In the day, the city is alright.

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Some might call it beautiful. Ceryli has long since stopped using that word loosely. When you’ve lived as long as she has, there are few things that warrant it.

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But under the moonlight, the Midnight City turns ugly.

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Ghouls billow down avenues, wisps of white and blue, and black, sometimes — the ones that cannot find peace. Imps scurry over fences and under doors, borrowing things from the mortal folk, things that will never be seen again. And the fae flock to places that hold vestiges of ancient magic — crumbling chapels, empty museums, the broken lighthouse spitting its dying flicker across the Tarnished Coast. And there they lounge, with their almost-human faces, eyes too bright and silver smiles stretched over teeth too sharp.

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Most mortal folk, of course, know that there’s something more to their city. They tell stories, pass down superstitions to their children, and their children in turn. The brave — or foolish — ones sometimes seek out these creatures, although few return whole. But the mortals can’t see the supernatural for what they are, not if the supernatural don’t want to be seen. And if they’re extremely lucky, they go to the grave never knowing what truly lingers around them.

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But sometimes, unable to sleep, they’re drawn outside by the swirling iridescence of pixie dust as the winged creatures whizz through the night, lighting up street after street like lustrous fireflies. And those who find themselves chasing the little ones — their clothes are found scattered in the wind the next morning, torn to shreds.

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Seven hundred years ago, at the stroke of midnight, Ceryli used to listen for the desperate pleas of mortals weaved into the resonating call of the summoning circle. Her summoning circle. Some asked for wealth, some for power, some for love. But always for more. Because that’s what the silly little mortals always wanted: more.

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And she always delivered, for the right price.

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Until one night, as the cries reach a cacophony, Ceryli stops. She closes her window, ignoring the pull of blood-drawn pentagrams, of the ancient magic crackling in her veins; pulls the blinds on the promise of ‘I’ll give you anything’s. Instead, she hauls all her books and notes, her jars of writhing dark energy and bottles of vibrant potions into the attic of her little townhouse. She tucks them under the shelves of incantations and sigils, runes and scrolls, and locks the trapdoor before melting the key into nothing.

 

A little later, she fills the empty display cabinets with herbs and spices and tonics; starts a cozy little apothecary that opens as the sun spills over the city and closes promptly as the midnight moon edges the rooftops in silver.

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She becomes very good at what she does, of course. Mortal bodies are easy to read. She gathers a loyal following of customers — like Mrs. Hastur, who’s so grateful for her miraculously cured headaches that she drops off cookies on the first of every month; and Mr. Briar, who stops by every fortnight to pick up the tonic for his bad hip and to complain about the state of things in the government. And when they die, their children come in their place, then grandchildren, and so on.

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No one mentions that the shop has had the same owner for decades. Mortals choose to remember what they want to perceive — and if anyone’s noticed, they know better than to comment.

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So Ceryli keeps at it, stifling the powerful magic raring in her blood, swallowing her curses and spells and the ancient words that could turn the city to ash.

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She keeps at it, and she tells herself that she is content.

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Ceryli is cleaning the dust off the top shelves when the door creaks open. She peers carefully between the bottles, at the intruder who clearly could not or would not read the “closed at 12” sign on the door. It’s a human girl, in her early twenties perhaps. The way mortals age shifts so much that she had stopped keeping track a few centuries ago. The girl clutches at her hands, looking around cautiously, worriedly.

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“We’re closed,” Ceryli says, hoisting herself off the ladder and walking to the counter. “We always close at midnight sharp. Says so on the sign outside.”

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“Are you the owner?” The girl asks.

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“Yes. We’re closed.” The cries had begun again, and Ceryli barely holds back her sigh — you’d think that after seven centuries of silence, the mortals would give it a rest. “You need to leave.”

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Instead of apologizing and backing out of the door, the girl lingers, hesitantly. Ceryli feels her irritance flare. It’s not often that mortals are so oblivious to the bearing of her presence.

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“Well,” the girl says, wringing her hands as though they were cheesecloths, “I’m kind of here for— for an after-midnight sort of thing.” There’s a moment of silence, as the girl withers under Ceryli’s piercing gaze and furrowed brow. Ceryli purses her lips and studies the girl again. She’s definitely mortal, with soft pink cheeks and bright hazel eyes and dark hair: the spitting image of—  

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Ceryli shakes herself free of that train of thought, forcibly.

