The Library at Hellebore

by Cassandra Khaw

We do both live in a world where even governmental bodies have acknowledged magic’s existence. But we reside as well on a planet where the efficacy of medical science is questioned and media personalities argue whether a clot of cells has more value than a woman’s life. To put it another way, these are unutterably stupid times, so I’m not taking chances.

Here in Hellebore, we are all Antichrists, all Ragnarök made manifest. We are those who are destined to break the chains binding Fenris to his boulder; we are Kalki come riding on his pale horse; the death of Buddha; the vectors of apocalypse, avatars of the end, world-eaters; memetic violence distilled into bodies with badly underdeveloped prefrontal cortexes, like the world’s least impressive tulpa.

There were only so many species of girl once you got down to it. Some breeds ran and some breeds fought and then some took to gutting themselves for their wolves, because if you were going to get eaten, you might as well choose how.