The black-haired girl sat on the wooden table holding a crystal skull. There was a likeness of feature between them that would have pleased her-had anyone been bold enough to tell her. Her bones were sharp under her skin, as easy to read as the crystal, and her hair was shaved down to a blue hint around most of her head, leaving only a long forelock of coal black that fell in her eyes. She stared hard into the crystal skull's eye sockets at the hollows where sapphire glass was fixed. Her own eyes were as unnatural a shade of blue, the color of blind sorrow; the color, she liked to say, of a hangover. She turned the skull in her hands and tossed it up. "I don't see why we have to have people over. I hate people." She said, to the woman at the stove.

"It's All Hallows Eve," the woman replied, unperturbed.

"Whatever." The skull bounced into the air again.

"You know most everyone who is coming. The women from the coven, Wren and Isis from the Peace Encampment, the drumming group…"

"Your coven hates me," the girl said, turning the skull cranium down and rolling it on the table. This got the attention of the woman at the stove, who turned and gave her a long, measured look.

"Why do you say that?"

"I'm not stupid. I can see how they look at me. They think you shoulda never picked me up. I'm too young. I'm not enough of a woman."

The woman turned the flame off under the kettle, and set the packet of herbs aside. She wiped her hands on her long green skirt, and came over to the table. The girl was drumming her fingers on the skull, looking sullenly down at it. The woman looked her over with a cool eye, setting aside her own immediate reactions of fierce affection and desire. There was nothing about the girl that could be labeled womanly, not the hard youthful face, nor the whipcord body hidden under a Marine Corps raincoat, khaki pants and combat boots. She wouldn't be pegged a female, let alone womanly. At 17, she was too thin, the planes of her face cutting, all gentleness having long ago beaten out of her manner. The woman knew the soft places under the girl's armor, and she knew enough not to mention them, even obliquely. There was no skin over some of those wounds. The girl felt the woman's regard, and looked up at her with bruised eyes.

"That's true." The woman said. It was her policy never to lie to the girl, not to spare her feelings in order to hurt her later. It was the basis of trust between them. "Many of them feel that you are too young for me. Some of them feel that you are too male-identified, not in contact with the womyn's mysteries."

The girl snorted, and dropped the skull. "I bleed. Ain't no friggin mystery in that."

"You are smarter than that, Taryn. Don't be flippant. Your soul doesn't move toward the womyn's way, and they can see that. Their energy is given to womyn, they feel that most strongly. It makes them afraid to see me devoted to something they don't understand." The woman took her heavy hair and pulled it back, tying it in a knot at the base of her neck. She saw how the girl's eyes opened under her raven's wing brows, saw the question there. "They also can't see where your magic is. You're still seeking it. And, they can't see that you are my heart. Not even Death will take me away from you."

The girl jumped off the table, leaving the skull spinning. She seized the woman up in her arms and spun her in a circle, laughing. "You seem so cold Rhea, then you say this stuff."

Rhea rested her hand against the girl's cheek. "I know you need to hear it. It's not my way to say it often, but you know it's true."

"Nobody's ever loved me like you do. Nobody ever will." Taryn said, bending to kiss her. Rhea was still for the kiss, frozen, letting nothing else exist until the girl pulled her lips away. Then she pushed the girl off with stern hands, looking away.

"Don't make pronouncements about the future lightly on this of all days. The veil is thin tonight; the past and future come together, the living can hear the dead whispering. You never know what you might stir up."

"I wasn't making anything lightly. You know I love you. Come on, Rhea. Nobody in my whole life has ever been as good to me as you are. I'll always love you," Taryn said, following her as she left the kitchen.

Rhea thought about gratitude, and open doors, and what might be best not to say. It was All Hallows' Eve, and there was a party to plan. She took a calming breath, and let the rest go. "Help me pick up the living room. Your books are all over the couch."

"Your own damn fault for making me read. I hated reading in school, you'd have liked me better then," Taryn said, making a pile of the paperbacks.

"If you'd have been born when you were supposed to, I would have known you then. But you give stubborn a new definition," Rhea said, sweeping the fireplace out with a cornhusk broom.

