For The Things We Never Said
by Cassandra Khaw
She fits the god's heart, blood dripping gold onto shaking fingers, into the compartment she'd sawed into her golem. It spasms and then slackens, turgid ventricles relaxing into stillness. Her breath catches against the roof of her mouth, pinned in place by a dry, chewed-on tongue.
This needed to work. She was running out of gods, out of options, out of second chances.
To her relief, the organ convulses again. Once, twice. Uneven palpitations that eventually discover a kind of rhythm, not quite right, but not quite wrong. A full minute passes before she consents to shutting the door, stitching skin over bone with careful, deft strokes. She steps back.