Anath knew far too much about Black Heart Machine, and deep inside her darkened heart that frightened her. It scared her more than death, and even more than the realization that her efforts to change the way things were might be futile. She was glad to see Anath because as long as she was here, she could be nowhere else. Yet her very existence, her living, breathing form in front of her made the black mare feel exposed. Naked and vulnerable like the day she was born. It was electric, and it was more real than she expected. There was no distancing herself from it when Anath stood looking into her eyes.

Black Heart Machine would do what she could with this feeling. She would do what she had always done—use it. She would use it the way she used Slenderman, and even Rodion to some extent. She stared at Anath, a solemnity in her features and a fiery determination in her dark eyes.

“Good,” she finished, her voice low and firm.

There was a moment of brief silence, a pregnant pause as the wind lifted the tips of Machine’s impossibly long mane off her slender neck. The islands were calm, but this peace was not meant to last. It was a false peace, bred of apathy and indifference. She detested it. She needed to break it into ruins the way the gods had made Cimarron crumble all those years ago. Destruction was inevitable if there was to be any kind of new beginning.

“Anath,” Machine spoke again, her voice breathy and quivering with anticipation. “We need to do something. Something destructive. We must be noticed. Heard. Seen.”

Nothing else would do.

BLACK HEART MACHINE