowers at the pan she’s scrubbing.
“And?” her mother prompts.
The words won’t come to Makani’s lips. Admitting to her faults and mistakes, asking for help, are apparently even harder to do than admit that Mel is right about anything. She places the pan on the drying rack beside the sink and sucks in a deep breath.
“I want…your advice,” she says, forcing the words out.
“Really? How unlike you,” her mother says. A smile plays on her lips.
“Mother,” Makani says.
Her mother laughs. She dries her hands on a towel and puts the spatula away in its drawer. “I need to know what you did before I can give you advice.”
“I…” Makani isn’t sure where to begin. The things she’s done to upset Precious are things she’s been doing her entire life. She’s just never cared until now. She’s not even sure they qualify as mistakes. The mistake is upsetting Precious. An unfortunate side effect of things she’s done very willingly and deliberately.
She decides to address the thing that isn’t directly her fault. “Have you ever encountered any witch hunters?”
“A few,” her mother says. She turns to Makani and lifts her blouse, showing a thick, gnarled scar on her lower abdomen. “This is from a witch hunter.”
“What did you do to him?” Makani asks as her mother lets the linen blouse fall back into place.
“I killed him. I was pregnant with Melchor at the time, and he’d tried to kill me and my unborn child. I had no other choice,” she says. She talks about it like someone would talk about a routine event at work. Disaffected.
“Yesterday, a witch hunter tried to kill a witch that Precious knows,” Makani says. “Ashley Rivers.”
“Ashley is the witch?”
“No, he’s the witch hunter. You haven’t heard of the Rivers family? They hunt witches. That’s their whole deal,” Makani says. “You really haven’t heard of them?”
Her mother shrugs.
“Well, he’s in Chicago, and Precious didn’t know witch hunters were a thing, and now she’s scared, and I think she’s going to move out,” she says.
Her mother waits for her to continue, to clarify why this matters. When Makani says nothing, she asks, “What does that have to do with you?”
“I…knew about the existence of witch hunters and didn’t tell her,” she says. She avoids her mother’s gaze. “And I, in Precious’s words, ‘I practically advertise the dark magic I do and where I live.’ And she thinks I’ve put her in danger.” In a smaller voice she adds, “And she’s kind of right.”
“Kind of?”
“She’s very right,” Makani huffs, grimacing at the tile floor.
“Why does it matter?” her mother asks. She knows the answer.
“Because I care about Precious.”
“Why? You’ve never cared about anyone else,” she says.
“You’re not making this easy,” Makani grumbles.
“Good,” her mother says. “You’re overdue for some suffering.”
Makani glowers and crosses her arms over her chest, not looking at her mother.
“Well?” her mother prompts. She’s really going to make Makani spell everything out. By this point, she certainly knows what Makani wants from her, but she’s not letting Makani get it that easily.
“I feel…bad…that I upset Precious. And I’d rather she not move away. And I want her to feel safe and not afraid.”
“Why not kill the witch hunters?” she asks. Makani knows her mother is suggesting it because her mother knows it would’ve been Makani’s first instinct.
“It would attract the attention of more witch hunters.”
“Oh, so you’re giving things forethought now?” her mother asks.
“Precious pointed it out,” Makani mumbles. She raises her voice slightly, “And I give things forethought! I just don’t usually…care. And that’s not the problem anyway. I think the problem is me.”
“Really?” her mother says with fake disbelief. “You?”
“Mother,” she groans. “Are you going to help me or not?”
“What are you asking of me, Makani?”
“I want to make Precious feel safe living with me,” Makani says. “And I’ve done a lot of things to make her feel unsafe, and I don’t know how to fix things. I want…I need your help.” Her mother looks at her pointedly, until she adds, “Please.”
“Alright,” she says. “Looks like we have some planning to do.”
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makani thoughts
Both of Makani’s parents are mangkukulam, and she’s been learning kulam/black magic for as long as she can remember. She’s always been a bit of a prodigy with magic, showing exceptional skill since she started learning.
