Katherine Villyard's Blog, page 4

Acquiring My Work

John Scalzi did it over here, so I’m doing it, too.

I’m an Indie (self-published), so unlike John, where you buy matters in terms of how much money I make.

The absolute best place (for me!) to buy my work is my shop, where I make 92.1% of what you pay for ebooks and audiobooks, and 92.1% of what you pay minus the physical cost of the book for print. Print books are surprisingly expensive, and Indie “print on demand” books are more expensive than traditionally published books printed at scale because offset printing is cheaper (but I don’t want to be on the hook for 5000 copies or whatever, or rent a warehouse to store them).

If you’re not comfortable buying at my shop, pretty much any online vendor will give me 70% of what you pay for ebooks (minus delivery fees for Amazon), which is pretty sweet. (Now you know why Indies love ebooks!) I use Draft2Digital to reach some markets and they take 10% as well, but I’m going direct more places with the upcoming book. (No shade to D2D, I’m happy with them!)

For print, Amazon gives me 60% of the profit (what you pay minus the cost of the book to produce). Other retailers likely give me 54% of the profit (what you pay minus the cost of the book to produce). Physical bookstores give me the least money (because I give them a wholesale discount) but you should absolutely buy from them to encourage them to buy my books. This is a calculated tradeoff of reaching customers who would otherwise not find my books because they only shop local. If your local bookstore doesn’t carry my book, you can request they order it for you (tell them it’s available through Ingram!). By the way, if you really want to support buying local, bookshop.org donates profits to local bookstores.

For audio, well. ACX (Audible and Amazon) pays me 25% of what you paid for the credit. Other places, I generally get between 32% and 50%. I’m not going to begrudge anyone buying my work with the credits you bought a year in advance! please buy my audiobook! but also, if you have a choice, my store is lovely…

Also, buying my books at the retailers makes the retailers think you like me ���� and they might recommend my book to someone else. It’s kind of a double-edged sword for Indies, usually summed up as “bank vs. rank.” I’m encouraging you to consider options that give me better bank, but if you prefer your retailer of choice that will give me rank. In other words, it’s all good!

If you don’t like or approve of one of the places that carries my books, you can order them somewhere else. I actively encourage this!

Can’t afford to buy? I love libraries! In some countries that are not the US I get money when you check out a book. In the US, if lots of people check out my book the library buys more copies, or buys replacement copies when they wear out. Libraries are the best.

Used bookstores: I love used bookstores, but I do not receive money if you buy my book there. If you really want to give me money for the used copy of my book (where did you even find it?) I do have a Ko-Fi tip jar, if you’re so inclined. But either way, I feel like used bookstores are a lovely thing that keeps perfectly good books out of landfills, and presumably I was paid for it by the person who bought it new.

John had a section on Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Rum. Okay, look, I’m not your mom, okay? If you really can’t afford it, and your library doesn’t carry it, do me a favor and ask your library to carry it. If it’s hard to get in your country and you can afford it, my shop will sell you an ebook that you can read on your phone or tablet, but if it’s too expensive I’m not going to come after you. But my preference is that I get paid. You don’t want to know what I spent. ���� No, really, since I’m an Indie I paid the editors and cover designer and audiobook producer and… yeah, I would love to recoup the money I spent and even make a profit. If you DID Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Rum and would like to make it up to me because you think my book is worth the money, you can buy a copy and give it to a friend, or your local library (talk to them first, it costs money to process a new book). That would honestly be my first choice.

I would prefer not to debate Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Rum in the comments. Sorry.

Critics Are Raving!

What are reviewers saying about Immortal Gifts?

This was a strong start to the Immortal Vampires series, it uses the vampire element in a way that worked with the overall storyline being told. The characters were everything that I was looking for and enjoyed how they worked in this world. I enjoyed how good Katherine Villyard���s writing was and was glad I got to read this start. I���m excited for more in this series and from Katherine Villyard.

