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Byron awoke in the calm darkness. Beyond the tall windows of the far walls, the forest was still heavy with moonlit shadow. Only the tops of the trees and the curvaceous edges of their frond were visible in silhouette against the dark navy blue of the dimly lit sky.

Byron lay in bed and considered the vivid dream he’d just had – so vivid it almost felt like a memory rather than a dream – though not his memory in that case. A warmth spread out from his belly across his body and for a moment Byron felt Nan was close by, perhaps waiting in the other room.

As nice as that notion was, it was not what got Byron up out of bed and walking down the long glass windowed hallway toward the kitchen. He’d spent the last day channeling God-like universal energies and gone to bed without eating in a fit of despair – his real motivation was the ferocious rumbling of his hungry stomach.

The house lit the floor and ceiling with inoffensive warm light as he made his way through the hallway. Passing through towards the kitchen, Byron was unable to peel his eyes away from the black palm forest just beyond the glass. Here and there Byron saw the telltale flashes of beady mammalian eyes peering out from the darkness.

Drawing near to the kitchen the air became heavy with the rich aromas of browned cheese and toasted dough and the bubbling hot sear of pepperoni. A slightly brighter light shone from under the door to the kitchen and Byron eyed it with a guilty frown. With a small push, the unnaturally fluid door swung open on its invisible hinges. Byron caught sight of Tilda’s small hand appearing from behind the tall back of the recliner, picking up a tumbler full of brown liquid on the side table, and then disappearing back behind the piece of furniture upon which she sat.

Byron sighed to himself. He’d hoped Tilda would be asleep. Resigned and anxious Byron stepped into the kitchen and toward the island where a half-eaten pizza rested steaming on a circular pizza stone.

“Help yourself,” came Tilda’s voice from behind the back of the recliner, “there’s a second one in the oven,” a pause as her small hand returned the slightly emptier tumbler to the side table, “Hawaiian.”

Byron retrieved a plate in awkward silence and loaded it up with a slice. He had to lift the slice high to break several thin strands of stretching cheese. Using his pointer finger he rolled the strands back onto the slice’s surface and walked over to take a seat on the couch.

Tilda looked more than tired. Her eyelids drooped and the broad, round features of her face were flushed and red. She had a plate in her lap with a half-eaten slice of pizza on it and her lazy gaze was fixed on the Cantos which, to Byron’s eye, glowed bright gold on the coffee table between them.

In the silence, Byron took a bite of the tip of his slice of pizza and tried to savor the taste even as his feet bobbed with uncomfortable energy. Finally, Tilda looked up and gave Byron a tight lipped smirk.

“Not bad,” she said.

Byron stopped mid-bite, lowering the slice to his plate at the sound of her voice. “Huh?”

Tilda pointed at his plate, “the pizza. It isn’t bad.”

“Oh,” Byron looked down at the pizza, “no, it’s good,” he said and took another bite.

“Hm,” Tilda hummed to herself with finality, as though they’d just had a long and fruitful talk, and looked back at the Cantos with a heavy gaze.

Byron swallowed, sat in silence for another long minute, and cleared his throat pointedly.

“Tilda, I’m sorry,” he began, “I didn’t mean -“

Tilda raised her right hand and swiped at the air as if she were swatting at a small fly. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, not looking up from the Cantos, “hell, you didn’t even say anything.”

Byron shook his head, “no, that doesn’t matter. I thought it, and it was wrong and mean and I’m sorry.”

Something about what Byron said drew Tilda’s attention and she looked at him with a mixture of sternness and surprise. “Byron, of course it matters.” Her hand rose lazily in the air and she pointed in a vague way over her shoulder, “you – you remember that guy, a couple of weeks ago?”

Byron thinned his eyes, “who?”

“When we first met,” Tilda said, “the one Roc was kind enough to scare out of the store?”

Byron recalled their first meeting in the variety store and the college student who’d made fun of Tilda. “Yeah,” he said, uncertain, “What about him?”

Tilda took a large, sloppy bite of her pizza and talked through her chewing. “He was an asshole Byron. You think he gave what he said a second thought?” Tilda shook her head and swallowed her pizza before blurting out, “Hell no,” a little too loudly.

“Byron,” she continued,”you live long enough and you begin to realize the only thing that matters is action – the things people say, the things people do.” Tilda reached down for her drink and finished it with one large swig. Her eyes widened in the immediate aftermath and she continued with more energy. “Take all the negative thoughts people have, and all their good intentions, and you know what you get?”