"Here we go again, I didn't get reincarnated on time, so everything's my fault." Taryn rolled her eyes.

Rhea ignored it. "Have you started on the new one I got you?" Rhea asked.

"Yeah. Kinda slow to get going," Taryn said, turning it over.

"Give it time."

"He doesn't do anything yet, he just hangs out with his boyfriend and gets lectured by Aristotle. You told me he was a great fighter. I like it better when you read it to me."

"If you behave tonight, I'll read you three chapters before we sleep," Rhea said, shrewdly.

"What kind of behave?" Taryn askedd, warily.

"Do what you believe is right. And don't start any fires."

The night was cool and scented with cinnamon, a cider night, a red wine night. Trick or Treating wound down by seven; the neighborhood the house stood in wasn't considered one of the best. Down Mariner Street, around Virginia and over toward Day's Park, the children accompanied by older siblings or parents had been and gone. The teenagers in cheap drug store masks were trying their luck before the round of parties started. Taryn sat on the porch smoking a cigarette, wearing black on black, a funereal mass of cloth that swallowed her body. In the windows of the house pumpkins glowed, elaborately carved from her designs. Witches flew across nighted skies in squadrons, crows lurked above ruined graveyards, a skeletal hand reached up from an open casket. A fat gray tabby sat next to her on the rail, paws curled up and tucked away. She took a last drag on the cigarette, then ground it out on the rail. Rhea still wouldn't let her smoke in the house, even though she'd been living there for months now.

Three teenage boys were working their way up the street. They hadn't bothered with costumes, just with the black plastic garbage bag for their loot. Two of them glanced at the house and kept right on walking, averting their eyes. The third strolled toward the steps.

"Yo, man, what the hell you doin'? You can't go there."

"Why not? Got lights inside."

"That's her house." The boy at the steps drew back his hand from the rail as if he'd seen a snake. The three crossed the street, casting looks over their shoulders at the house. They hadn't seen Taryn sitting on the rail, watching them with hooded eyes. "Boo," she whispered to herself.

The women of the coven started arriving around nine for the ritual. Rhea met them in the living room, wearing a dress of glowing amber stitched with crimson flowers. She wore her hair down, a living halo of deep brown that curled and moved like Medusa's glory. Taryn lingered nearby as she welcomed each woman in, kissing their hands and their cheek. Rhea was right; she knew most of them, the women from the coven in flowing black, wearing spider pins and brooches, their hair unbound. Taryn named them as they passed, Irene and Garnet, Brigit, Mary and Oksana, Lisa and Willow, Shelley. She leaned against the mantle as they passed, accepting their tiny nods of recognition. They might not approve, but she was Rhea's lover. She was not unconscious of the figure she cut, in her silver armor, standing against the mantle, sword belted at her side. It had been Rhea's whim to dress her as Arthur, in plate mail with Excalibur riding her hip. Rhea went as Morgan Le Fay, in her amber gown and wreath of wildflowers. "I think Arthur would have done much better to have Morgan get a hold of him, and not that stuffy old Merlin. All the boy needed was a firm hand, and the Goddess' blessing, to save the Old Religion."

The center room had been made bare down to the floorboards. Now the witches swept it out with their brooms, driving the bad energy away. Sweetgrass and sage were burned, the corners and doorways purified. Taryn squinted through the smoke as they worked. Rhea had let her watch ritual before; there was nothing Rhea would deny her if she asked, but this was the first night she was going to be included. Rhea stepped lightly as a cat into the room, bearing the cauldron. She nodded to Taryn, who picked up a slab of blue slate from the fireplace and carried it to the center of the room. The cauldron was placed on the slate and filled with Epsom salts and alcohol. Rhea flicked a long wooden match against the slate and a spark flared.

The women formed a circle around the cauldron with its dancing flame. They joined hands, right palm down, left palm up. Taryn stood next to Rhea, holding her right hand. She was glad when Garnet took the spot on her right; she was one of the few women Taryn thought might actually approve of her relationship with Rhea. Taryn listened as they called the directions and cast the circle; she knew the language. Hail to the Guardians of the Watchtowers of the North- her attention started to wander when Isis, one of the visitors from the Peace Encampment down in Seneca Falls, started to go off on a tangent while calling the center.

