Story art by Rhiannon R-S.
From the author: An immortal alchemist obsessed with Wuthering Heights struggles with loving the un-dead.
Greyson set the pliers down and leaned heavily against the table to stand. Every move brought a stiff jolt of pain into his ossified joints. He had to cut and squeeze to extract blood from his desiccating body, to get even a fingertip's worth of that rust. Not good, no good at all. Only the dead don't bleed. He had lived longer than most, true, as stones do, but he had no desire to flicker out after a mayfly's lifespan. Short and worthless, like the rest of humanity.
He ran his fingers along...