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The house changed in their absence—inhaled and exhaled, rattled and shook. “Oh, stop that,” Colin rasped, glancing from the swaying chandelier above the table to the locked slider straining to open. “If you don’t plan on showing yourself then behave, at least.”
For years, Colin Hart had searched for oddities and spirits, ripped unwelcome breath from between the bones of crowded houses, braced for fangs and claws in demonic dwellings, but he’d never managed to scrape the inconsistencies out of himself. Hips, too wide. Shoulders, too narrow. Wrists, too small. Testosterone be damned, he still felt half-framed and hollow. As if his body was a home with too many unused rooms, too much open space. A place still under construction.
“Sometimes shame is a lesson. Most of the time, it’s just a way for us to hate ourselves for the things we want.” They shifted their eyes to the door. “What do you know about shame?” “I’m Catholic,” Colin said, matter-of-factly, and braved a touch to Bishop’s knuckles.