Her family sells hexes and curses, as well as services to lift hexes and curses. Her parents have more of a moral code than Makani does, and believe their hexes won’t affect people who aren’t guilty.
In her teenage years she started branching out from the kulam her family practices and started delving into other witch disciplines. She mostly focused on other forms of dark/black magic, but she would happily study anything about magic that she could get her hands on.
Between her natural talent for magic and her lifelong studying, Makani developed into a very powerful witch. She comes off as flippant about magic now, recklessly combining spells or creating new spells entirely. Really, she’s confident in her abilities and probably has some luck on her side. She can quickly recognize when a spell is starting to go wrong, and that’s one of the few moments where she’ll appear serious about magic as she works to minimize the damage or reverse the spell.
She’s more capable and powerful than she presents herself. She could do some serious damage if she wanted to, but fortunately she’s not interested in large-scale domination or large-scale chaos.
When she’s bored, her magic gets more experimental and often bloodier. She loves a good blood sacrifice.
Precious and Aoife keep Makani entertained most of the time. She likes teaching them the things she knows, which keeps her attention
Eventually Makani makes a spell-book of spells/hexes/potions/etc that she’s created. She mostly does this so anytime Aoife or Precious is like “we should be going by the book,” she can say “It’s in a book. See?”
Opens her own magic business called Hex Your Ex. Precious is the face of the company because she’s usually more pleasant to talk to
Makani would take any job that came her way, but Precious prefers to vet the customers first and see if the person being hexed deserves it to some degree. Makani is like “If you want to waste your time on that, go ahead.”
Makani cares about 2 people: Aoife and Precious. She’s not particularly attached to her family members or anyone else
She’s fond of Aoife and would do more for her than anyone else (besides Precious), but if Aoife walked out of her life, she’d get over it pretty quickly
She’d go on a murderous rampage if anything bad happened to Precious. She’s very attached to Precious and would do anything for her.
Precious thinks Makani’s dedication to her is weird, but she’s accepted it as her lot in life and doesn’t mind it. It’s also useful for her because she’s the only person Makani will obey (though that isn’t a guarantee)
Makani frequently uses seduction to get what she wants. She doesn’t really need a job because she cons men (and sometimes women) out of their money whenever she’s in need of money
Sometimes it’s conning, but sometimes she’s being a sugar baby for people who are willingly giving her money
She doesn’t regularly kill people, but she doesn’t have any reservations about killing people
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an average evening
Characters: Makani Calipusan, Precious Jones (Makani’s roommate), some fuckboy named Adam
Summary: Makani threatening a guy bc he’s a dick
Makani sat at her desk, leaning forward, her ankles hooked together beneath her chair as she scribbled down a list of spell ingredients. She referenced three tomes that laid open on her desk. She hadn’t quite decided which hex among the three she wanted to use yet and figured she might as well get all of the ingredients for her current considerations. She could always save the extra ingredients for future kulam.
From her bedroom, Makani heard the apartment door open and close softly, followed by quiet shuffling. There was a beat of silence. Then her roommate’s voice.
“Hey, Makani?” Precious called.
“Yeah?” Makani replied. She capped her pen and slid it into the pen loop of her journal.
“Why is there a naked man bound and gagged on our couch?” Precious asked.
Precious didn’t sound surprised or concerned about the bound man in their sitting room. Just curious.
One of the reasons Precious made such a good roommate was her tolerance of unusual and weird circumstances. Within the first few weeks of Precious moving into the apartment, Makani did a ritual that required a goat’s head. On a Thursday morning, as she was preparing her lunch for work, Precious opened the fridge to see a severed goat’s head staring at her. She gently nudged it aside to grab a yogurt, then closed the fridge without comment. Later, she politely suggested that she and Makani get a mini fridge to store things such as goat heads, so they could avoid cross contamination of sacrifices and the chicken breasts that Precious had prepped to eat for the week.