–Kathryn M on NetGalley

This was such a unique book and genre mash up. Part romance, part horror, part historical fiction, part mystery. A literary vampire story with multiple times lines and POVs that tackle romance, grief, sadness/depression, love, acceptance, religion and even vampire pets. Pacing was a little off but the parts that dragged didn���t last long. This book made me chuckle out loud a few times but is also so much about grief and losing those you love deeply. Such an interesting way of looking at relationships when people are in different religions and how love and respect within those relationships can make it work. Probably one of the weirdest books I���ve read this year but also one I���ll think about for a while.

–Nikki on NetGalley and Goodreads

Immortality has never been introduced in this way. I appreciated the heart, love, humor and tragedy that was swirled within the pages. The lengths one must go to to keep the gift a secret and the moral dilemma when you want to give it away. This stirring novel was all at once witty, gritty and surreal. I will be recommending this read to everyone!

–Tracey S on NetGalley

Omg this is the best book ever epic , you get three main characters telling you what was happening from their point of view, I shed a few tears along the the way and laughed too this has a cast of great animals that could have a book of their own , I couldn���t recommend this book more highly it will stay with you forever I think 5 stars is a paltry amount but that���s all I can give it but a bright shiny 5 stars it���s got from me

–Margaret on Goodreads

Abraham has a gift for music.

Born in the 1800s, he lied about being Jewish to attend the Berlin Academy of Music and secure a patron. But, it also gets him turned into a vampire. When his lie is found out, it puts him in the crosshairs of zealous bigot. His tale spans centuries of him trying to be true to himself, his religion, and coming to terms with death.

At the heart of all of this, the story is one about death and grief. And while these are not unusual themes to be found in a story with vampires in it, I thought it was handled beautifully. Each character handled their grief and pain differently and each had their own thoughts on what it meant to be immortal.

–Rose on Goodreads and Instagram

I do not typically read vampire or fantasy books but I LOVED this book! The main character, Abraham, is a talented violinist, vampire, and Jew. From this book I learned a lot about Jewish traditions, something I did not expect from a vampire book! The story is told from the point of view of several different characters. Personal relationships and love are highlighted throughout the story. This book far exceeded my expectations and was a joy to read!

–Michele on Goodreads

I must admit, at first, each short chapter starting at a different date and in the words of a different character was a little jarring. However I���m glad I persevered because I loved this book and know that you will as well.

–Diane on Goodreads

This was a lot of fun to read. The periods of time that it takes place in keeps it interesting. The characters are at times complicated. Good backstory which is nice to have.

–Timothy on Goodreads

Critics are Raving!

What are reviewers saying about Immortal Gifts?

Editorial Reviews:

One of Villyard���s strengths as a storyteller is her skill in using vampire mythology to explore themes of otherness and persecution. Thomas, for instance, embodies centuries of antisemitic violence, declaring that ���Eternal life is a blessing and a reward���a reward for Christian faith. A gift that Ludwig accidentally cheapened and debased by giving it to the unworthy.��� The theme of exclusion runs throughout the novel, particularly in how Abraham���s vampirism affects his ability to practice his faith���as shown when he explains that ���I couldn���t walk to synagogue in the daylight���I couldn���t participate in religious services any more.��� This physical limitation becomes symbolic of his feelings of exclusion and otherness, reinforcing Villyard���s use of supernatural elements to explore very real historical patterns of religious persecution.

–Edward Sung for IndieReader

Immortal Gifts invites readers to re-evaluate the meanings of things such as life, death, freedom, hate and love from the first page. Katherine Villyard manages to capture some of the most poignant questions we ask ourselves as we go through our individual lives. Is it worth being able to live forever if, in the end, we���ll lose the ones we love to mortality? Is Death really the ultimate enemy to life, or is death just life���s misunderstood old friend? To stop hate, do we need to restrict our freedoms? This book makes readers ask and answer tough questions not only about the characters and plotline, but about their own beliefs, understandings, and dreams.

���Megan Weiss on Reedsy Discovery

In effect, Immortal Gifts defies the usual formulaic writing of the genre to return to the meat of a superior vampire novel: good tension, wry humor, psychologically deep characters, and the allure, promises, and pitfalls of immortality.