Taryn rolled her eyes and shifted her weight, the sword heavy on her hip. Rhea squeezed her hand, either in recognition of her boredom or as a reminder to focus. There was singing, the endless chanting of Goddess names, and lots of things that sounded like old folk songs to her, which she promptly tuned out. They were raising energy, which seemed to her like shutting your eyes and humming.

Taryn kept her eyes open and stared at the earnest faces. She stuck her tongue out at Shelley, the woman opposite her in the circle. Rhea squeezed her hand. There was more singing and some dancing around in a circle. They were supposed to get in a boat and go to the Isle of the Blessed. Rhea had filled her in on this part. The isle was the land of the dead. They were supposed to, symbolically, go visit people they knew who had passed. There was no one she could think of who she wanted to see, even if her imagination would let her concentrate for the half-hour the meditation seemed to take. She'd promised Rhea she would try and behave. She shifted her weight. Why hadn't anyone told her how heavy armor was?

Rhea was leading the guided meditation. Taryn let her eyes fall shut and drifted along with Rhea's cool, dry voice. Taryn tried to picture the boat everyone was getting into and saw it as a sleek black craft, low to the water, with iron-bound holes for oars. She saw skeletons dancing on a shore of sand that sparked like black glass as they pulled up to the Isle. That'd be a cool tattoo, she thought lazily. She tried to picture getting out of the boat, but her mind balked. There was nobody she could imagine wanting to see, nobody who had passed that she needed to speak with. Taryn kept her eyes shut to be polite to Rhea, but when some of the women in the circle started crying and calling out in their reunions, she gave up. She opened her right eye, the hazy state of the meditation gone.

Rhea squeezed her hand, hard. Taryn looked at her, hurt. She wasn't messing around, she just didn't get what was going on. Something was happening…the other women all seemed transported by their visits. Taryn shrugged, annoyed. How much longer was this supposed to last?

The circle came to rest and Rhea started speaking. "This is Samhain, All Hallow's Eve, the last night of the year. All the dead who passed during the year may cross over on this night. The veil between the realms is thin, the dead may visit us and we may visit them. Set out the wine, bring out the apples, make ready for our guests! Tonight the divisions between past, present and future fade away. Be careful of what you ask, for you may be answered."

After the ritual, the party would begin and all guests who came to the door of the house would be welcomed in, no matter who they were. There would be food music, beer and wine, and storytelling. Taryn's mind wandered to the dark beer in the back of the refrigerator, the hot wine that would be sitting on the stove. She caught the end of what Rhea was saying, about questions being answered. It struck her as stupid, wanting to know about the future. Who'd have anything to say to me? she thought, idly.

The ritual was ending. Rhea was telling everyone to get back in the boat, bid farewell to their dead. Some of them might follow; they would be welcome, but only until the sun rose on the New Year. Taryn tried to participate in the end of the ritual, tried to regain some of the floating haze of the meditation. She focused her concentration…and it happened. It wasn't like the meditation at all. It was like walking into a dark room and hitting the lights, that abrupt. She saw a woman walking down a street. It was winter; the woman wore a long brown coat and a red scarf. Some of her hair was caught under the scarf where pale colors mixed with stronger ones, electrum and wheat against the red. It was no one she recognized. She had to be in her thirties, she was short, maybe Rhea's height. The woman turned around, laughing, and held out her hand. Are you coming? Taryn had the urge to say yes, to run and catch up…the relief she felt, the joy, at the recognition in this woman's eyes…

The ritual was over. Rhea dropped her hand, Taryn felt the vision snap off. She opened her eyes, not fully expecting to see the room. The circle had been opened, the women were already putting the ritual things aside, extinguishing the cauldron, making ready for the party. Taryn shook her head. Rhea had walked away from her toward the kitchen. She thought she had to look weird, standing with her mouthing hanging open. She'd seen something, or half of something. It left her shaken; that feeling of joy had an oily aftertaste, something too strong for her palate. The doorbell rang; the party guests were arriving. The women flowed around her, carrying food in baskets and on trays, sweeping away the last lingering moment of magic. She wanted to stay with that splinter of vision; she wasn't ready to jump back into the world. The party now seemed like an intrusion. Taryn grabbed her cigarettes and pushed her way toward the front door.