Makani exited her bedroom with her journal tucked under her arm. Precious stood at the threshold where the kitchen, front entry, and sitting room met, looking blankly at the couch. The man tied up on the couch was a textbook fuckboy, with his hair slicked back and tattoos like “Only God can judge me” written across his upper back and the poorly done tribal tattoo on his left pectoral. Makani knew at first glance that he’d be completely inane the moment he opened his mouth, but fuckboys were just so fun to toy with; she couldn’t help herself.
The man’s eyes bugged out as he struggled against the bindings and stared at Precious desperately, trying to incite some sympathy from her. Makani rolled her eyes. With his arms pinned to his sides and her experience with tying knots, trying to wriggle free was useless. The ropes were digging into his muscles, leaving red marks on his skin.
“He deserves it,” Makani shrugged. She crossed the room from her bedroom to the entryway and grabbed her lace-up boots that sat beside the door.
“What did he do?” Precious asked, her eyes following Makani.
“I only wanted a nice fuck, and then I found out he has a girlfriend,” she said, settling on the floor to pull on her boots.
“So?” Precious said. “You’ve never cared about that.”
She was right. Makani didn’t have time or patience to find out if the people she fucked had a significant other. If people were going to cheat, that was their prerogative.
“He called me his girlfriend’s name,” Makani said.
“Ew,” Precious said. “That doesn’t explain why he’s tied up, though.”
“I called him on it, and he started ranting about how much of a fucking bitch his girlfriend is. And how she’s too dumb and pathetic and in love with him to ever realize he’s fucking other girls,” Makani explained.
“Ew,” she said again, her upper lip curling. She looked back to the man with her nose wrinkled in disgust. “What are you going to do to him?”
“Haven’t decided yet,” Makani said. She stood and tapped her journal with a long fingernail painted a glossy black. “But I have some ideas. I need to pick up some ingredients. Are you okay with me leaving him here?”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Precious said. She gave him a once over and curled her lip again. “It’s distracting. And I’d planned on watching a movie.”
“Hmm,” Makani hummed. She didn’t really need him to be here for any hexes or curses. All she needed was some DNA. Some personal information would be nice, too.
She returned to her bedroom, saying, “I’ll be right back.”
The man’s clothes were scattered on her floor. Finding his wallet was easy enough, tucked in the front pocket of his jeans. She pulled out his ID and copied down the information before returning the wallet to his pocket. She gathered the rest of his clothes, grabbed a pair of scissors from her desk, and returned to the sitting room. Precious had disappeared into the kitchen. Makani dropped the clothes, including his shoes, into the man’s lap. He winced in pain as the shoes hit him, and he made a few muffled noises through the gag. She ignored him.
Makani pinched a strand of his hair between her thumb and forefinger. He tried to pull away, but his movement was severely limited. He could only let out muffled yells as she raised the scissors and snipped away the tips of the small lock of hair. Still ignoring his protests, she held the hair between her fingers and went to the kitchen. Precious was standing at the kitchen island, flipping through a cookbook. She glanced up briefly as Makani rummaged through the cupboards for a small jar to store the hair.
“Okay,” Makani said, once she’d returned to the sitting room. “I’m going to untie you, but if you try to yell for help or do anything else stupid, I will hit you.”
She pulled his gag off and his face contorted in anger as he hissed at her, “You’re fucking psychotic! You’re not gonna get away with—”
“Oh, save it,” Makani said, shoving one of his socks in his mouth. “I’ve heard this speech before. You’re not going to tell anyone about how the crazy chick you met at the bar tied you up and threatened you.” She removed the sock from his mouth.
“I’m gonna call the fucking cops and—” she shoved the sock in his mouth again.
“Stop talking. Your voice is unbelievably irritating,” Makani said. “You aren’t going to call the cops or tell your rich daddy. Here’s the thing, Adam,” She pressed her nails into either side of his throat. “I know your name and I know where you live, and if you go tattling on me, I’ll ruin your life. Or dump your body in the woods. Really depends on how I’m feeling that day. Got it?” Her voice was falsely cheery, sugar sweet as she grinned.