���D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review

Reader Reviews:

This was a strong start to the Immortal Vampires series, it uses the vampire element in a way that worked with the overall storyline being told. The characters were everything that I was looking for and enjoyed how they worked in this world. I enjoyed how good Katherine Villyard���s writing was and was glad I got to read this start. I���m excited for more in this series and from Katherine Villyard.

���Kathryn M on NetGalley

This was such a unique book and genre mash up. Part romance, part horror, part historical fiction, part mystery. A literary vampire story with multiple times lines and POVs that tackle romance, grief, sadness/depression, love, acceptance, religion and even vampire pets. Pacing was a little off but the parts that dragged didn���t last long. This book made me chuckle out loud a few times but is also so much about grief and losing those you love deeply. Such an interesting way of looking at relationships when people are in different religions and how love and respect within those relationships can make it work. Probably one of the weirdest books I���ve read this year but also one I���ll think about for a while.

���Nikki on Goodreads

Immortality has never been introduced in this way. I appreciated the heart, love, humor and tragedy that was swirled within the pages. The lengths one must go to to keep the gift a secret and the moral dilemma when you want to give it away. This stirring novel was all at once witty, gritty and surreal. I will be recommending this read to everyone!

���Tracey S on NetGalley

Omg this is the best book ever epic , you get three main characters telling you what was happening from their point of view, I shed a few tears along the the way and laughed too this has a cast of great animals that could have a book of their own , I couldn���t recommend this book more highly it will stay with you forever I think 5 stars is a paltry amount but that���s all I can give it but a bright shiny 5 stars it���s got from me

���Margaret on Goodreads

Abraham has a gift for music.

Born in the 1800s, he lied about being Jewish to attend the Berlin Academy of Music and secure a patron. But, it also gets him turned into a vampire. When his lie is found out, it puts him in the crosshairs of zealous bigot. His tale spans centuries of him trying to be true to himself, his religion, and coming to terms with death.

At the heart of all of this, the story is one about death and grief. And while these are not unusual themes to be found in a story with vampires in it, I thought it was handled beautifully. Each character handled their grief and pain differently and each had their own thoughts on what it meant to be immortal.

���Rose on Goodreads and Instagram

I do not typically read vampire or fantasy books but I LOVED this book! The main character, Abraham, is a talented violinist, vampire, and Jew. From this book I learned a lot about Jewish traditions, something I did not expect from a vampire book! The story is told from the point of view of several different characters. Personal relationships and love are highlighted throughout the story. This book far exceeded my expectations and was a joy to read!

���Michele on Goodreads and Bookbub

I must admit, at first, each short chapter starting at a different date and in the words of a different character was a little jarring. However I���m glad I persevered because I loved this book and know that you will as well.

���Diane on Goodreads

This was a lot of fun to read. The periods of time that it takes place in keeps it interesting. The characters are at times complicated. Good backstory which is nice to have.

���Timothy on Goodreads

When I started reading this book, I knew it was a vampire story, but I didn���t expect to find the most original vampire story I���ve ever seen.
The story is told through three characters: Abraham, a Jewish vampire who loves animals; Ludwig, an asexual vampire friend; and Destiny, Abraham���s wife, a human, vegetarian, and veterinarian. We follow their lives in the past and present.
I loved the story and especially the pets that participate in it. 🐱 🐶

–Junia on NetGalley and Instagram

So, hey Katherine, how’d you lay out these books?

So hey, those are some good-looking books! who did your interior layout?

That’d be me. ����

Large Print: Atticus. Straight-up Atticus. Flawless, no notes.

Ebook: Atticus, but I really wanted to add more space between my centered “attributions” at the top of the chapter and couldn’t figure out how to make it do it, so I edited the Atticus ebook in Sigil to add a blank line after each attribution. When my map came in, rather than do it again I used Sigil to add the map as well. I did websites for pay between 1995 and 2002 and the level of HTML and CSS in an epub is much simpler than that.

