The woman seated near the entrance had no eyes. This is not to say she was blind or had suffered some kind of terrible injury. The blank skin of her forehead extended around her nose on both sides, seamlessly and naturally. Her eyes were never meant to be.

Bookending her were two men. To her left sat a squat fireplug of a man with a face molded by a lifetime of street fights. To her right stood a thin, well-dressed person whose gender was either secret or nonexistent. Angus and Berry respectively—bouncers and bodyguards for the gatekeeper named Omary.

“Hand,” she commanded, and Isaac put it palm up on the table before her. No form of identification existed that would permit entry here. Only Omary’s judgment would suffice. After tracing the lines of his palm, she said, “Isaac. Welcome. You’re always a little different with each visit. This time, you have a new layer of shadow in there.” She slapped his hand lightly and pushed it off her table. “You may enter.” Angus grunted approval and Berry made a dramatic head-tilting nod as he passed.

While Isaac respected anyone skilled at their craft, he had never been a fan of psychics. Soothsayers. Fortune-tellers. Palm readers. The only thing worse than a charlatan was the genuine article. Mind-reading—just a method of stealing secrets rather than earning them as far as Isaac was concerned. At least Omary maintained enough professionalism to keep all the juicy bits to herself.

The hall ended at an elevator with no buttons. The doors slid shut and it moved with a mind of its own, ascended to a level of its choosing, which was the Main Hall. The doors slid open to the cacophony of a party that would make Dionysus smile.

The Reliquary—a supernatural mash-up of burlesque and Mardi Gras, illusions, striptease, circus feats, and artistic spellcraft. A place where fantasy fused with reality into a magic-laced New Year’s Eve party performed nightly.

It was an eclectic crowd—from formal wear to casual, to leather and lace, to costumes fit for a rave or Halloween party. It had a dress code limited only by one’s imagination. But the diversity went far beyond clothing. People from all walks of life and every rung on the social ladder were in attendance. Isaac couldn’t say with any certainty what the criteria were for admittance, aside from the judgment of Omary.

The only thing more varied than the clientele was the staff. Most of the entertainers were somehow connected to the Other World. Whether wielders or victims, of magic or the supernatural, many had made a home here.

On the main stage performed a woman named Nekane who may have set the standard for a sultry female devil. She was red-skinned, with pointed horns, cloven hooves, and a prehensile tail. Her act consisted of fire-breathing, sans combustible fuel. Each deep breath expelled a gout of flame that she then molded to her will. Fiery belly dancers swayed through the air, followed by a dragon that looped and turned, making the crowd duck away. She would then drink the flames back down and repeat.

Isaac made his way to the bar and ordered a scotch. Just as it arrived so did a short, plump woman with shockingly pink hair and horn-rimmed glasses.

“Isaac!” she said and hugged him. Her name was Lucille and they exchanged greetings and how-are-you-doings. Pleasantries concluded, she said, “I’m assuming Hellebore didn’t know you were coming?”

“No. I haven’t spoken to her in a while. She still miffed at me?”

“Hard to tell with her.”

“Yeah. She here?”

“In the building somewhere. On business. But she left me in charge of the hall so I’m not expecting her back any time soon. Maybe that’s good news for you. Care to try the mannequin room again?” Lucille asked with a wink.

Isaac stifled a nervous laugh. “No thanks. Maybe next time.” That had been one experience he’d rather not relive. Lucille’s room of animated mannequins was a unique and popular fetish in the Reliquary. Out of sheer curiosity, he’d given it a whirl and had been so creeped out by the jerky, stop-motion movements of the plastic women he’d spent most of the time trying to dodge their lustful fingers.

It had been worth it as Lucille, in turn, had taught him some tricks for animal reanimation, which he’d used in turn for his undead canine servants in the past. He would certainly love to learn how to animate mannequins but worried Lucille might want him to go another round in the room in exchange, if only to mess with him. It seemed a worthwhile spell, with many non-carnal implications, but maybe not worth another very unsexy game of tag with the hard plastic women.

“That’s ok. Some men aren’t stern enough for it,” Lucille playfully chided him. “Besides, it’s all booked up for tonight. It’s become surprisingly popular with the female crowd.” Isaac raised an eyebrow at this.

Lucille excused herself and no sooner than he had said goodbye than a pair of boney hands wrapped around his head and covered his eyes in a guess-who. In this case, boney didn’t mean thin. Boney meant bones. Fleshless, skeletal hands. In any place on Earth other than Reliquary Isaac would’ve lashed out in self-defense. But here one had to expect such things. Besides, he knew whom the hands belonged to, and not just because he could see through them.

“Hello Husk,” he said and turned, the hands over his eyes transitioning into a friendly hug.

“Isaac,” Husk greeted him. She stepped back, looked him up and down. Not in an admiring way Isaac knew. She just disapproved of his casual dress. Isaac did the same, but his once-over was purely gratuitous. With the looks of a starlet, catwalk grace, and flawless porcelain skin, Husk was simply beautiful. The whole world would probably know her name (or whatever her real name happened to be) if not for her shortage of flesh.

