by Stephanie Scissom
Jackson called at 9:57 a.m. Still sulking from last night’s argument, Freya almost didn’t answer.
“Babe!” he gasped. “Something bad’s happened. A plane hit my building. There’s a fire and I might not—I love you, Freya.”
The line went dead. She ran to the television and screamed as she watched the south tower fall.
Why hadn’t she turned him? He’d begged her. Now he was gone.
Her centuries weighed upon her. Devastation. Grief. She was done with this evil world.
If Jackson was burning, she’d burn, too.
Freya stepped into the September sun. Her skin began to smoke.
Stephanie hails from Tennessee, where she works nights in a tire factory and plots murder by day. She’s currently working on an apocalyptic trilogy. You can stalk her at