Paperback and Hardcover: Scribus. I know! I had Atticus right there, and it’s so much easier, but I control each individual line with Scribus. The downside being that I control each individual line with Scribus. ���� That said, the only real difference between hardcover and paperback interior is the ISBN. I already had a template and a flow from my previous book and had customized it in advance. I also had to google how to do full bleed for my map. ���� But I really wanted that extra space between my attribution header and my paragraph.

What do I recommend you use?

If you’re not a highly-technical control freak like me, to be honest I would likely use Atticus or Vellum. Especially if you’re easily frustrated by computers. But if you valorize and fondly recall your feats of geekery, you might enjoy the time you spend laying your book out in Scribus. I really like the way my Scribus layout looks. Also, if you are dirt-broke and feel like you can’t afford Atticus or Vellum, Scribus may be your pal. I think Atticus is cheap, but I have a day job in IT. Lots of people use InDesign but I think it’s too expensive for me and how often I use it.

All three books are cat-approved, so clearly I made the right choices. ����

Immortal Gifts releases February 4, 2025. Preorder at https://books2read.com/immortalgifts.

Do you want to win a copy of Immortal Gifts?

I have a Goodreads Giveaway running over here! One hundred people will receive a copy on December 31, a month before it’s released!

Go! Enter!

New audiobook links!

The Love Stories audiobook is now available at:

Barnes and NobleLibro.fmChirpStorytel

It’s also on Libby/Overdrive!

Till Death Do Us Part

(This story has never been published before! Happy Halloween! If you like, you can hear me read it on YouTube. Trigger warning: domestic violence.)

There’s a laser gun in my purse, and I’m wearing sunglasses to cover the bruises. There’s a tenderness to me, psychologically, that can’t bear to be touched. Robert’s tender, too: tenderly concerned, solicitous. It won’t last. I’m not stupid. And yet, here I am, trying to decide whether to go inside my own home. Whether it’s safe.

Whether he’ll kill me.

I unlock the front door. There are a dozen roses on the table in the hall. Robert has dinner on the table, candles lit.

He comes over and kisses me on the cheek. “How was your day?”

I shrug. I don’t trust him.

“I made you dinner.” He smiles at me, his eyes pleading for my approval. My heart leaps at his eyes, and I curse it as a traitor.

I don’t want to have this conversation, so I blurt out what’s really on my mind: “Will you get a brain scan? I don’t have to be the one to do it.”

Robert flinches. I can see his fists clench, and for a moment I think he’s going to hit me for asking. But all he says is, “Why?”

Honesty is frightening. “I want to make sure there aren’t any organic reasons for you to hit me.”

His mouth twitches. I know he wants to say something bitchy about how he was hitting me because I was medicating him without his knowledge. He caught me injecting him while he slept–chemical castration in case testosterone was making him aggressive, combined with antidepressants. It didn’t work. Apparently, he’s far more likely to beat me if he can’t fuck me. Intellectually, I knew fight or flight was close to feed or fuck, but it’s another thing to see it in action. It doesn’t really go with the happily ever after myth I was taught as a child.

But then he smiles, although the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

“Thank you.” I walk over to the table, meek and mild.

“How was your therapy?” Yes, I’m in court-ordered therapy because he beats me. And on mandatory leave from the hospital while they investigate me, because he beats me.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I turn and glare at him. His hand comes out of nowhere, backhanding my already bruised cheek. I hate my tears, but I can’t help myself. It hurts.

He grabs me by the hair and shoves me over the table. My face is pressed into my baked potato; I probably have sour cream and chives in my hair. “Don’t you fucking look at me like that.”

“Sorry,” I mumble. It’s hard to talk when your face is pressed into your romantic candlelit dinner.

He leans over me, pressing his lips to my ear. I can feel his erection pressing into my right buttock. “I can’t hear you,” he croons. Like it’s an endearment.

I raise my voice and speak as clearly as I can. “I’m sorry.”

He kisses the back of my neck, gentle again. “I’m sorry, too.” He stands up. I stand, too, and he hides a smirk as he wipes the sour cream off my face. “Let’s eat.”