His breath had grown labored and a bead of sweat ran down his temple. This time, when Makani removed the sock from his mouth, he said nothing. She rapidly untied the knots. Before he had a chance to shake off the loosened ropes, she stepped back and flicked open the knife she kept strapped to her thigh.
The defiant, vengeful look in his blue eyes died, and he slowed his rushed effort to escape the ropes.
“Play nice,” she said with a smile. “I don’t want to get blood on the carpet. We just had it cleaned.”
Keeping his eyes on her, he rapidly pulled his clothes on, nearly falling over as his foot got caught in the leg of his jeans. Makani twirled the knife between her fingers, watching with an easy smile.
After her pulled his second shoe on, he stood for a few brief seconds, sizing her up. She hoped he wouldn’t lunge at her. Dealing with that would be such a chore. But he was a rich white boy with a gym membership. He’d probably never dealt with such insult, such injustice, as a woman getting the upper hand.
“Before you go, Adam,” she said, looking up at him through her lashes. “Remember, I’ll fucking kill you. And I’ll enjoy every second of it. Keep a secret, okay, sweetie?”
He bolted, fumbling with the front door before racing into the hall.
“Think he’ll tell anyone?” Precious called from the kitchen after the door slammed closed.
“Nah,” Makani said, following Precious’s voice. “He’s all bark, no bite. Will you pass me the grocery bags?” Makani grabbed her keys off the wall hook in the kitchen.
Precious reached for the reusable grocery bags on top of the fridge, then tossed them across the kitchen island.
“You want anything while I’m out?” Makani asked.
“Yeah, we’re running low on rice,” Precious said. Before Makani could leave, she asked, “What are you thinking of doing to him?”
“I was considering making him impotent, but that’s so uninspired,” Makani said, twirling her keys on her forefinger. “Maybe make him cry every time he climaxes. Or a life of dry orgasms. Or both. He seems to really like his own cock, so something in that realm.”
“There are spells for that?” Precious asked.
“Oh, absolutely,” Makani said. “There are whole spellbooks about hexes, curses, and spells related to all things sexual.”
“Huh,” Precious said. “Good to know.”
“Let me know if you ever want me to teach you any of them.”
“Will do,” Precious said.
Makani smiled, “Alright, I’ll be back soon.”
“Oh, could you get some rosemary from the store, too?” Precious called as Makani opened the door.
#makani calipusan#someday i will make a whole post about precious bc i adore her#uf#my writing#precious lebeau
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mh2 - life after death
Makani the morning she realizes she’s a ghoul :3
The highway, once a busy thruway, is now a relic of the past, hardly used. The centered double lines faded long ago. A forest looms on either side of the road. Year by year the woods slowly reclaim the land. Trees force their roots beneath the asphalt, causing the road to bulge and crack along the edges. Ambitious weeds have snaked their way through the cracks, leaving green stretchmarks across the faded gray asphalt. Squirrels and deer amble across without concern, unused to cars or people. The only patrons of the road are teenagers looking for a place to drink and smoke with their buddies and lost travelers. The visitations of teenagers will lessen as summer is drifting into autumn, leaving the forest and its inhabitants to continue their repossession of the road.
Dawn emerges above the tree line, and with it comes the conversations of birds singing their sunrise greetings. The morning sunlight slips through the branches, refracted by a thick fog that hugs the trees. The weather forecast calls for a warm day with low precipitation, but the forest doesn’t seem to have received the message. The fog gathers around the tree trunks like colorless cotton candy, ghostly, wispy, and opaque. Morning dew gathers on foliage and dampens the earth.
