Chapter Text
Your father once told you that magic is the little things.
It’s the silence in the room after the curtains are drawn and the lights are dimmed, setting the mood and getting into the right mindset. It’s in the purposefulness of your movements, flowing from your brain to your hand as you strike a match and light a candle. It’s tradition and routine, gazing into the flickering flame nightly and seeing the past, present and future unfold, choosing the visions as much as they choose you. It’s the culmination of all of these things; breathing even, candle wax dripping, magic flowing.
The magic is in the process, in the ritual, in you. It’s the sort of thing he said often to reassure you when you were a just a child and you were jealous of the others because they could hear what the earth said or conjure storms.
“That’s because they’re Listeners and Makers, and we’re Readers,” he would say, “They have their magic, and we have ours. And there's nothing wrong with that.”
Your parents always told you how proud they were, how skilled you were becoming as you grew, but you couldn’t see what they saw and never felt the same pride. You could not go miles in the blink of an eye like a Traveler or tear a tree from the soil with your bare hands like a Destroyer. You could not draw up a forcefield like a Writer and you could not serve as the mouthpiece of your ancestors like a Speaker.
“So what can you do?” you remember being asked by one of your peers at some point in childhood, and you answered, “Well, I can see stuff in fire,” and your pride faded with the excitement on their face as you realized you had been blessed with the most ridiculously boring kind of magic that existed.
Your opinion hasn’t changed over the years, no matter what your family tells you. If it’s any consolation, whether Speaker or Destroyer, magicians in the modern era have been relegated to history textbook footnotes amounting to, “This person might have been a magician;” few even think you exist thanks to the careful way you live your lives, as you were cautioned by your parents, and they by their parents, all the way back to a time before the War with the monsters.
You, like most magicians your age, understand why; you studied history and learned all about witch hysteria, the way magic became a thing of fear. It was this same fear that eventually drove humanity to fight the monsters and herd them below ground, which is where the parts of the story that you do not fully understand begin.
It’s Friday night, and you’re snuffing out candles on your way out of your room, throwing on a jacket and reaching for your shoes, inches from your front door when your phone goes off in your pocket. You know before you even look that it’s your dad; ever since you moved out, he compulsively Reads to know when you’re leaving the apartment.
From Dad, 18:08:
Be home by midnight. Don’t go too far. No magic outside.
You roll your eyes and text back a quick, “k,” and you can just picture the frown on his face. It’s the same spiel you’ve been given every day of your life since you were old enough to leave the house on your own, the same warning that every magician has given their child since the Middle Ages; don’t tarry lest the hunters find you, don’t wander lest you leave sacred ground, and don’t expose yourself, lest you bring the hammer down upon the entire community.
No matter how dismissive you might seem, you understand the importance of doing as you’re told. When the monsters reemerged seemingly from myth and antiquity, led from the Underground by a child ambassador, they were not met with open arms. It’s been a little over a year since then, and calling the peace tentative is almost overly optimistic. You think magicians are afraid of their fellow humans, of a cold welcome with a living reminder of why they feared magic once.
You think they might fear monsters as well, or rather, a retribution long overdue.
You’re halfway down the block when your phone goes off again, and you check it curiously to find a simple message;
From Dad, 18:09:
Stay away from fire.
This is something you have to question.
From Me, 18:09:
did grandma Read that in the clouds?
From Dad, 18:09:
Yes.
From Me, 18:09:
was she wearing her glasses? sure she didn’t misRead it?
From Dad, 18:10:
Don’t be a smartass.
From You, 18:10:
k
You love your family, but you think the atmosphere of fear is getting to them more than it should. Your grandmother, an ouranomacner, Reads the sky every day for some omen of disaster, imparting vague and sometimes nonsensical warnings like, “Don’t pick up any rocks,” or “Take the bus after noon, but not before,” and you do your best to listen to her.
But fire is your thing , just as her thing is clouds and storms and the sky. Fire is what you Read, so you would know if it was going to hurt you.
You decide, albeit reluctantly, that you’ll try to steer clear, but you also think to yourself that maybe Grandma’s getting a little old.
*
Downtown became a different place when the monsters moved in.
Not ‘bad’ different either, no matter how your sensationalist local news channel might try to spin the story. What used to be an aging strip mall became a chain of niche stores selling Underground clothing, Underground art, and Underground antiques—almost all of which is just regular clothing, art and antiques but with an off-brand and almost parodic vibe, like cheap knockoffs where the logo is the same but something’s misspelled. On hot summer days, a Nice Cream vendor wheels his cart along the sidewalk and makes the rounds. A new restaurant opens in a nearby vacant lot with a neon sign declaring its name, “SPAGHETTI,” with unnecessary looping explosions on the ends. You’ve heard mostly good, though occasionally frightening, things about it.