The anger is a physical sensation stronger than the pain. It’s a heat in my chest and belly. But I smile back, and try to look grateful, and we eat. After dinner, we have sex. After the sex, he says, “No brain scan,” and rolls over to go to sleep.

No.

I reach into my purse and pull out the laser gun. I press it into the back of his head and say, “Into the bathroom.”

“You’ll never work again. I’ll see to that.”

He doesn’t resist or try to escape. He knows I know exactly where to shoot. The brain stem: it would irreparably destroy his autonomic functions. Most police and military who commit suicide choose EOG (“eat own gun”) for that reason.

I tell him to lie down in the bathtub, then take a syringe out of my purse and inject Robert with a paralysis agent. I need him awake, but unable to fight me.

Then, I throw on sweats and pull the scanner and medical kit out of my trunk. I then go upstairs and attach the scanner to Robert’s head.

Robert’s brain looks mostly normal. His amygdalae are small, far smaller than average. I sigh. Brain damage to the the cortex, including the amygdala, can cause hypoemotionality, hypersexuality, and an oral fixation. There’s a correlation between hyperactivity in the left amygdala and Borderline personality disorder. I suppose I was hoping for signs of damage, but there aren’t any. There have been studies in hamsters that show decreased aggressiveness in hamsters with amygdala damage, but Robert’s not a hamster. Studies with monkeys with amygdala damage show a decrease in maternal behavior, sometimes abusing or neglecting their babies. That’s the last thing I want.

Maybe I’m looking in the wrong place. Maybe I should be checking his hypothalamus or hippocampus. They look normal. The only thing that looks atypical is his amygdalae. They’re quite active, which isn’t that surprising. The left is more active than the right.

I can fix him. I can cut the violence right out of his head.

I get out a laser scalpel. I can see the fear in his eyes, the increase in pulse and respiration, the increase in brain activity in the amygdalae as I start to cauterize one of the blood vessels that feeds the left amygdala. Slowly, carefully, until the activity is closer to the right. I know it hurts him, but I need him to be conscious so I can see the change in brain activity.

The paralytic is wearing off; he’s able to move his eyes again. They’re terrified, pleading.

“This is for your own good,” I tell him, and kiss him on the forehead. “I love you.” And if this round doesn’t fix him, I can operate again. As many times as I have to.

Till death do us part.

Want another short story? There���s one here.

I am a winner!

I’m excited to announce that I’m a 2024 Firebook Book Award winner in the Short Stories category for Love Stories!

Signed Paperbacks!

I now have signed paperbacks in my store!

Fair warning: I do ship internationally, but it’s super expensive. I’m so sorry! I’m basically passing along the cost to you (perhaps rounded down–I’ll eat the forty cents). I also didn’t order a lot of author copies, so if it’s more popular than I expected I might need to take the page down temporarily and order more!

But: signed paperbacks.

Book of Shadows

This story was originally published in Love Stories.

When I got home, there was a statement from my retirement account in the mailbox and an eviction notice taped to my front door. I tore open the account statement. My IRA was worth nothing. I guess I shouldn’t have invested in my company’s stock. I crumpled it up and opened the door.

Inside, everything I owned was in boxes. I’d sold my sofa and TV, so there was nothing but boxes and carpet. I’d sold most of my books to the used bookstore. I supposed I could have another garage sale and sell the bookshelves and kitchen stuff, but the eviction notice said I had a week so I’d better hurry. Mom didn’t have the money, and I’d cut up my credit card when they jacked up the interest to 29%. No U-Haul for me. Maybe I should abandon all this crap and drive to Mom’s, if I could raise money for gas.

I was not going to abandon my computer or my father’s Book of Shadows. I couldn’t do contracts without the computer, and I wasn’t going anywhere without the book. I pulled it out and opened it. Inside, spells in my father’s handwriting, the sum of his magical life. It even contained the spell they used to conceive me. I turned to the page on fast money.