Beneath a tall pine, a teenage girl lies on her side, curled into a fetal position atop the damp soil. Her eyes are closed, her body still. She’s barefoot, her legs and feet covered by sheer black stockings. The nylons are nicked with tears and holes. Beneath the runs in the stockings, her legs are marked with scrapes and thin cuts, and the blood from the scrapes has stained the nylons. Her skirt, a plaid polyester, is singed on a portion of the seam, and flutters gently in the wind. Twigs and leaves are caught in her braids, which are tousled and unkempt.
A gray squirrel scampers across the groundcover and leaves, its nose twitching as it nears the body lying among the trees. It inches closer, flicking its tail. The girl smells recently dead. Another lone creature to decompose and nourish the forest’s ecosystem. The squirrel puts a small paw on the dead girl’s leg, sniffing the air.
The forest falls silent.
The birds stop their songs mid-note. The squirrels stop chittering. Even the wind stops, silencing the rustling tree branches. There’s a cold hush. A forest holding its breath. The squirrel freezes, startled by the sudden quiet. It gives a flick of its tail and darts away from the body, bounding up a nearby tree to safety. As the squirrel’s small paws propel it up the tree bark, the dead girl suddenly sucks in a deep breath. Her eyes flash open.
Makani doesn’t know where she is or how she got here. She pushes herself into a sitting position and turns her head slowly to take in her surroundings. The fog obscures her vision beyond a few meters. Putting one hand on the trunk of the nearest tree to steady herself, she stands. One side of her body is covered in forest soil, her other side damp with morning dew. She makes a half-hearted attempt to brush the leaves and dirt off her clothes. Twigs and leaves latch onto to the polyester fabric of her skirt and the nylon of her stockings. Dirt sticks to her skin and hair. She wipes her cheek with the palm of her hand, smearing the dark, cool soil across her face.
Unable to see anything through the fog, Makani turns her face to the sky, squinting at the rising sun. Makani is more familiar with the moon than the sun, having asked the moon for guidance and light for most of her life, but she tries to glean some information from the burning sphere. The wind begins to blow again, but this time it whispers a warning, sending its message through the rustling branches. Without much consideration for where she’s headed, Makani turns her attention back to the obscured forest and begins to walk. She instinctively puts her weight on the sides of her soles, protecting the sensitive skin of her arches. From its spot in the treetops, the squirrel watches the girl disappear into the fog, her eyes fixed forward, her gait wobbly but assured.
Makani can feel the cool dampness of the forest floor’s decomposing foliage through her thin stockings. The breeze and the morning chill warrant a jacket, but the cold doesn’t touch Makani’s skin. She can feel the wind buffet against her skin but not the chill that comes with it. Though she can feel the forest beneath her feet and the breeze blowing over her, she doesn’t feel the discomfort that should come with the sensations. The world is dulled, distant. How she wound up unconscious in the forest is inconsequential to her.
Makani stops short. A thin, sharp twig hidden beneath the decaying leaves has pierced her foot, tearing another hole in her nylons as it imbeds into her skin. There’s no pain. She leans against a tree and examines the bottom of her foot. The twig is long and pointed, dry due to the blanket of leaves. Unaffectedly, she removes the splinter and tosses it back to the forest floor. She presses her thumbs into the sole of her foot, stretching her skin to examine the wound. The twig went deep into her skin, drawing blood. But the blood that slowly oozes from the wound is unlike any blood she’s seen. It’s thick and black and moves like molasses. She rips the hole in the sole of her stockings wider and wipes away the blood with her thumb. The blood has stopped, and the only evidence of the splinter is a small laceration in her skin.
Makani places her foot against the forest floor again, pressing the wound against the ground. There’s no pain. Makani can’t convince herself that the black blood or the lack of pain are particularly remarkable. No more remarkable than waking up in an unknown area of a forest. She resumes her aimless trek.
In the absence of pain, cold, or concern, another sensation has overcome her. A deep, feral hunger. Makani has never felt so hungry in her life. And yet, there’s no dizziness or a growling stomach to accompany the hunger. She just wants. She craves. It’s a base need deep within her.