Fleshless from the shoulders down, both arms were nothing but bone. No skin or muscle or veins. Simply bone, aged to a yellowish-brown color, like a dug-up fossil. Where her skin ended it flapped in bloodless tatters, like a T-shirt with frayed sleeves. Isaac also knew that, under her dress, her legs were the same from knee down. It had to be some form of a curse, although she’d never discussed it with him. Having come to know her it could very well be a punishment for past vanity, although she certainly hadn’t learned her lesson.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Similar to you, except more fabulous, much happier, much sexier. The list goes on.”

The dig was her way of being friendly and Isaac really couldn’t argue it anyway. As he had in the past, he offered to buy her a drink from the bottom shelf liquors, knowing she would scoff snootily at him. Husk had a taste for only the finer things, and it was an ongoing joke between them that Isaac in no way made the cut.

“If you’re still alone at the end of the night come find me,” she said.

“What are the chances you’ll be alone?”

She smiled coyly. “None. But I like the sad puppy-dog face you make when you get rejected. It’s so cute.”

On the stage now were a magician in top hat and her two lovely assistants. They performed a slapstick skit, with each failed magic trick resulting in the exaggerated loss of clothing. No real magic, just good sleight of hand and tear-away clasps. Always a sucker for such shenanigans, Isaac found an empty table with a better view.

“Mind if I join you?” The voice was feminine, but not soft. He offered the seat, not looking at the person until she sat across from him. In any place other than the Reliquary he might have gaped at her appearance. That said, while thinking this, he still forgot to greet her and just stared at her, blank-faced. “You sure?” she asked hesitantly.

“Yes, yes. Of course.”

“Thanks. Some of the first-timers have trouble looking at me. Or trouble...not looking.”

“I’m not a first-timer.”

“I know. Husk told me who you are. But this is our first time meeting so you’re technically a virgin to me.”

Isaac glanced at the bar. Husk waved a skeletal hand at him, smiled wickedly.

“I’m Moira,” she extended a hand, which Isaac shook with regret when she squeezed it painfully. “Sorry. I don’t know my strength sometimes. I’m still getting used to this.” She made a sweeping motion along her body the way someone would show off a new car.

Moira was a stitch.

When he’d first laid eyes on her he’d experienced a twinge of concern. It certainly seemed too coincidental that he would encounter another stitch so soon and he wouldn’t be surprised if the Surgeons held a grudge. He knew they were well connected and possessed a correspondingly long reach, but this was the Reliquary.

No one infiltrated the Reliquary. Omary sniffed out all secrets and a vengeful stitch would have been stopped at the door. No assassin could touch him here. Sure, the owner may kill him one day, but her staff wouldn’t let someone else do it.

If Isaac’s past encounters with stitches were experiments in making the horrific, then whoever crafted Moira had been attempting to create beauty. And succeeded. It was as if someone had scoured a thousand different puzzles and painstakingly found matching pieces from each. Everything fit despite nothing matching. Whoever had created her had achieved imperfect perfection.

Her hair, a mixture of blonde, brown and red, from three different scalps. Her hands, one white, one black, stitch scars at the wrists, fingernails on the pale hand painted white, vice versa on the other. These were the most obvious, but Isaac was drawn to her eyes—one bright green, the other brilliant blue.

“So, you’re a friend of the boss?” she asked, and he answered with a hybrid shrug/nod. “Husk told me.”

“That’s all she told you?”

“No. She also said that you were a homeless magician who does slum work and that you have a terrible fashion sense and are awkward with women.”

That was a bit rougher than Isaac expected. “I’m not homeless.”

She laughed. “I figured Husk was being dramatic. She’s a bit of a snob. And you’re staring again.”

She was right. Isaac had forgotten the naked slapstick on stage and eyeballed her intently as if she were a painting with hidden details. “Sorry. It’s just...”

“You’ve never seen someone like me. I’ve heard that before.”

“No. Actually, I’ve had more than my share of run-ins with stitches...” again his voice trailed off, not knowing if “stitch” was a slur to a self-aware stitch, but not knowing any other term. Zombie or undead or Lady Frankenstein certainly weren’t improvements. “A creation such as yourself.”

Moira didn’t seem insulted in the least and leaned across the table. “You’ve met stitches?”

“Just recently. They certainly didn’t look like you. They were just horrible mindless monsters that tried to kill me.”

“So, you’ve been slapped around by a stitch. At least I know you can take it,” she said, her eyes twinkling. The statement called for another round and Isaac flagged a server for more scotch.

They watched the next act together. A blonde-haired woman named Lavaliere performed with multiple lengths of thin silver chains. Like living snakes, they followed all of her unspoken commands, swinging and spinning her around the stage, several times letting go to the gasps of the crowd, only to snatch her up moments before a crushing landing. Isaac was impressed with what he assumed were more complex versions of his slithering scarves.

Several more drinks in and Moira said, “If you’re trying to get me drunk you need to know that booze doesn’t affect me much.”

“I figured. I also assumed that you were trying to get me drunk.” Isaac barely avoided slurring his words.

“I don’t need to get you drunk.”

“Good point.”

“You staying the night? You have a room?”

