Morphine is liquid pleasure.

  I remember screaming at the pain in my arm and leg, being carried out by Beta and rushed into the urgent care clinic. I remember something being poured liberally over the burns on my arm. Even in that state, I recalled useless information. Information about how too strong of an alcohol could dry out the burns and impede the healing process. That there are these things called Eschars, which are basically super tight burn scars that can constrict blood flow or your breathing.

  Anti-septic creams, balms, ointments, or whatever the hell they were, meant contact with raw flesh and my pain centers lit up like it was the fourth of July.

  Then they got to work on my ankle.

  I screamed bloody fucking murder.

  When the doctor –whose name nor face I could remember– injected me with morphine, I could feel the divine nectar blossom in my whole arm. Tiny beads of bliss exploded with every pulse, fanning out to the rest of my body. Once it reached my head, the drug hijacked my brain and for the first time since being hunted, I knew peace.

  In that enlightened state, I heard bits and pieces of their conversation.

  “...hospital and stay overnight for observation.” It was a woman’s voice. “He still feels pain, so it’s mostly second degree burns but there’s a huge risk of infection and dehydration.”

  “Can’t. No time.” Beta’s voice.

  “He needs medicine and rest.”

  “...the Table a debt. I’m not calling it in, but I’m reminding you.”

  That was the last thing I remembered before sleep embraced me once more.

  It didn’t last long.

  As people always do, I awoke right as we arrived at the Town Hall. Something was pounding at my head from next door, the last dregs of the morphine beginning to wear off. Muffled, but still there. Traces of discomfort were evolving to aches, and they were returning to my arm, ankle, and everything else below my neck.

  “We’re here,” Beta said.

  It was New York City Hall.

  Now, on most days, it doesn’t matter if it’s past midnight or not. There are still pedestrians on the street. After all, I live in the city that never sleeps. But during a blizzard? One would be hard pressed to find the regular crowd. Maybe one or two of the extra crazies who're jogging without a shirt on or something.

  So I was surprised to see people crowding around the public building, all heading inside.

  I reached out with my senses, and just as I suspected, none of them were just human.

  A faint vibration of supernatural presence filtered in, setting my already sensitive and weary Third Eye to work once more.

  Most of them wore cloaks, hunched over without really hunching over. Many of them blurred between what looked to be human and their true form, and even more of them stuck to the shadows and evaded my detection all together. The sheer amount of the preternaturals that had been wrung out of their hiding places by this Town Hall was staggering: dozens, maybe hundreds, were all entering the building.

  “You changed your mind?” Beta said, his hands still on the steering wheel.

  There were so many of them out there. “No, just getting my bearings.”

  This is your world now, I reminded myself.

  “So, do you need a tip or something?”

  Beta gave me a lopsided grin, the first non-neutral expression I’d seen from him yet. “Today? No. I’m coming with you.”

  He parked the car in a very obvious ‘NO PARKING’ zone and accompanied me out of the car. I had a nice set of crutches to go with my bandaged arm. I left one in the back since my burnt arm was bandaged too heavily and even if it wasn’t, I did not want to put pressure on it anytime soon.

  There were eyes on me the instant I was out of the car.

  A group of people wearing in green leathery cloaks, maybe six of them, all stopped and turned to stare. I couldn’t see their faces on account of them wearing a deer-skull mask with the antlers and everything. The one in front, the shortest one, had a staff made of wood with flowers woven around the whole thing.

  Another preternatural walked by, pretending not to look but I felt the weight of his attention nonetheless. A hulking creature who was somewhere between seven or eight feet tall, wearing a japanese demon mask and a cape made out of straws.

  There were more. A humanoid with the face of a lynx who gave me a sly wink, a freaking catholic priest who was buff as hell, a group of small children who were ghosts; each entrant was stranger than the last. I could spend all day just looking at them, pointing to them and asking Wol what they were.

  They whispered too. Words like ‘Hallow’, or ‘Diabolist’, or ‘Shin Shaman’, coupled with ‘dangerous’, ‘just a kid’ which all melded together into a pointed cacophony that made me more self-conscious than the first day at school. That’s not to say that High Schoolers aren’t nasty, I could see Ashley Montgomery fitting right in here with her biting remarks. But most of my peers didn’t have butterfly wings for eyes, or possess more than four limbs.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “We should go, Practitioner,” Wol said.

  I nodded and began my long trek up the stairs.

  People –preternaturals– gave me a wide berth.

  When you enter New York City Hall, you’re met with a classic New York landmark. First, there’s the statue of George Washington out front. Inside, the whole building is made of marble –I think– and it’s one of the few public places in New York that’s actually clean. The ceiling stretches upwards and meets in the shape of a dome, the whole place looking like the inside of a modern castle. Two winding staircases lead up to the second floor which overlooks the first floor entrance, decorated by sprawling columns.

  Paintings. Antique furniture. Rooms to meet delegates and governors from other states.