Tilda blurted out the answer before Byron had a moment to consider the question.

“Nothing! You get nothing Byron. Zilch! Nada!” Tilda slammed her glass down on the side table and shook her head. When she spoke again it was more to herself than to Byron, and it was clear she was speaking from inside a dark well of experience.

“I know the assholes, the mean ones and the broken ones, almost immediately. You how I know? I’ll let you in on a secret – it isn’t their silent unspoken biases. It isn’t their quiet self-doubt or their fear of being inconsiderate. It’s the mean, unfeeling shit they say when they see my face. It’s the way they roll their eyes and look for a ‘normal’ person to ring up their soda or make a new pot of coffee as if I couldn’t possibly be capable of more than smiling and waving hello and goodbye.”

Tilda’s eyes burned fierce and angry and she began to glow with bright white light.

“People like that can’t hide the way they are. They don’t even try. To them, no one really exists outside of themselves. The world is just full of objects – other people are just objects -objects that either make their lives easier or harder.”

Byron watched, fear percolating in his chest as Tilda squeezed her right hand shut and the glass tumbler disappeared, collapsing in on itself with a small, bright flash. Byron blinked and swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat as the glow faded from Tilda and she went on.

“It’s what people do that matters Byron. That’s all that matters. Your quality as a person, who you are, what you stand for, even how you think, is all defined by what you actually do.” Tilda rested her head back on the soft cushion of the recliner. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You stopped yourself from doing something wrong, despite getting yet another piece of terrible news. All things considered, I should probably be apologizing to you, not the other way around.”

A silence passed between the two of them filled only with the sound of their breathing. After a little while Byron spoke again.

“I’m – I’m sorry anyway,” he said.

Tilda looked up, locked eyes with him and burst into laughter. “You didn’t listen to a damn thing I just said, huh?”

Byron rubbed the back of his neck, “I got a little distracted once you made the glass disappear.”

Tilda looked down at the empty spot on the side table, hummed lightly to herself, and then looked up with a smile. “Well, I’ll accept your apology if you’ll accept mine, how about that?”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Byron said, “Without you Tilda, I’d be dead already.”

Tilda snorted derisively, “without me you’d be here with Marie right now being trained by someone who knew what the hell they were doing.”

Byron raised his voice earnestly, “Tilda, I can shoot lightning bolts out of my hands. Lightning bolts! Three weeks ago I nearly drowned myself, twice, and almost fell to my death dozens of times trying to use the Cantos. Yesterday I shot flames a quarter mile out of my fingertips and cut a floating palm tree in half.” Byron took an eager bite of his pizza, finding an unexpected burst of confidence in recounting his progress out-loud. “I’d say you’re doing a pretty good job.”

Tilda smiled in spite of herself. “I guess,” she said, her smile quickly darkening, “but it isn’t enough Byron. The Unmaker is stronger than you can imagine. Lightning bolts and flame throwers aren’t going to cut it.”

Frustrated, Byron leaned forward and picked up the Cantos. He began flipping through its pages, struggling to make out the headings. “Well, there must be something in here we can use against him.”

“The Cantos is only a starting point Byron,” Tilda frowned, “I don’t know how to defeat the Unmaker, to really defeat It, but it would require mastery of the techniques in that book.” She paused and said with awe, “Mastery of the universe itself.”

Byron looked up, “fine, but I don’t need to defeat It completely, right? I just need to destroy Its physical form and buy some time.” Byron turned the page and looked at the five syllable heading at the top of the page. “What we need,” he said, sounding out the written words in his head, “is something that catches It off guard.”

The heading read simply “Density/Volume.”

Byron’s eyes widened as an idea came to him. “Something unexpected.”

Tilda leaned forward and looked at the page Byron had open. From her perspective it would just be another one of Nan’s recipes.

But Byron saw the glowing letters of providence. Folding over the corner of the page, Byron shut the Cantos and hoovered the remainder of his pizza slice. Before Tilda could say a word, mouth still full, Byron was racing toward the kitchen with the Cantos under one arm. With his free hand, Byron opened the refrigerator and took out a bowl of apples.

Tilda got up on her knees and watched Byron, her head poking up over the top of the chair back.

“Did I miss something?” she asked, nonplussed.

Arms full, Byron shot her an excited look.

“I think I’ve got an idea,” he said.

Then he raced out the front door and onto the moonlit sands.

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THE DEMON’S CANTOS	INCIDENTAL SUPERHERO
BENEATH	THE HUMANITY SAGA
THE TRAVELER	I, LYCANTHROPE

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