Taryn sat in the corner of the porch on a wooden crate and watched as the guests piled in. She saw a knot of people come down the walk. Egyptia she knew, a tall, imposing drag queen in a glory of green and silver, done up as a mermaid. Four men trailed behind the queen, all carrying drums and wearing masks. Ronald Reagan, a werewolf, a corpse with an axe in its crown, and a grinning skull followed Egyptia like attendants at a wedding.

They paraded into the house and it came to life. Windows glowed with myriad sources of light; noise and music drifted out accompanied by scarves of incense. Taryn sat in the semi darkness of the porch, smoked, and stared. It hadn't been much of a vision: there were no clues as to who the woman was, what was happening. What the hell was she supposed to do with this sliver of emotion that left her feeling so uneasy? It was bullshit, is what it was, this glimpsing the future. She didn't even get any questions answered. She tried to relive the feeling, but it was gone and she couldn't conjure it.

Angry, Taryn slammed back into the house. She didn't know how long she'd been sitting, but the house was now packed with people she didn't know. She squeezed her way down the hall to the kitchen. The armor helped clear a path. There was drumming happening in the middle room where some people were dancing. She avoided it. Her mood had snapped, gone sour. She snarled when someone touched her arm and asked her a question, they pulled back, startled. There was too much noise, too many people, too much celebrating when she felt alien to it. There was something missing from the night, though she couldn't say for certain what it was. It made her furious to be missing something she couldn't even name. She decided that it would be marginally better away from the crowd, grabbed a few bottles from the kitchen, and headed back to the porch.

The second bottle was lying empty on the floor by her boots before she started to feel less dislocated. She kicked at it and lit a cigarette. There was a sound like crunching leaves. Taryn glanced up, into the face of grinning Death. He swept the skull mask off in a gesture of pure relief, revealing a face that was very human, short brown hair plastered to his brow, a rough growth of beard framing his strong jaw. He smiled in pleasure at the cool night air, and set aside the plastic scythe he was carrying. "Too damn hot in there," he said to her. Taryn felt the stab of annoyance go through her at his intrusion and gave him a look calculated to make him think twice about disturbing her. The man appeared to not notice it. He set his hands on the porch rail and inhaled deeply. "Gorgeous night. So what are you supposed to be?" He asked, looking at her armor.

"King Arthur." Taryn said, as if it couldn't be more obvious.

"Arthur, King of the Britons! Monty Python? Before your time, I guess." The man nodded, as if seeing it clearly now. He was wearing black robes, with a white apron tied high around his torso. In the pocket of the apron were a notepad and a pen.

"What the hell are you supposed to be?" Taryn asked, despite her urge to be left alone. He smiled at her.

"I'm the Grim Waiter. Nothing's more frightening than bad service."

When Taryn's expression didn't change, the man sighed dramatically. "Thanks, it's now official, I feel ten thousand years old. The youth no longer get my jokes. I thought it was bad enough having my daughter tell me she'd rather go to a party with her friends than hang out with me tonight."

There was a warmth to him when he spoke about his daughter that she liked, even if it were foreign to her. He seemed to relish being a parent, and spoke of his daughter with a self-conscious pride that intrigued Taryn. A fleeting thought of her own father tried to work its way into her conscious mind, but it was pushed down in reflex. "How old is your daughter?" Taryn asked.

"She's ten. And let me tell you, at ten, there is nothing as embarrassing as having your parents take you Trick or Treating. She was practically begging us to go off and play with our grown up friends and leave her alone. I'm lucky Ray let me crash this party, or I'd be home alone with a bag of candy corn. It wouldn't be pretty."

He reached into the pocket of his robe and brought out a cigar. "Got a light?" Taryn handed him her lighter, her eyes narrowed. He leaned against the rail and lit the cigar with practiced ease. There was something very at home about the man, even as a guest at a Halloween party. He was at home in his skin. It was both compelling and unnerving, rousing an anger in Taryn she didn't understand. She watched the man closely as he rolled the cigar in the flame, awaiting the trap. He was being too nice.