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“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ceryli says, finally, realizing with disdain that a note of tenderness had slipped into her voice. That life of granting wishes and stealing favors is behind her, but Ceryli hates that even after seven centuries, just the likeness of her — of what she had lost — is still enough to soften her tone. “We close at midnight,” she repeats.

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The girl leans over the counter, brow furrowed in a comical effigy of intimidation. “I know you’ve been here for a very, very long time,” she whispers, dramatically. “I want you to help me. Name your price.”

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Ceryli feels the edges of her lips curling. This girl knew nothing of the summoning ritual, or its etiquette. One never offers — or asks for — a price before making their request. She contemplates reaching over and gripping the girl’s outstretched hand, etching into her soul the grotesque horrors of the Midnight City’s underworld — ones that would make her think twice about trying to dabble in Midnight magic. Or, perhaps, Ceryli could shatter her mind for the rest of her short, little life. It would certainly be good practice after centuries of stagnation — and the magic in her veins reared its head at the prospect. But she does neither, the vestiges of some lingering human empathy staying her hand. She looks so much like—

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“You’re either very brave, or very stupid”, Ceryli stretches her mouth into a grin that she knows doesn’t reach her lilac eyes, and the girl flinches. Perhaps she could humor her, if just for her likeness alone. Call it a favor, an act of benevolence.“So, girl, what do you desire?”

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She braces herself for the silliest of answers: a car or a boyfriend or a college acceptance letter, even. She’s heard it all, by now. The girl puffs herself out, but her trembling lips give her away.

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“I want a remedy,” she announces, “for death.”

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Ceryli startles. Even among those who can claim expertise of the Midnight scene, there are few who would dare to ask for the ultimate favor. To bring the dead back to life.

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“Who are you trying to resurrect?” Ceryli finds herself asking, despite herself. She’s genuinely curious now, about this shaky, pretty little human who was risking everything to stand in front of her — the most powerful being in this wretched city — and ask for the impossible. “A parent? A sibling, a boyfriend?”

The girl presses her lips together firmly, as though Ceryli could charm the answer out of her throat. She’s not exactly wrong. “I’m not supposed to tell you anything I don’t have to. Knowledge is power, right?”

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Plucky. Perhaps she’s not as dull as Ceryli thought, after all. “Mortals are just that — mortal.” Ceryli shakes her head. “What you’re asking is nigh impossible—“

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“But not completely impossible.”

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Ceryli bristles at the interruption. “There are conditions. The death cannot be older than seven days. The body must be able to sustain itself after the ritual.”

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“But not completely impossible,” the girl insists again, and Ceryli wonders where in that tiny frame she’s keeping all this blind, stupid courage.

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“No.” Ceryli says, and the grin that tugs at her lips this time is almost genuine. “No, not completely. Not for the right price.”

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The girl meets her gaze, swallowing slowly, visibly. “Name it, demon.”

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“Witch is more accurate, but please, call me Ceryli.” Ceryli’s voice drips with mock pleasantry as she pretends to ponder. She already knows exactly what would make the girl’s lovely face contort with horror, make her pretty little head shake. “I want your firstborn.” The girl’s eyes are wide, and Ceryli savors her expression. “It’s fitting, isn’t it? A life you don’t know, for a life you hold dear. It’s only—“

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“Deal,” the girl says, slapping the wooden counter.

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Ceryli hasn’t been this surprised in a while — she forgets how unpredictable mortals can be, sometimes. But a promise is a promise, and she never breaks hers. So Ceryli clambers into the dusty attic — the lock so rusted that it takes her a minute to burn through — and combs through the things that made her what she was: spells scrawled on yellowed parchment, vials that are still bubbling after centuries, whispering traces of energy so dark that it sends tingles down her spine.

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Her skin crawls with the desire — the need — to drink it in, to let the magic crackle from her fingertips, to send the stupid little girl downstairs running with screams choking in her throat. To lay waste to the city, see it devoured by ravenous flames.

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Do to them what they did to her.

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Ceryli bites her lip hard enough to draw blood, and the sharp tang is enough to ward away the whispering, for now. It was a mistake to come back up here. She finds the right potion under the wispy light of arcane flame, and then the right incantation to cast on it so it doesn’t kill the girl when she opens it. By the time she clambers down, the girl is resting with her back against the counter, looking out the window wistfully. She doesn’t notice Ceryli approaching. She looks peaceful.