The whole area has turned into a snapshot of what most people consider “monster life,” where the curious and the brave go to mingle and get a piece of the Underground for themselves, and all of the tourism has revived what might have become a dead part of town. A year after the monster’s ascent to the surface, it hasn’t lost its novelty, and your friends are there every time you look up.
“Oh yeah, we’re at SPAGHETTI,” says the first one you call. You ask them not to scream the name in your ear; they tell you that’s just the way it’s pronounced. “We’re trying the hibachi.”
“The what?”
“You know, like at Japanese restaurants?”
“No, I know, but….” You pause. “You’re not at a Japanese restaurant.”
“I know, it’s crazy. They’ve got spaghetti tacos and spaghetti bento boxes, too. You’ve gotta come down here.”
You frown; you can hear everyone in the background screeching in excitement as flames rise from the sizzling grill. “I’ll have to take a rain check on that.”
Your other friends are all at the park where there’s a live music event for a spider bake sale—the sign says, “It’s never too late to start a college fund for the next generation of spiders,” you’re told—with an open bonfire. You’re starting to think you should have just stayed home. Doomed to spend the evening by yourself, you decide to go somewhere lively and search for bars near your location. The closest result is “Grillby’s,” and the logo is a little flame. Does that count? You decide it doesn’t count.
You nearly walk right by it; it’s a hole in the wall wedged between a nail salon and a suit tailoring shop, both of which are closed for the night. The hand painted sign that reads “Grillby’s” is little more than a piece of driftwood you would’ve missed it if you hadn’t been looking for it, hanging over a set of descending stairs that lead below street level. Since you’re already squinting at the sign, you notice tiny markings that you can’t quite make out at the bottom edge, nicks in the wood rather than paint, and you stare curiously at them for half a minute before you remember you’ve got a curfew and hurry down the steps.
Loud chatter and glasses clinking fill your ears the moment you step in the door, and a quick survey of the room tells you that you’re definitely the only human there. There’s a rabbit leaning drunkenly over one of the booths and a toothy plant beside them patting their back comfortingly. A middle-aged fish in a wife beater fiddles with the jukebox while a pack of dogs play poker around one of the tables. The ceiling fan spins in slow circles above you and old US road signs and kitschy vintage posters are plastered on the walls, completing a surreal picture. The building has an old, Prohibition-era vibe to it that lends to the atmosphere, and you congratulate yourself on stumbling onto such a find.
Which is when you finally lay eyes on the bar counter and realize there’s a small problem;
The bartender is literally made of fire.
If you leave now, it’ll look rude or like you don’t like monsters, which isn’t true at all. You cross the room slowly, trying to appear as though you’re still absorbing the scenery, as your grandmother’s warning rings in your ears, a ghostly and warbling, “Staaaay awaaaay from fiiiiirreeee.”
(You like to imagine she talks like that to your dad when imparting her vague and ominous warnings.)
You slide into the first bar stool you reach, leaving an empty seat between yourself and a skeleton with a plate full of fries and a bottle of ketchup in front of him. (Him? It looks like a him. Can skeletons be hims?) You only realize when he glances in your direction that he’s the first one to really look at you; no one else has paid attention yet.
“Hey kiddo, haven’t seen you here before,” he says.
You nod. “Thought I’d try something new,” you say. Also because I’m not allowed on this side of town.
“So what’re you getting? If it’s a drink, Grillbz can make just about anything. There’s fries and burgers, too.”
“I think I’ll just try the fries tonight,” you say, eyeing the bartender out of the corner of your eye. Grillby nods wordlessly and disappears into the back somewhere, leaving you and the skeleton at the bar.
“You don’t seem to mind monsters.”
You glance back at the skeleton, shaking your head. “No, I don’t.”
“That’s good. Could really use more folks like you around here.”
“Around here?” you repeat curiously, “I figured anyone who came here wouldn’t mind.”
“You’d think so.” He’s still grinning—you don’t know if he can stop, actually, since that’s just how his skull is put together—though he sounds a bit more somber. “And some aren’t so bad. but a lot of ‘em only come here to cause problems. They know we’re in a tough position; if someone comes in and starts a fight, you can bet it’s the monster who’ll get in trouble.”
You frown. “I’m sorry.”