“Yes. And not yet.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”

“Ok. If I pass out, then you’re in charge.” He swayed a bit in his chair.

“Sweetie, I’ve been in charge since I sat down with you.”

Isaac’s cleverness completely deserted him at this point. Scotch and aggressive women comprised two of his many Achilles heels and he mumbled something unintelligible that he would later pretend was witty. When he stood up, he wobbled into the path of a person in a featureless white mask and black robe. As he apologetically stepped aside, he tripped over his chair.

Moira was strong and fast. She scooped him up before he fell, threw him over a shoulder, like a cartoon caveman claiming a mate, and headed for the elevator. As she carried him by the bar, he saw Husk, surprisingly still alone, although the night was still young. Inebriated enough to be a poor sport, he playfully stuck his tongue out at her. She responded with a hand gesture and Isaac was surprised at how much more effective a middle finger could be when it was just bone.

***

Having sex with Moira made Isaac feel like a lazy man overdoing a workout while having a superhero as a personal trainer. They quickly established “ow” as a safe word for the less-durable magician. Endurance levels were also disparate, and Moira was still raring to go when Isaac finally collapsed next to her.

“Fine, fine. You wimp,” she chided him and flopped down, resting her head in the crook of his shoulder. “I’ll give you a few minutes to recover.”

Isaac knew he needed longer than that to catch his wind so as soon as he was able to stop panting, he attempted to change the subject. “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you wind up in your current circumstance?”

“I like to fuck I guess.”

He let out an embarrassed snort. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

“Oh. You mean all my new body parts.” She traced some of her many scars. “I don’t know. I woke up like this in a New York alley, all bandaged up like a mummy. No memories at all of my life before.”

“None? Not even who may have...rebuilt you?”

“Nope. It’s not even a fog. It’s just nothing. Like trying to remember a time before being born.”

He was normally reticent about discussing pretty much anything about his life with others but felt compelled, considering his recent run-in with a gaggle of necromantic surgeons. “I know a guy who’s in the market of building stitches. I could ask around.”

She went silent for a while. “Thanks for the offer. Maybe I’ll take you up on it someday. But honestly, I don’t have any burning desire to know my former life. What if I find out that I had a great life and I was really happy? I can’t go back to it. Not like this.” She juxtaposed her bi-racial hands. “When I look in the mirror and see the scars, I feel like my body isn’t really mine, not completely. So, everything I do with it is kind of vicarious. I’m living vicariously in my own body. Does that make sense?” It kind of did. “So, what’s the point of playing it safe? I woke up with no memories and a new body that’s stronger, faster, tougher. I won’t age and I’ll never die. I’m gonna live it up.”

She rolled over and stretched out on the expensive sheets. “Besides, I’m willing to bet that whoever I was before, I didn’t sleep on silk or have a fabulous apartment in New York City or wear expensive clothing or bang fragile magicians.”

He nodded along in agreement until the dig at him. “I’ll have you know I’m only fragile compared to normal guys. I’m quite stout for a magician.”

“We’ll put that to the test,” she said with a wink that was all the more effective with her unmatched eyes.

Moving the topic away from the possibility of more supernatural-strengthened lovemaking he asked, “Why’d you pick me tonight anyway? Besides guessing correctly that I’m easy.”

“I heard you were close with Hellebore and, considering how powerful she is, I couldn’t help but wonder what was so special about you.”

“Ah. Did you figure it out?”

She smiled cheekily. “Nope. Whatever it is, it’s certainly not a physical attribute.” She followed this with a playful poke into his side that was meant to tickle but instead knocked the wind out of him.

***

The next morning found Isaac with new aches and pains piled atop the aches and pains he had hoped to soothe away. Moira still slept so he slid slowly out of bed to avoid waking her and because he was incapable of moving any faster. If she woke up amorous, he just might not survive.

Much like a hotel, services at the Reliquary never stopped and Isaac took the elevator to the dining floor. The only thing that changed was the staff. The day shift was conventional, really no different than any other hotel when the sun shone. The monsters only came out at night.

He sipped coffee as he waited for his eggs. The waitress instead delivered a folded note.

Isaac,

I hope Moira wasn’t too rough on you. I was planning on meeting with you this morning, but business comes first, and frankly, you annoy me. Working for Arrangement? Really? Every time I think you’re not a halfwit you prove me wrong.

That scumbag movie producer in California has been calling here looking for you. I’m sure he’ll overpay you to do something stupid so you should contact him.

See you down the road, if you live that long.

Hellebore.

He smirked as he refolded the letter. His relationship with the Reliquary owner waxed and waned like the moon—warm and friendly one day and awkwardly contentious the next. When she had founded the Reliquary, she had offered him a job, which he had declined without giving an acceptable reason. They had never discussed it again, but he guessed her feelings had been stung, as she had been querulous towards him since.

A reach for his coffee brought a grunt of pain from a shoulder bruise in the shape of Moira’s hand. The plan of recuperation at the Reliquary had gone south in the most enjoyable manner and he knew additional nights would just be the same. A cross-country drive to do something stupid or easy for money might do the trick instead.