As Makani walks, the sun seems to maintain a still position in the sky, unmoving, not marking the passage of time. Aside from the wind, the forest is still silent, its hundreds of eyes watching Makani, the girl who smells like she recently died, the unnatural being, as she walks without a destination.
Through the trees and the fog, Makani spots a clearing, where the shadows of the trees leave a wide berth. She recognizes the area. It’s the last place she remembers being conscious. She maintains her slow, steady pace, nearing the grassy glen with neither haste nor hesitation.
The clearing is her favorite place to practice spells. A place where her parents can’t interrupt. It’s a mile from the dilapidated road, a place Makani found when she’d been searching for animal bones.
When she discovered the clearing, she’d been carefully scanning the forest floor and caught a glimpse of light gray in her peripheral. From a distance, she couldn’t make out what the pale color was. The shape was inorganic, out of place in an area typically untouched by man. Filled with curiosity, she neared the object and found herself entering a small clearing. Out of the shadow of the trees, short grasses and flowers had spread over the dirt, covering it a blanket of live foliage, right up to the edge of the light gray object.
The object was a large slab of concrete, around ten feet on each side. Makani walked around the slab, examining it, wondering where it originated. The grass had grown around it; it wasn’t placed on top of the grass, so it must’ve been there a decent amount of time. Perhaps it hid a bunker beneath it. Or maybe it was once the foundation of a small house. She decided the origins didn’t matter. The concrete slab centered in the clearing offered an apt workspace, where she could draw symbols in chalk and charcoal beneath the light of the moon. The woods could provide easy access to small animals for sacrifices. It was an ideal spot. The next day she returned to cleanse the area and make the spot her own.
As Makani enters the clearing, she’s hit with a strong stench. The smell of death and burning. Even with her dulled senses, she has the urge to cover her nose and turn away from the awful stench. She’s familiar with blood, and the clearing smells like a massacre. It smells like charred remains and pints of blood. Last night she’d been calling on dark forces, but nothing she did could have warranted an odor of this magnitude.
Despite the stench, she doesn’t break her stride. She keeps walking forward, toward the concrete slab. Carcasses of small animals in varying states of decomposition scatter the ground. The remains of sacrifices both recent and old. The grass, which was green and lush last night, is scorched black, but it’s cool against her feet. She nears the slab and stops at its edge.
Deep cracks run through the middle of the concrete. The symbols she drew in charcoal and chalk have been blown out, smeared like a strong wind blew through, but the smears point outward in all directions from the center of the slab. Makani kneels and wipes her forefinger across the smeared symbols. The charcoal comes off on her finger. The concrete slab is cool like the grass. It’s stained with the blood of past sacrifices.
Makani stands and circles around the slab, examining the damage. The candles she set up near the edges have melted, the wax blown out and splattered on the charred grass. Once she’s made a complete circle, she pauses, and stares at the wreckage, trying to remember what happened. She remembers chanting, the wind kicking up, the candles flickering.
Then she woke up far from the clearing, lying in the dirt.
Makani looks down at herself. Twigs and dirt still cling to her clothes. The collar of her shirt scoops low over her chest, and as she looks closely, she realizes the dark fabric is covered in blood. Her skirt laces up above her waist, and the laces are still tied tight. There’s no blood on it. She raises the seam of the skirt, noting the burn marks. Her stockings are a lost cause, too torn and bloody to ever be repairable. She looks at her bare feet, only covered by the destroyed stockings. Where are her shoes?
She glances around and spots the black contour of her boots at the edge of the clearing. She recalls setting up for the spell last night, then taking off her shoes, leaving them beside a tree along with her backpack. The backpack and shoes are where she left them, far enough from the wreckage to be undamaged. She sits beneath the tree to put on her boots, pausing to look at the sole of her foot where the splinter pierced her. The wound seems smaller now, but she can’t be sure. She pulls on her boots, lacing them tight, and stands again.