“Nah. Not trying to make you feel bad. Just glad you’re not like that.”
You glance around the bar when you realize it got quieter and notice a few eyes quickly turn away from you, but the mood is still just as relaxed as before and the chatter starts up again. You think the other patrons must’ve been worried you’d start something and chose to ignore you, but listening to you and the skeleton talk must’ve put them at ease. “How long has this place been around?”
“Pretty much forever. Well, on the surface, it’s only been around a few months, but Grillbz had a place just like this in the underground, too.”
“That’s cool.”
It’s then that you feel a faint warmth and see the bartender returning with your order, placing the fries directly in front of you. You can’t help but look closely at his hands as he does, the fire swirling into the shape of fingers in brilliantly glowing reds and oranges. It must be magic fire, you think.
Does magic fire count? You decide it doesn’t.
“Thank you,” you say and receive a wordless nod in response, and then he’s back to polishing empty glasses. He looks completely at ease but you can tell he’s tense because of the way the top of his head is flickering, a quietly anxious wavering without too much movement, causing a heat haze in the air in front of him. If you narrow your focus, you can see small white points behind the frames of his glasses, eyes that rhythmically dim and brighten with the rise and fall of his shoulders.
When the movement stops, you realize those two points of light—those eyes—are staring straight at you. Grillby is motionless, one hand still holding a wine glass and the other a wash rag, but he’s stopped to stare across the bar, and you scramble for an excuse.
“I’m—oh my god, I’m really—I’m sorry, I didn’t…I didn’t mean….” You shrug helplessly. “I wasn’t staring, I swear. I was just spacing out.”
Your shoulders tense apprehensively when the silence persists. Finally, he gives a small, barely noticeable nod, and goes back to what he was doing. You feel that it’s safe to breathe again and tear your gaze away.
He’s kind of hard to Read. Is Reading people inconsiderate? You’ve never run into this kind of situation before since you Read fire, and you never considered the ethics of Reading one that possessed sentience.
Your try to distract yourself with your fries, which are still warm, though before you take your first bite, the blue sleeve and phalanges of the skeleton beside you come into your field of vision as he slides a ketchup bottle across the counter. “Want something to go with that?” he asks.
“Thanks,” you say and accept the ketchup, tipping the bottle to squeeze some onto your fries…
Only for the lid to fall off and the bottle’s entire contents to come oozing out onto your plate.
“Sans, what did I tell you?” the bartender snaps in a hiss that sounds like wood crackling. It’s the first words you’ve heard him speak all night and it startles you so badly that you jump a little bit.
“Sorry, sorry,” the skeleton says without sounding even the slightest bit apologetic, and you suspect he’s been patiently waiting for someone to sit next to him. “Sans, by the way.”
“Oh,” you say, still slightly stunned. You weren’t sure what you were expecting when you went out earlier tonight, but it probably wasn’t this. You give him your name.
“Nice to meet you. So uh. You gonna eat those?”
You give him your ketchup-drenched fries, as well.
“Let me make you a fresh plate,” Grillby says, glancing back over his shoulder at Sans with a withering look as he disappears into the kitchen again before you can stop him.
“You okay, kid? I didn’t mean to upset you, it was just a joke.”
“No, I’m not upset,” you say, “Just surprised, I guess. Wasn’t expecting it.”
Grillby returns with more fries and you try very hard to glance at him and smile pleasantly without staring too long or Reading too much. You can tell he’s stressed, maybe upset, by the nervous fluttering of little embers that flick off of him from time to time. You want to know if it’s because of you, but there seems to be some sort of strange haze around him, obscuring your sight.
You push back the stool and get to your feet. “How much do I owe you?” you ask.
He shakes his head.
“I’m sorry, what? I didn’t catch….”
“It’s on the house,” Sans explains.
“Are you sure?”
He nods.
“Could I get a box?” you ask, “Sorry, I don’t want to be a bother, but I’m—!”
The room dims just a bit when Grillby turns and leaves again, quickly returning with a Styrofoam box and setting it on the counter. You thank him and shovel the fries inside.
“Leaving already, kiddo?”
“Yeah, sorry. Can’t be out too late.” You offer a smile. “But I’ll be sure to come back sometime.”
Definitely a lie . You try not to feel too bad about it as you tuck the box of fries under one arm and wave back before leaving Grillby’s. You’re not supposed to be on this side of town; you’re not supposed to be spending time with monsters.
Don’t stay out late, don’t use magic outside, stay away from fire.
Somehow, you managed to break all of those rules. Dad definitely doesn’t need to know about this.