Fiction
Love Bites After Dark
9
The fog came in every night, and every morning Mara Voss walked the inn's perimeter to see what it had left behind. Not literal fog — though there was that too, thick off the harbour and smelling of brine and something colder, the particular cold of water over old stone. This was the other kind. The kind she'd grown up calling the drift: the slow push of gathered dead against the inn's outer wards as morning came on and the living world began its noise, and the dead pressed close to hear it.