"You came in with Egyptia. You don't know Rhea." Taryn said, beginning to corner him.

He shook his head. "Sure don't. I only met Egyptia tonight. I tagged along on Ray and Stephan's coattails. Ray, the guy in the werewolf mask, is my ex. His lover Stephan convinced him to ask me along. He's sweet like that, always thinking about how people feel."

"So you don't know who I am." Taryn asked, in a flat tone.

"Arthur, King of the Britons. Who's out sulking on the porch during a fantastic party, so something must be up. What does the rightful King of England have to be sad about on a gorgeous night like this?" he said, and smiled.

There it was, the smile, the playful tone. It set her back up like dog's fur. "You can stop hitting on me, asshole. I'm not a guy." Taryn snarled.

The man's eyebrows climbed up toward his hairline. "I'm flattered, but I'm not hitting on you. If it makes you feel any better, I'm straight." He handed the lighter back.

"So what the fuck are you doing?" Taryn asked.

"Making conversation. You were the only one on the porch," He said, mildly.

"Wait…That guy is your ex. How can you be straight?" Taryn asked, bluntly.

"Because I was a biological female when I was married to him."

Taryn looked at the hand that held the cigar. It was broad, and the fingers were thick, but very short. It was a small hand, for a man his size. "Oh." She said, her anger deflating. He'd told her the truth, it calmed her down. That hand now extended to her. "I'm Joe." He said.

She took the hand and gripped it firmly. "Taryn."

The screen door creaked open and Ronald Reagan joined them. He pushed the mask up on his head, revealing a sweaty blond cap of hair framing a handsome face. Next to his smiling model's face, Joe looked plain, average enough to pass unnoticed in a crowd. "Speak of the Devil, and the Devil comes. This is Stephan, my brother in law," Joe said.

"After a fashion. Though Ray would never marry me, you spoiled him for that. And you are?" He extended his hand to Taryn, smiling in a way that told her he thought she was a beautiful boy.

"Taryn."

Stephan's face fell immediately. "Ah. I see. Well, I just came out to get you, Joseph. The storytelling's starting."

"I thought it got quiet awfully quick. The drumming's stopped. What storytelling?" Joe asked looking toward the windows.

"All Hallow's Eve. We light fires and invite the dead in, then we have to entertain them, set out food, make them welcome. Rhea says the stories make them feel at home until dawn comes and the veil can't be crossed anymore." Taryn said.

Stephan looked at her from the corner of his eye. "How do all the ghosties and ghoulies know when to get out?" He asked, with a small laugh.

"We put the fires out before dawn. And we tell them their welcome is up." Taryn said, staring levelly at him.

"You sound like you believe it. So very serious, like the witch woman herself. Do you believe in it, Joe?" Stephan said.

"Doesn't everyone believe in ghosts?" Joe asked.

"Save it for your daughter, I don't scare so easy. Come on, Misha is telling Baba Yaga and Vasillisa the Brave as we speak, an event not to be missed. You haven't pictured Baba Yaga's hut with its gate of human bones revolving on monstrous chicken legs till Misha's told it."

The party had resettled into the living room and the middle room, sitting where floor space allowed. A fire had been kindled, and the light made strange shapes on the burnt orange tiles. Taryn dropped down on the floor in front of the fire, feeling the heat through the metal on her back. The couch had been commandeered by Egyptia and her entourage. Rhea sat in a high-backed wooden chair, her hands resting lightly on the slat arms. There was nothing to indicate that she'd rather be sitting in front of the fire wrapped around her youthful lover, but for the single side-glance she threw in the girl's direction. Joe noticed the look, the first moment of naked emotion he'd seen from this woman all night, the vein of gold working up through her granite possession. She was mesmerizing, this woman, in her quiet ferocity. She'd drawn his eye the moment he'd crossed her threshold, in her gown and garland of wildflowers. He'd tried to grab a few words with her, but she always seemed to be moving out of his reach, speaking to someone else. The house had seemed to welcome him at first, but there was a wall up around its owner. Now he knew why. He reached for his beer.