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“Listen,” Ceryli instructs, and the reverie is shattered. The girl turns, face contorting into wariness. “-and listen carefully.” The girl does, eyes narrowing in concentration as she jots down Ceryli’s instructions on a little notebook that she produces from her pocket. Her diligence is comical, as though she was writing down some mathematical formula and not a loophole to the rules of the universe.

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“What is your name?” is the question that makes the girl falter, right before they spill their blood for the binding contract. “You don’t have to give me that look. You have mine, and I need yours to seal the deal. Trust me, I won’t remember it after you’ve served your purpose.”

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The girl looks almost indignant, at that. She’s full of surprises. “Mei.” She replies. “Just Mei.”

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Before the girl leaves, trembling hands gripping her hard-won remedy, she thanks Ceryli. Thanks her. Ceryli chuckles, softly, and nods her acceptance. The girl had paid a hefty price, but she — she should have known better than to bend the rules of the universe on a whim. There was a lifting song of panic in her throat. There would be consequences. The universe had a way of pulling the rug out from under you. She, of all people, should know — should remember.

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But when the girl steps out the door, the moon casts a nimbus around her shining hair. And for a moment, with reckless abandon, Ceryli forgets.

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​

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The next night, at the same time, the door chimes its jingling welcome.

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Ceryli recognizes the girl’s soft step, smells her honeysuckle shampoo; but she’s under the counter, tucking a jar of Rock Drake’s Thyme into a shelf where no mortal child could stick their grubby hands into it, again. The afternoon had been a disaster. “You know,” she says, “closing hours used to mean something to people—”

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She’s interrupted by a guttural wheeze-growl that’s decidedly not mortal. Ceryli peers carefully over the counter, fingertips flickering with a defensive spell. The girl is standing there, her face a mask of comic dismay. The writhing medley of matted fur and pink flesh in her arms, however, is much less funny.

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“What the fuck did you bring into my shop?” Ceryli snarls, and she’s almost pleased to see the girl take a step back. No matter how comfortable the mortals think they are with what she is, her anger is a sight few mortals could stand to witness. The girl looks like she might have turned around and ran out of the store, but the thing in her arms whines, glazed eyes rolling wildly, and she narrows her eyes in determination.

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“It didn’t work,” she whispers, “I mean, he came back to life but he’s this and he’s not the same Jello and I don’t know what to do, please—”

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“A dog?” Ceryli hasn’t raised her voice in a few centuries, and this seems like an apt moment to start again. “The spell I gave you was meant for a human mortal, you absolute idiot.”

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The girl is speechless. The thing in her hands lets out a cheerful, off-tune yip before hacking up a wad of slime that he lets dribble all over the hardwood floor.  There are words that Ceryli would like to use, words that would scathe the girl even without any magic lacing them; but in the shock, all she manages is, “Why did you keep this very, very important fact from me?”

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“I— I didn’t want to tell you more than I needed to.” The girl stammers back, the mass of flesh in her hands going wild, twitching so rapidly it looked like he was vibrating, “the website I— I looked up making supernatural deals on made it very clear—”

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“Well, congratulations,” Ceryli snaps, “you broke your dog. Hand him over.”

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“What are you going to do?”

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“What else? I’ll need to dispose of that properly. Magic like that can’t be left unchecked.” The girl makes no movement. “If you want what’s left of him, you can come back in a week.”

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After a few seconds of hesitation, the girl sets her thing on the counter, lips quivering, eyes wide and wet. She doesn’t thank Ceryli, this time, when she leaves.

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When she comes in again, in exactly a week and exactly at the chime of midnight, Ceryli is no longer surprised.

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“You do know that the shop is open for every one of the sixteen hours preceding this moment, don’t you?” she tells the girl. “Seriously, do you wait outside till it’s 11.59?”

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The girl opens her mouth to reply, but is interrupted by an ecstatic bark. Jello barrels through between the shelves — whole and happy — into her chest. The girl’s lips stay agape as she bends over and gathers the puppy into her hands, furiously running her fingers through his curly white fur.

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“I couldn’t get the tangles out of that mess under his neck,” Ceryli says, “but otherwise, I think I undid your mistakes. It took me four nights. The customers were starting to get fond of him,” she adds to fill the silence, even though she knows the girl isn’t really listening, her cheeks wet with tears as she nuzzles Jello. Ceryli crosses her arms and lets her cry.

