I know of the leafy paths that the witches take Who come with their crowns of pearl and their spindles of wool, And their secret smile, out of the depths of the lake; I know where a dim moon drifts, where the Danaan kind Wind and unwind their dances when the light grows cool On the island lawns, their feet where the pale foam gleams.
Lithium pressed his back against the metal pole supporting the noodle cart’s canopy and slowly slid down to sit on the ground. It was early, way too early for most, but sleeping hadn’t been easy since the Big Fight. He slipped his phone from a vest pocket and stared at the black screen for several moments before swiping it active with his thumb. ‘Do I send this?’ the Sekhmeti vampire asked himself. He had recorded himself playing a folk song on his oud with the intent of sending it to Nyxander, but the Brit was wary of making things worse with the Spartan. It was perhaps five minutes of staring at the attached audio file before Lithium clicked his pierced tongue against the back of his teeth and said, “Fuck it.” He clicked send and pocketed the phone again.