THERE are white feathers littered everywhere in Key West. I think first, angels—they've arrived. About fucking time. This operation has been deepening for years—demons rooting themselves in the Keys' narrow streets. And the angels have realized, and stepped in, because those heavenly tools always try to destroy anything fun.

But then I see that it's the semi-annual Cock Convention (the chicken kind), and my heart calms; my blood simmers and cools.

When I kayak in No Name Key, surrounded by spindly mangroves and thick-winged flies and a calm, warm, blue sea, I see something in the sky. A blip of light, like a shooting star, in daylight.

The air turns cold. The waves, wild.

I swear I see the slow churn of a hurricane in the distance, the vortex opening up in my mind's eye.

But then I blink and I'm still kayaking, watching my reflection in the water, black eyes staring back.

Something is wrong. I feel it, know it, but brush it off.

Not my fucking problem.

***

The following week:

Monday—quiet. I work until my body's sore. Sheets are tucked in so tight I can bounce a coin off the edge. Pillows are fluffed, furniture properly angled, carpet freshened, floor soaped and vacuumed, walls dusted, wards reset, treats—bloodied chocolate-cherry cordials—left behind. I work alone, but sometimes I see people; coworkers, customers, who are pleasant. But I see nobody. I feel like I've been side-cast in the shadows, working in the vestiges of people's lives; cleaning up their messes, watching from long after. Someday soon, I'll get on the main stage. Then I'll sing.

Tuesday—long. Boss orders me to work at a banquet; some vow renewal of two demons who are cheating on their respective spouses (I've seen their rooms). I get home past midnight and cry, and play sad music, and dig a hole into some triple chocolate ice cream.

Wednesday—messy. I walk into a hellfire-lit orgy—damn customers didn't put a 'do not disturb' sign up. I spill soap on the carpet in the main room and take an extra hour scrubbing it out. When my coworker, Elia, asks if I need a hand, I snap at her and spit fire—literally—before profusely apologizing. She gets spooked and runs off. The carpet is singed.

Thursday—bloodlust burns on my tongue, but I swallow it. Instead, I fill my mouth with apologies, and say them to my boss, to Elia, to Satan. "You're slipping, girl," my other coworker, Muscle, a true, bulging muscleman, buzzed hair and perpetual thin, low-cut shirts, tells me. His horns are thick and straight like a bull's; he always keeps them shown. He doesn't talk much, but he's got a surprisingly gentle voice. "Don't lose hold on the crown of thorns of yours. Remember who you are, Unicorn." I nod to him, forcing an awkward smile.

Friday—blurry. Post-work, I go to a local bar called Purple and a handsome, suntanned man buys me a drink and creeps closer and offers me the second, third, one. I accept because I'm lonely and tired and I want to feel nothing. I get blurry when drunk. I'm a lightweight for someone with demon blood. We dance to Jimmy Buffet, I giggle at his songs' cheesy lyrics. Cheeseburger in paradise? That the best he can come up with? The man, near-faceless from my blur, says it's a masterpiece. It's stupid, and it's so Floridian, and he loves it here—he's moved in from the Elysian Plains, Hell. I stiffen. The lights flicker. Heat rushes to in my palms. Rage, dulled by the poison, the alcohol. He laughs into my ear, too loudly, and his grip tightens. I thought he was human, and he wasn't, and—

I break away from him. He pulls me back with his smirk, his lingering touch, his sleek voice. Luxuria demons—lust demons. Incubi, succubi—they're sexy, so of course they have their own names. Humans' favorite. I glare at him, yell; he backs off, hands raised. A woman—gentle hands, soft smile, human; so human—she watches me. Asks if I need a ride home. I explain that I need a taxi, rideshare, whatever; she nods, helps, and I get a driver and get home and fall into bed, asleep—

Saturday is overcast, and it feels that way. Blue. I feel sick and stare over my crowded, small condo, look up at the mold-spots on the popcorn ceiling, and wish that I have a roommate, because then maybe they could get my car for me because we'd be, I dunno, friends or some shit.

Because I don't have a roommate, or a friend, I get my car. I walk on the side-roads, hot and sweltering. I'm too human; I sweat. Full demons don't sweat. I hate them for that. I hate them for too many reasons.

My smartwatch beeps—my heartbeat's too fast. I calm myself, stare ahead. The Middle Keys have become overridden with fast food stores, "Bahamian" clothes stores, and abandoned buildings. My cheap condo's nestled in a discarded lot full of rusted, sand-stripped buildings. I anchor myself, walk to the beach, wait until it's empty, until the moon is high and the wind is cool, and I wade in and rage in the ocean. I feel myself ripple and twist and become a monster, serpentine, and I scream. I scream until my lungs are sore, and my rage makes me see things—see men falling from the sky; see blood seeping through grout, across carpets, along fabric seams, along skin. Feathers fall from the sky, burst from my skin, rise from the sand. I claw at them, see my hands as talons, skin as scales, body long and ropey and chimeric and I scream, bubble, writhe.

Maybe I should get a gym membership instead, and let out some steam there, I think.

No. Roaring into the sea is more fun.

Sunday—I get coffee and see a man who makes my heart hitch. His eyes are bluer and more crystalline than the ocean on a clear day. He is in the back of my favorite Cuban café, eating an empanada and some drink—likely coffee—and is reading the newspaper. He's youngish—my age. He reads. My heart flutters a little. Something shudders within me, makes me watch him, stare, like a drunken, lovesick idiot. He likes picadillo empanadas; I see the browned meat on the edge of his plate. They're one of my favorites, too.

He looks up from the paper, meeting my stare. His thick, flat, flaxen brows press together. His jaw tightens.

Shit—I've been spotted.

I turn away, reading the chalk menu, pretending to consider a different breakfast than usual. But I order the same thing as always—black coffee and an empanada. I look at where the man with the shoreline eyes was sitting. He's gone.

In his place are three white, curled feathers.