The wind picks up and a wailing scream tears through the fog. The forest bristles. A fox, Makani thinks. Another scream erupts, accompanied by a howling wind that pulls at Makani’s skirt and hair. The forest wants Makani gone.
Makani picks up her backpack and pulls the zipper open. She gathers what remains of her things in the wreckage. A few undamaged herbs. Her spellbook, which is charred along the edges. A couple unused candles. She tosses them all into her bag and zips it closed, then pulls the backpack straps over her shoulders.
Before she disappears into the fog, Makani takes a long look at the clearing. The scattered carcasses, the cracked and blood-stained concrete, the melted candles. The wind howls, and Makani realizes that she won’t be returning to the clearing again. Something happened. She’s not who she was last night.
She’s ravenous. She yearns for something beyond her grasp. Something she must have. She’s just not sure what yet.
Makani turns away from the clearing, parting without another thought. She’s walked the invisible path from the clearing to the road dozens of times, and even with the thick fog, she finds her way out without difficulty. As she gets farther from the clearing, the fog begins to thin and her line of sight increases. By the time she gets to the road, the fog in front of her has completely disappeared.
Her dad’s car, which she’d borrowed with the excuse that she had a sleepover to go to, is parked where the forest and the road meet. She fishes the keys out of the smallest pocket of her bag, and the car chirps as it unlocks. Tossing her bag into the passenger’s seat, Makani slides into the driver’s seat. The small crescent moon pendant that hangs from her mirror sways when she slams the car door closed.
Makani reaches for the sun visor, and for the first time this morning, she hesitates. What will look back at her in the mirror? She flips it down and uncovers the mirror.
She looks like she’s been to hell and back. Her braids are fraying, strands of hair sticking out in every direction, decorated with an assortment of leaves and twigs. Dirt is smeared across her right cheek. Her lower lip is split, slightly swollen, and caked in dried blood. Her brown eyes are cloudy and fogged. And her neck.
On the right side of her neck, a long gash is clotted with dried blood. The blood that poured from the wound covers her neck, sternum, and the collar of her shirt. She touches the gash gently, expecting pain, but feels none. She tilts her head up, trying to get a clearer look of the wound in the mirror. She runs her forefinger and middle finger over her neck and stops at the location of one of her carotid arteries. The thickest part of the gash crosses over the artery.
I died, she thinks, without affectation. She knows it’s true. A small smile twitches at her lips.
Mother won’t be happy about this, she thinks. She flips the car mirror up, starts the engine, and pulls out onto the old road being taken over by the forest. As the car speeds down the street, the birds begin to sing again, and the woods come alive.
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Makani Calipusan
but make her urban fantasy
a revamp of Makani pls ignore previous posts about her bc they’re not accurate
Full name: Makani Diwa Calipusan
Three-quarters Filipino, one-quarter Hawaiian
Makani comes from a family of Mangkukulam (Filipino witches)
Her family has turned magic into a business. People pay them to hex others and those who are hexed have to pay to get the hex lifted
Makani is less interested in the business part than she is in causing chaos. She gets a thrill out of causing pain and trouble for others
Her interest in magic originally comes from her family practicing Filipino folk magic, but Makani takes it to another level. She has a lot of interest in the occult and dark arts. Fascinated by blood magic.
Complete adrenaline junkie
If there’s not a high chance of someone getting seriously maimed or dying, it’s not fun
Loves fast cars, muscle cars, and drag racing
Collects animal bones, especially skulls
Her bedroom is covered in posters of cars and decorated with candles, skulls, bones, and horror paraphernalia
Has a White Necked African Raven named Skully
Her main motivations are to have fun, cause grief, and make men cry
Also out to seduce people and break hearts
Her celebrity crush is Satan
All of her clothes are either black or red
Embrace the goth witch aesthetic
Never feels more fulfilled and validated than when someone calls her a bad person or evil
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emo phases??