The hot wine was too sweet; he'd be able to make a few suggestions on the recipe, but it didn't seem to be his place. This house was Rhea and Taryn's, it was full of them, pushing all other visitors aside. He could read the cracks fissuring between them, and someone tried to whisper a snippet of the future in his ear. He ignored it, and clamped the doors in his mind shut. The future would bring what it would bring, it was impolite to eavesdrop on Rhea and Taryn when he was a guest in their house, and Rhea's love for the girl flooded the room. Someday, someone would love him with that ferocity. All you can do is believe, and go on, he reminded himself. There was Goblin, and Ray and Stephan, Misha... his life was full. Best not to ask for too much.

The man speaking was seated on the back of the couch, the crystal skull in his lap. His brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, shining like oiled wood. He'd gotten to the part of the tale where Vasilisa throws the comb and a forest springs up behind her. Joe recognized it from one of his daughter's books of fairy tales. Misha looked almost entirely unlike Stephan, his face broad where his brother's was narrow, rough where Stephan's was classically formed. Only their dark eyes and the faint trace of an accent gave them kinship. Misha was finishing his tale of Baba Yaga; Joe had missed it in his musing. He heard the audience applaud, and he clapped along with them. There was a buzzing in his ear; someone was trying to reach him. It might be more whisperings about the future, so he shut it out. When he looked up, the crystal skull was at his feet.

"Your turn, Joe." Misha said.

"I'm not much at ghost stories." Joe said, demurring.

The voice came from the end of the room, from the woman in the wooden chair. "You could tell a witch story."

It was the first time he'd heard her speak. Her voice, he'd imagined, would sound like dark music, from the vibrating intensity he read around her, but it sounded rather dry. "I leave that to the experts. Will you do the honors?" He asked, gesturing to the skull. He picked it up and handed it to Taryn. He could have walked it to Rhea himself, but this seemed proper. The girl took it without comment, and strolled over to the wooden chair.

Her walk was a painful reminder of what his teenage years had been, the youthful overconfidence, the anger simmering just below the surface. She knew every eye in the room was on her, and didn't pretend not to notice. The armor seemed right on her, it fit her like Nature had designed it. She was conscious of the sword at her side, never tripping on the scabbard or letting it strike objects in her wake. She slowed her walk down to a prowl, extended each gesture with the arrogant timing of a born performer. Joe nearly laughed out loud when she handed the crystal skull to Rhea, and reached down to give her a long kiss. The girl had an excellent sense of her audience, she belonged on stage.

"I will tell you the true story of Snow White, the true story the men came and sanitized to make it palatable for their children. This is the witch's story, older than the fairy tale, handed down from one woman in the Craft to her daughters, as it has always been." Rhea let the crystal skull sit in her lap, facing the audience. The fire jumped as she spoke, the flames flared up in the sapphire glass of the skull's eyes. "The story is properly called 'Shadow Dark.'"

Taryn sat with an arm curled around her knee, her chin resting on it. Her eyes were focused on something outside the room, her absorption didn't seem to come from the story. Joe listened to Rhea's bloody tale with horrified fascination, but his eyes kept drifting back to the girl. She sat brooding in front of the fire, ignoring everyone else. It must be hot, he thought, in that metal skin, but the girl gave no sign she felt it. The whispering started up again, this time it was like someone leaning over his shoulder and speaking directly into his ear, trying to get his attention in a crowded room. It was insistent as a child, and the sound kept rising as he tried to block it. It hadn't been this loud in years. It had to be the house; they must have been doing some sort of ritual before the party. The dead really had been invited in.

Whoever was trying to get his attention was fascinated with the girl, kept pointing back to her. Joe, in frustration, shook his head. He didn't want to know anything about the future. He shut down completely and tried to listen to Rhea's story. It had ended; he'd missed the gory climax. In the room, the women were laughing and the men were looking faintly queasy. He glanced at Egyptia and saw a smile of strange joy on the queen's gorgeously decorated face. Maybe it was better he had missed it, he thought.

Rhea got up from the chair and swept through the room. Taryn followed her, the boy King following the witch, an image that stayed imprinted upon the air after they'd gone into the kitchen. The clamoring got louder, so Joe looked for something to distract himself with.

Part II

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