All That Glows

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The sickness hits even before I reach the outskirts of London. A slow-burning nausea descends on my gut and claws through the intestines of my human form. I kneel by the side of the road and wrap my arms around my stomach. The first wave is always the worst. It will pass. It always does.

A light breeze hits my face as the cars whip past in filed lines, like single-minded ants. None of them will stop, I know, because none of them know I’m here. None of them notice the young redheaded woman crouched on the edge of the asphalt. With the remains of an hours-old veiling spell, the mortals’ attention slips right off, like beads of water on fish scales.

Minutes pass and the agony of my nausea ebbs back into a dull ache. I straighten and continue down the road into London.

London. The city is different every time I step foot in it. Always, it is growing. More glass, more steel, more subways, more souls. Bricks stacking on bricks to house an empire of electric cables and grinding gears. My magic is weaker here. Some spells I can’t even form. It’s the same for all of us. Even the ill-willed spirits can’t draw upon their full powers in the metropolis. The oldest among us aren’t even able come close to the city; its machines and electricity unravel their stiff spirits.

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