all my characters with emo or emo-adjacent phases
Bambi: Her whole life is kind of an emo phase. I mean, she literally died and came back to life and now she sees ghosts. Personally, she considers herself more of the witchy goth aesthetic. But like, definitely emo at her core and there are pictures of her from middle school with the Emo Haircut™ and way too much eyeliner
Dylan: Um she absolutely had a scene phase. Scene haircut with the sideswept bangs and thick smudgy eyeliner. Wears lots of chunky bead bracelets and friendship bracelets. Has those multi-colored hair extensions at some point bc Jordie won’t let her die her hair and for some reason that’s one thing Dylan decides to obey. Does not listen to Jordie about piercing her ears tho and gives herself second piercings (she’s had the first since she was a baby) and small gauges. That evolves into her sneakerhead/skater punk look which she never totally grows out of. Idk what this fashion trend is called but she likes those chunky stripe shirts and high-waisted pants. Soft grunge maybe??
Frankie: For sure had an emo phase in their tween/early teen years. Wore all black and was angsty. They’re the bitch that has flashbacks at the first note of Welcome to the Black Parade. They also for sure wrote emo poetry and if anyone finds out about that and brings it up they’re mortified.
Graham: He really wanted to be emo bc that’s how he felt Inside but he didn’t want to be accused of copying Saoirse (who absolutely has multiple alternative fashion phases she’s full of angst) and also the boy loves colors. There are like four months where he makes an attempt to embrace the look and wear all black, but he misses his superhero shirts. He makes up for this by making friends with all the emo kids ig
JJ: He never grows out of it. He is, was, and always will be the emo kid.
Makani: Goth as hell
Namir: Is prep emo a thing? (Ebony Dark’ness Dementia Raven Way would probably say no) bc that’s what he is. Emo and rich so all of his clothes are like really nice and probably fit super well (except the shirts he deliberately buys too big). And he wears like turtlenecks and stuff when he’s like 13 what a nerd. His wardrobe never ventures away from black, with the exception of some white and yellow articles of clothing. Adult Namir loves androgynous looks and always looks super put together. Does not own a pair of sweatpants. His whole body is always covered bc he has a lot of scars but he wears very formfitting clothes.
Owen: My poor bby definitely had an emo phase puberty was an especially rough time for him and that was his outlet. Lots of dark clothes and angsty emo music.
Rhyder: He was too poor to outwardly express himself growing up but on the inside definitely aligned himself with the punk/grunge/emo kids. Once he has money he really has no idea what to do with it and also can’t convince himself that he’s worth spending money on so until his early twenties all of his clothes are simple things that are either way too big or a bit too small (his mother would buy him thrift clothes that were too big so he could grow into them and then wait as long as possible before buying new clothes and Rhyder does the same for himself for a long time). Until he meets Teddy, his money goes to rent and take-out (he can’t cook) with the occasional tattoo or piercing (he has A Lot). Teddy eventually convinces him that he can buy things for himself and his style becomes way more personalized after that. Anything cool that he owned before Teddy was a gift from one of the Krabs or Gloria or Oscar. I think the Krabs all pitched in to buy Rhyder a nice, well-fitted leather jacket for his 18th birthday and Rhyder loves that thing to death. He’s wearing it when he (re)meets Teddy and Teddy can’t possibly resist.
Shiloh: Doesn’t have an emo phase but would have if she’d been born in the 21st century.
#bambi kotak#dylan sanchez#frankie fox#graham o'callaghan#jj vasquez#makani calipusan#namir nazari#owen lawton#rhyder vogel#shiloh young#appearance#rhyder martinez
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some draws!
I was gonna try to draw all my ocs but I lost my good eraser when I was drawing Lotus and the other eraser I have smudges things which is obnoxious
#my art#azra qazi#bambi kotak#connie kravitz#dylan sanchez#elenore tovani#frankie fox#graham o'callaghan#harper vasquez#isaac zuckerman#jj vasquez#keenan ojukwu#lotus itami#makani calipusan#madison mackenzie#not a fan of how lotus turned out#felicity standing bear
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