Bride of Death (Marla Mason) by T.A. Pratt

flanked by a couple of benches, and the remains of one of those squarish folding canopies you see at farmer’s markets and outdoor weddings, one of its four supports bent and the whole structure leaning.
    “Huh,” Nicolette said. “Something bad happened out here.”
    “Well, duh. We’re in a monster’s pantry.”
    “No, I mean, right here – screaming, suffering. Not just once, and not quickly, something drawn-out... Shit, it’s pretty overpowering, it’s all a mishmash, I can’t get anything specific out of the general mess.”
    “Hmm.” I put Nicolette’s cage down on the patio table, then walked around the grills and chairs, and toward the picnic table.
    The wood was red, but there were splotches of darker color, deep stains, reddish-brown and crusty. I’ve seen enough old blood in my time to recognize it instantly. The table had holes drilled in it, too, each about the diameter of a quarter: a pair of holes spaced six inches apart in the middle plank at one end of the table, and at the other end, two sets, one close to the table’s left edge, one close to the right. I crouched down to look under the table, where the dirt was stained with various leakages, and saw three of those u-shaped bicycle locks tucked under one of the benches, all with keys sticking out of their holes.
    The underside of the table was carved with designs. I didn’t recognize them, specifically, but I recognized them generally: magical runes and sigils. Messages – or, more likely, commands, or possibly pleadings – written in an inhuman language.
    “Oh, fuck,” I said, but didn’t have time to elaborate on my revelation, because that’s when Andrew buried the blade of an axe right between my shoulder blades.
    Then he wrenched it out, and as I fell, he brought the axe blade down on the back of my skull.

NO PICNIC
    I can’t say it didn’t hurt . I’d never had an axe in the head before, obviously, and I don’t recommend the experience. I’m not sure what parts of my brain it chopped up – I’m not a neurosurgeon, in case you hadn’t noticed – but I can tell you I saw bright colors, tasted hot metal and chili peppers, smelled rubbing alcohol, and puked a bit.
    Fortunately he wrenched the axe out, which saved me the trouble of trying to lever an axe out of my own skull. As soon as the blade left my brain, my devastated tissues began to heal.
    That’s how I found out that not dying when you’re supposed to is one of the perks of being the Bride of Death. According to our deal I was supposed to spend half the year alive on Earth, and that meant I had to stay alive, and apparently my DH had chosen to just... cancel dying, in my case. As far as solutions go, it’s pretty elegant. Technically I was in my mortal body, I was flesh and blood and bone and lymph and so on... but just as death was withdrawn from Nicolette, it was also withdrawn from me.
    So the axe-blow knocked me down, but not out. Still hurt like a bastard, though. Then again, pain is a great motivator.
    I stared at my puddle of puke for a minute, my head resting against the edge of the table, letting Andrew assume I was dead. Nicolette, obligingly, started yelling from beneath her cover: “What the fuck was that? Who’s puking? What’s going on?”
    Hearing a human voice emerge from a birdcage distracted Andrew – a parrot would have probably been just as effective – so I rolled to one side, drew my dagger from my pocket, and slashed out at his Achilles tendon. He dropped the bloody axe and fell over, screaming and clutching his ankle. I kicked the red-bladed fire axe aside – not very far, since I was still a little wobbly as my skull knit itself back together – and stood over Andrew.
    He stared at me, whimpering. “I killed you!”
    “You’ve got lousy aim,” I said. Nicolette didn’t know I was married to Death, and I didn’t especially want her to know I was immune to axe-in-head syndrome either. She was my ally now, but she was also my