  City Hall was brimming with the other denizens of New York.

  Beta gave me a nudge. “To the City Council chamber.” He took the lead.

  I nodded and followed.

  When we got there, Beta handed me a water bottle. “Stay hydrated,” He said and disappeared.

  I stayed near the entrance and took it all in.

  The chamber was exactly what one would expect from a room named as such. At the far end was a long mahogony desk, the kind you see on TV for press conferences. Chairs set in neat little rows and above the, a partial second floor. Cultured people call it a mezzanine. I should really start calling it that too.

  This room too, was filled with people –the other kind of people. But they were slightly different from the others that I’d seen outside in the streets or loitering around the other rooms. For one,they were more powerful here. My head buzzed with so many different sources of power that I leaned against the wall for support.

  Two, they were all dressed a little nicer –nicer being a very subjective term. Outside, most of them had been dressed in rags, like they’d just gotten out of the gutter or picked themselves up from a dumpster somewhere. A lot of the ones outside had been creatures or things that were blatantly supernatural. Here? Whether it was suits or t-shirts, they wore clothes that they wanted to wear. Not because it was the only thing they could fish out of the dumpster.

  And three, they had factions.

  Oh, sure. The ones outside had their own little groups too. Smaller, fragmented groups of three, or four. Maybe six at most. But it was more people that congregated because they knew each other, or grouped up for the sake of small talk. Not one unified by a cause or singular purpose.

  The Wickermen were obvious enough. They had a certain look about them. All of them young, lean, with clean haircuts and nails that looked like they were done professionally. A lot of them wore button-down shirts with vests over them. If I sniffed enough, I could imagine the smell of ash and smoke. Was the Wickerman recruiting young professionals and promising them contacts besides the supernatural benefits?

  That would be one hell of a way to recruit ambitious young men in New York. Places like the financial district would be a perfect pasture for him. Somehow, the idea of ambitious men suited the Egregore's smoldering form.

  Up on the ceiling, even above the mezzanine, were pigeons and if I looked closer enough, shades that looked suspiciously like rats. The Intellect’s children, keeping an eye on things for her. I just hoped they wouldn’t start losing control of their sphincters –sorry, cloaca– during the meeting.

  A little bit towards the back were other people resembling creatures. All of them devastatingly beautiful, and eyes in the color of ruby or sterling silver. Vampyrs, I would assume. Half a dozen of them sat in one row, while another half a dozen occupied the opposite corner.

  The cloaked men wearing the deer skulls were here. The short one was staring at me openly. Shit, they could be some bounty-hunter group waiting for the right chance. I would have to be careful when leaving if things didn’t pan out with the Intellect Transit.

  There were preternaturals here too, some of them alone but radiating strength and presence. They sat in the middle, splitting the room in two with their quiet demeanor. The most noticeable among them were the two I saw in front; the hulking japanese-demon creature and the humanoid lynx. Maybe they were strong enough not to need a faction to sit here. The general feeling I got was that anyone who was afraid of being noticed refused to enter.

  That made sense. In a world like this, you start talking, you start getting noticed. You start expressing opinions, people with opposing opinions might not like that you’re so vocal about it. Out there? Where there are bounties and rogue daemons carving out hunting territory? No way. Not in a million years. The weak would stay outside, put their ears to the ground, and glean just enough information to survive until the next time something changed.

  The middle faction was joined by the Fae. Atleast, I think they were the fae. No other beings I know would take to their seats so dramatically and brilliantly. A woman with butterfly wings where her eyes were supposed to be did a small pirouette before taking her seat. Another, a young boy who looked to be an elementary schooler, did a royal bow to the Wickerman and the Vampyrs. His twin sister next to him did a curtsy.

  There were thirteen of them in total. Thirteen fae, each one-upping the other in their own bizarre ways.

  Finally there were the Practitioners.

  Wearing fancy robes of dark gray, black, and muted dark blue, they clustered together as a group, shooting furtive glances my way. Mina Baek and Victor Valentine were there too.

  There were about twenty of them, maybe a little more. They all faced forward, backs straight and neutral.

  And every single one of them had a staff. Wood, metal, burnt wood that looked as if it had been struck by lightning, some kind of crystal resembling ice –it broke every convention I knew that Tolkien taught me about staves and the like. Hanging around them were their familiars. Some ghosts, some creature-spirits, and others that looked human for all intents and purposes.

  Wol meowed, though it would be more fair to say he tugged on the relationship between us, and grabbed my attention. “You’re staring, Practitioner. And they’re staring back. Some of them will take it as a threat.”

  I lowered my eyes. “Wol, I don’t even know what half of these guys are.”

  Hwari spoke, ‘Someone approaches.’

  And nearly at the same time, a stranger tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Why, hello there, good sir! You must be the new Hallow!”

  ? Consumer of the Fourth Anchor ?

  by Miko Melina

  A little monster with a big heart and an even bigger appetite.