“Hail, Habondia, Lady of Plenty,” I began. I felt a sudden surge of grief for my father, but took a deep breath and went on. There were words of power, and I spoke them, calling Her to me.

It’s important to visualize during a spell. I tried to remember when I felt really prosperous; the measure of my success.

My Daddy’s pride in me. That was what always made me feel successful. I’d never feel that again. He was gone.

As the spell demanded, I took out my last twenty dollars and burned it on the stove. Which was just as well; the spells that demanded a trade were more reliable that the spells that asked for something without giving something in return. Those relied on luck, and it seemed I had little or none to spare.

My father had been gone a little over two years. Everyone said it would get better over time. Ha. He was the one who believed in me. He was the one who taught me magic. When I decided to get my degree in computer science, he was the one who never doubted for a moment that I could do it.

That was before the cancer.

Great workings often shorten the lives of magicians. He never told me what it was that he had done, what had been worth giving up part of his life. What had been worth the cancer eating his bone marrow, the dark magic of chemotherapy that had robbed him of his thick black hair? The change to his tastebuds so only ice cream, popsicles, and cotton candy tasted good had been in exchange for a few months before the cancer had won.

Had the cancer itself been a price? And which would be worse, the cancer being meaningless or the cancer being the price he paid for something else?

The phone rang. I answered it.

“Sandy?” my mother said. “Anna Rodriguez just paid me some money she owed me, so I’m sending it to you Western Union. You can pick it up at the office on University and Oak.”

“How much?” I asked.

“Two hundred,” she said. “Is that enough?”

“It’ll do,” I said. “Thank you.”

Clothes, computer, college diploma, Book of Shadows. The landlord could sell the rest for back rent, or throw it out for all I cared. I went to load the car.

I piled the computer equipment on the desk and looked around. My mother had kept my bedroom the same as I had left it, which meant that the Backstreet Boys posters had to go.

I hung up my clothes in the closet, next to my prom dress and cap and gown, both wrapped in plastic. I pulled the thumbtacks out of the posters and rolled them up to store them in the closet. Then I flopped down onto the bed, still fully clothed, and slept.

When I woke up, I set up my computer. I’d have to ask Mom to get dialup so I could email out resumes. I headed downstairs, where Mom was waiting at the table.

“Phew,” she said, and wrinkled her nose.

“Can we get some kind of Internet so I can email out resumes?”

“Does that work?” She poured me a cup of coffee and handed it across the table. “In my day we pounded the pavement.”

“Well,” I said, “you didn’t write websites.”

She shrugged. “Maybe you should consider something else, since that’s so slow. Substitute teaching. Clerical work.”

I made a face. I’d tried that. They said that they wouldn’t take me for either, since I was guaranteed to leave them the second anything came along in my field. Ha. I’d been unemployed for two years, ever since the company went under, and no amount of magic seemed to be getting me a job.

“I’m sorry,” she said, raising her hands. “I always end up saying the wrong thing. If your father were here���”

I sighed. “Is there anything I can do to help out?”

“I have some software I’d like you to install,” she said. “You know I’m hopeless. Your father always handled the computer. Quickbooks; Jennifer says that she couldn’t run her shop without it, so I bought it and now I can’t figure out how to set it up.” She started to laugh. “Hopeless.”

“I’d be happy to,” I said.

“Just sign up for whatever you need; you can put it on my credit card.” She got up and poured herself some more coffee, then looked back at me. “Have you tried prosperity spells?” she said.

No, mother, that never occurred to me.

“I miss him, too,” she said.

“Sometimes I think I would give up ten years of my life to get him back.”

“Don’t you say that,” she said. She grabbed the salt shaker and rushed to the sink, filling a glass with water and pouring salt in. She sprinkled me with salt water, then picked up the knife from the butter dish and drew a circle on the kitchen floor around me with it. “You came from the ocean; the ocean will protect you,” she said, and sprinkled me with more salt water. “Never say anything like that again.”

My father’s Book of Shadows had a spell to raise the dead, tucked in between the spell to meet your true love and the spell they used to conceive me, which partially involved making love on the beach–too much information, if you ask me. The spell was about a third of the way in, written in his youthful handwriting. Based on the spells around it, he’d probably learned it from Nana, or maybe even great-Aunt Carmella.

