Leira stalked out of the sultry night and into the workshop. The machinist, wielding a blowtorch and wearing a welding mask and heavy gloves, appeared monstrous behind a spray of amber sparks. Noticing her, he extinguished the flame and lifted his visor.

“Ma’am, may I help you?”

“Perhaps. I broke down a block or two back.” A lie, of course, but lies were her native tongue. Her smile brought a furrow to the man’s brow. Leira knew the evil glint in her eye was disconcerting to humans and batted her lashes to cover it. Predictably, his shoulders eased and he removed the visor and gloves.

As she sauntered across the shop, his lips parted, but she was on him before he could speak. Her mouth covered his, and her hand sought his heartbeat, nails extending into his chest. He gasped against her lips, and she breathed in his terror. With it came the pungent smell of hot solder, reminding her of sulfur and brimstone and home.

Gazing into his steely eyes, she found sparks reflected deep inside. Her claws retracted. Laying her palm flat against the seeping wounds, she felt the machine precision of his pounding heart. She decided to let this one live, for now.

By dawn she was gone and the man forgotten until her belly swelled and a foreign heartbeat hammered within her. “Interesting,” she mused. Months passed before she paid the man a second visit and left a newborn wailing at the door to his shop.

Photo by Zakir Rushanly