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“Thank you,” the girl finally says, voice shaky, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “After everything— I don’t know what I would have done if I lost him.”

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“I uphold my part of the deal,” Ceryli says, “always.” The girl looks at her knowingly, and Ceryli knows she hears everything behind her words. After all, the deal had been for a remedy for the dead, and Ceryli had delivered her part the first night. She had owed the girl nothing more. Ceryli can’t quite explain it, herself. “I’ll be expecting yours.”

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“Of course,” the girl says. She stands up, and without an ounce of hesitation, steps forward, wrapping her arms around Ceryli. Ceryli blinks, motionless, before letting herself ease into the embrace despite herself. After the girl pulls away, leaving behind lingering traces of honeysuckle, she gathers Jello into her arms. Ceryli doesn’t know what her expression looks like, then, but it’s certainly enough to elicit a soft chuckle from the girl. “You know,” she continues, beaming with all the luminosity of the heavens, “you’re not as bad as they say.”

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Ceryli doesn’t move from her seat behind the counter for several minutes after that. She lets her thoughts linger on the girl’s smile. Something deep in her rears its head, and this time, it’s not the magic.

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As the first light of dawn streams through the windows, Mei comes in.

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Ceryli doesn’t realise that she’s smiling until Mei smiles back.

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“Look, I’m going to uphold my part of the deal,” she says, “but I’d like to request something else on your part.”

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Her brazenness is refreshing, as always. “No amendments,” Ceryli says, even though it feels like she’d rattle the stars if Mei so much as asked.

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“I’ll pay whatever.” Mei prompts.

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“I’m listening.”

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“How much will it cost for dinner, tonight, at my place?” Mei’s smile widens, and in that moment, Ceryli realizes what mortals spend their short little lives chasing. That “more”.

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She yearned for it.

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“For that, a kiss will suffice,” Ceryli says, leaning close.

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Mei pays her dues, promptly.

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​

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With Mei, Ceryli learns of love again — but first, she learns of fear. A crippling fear that the girl would turn and run one day, and never look back. When Ceryli starts waking up deep into the night, strangled cries in her throat and the phantom flames still licking her eyelids, she’s sure Mei would be gone by sunrise.

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Instead of leaving, Mei listens. Listens to Ceryli’s whispers: “They burned her. At the stake. Because of me.” And for the first time since it happened, Ceryli talks.

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When Ceryli’s lips run dry from the centuries of sorrow and loss, Mei offers a little about herself, talking about the big, cold house she escaped, about the years she spent on the streets, with no one but the stray to keep her company.

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In turn, Ceryli bares herself: in more ways than one. She opens the trapdoor — for good, this time — sunlight kissing each book and jar and scroll for the first time in centuries. Mei marvels at the scribblings, the intricate drawings, the bubbling brews lining the shelves, the writhing iridescent flesh pulsating in jars. Gasps when Ceryli lets her magic trickle from her fingertips.

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She calls it all beautiful.

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Three moons into their courtship, Ceryli takes her to the rooftop. When Ceryli carefully drops the glamor hiding her true skin, she knows what the mortal finally sees: lilac eyes smouldering with the embers of Hell, veins pulsing and scarlet against obsidian skin.

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Mei pauses. Reaches out, brushing her fingers tenderly against the twisted mass of scales and horns curving over her skull, then the hot, ridged skin of her throat. No mortal had ever stood before her without shaking, but tonight, Ceryli was the one trembling.

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“Beautiful,” Mei whispers, voice edged with the same wonder, and Ceryli lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding for seven hundred years.

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“Mama, you’ve told me this story before,” Circe rolls her eyes, cutting Ceryli off. “Can we go see the Midnight lights now?”

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“Of course,” Ceryli smiles, taking her daughter’s hand, “Do you want to go get mom?”

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“Yeah!” Circe exclaims earnestly, before running into the house to find Mei. Jello walks after her with a bark of agreement — slower than he was before but still as happy as ever, the fur under his neck still a tangled tuft. Outside, the streets light up with firefly pixies as the faeries dance their graceful waltz under the full moon.

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In the day, the city is alright.

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But at night, Ceryli decides, watching her daughter press her face against the windows in wonder and listening to her wife’s soft laughter — at night, it’s beautiful.