One of the hardest moments in my life was getting on the Green Town Greyhound headed far from the Deckerwood area.

My parents thought me a stranger—were thus uncertain of my intentions—yet still bought me the one way ticket as far as the bus transit system would take me. They told me I could stop anywhere along the way.

I don’t know if they did it out of kindness or fear. Drew—my older brother and a rabid, forgotten shadow of Donlo—watched me go. He was very protective of my family—I heard he took “my” death very hard.

It was February, practically spring of the New Year. In my heart, it was winter.

Armed with my rucksack, some freshly laundered castoffs of my older sister’s inside—I had hidden the gifted bones before anyone living could see them and retrieved them after—I took a seat in the back and pondered.

I don’t remember most of that first bus ride out of my second hometown—my family had moved out of Caldwell when I was four. I didn’t remember that ride, either.

Most of the other passengers sat some distance from me. I didn’t blame them—a quiet girl mulled over a decidedly human-looking bone in her lap—it was, but they didn’t know that. It didn’t exactly inspire confidence or trust.

At a stop where passengers were exchanged, one man sat next to me.

Right next to me. His thigh touched mine—I cleared my throat, scooted over. He did the same. I was afraid to repeat the action—the side of the bus was only three inches away. I mustered my courage, swung my glare to face him.

“There’s plenty of room for the both of us,” I hinted—tried to distill my voice with kindness. “If you’ll just give me a little.”

He didn’t move except to offer his hand. “Boniface Revenant,” he said.

I warily took it, didn’t reply—didn’t give my own name. Pushed my knees against his and planted my elbow against his side in an effort to grind myself more room—unsuccessfully. He didn’t move, just took me by surprise with his next words.

“So, how much do you want for that for that femur you’re holding?”

“I beg your pardon?” I stalled, quickly hid the item in question inside the rucksack with its bedfellows. He hadn’t let go of my hand—but I managed it one-handed.

“The femur,” he nodded cordially. “It’s human. I’d like to buy it off you. How much would you like for it? Money isn’t an issue.”

“It’s not for sale,” I protested, unsuccessfully tried to take my hand back. “Why would you want it?”

“Ah,” he released me finally, touched the brim of his Stetson hat. “That’d be telling now, lass. What’ll you take for it?”

“It’s not for sale,” I repeated firmly.

“Now, now,” he had an odd, hard glare—past mean. “Everything is for sale.”

“Not this,” I responded firmly, just kept myself from saying these. The last thing I wanted to do was to tell this creepy man I had a plethora of bones with me—all human.

He said nothing further for a little time. If pictures are worth a thousand words each, exchanged looks speak sentences each—our exchanged glares only translated to paragraphs of foul language.

Finally he backed down, lowered his gaze to my rucksack—he seemed to sense the discomfort his physical contact brought me, edged away until we were on opposite sides of the bus seat.

“As a collector of the finest—antiquities,” he announced, tipped his hat again once, brimmed it back up until his pallid forehead reflected obscenely in the open air. “I look for all things old, dead, discarded, and of no more use to the living.”

“The living has use for many things,” I returned coldly, took the opportunity of the space between us to study the man—everything about him bespoke fashioned bone.

He had one eye—the false orb he had replaced it with was carved bone, as were some of his implanted teeth. His bolo tie was fastened by a tiny, sharpened bone splinter. The cuff links to his dun overcoat were concaves of bone, as were his buttons.

In fact, it’d be simpler to say anything that wasn’t cloth, feather, or leather on his body was bone. If his mottled, baggy skin shrank to envelope his body, he might have been as wasted as me.

It was not difficult to imagine him with clots of skin falling off from under his clothes. I couldn’t detect a heartbeat.

Yes, it was—especially to one as inexperienced as I had been.

I’m not sure how I knew this—about him—the knowledge leaked in as he held my hand, perhaps.

“True, true,” he chuckled—gurgled would be an apt description as well—and lowered the brim of his hat over his white forehead—the action comforted me. “Which is why I’m offering to buy all your bones. Name your price.”


He looked at me as one might study a pile of human organs behind glass. Boniface had asked a price on my bones—all my bones—those encased in canvas—those encased in flesh. There was no hint of mummery in his offer.

I knew—again, perhaps from the exchange we shared from the handgrip—that he could make use of the bones too—far more than I ever could. My life—my decision—was his only deterrent.

[color=#FF8000]Okay, this guy really weirds me out. I am looking forward to the rest of your experience, Rowan.[/color]

There’s much work to be done—in regards to my trip to Florida, my employment—many other things too numerous or mundane to mention here, as well. I’ll finish it tomorrow or Friday, at the latest—I promise.

I don’t know if Revenant was fairy. Is there a way one can “tell” if a being is fairy or not?

No, I mouthed, my voice failed me. Then—gathered some sound behind my denial—spoke louder, with unmistakable firmness of resolve. “No.”

For a moment, he didn’t speak. I waited, my heart hidden in my mouth. He stared at me—all pretense at kindness was gone, tinder burned to powder under the wrath of some dark bonfire.

“Well then, miss,” he growled with bestial hate, his eyes—the bone half colorless, the other nearly the same—raked me over me in unkind, acerbic judgment. “It seems we have nothing left to talk about.”

Boniface scooted to the middle of the seat, reached past me, over my head. I flinched, thought my death approached because I denied his request—a sharp, tattered bellow echoed briefly in my ears—he had pounded his fist against the bus siding.

With timid obedience the bus pulled to the side of the road, groaned to a halt.

He stood, shouldered a black satchel I hadn’t noticed before. Surely it was a modified body bag—I’d swear it clacked with osseous matter as he hefted it. He tipped his hat to me, glared angrily.

“Ma’am,” he said with ghosted patronization—I was only fourteen at the time—strode out of the bus.

The last I saw of him was his back as he marched toward Deckerwood. Strewn down nearly to the mid of his hourglass figure, his hair—fine corn silk—came down to his shoulders in a broadleaf’s serrated taper.

I had the urge to pound the bus wall too, or wait to the next bus stop if that didn’t work—so I could run after him and save Deckerwood from a man who bartered in corpses—but didn’t.

Instead, I stayed in the bus, wondered what kind of a world I’d entered after the Gingerbread House.

I watched Boniface Revenant for a long time—easily done, the road straight. He stopped once, glared at the bus—me. The distance was too great to see clearly, but his chill outrage could still be felt.

Disappointment seethed at the missed opportunity for more bones. The sentence his glare spoke was clear, filled with menace.

“I’ll see you again.”

Gotham Witch—you’d have been braver than me, then.

I’ve been on the lookout for Revenant every year—he hasn’t been seen, but his presence festers in the area exactly as a case of mold.

There was a case of grave robbery years back—I’m not sure if it was me or him the case file referred to, though. The case file doesn’t say which bodies had been stolen—I’m not about to dig anything up to find out.

I’m on tenterhooks with Deckerwood as it is.