In the margin, he had written, “Don’t even think about it, Sandy,” in the shaky, pain-addled scrawl he used at the end of his life. It made me angry. Partly because I was tempted. I really would give ten years of my life to get him back, but I knew that wouldn’t be enough. Besides, I knew my father wouldn’t want me to shorten my life for his, and that was the price. We’re all born with a finite bit of life, and if I wanted him to have more, I had to give him some of mine.

At the bottom of the page, in his normal handwriting, it said, “Sandy, ocean child, my greatest bit of magic, my baby girl.”

I couldn’t see the page any more; my eyes were blurry with tears. I closed the book.

“Hail, Athena, Lady of Wisdom,” I said, and lit a candle. “I’m here to ask for a job. It’s been two long years, Lady, and since it was a very mental job, I’m asking You for Your help.”

I put a resume in the candle flame. It wasn’t much of an exchange, but it was the best I had. The resume wouldn’t light, no matter how long I held it in the flame. I lowered the paper, and extinguished the candle flame.

Offering rejected.

I was desperate, and not yet ready to give up. So I relit the candle. “Hail, Athena, Lady of Wisdom. I need a job. Please help me.”

I placed the resume in the candle flame. It still wouldn’t light. I lowered the page, and the flame spread across the underside and singed my fingers. I dropped the resume and swore.

At which point it ignited, taking the carpet with it.

“Fuck!” I leapt to my feet, and stomped on the flames until they were out. Then I extinguished the candle.

As omens went, this was pretty bad.

I hit send on the last set of resumes and hung up the connection. That made twenty today.

I went downstairs, and found my mother, who asked me to set the table for dinner.

I picked up two plates, two forks, and two knives and walked into the dining room. I put a plate, a fork, and a knife at each end of the table. I turned to go back into the kitchen, when something on the mantel caught my eye.

It was a large urn.

I stepped a little closer. It was unmarked.

Mom came in with a bowl of mashed potatoes and a plate with corn on the cob.

“Is that���?” I asked.

“I forgot you hadn’t seen that,” she said. “Yes, it’s your father.”

My father.

“You should have gone to the funeral,” she said. “You probably would have found it comforting��� Sandy?”

I realized I was shaking. Mom came over and put her arms around me, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the mantel. It was like part of me was trapped in that jar.

“Honey?”

“It’s so small,” I said. “It’s just wrong that it would be so small.” Intellectually, I knew that the human body was sixty percent water, but��� no. Wrong.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize you’d react like this. I would have taken it upstairs or something.”

“We were just going to eat with him in that���”

“Would you rather eat in the kitchen?”

I shook my head and wandered back to my chair.

Mom gave me a skeptical look and came back with a plateful of meatloaf.

Dead burnt flesh, like my father, dead in a jar.

I waved the plate away, nauseated, and picked up an ear of corn.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

I nodded, and spread butter on the corn.

She cut into her meatloaf with a knife. It was like watching someone cut Daddy. There was no way I could watch her eat it.

I burst into tears, clapped a hand over my mouth, and raced to the bathroom.

It was just wrong, and it had to change. He shouldn’t have died. Not yet, it was too soon, he was too young, it was wrong. I could feel it in my gut.

I had the urn. The other things weren’t difficult to get: sea water, a snake skin, a robin’s egg, some herbs. The sea water being my special protector was encouraging, although I knew I couldn’t rely on that.

I didn’t know how he would come back to me, if he would still be him. And there were practical things to consider: taxes, health insurance, the insurance money for his death–would we have to give it back? Would he still have cancer? Would we be taking him away from a better place?

I suppose this is why no one does it. But I needed to make things right, and his counsel, and his faith, even if he would be angry with me.

“Hail, Hecate,” I said, standing in a circle of seawater where three roads met. I laid the robin’s egg and the snake skin on the makeshift altar. “I offer part of my life for more time with my beloved father. Come back to me, Daddy.”

