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Elizabeth Bear
Elizabeth Bear

Elizabeth Bear is an accomplished American science fiction and fantasy author, born on September 22, 1971. Her works are known for their unique narrative style and profound humanistic concerns, earning her a dedicated fan base. more

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“Her dad’s coming,” she said, voice shrill. “What?” we all said in unison. Tristan, Ayden and the fairy looked at me and said, “What?” “What?” I repeated, panicked and irritated at my lack of control in responding to a fairy I wasn’t supposed to see or hear. “What?” came their reply. “What?” I continued the theme of repetition because I lacked any form of explanation. Ayden held up a hand for silence. “Why are you ‘whatting’?” “What?” The hand again. “Okay, stop that,” Ayden said.”

“She dug through the clothes packed in the trunk until she found the blue halter top and black jeans she had been wearing the night Veto died. She wasn't sure why she had saved them, but she was glad she had, now. She was going to wear them tonight in honor of Veto. She carried them back to her room, stood in front of the mirror over her dresser, and slipped on the gold earrings that had been a gift from Veto. Then she started to dress. She rubbed glitter lotion over her arms and painted black lines on her eyelids. She rolled on her mascara, then stood back.”

“She wished Jimena were here. Normally, they were inseparable, but this evening Jimena had to do community service at Children's Hospital. She worked with children undergoing rehabilitation for gunshot wounds. She read to them, played checkers, and showed them how to macramé. Jimena had been in a gangland sentenced twice to a Youth Authority Camp for jacking cars. She would be there now, if a lenient judge hadn't sentenced her to do commission service work instead. Jimena had been one badass homegirl before she understood her destiny.”

“Jimena sensed their fear. That brought a smile to her face. Her reputation was still so big that even tough enimigas wouldn't face her down. She strutted past them, her heels snapping loudly on the sidewalk. She enjoyed the feel of their admiring eyes, their sideways glances and the wonder she saw on their faces. Jimena wasn't choloed out in khakis, a tight T, and long, boyfriend-borrowed Pendletons. She wore a slinky dress and ankle-breaking high-heels. The rain made the dress cling to her body, so they knew she wasn't strapping. No gun. Still, they were afraid to confront her. This time she stopped for the red light, pausing to let the chicas know she didn't fear them. It felt good to be the toughest chola en el condado de Los Angeles. She was still down for Ninth Street, her old gang, but at age fifteen, already a veterana. A leyenda, her homegirls told her with pride. Jimena had been a real badass before she understood her destiny. She glanced at the scars and tattoos on her hand. What would the klika-girls do if they knew her true identity?”

“And how do you plan on appeasing the spirits of the dead if you do go the land of the dead?" Jimena looked at her strangely. Was she serious? "What do you mean?" "You're going to their house. What do you have to offer them so they will let you leave?" Jimena thought a long moment. What could the dead possibly want from her? And then she remembered her grandmother's oraciones for her grandfather. "My prayers." "Prayers?" Jimena could sense the woman's disappointment. "I remember a time when a blood sacrifice was made. People slaughtered the pride of their herds." "I don't have any cattle or sheep," Jimena offered. "I live in the city." The woman snorted. "No one really believes in the mythical world anymore. Once people poured libations for the dead." "Libations?" "Milk and honey, mellow wine, and water sprinkled with glistening barley. Prayers? Well, I guess that is a modern equivalent. I suppose prayers will have to do.”