There was lightning, and the wind rose, but there was no rain. And then the ceramic urn started to shake, and exploded.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to look, but I couldn’t help myself. Inside the shards was something that looked like a shriveled fetus. It grew, and was then a small, spindly boy with sad eyes. He had cuts on his arms from the shards.

“Sandy, no,” he said.

I wanted to speak, but there was a sudden, unbelievable pain in my legs. I fell to the ground and screamed, and he reached out and touched my arm. His hand was cold, so cold.

“You don’t have enough life left in you to trade for mine,” he said.

My hair was falling out. “It’s the chemo, isn’t it?” I said.

He nodded. “I don’t think either of us will last until dawn.”

“Are you mad at me?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I should have known. Like father, like daughter.”

Of course it had never crossed his mind that I couldn’t do it. Oh, Daddy. I’ve missed you.

“You were only four when the car hit you,” he said. “I couldn’t see the license plate, it was moving too fast. I looked down at my baby girl. You weren’t moving, your legs were crushed, your neck at an unnatural angle, blood coming out of your mouth. So I gathered you up in my arms, and took you to a place where three roads met. Lucky we were vacationing at the beach, I guess. There were robins nesting in front of the cabin, and I remember thinking this must be why I’d found a snakeskin the other day. It was meant to be.” He looked at me, curious. “You don’t remember, do you?”

I shook my head. “I remember waking up in a place where three roads met. You told me I’d fallen down and hurt myself and asked if I felt better. Was that it?”

He nodded. “I should have told you. I thought you wouldn’t want to know that you were fated to die young. I’m sorry.”

“And you got cancer,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

“What parent wouldn’t do the same, if he could?”

“I wish I’d told Mom where I was going,” I said.

“She wouldn’t approve.”

“No.”

“I didn’t tell her, either,” he said. “I always felt guilty about that.” He looked down at the urn. “If she comes here, maybe she’ll figure it out on her own.”

“Great-Aunt Carmella did it, too, didn’t she?” I asked.

He smiled at me. “Smart girl. That’s why she and my cousin Steve both died so young.” He made a face. “Your mother was horrified, thought it was dangerous and wrong. I suppose she was right.”

“Poor Mom,” I said, and felt tears prickle my eyes. I reached up and rubbed them away.

“Like father, like daughter,” Daddy said, and patted my arm again.

“How have you been?” he asked.

“I hate having to move in with Mom. I hate the idea that she thinks I’m a loser.”

“You have no idea,” he said. “You could never disappoint us.”

I snorted. “She’s not your mother,” I said.

“I think I know her better than you do.” He laughed. “You’re just like her sometimes.”

I made a face.

The sun was rising. Daddy was now some kind of shriveled baby-sized thing, dry and dusty, but he could speak. I reached out a hand, wrinkled and gnarled and swollen with arthritis, and brushed back the wispy remains of his hair, and told him about the coworker I’d had a crush on, about the cute guy who came into the store and bought crystals, about anything but regret because regret didn’t matter. It was a fair exchange.

We were joined, fated. It was meant to be.

As the sun rose, he crumbled into dust and I cried. My hands started to look normal, but they still ached. The arthritis was probably permanent, and I suspected I had cancer–in my bone marrow, like Daddy had. It just made sense.

There was no way I could gather up the ashes and take them with me, especially not with my hands so stiff. He was already being dispersed by the wind.

I could really use medical insurance right about now.

I tried to stand and couldn’t; my hips and legs didn’t seem to work right. So I lay back and watched the sun rise, and then my feet and legs stopped hurting.

I looked down, and they had crumbled into dust. My hands were disintegrating as well. I’d known the price was part of my own life, I’d just thought I had more life to trade. I guess everyone does. But it was a fair trade; it was enough.

There wasn’t anything to do about it, and I’d gotten what I wanted. So I stopped looking, and watched the wind move the leaves overhead instead. And then I was the wind, and the leaves, and the Book of Shadows lying open on a large stone. And my father.

Want another short story? There���s one here.