《Fireside》 Chapter 1: The Reeve of South London ¡°The Court tells you that we are all monsters. Creatures of the night, built from the corpses of men, doomed to feast upon our brethren. ¡®You can¡¯t deny your nature,¡¯ they shout. ¡®You can¡¯t deny the curse.¡¯ But we know the truth. We know it every time we feel fear, and joy, and pain. When a smile crosses our face, or a tragedy makes us sob, we become alive. And in living, we are not bound to any magic, any nature, any Keeper. Remember this, the first law of the Unbound: We are always human.¡± ¡®Letters from the First Revolt.¡¯ 14th Century, Author Unknown +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ August, 2004 Aiming her gun is easy when she never takes a breath. At this hour, London was damp, and misty, and quiet. Club music thundered down the road, and light beamed from the steel tower across the river, but here, on this street? Silence. Rubbish twirling like tumbleweeds. Neon signs flickering on and off. The place was almost devoid of life. A little bit like her. Rain starts to fall. Wetting her bright red hair. Steaming on the sign of the sushi restaurant she scans. Ricocheting with little rhythms on the barrel of her L42A1 sniper. She keeps recalling little facts about it, to keep herself calm. Bolt-action. Three feet long. Adjustable sights. Twelve and a half pounds. Every 7.62 millimetre cartridge is capable of travelling half a mile in a single second. The gun will keep her safe. The gun will keep her living. Her magazine¡¯s got ten rounds. Harriet Eddards fixes her trenchcoat, and pulls night-vision goggles over her eyes. The sky starts blinking green. She lifts her hand to her earpiece, searching through the static. Blips of a different world shine through, like ships on the sea. Sandra Bullock and Tony Blair. Olympic medals and polar bears in jungles. Songs about places she¡¯s never seen or feelings she¡¯s long forgotten. It¡¯s the world of daylight. ¡°- weapons of mass-¡° ¡°- This War against Terror-¡° A world not for her. The longer she listens, the louder new sounds emerge. Chimes rustling in the wind. Wood creaking beneath her feet. Buzzing that drowns out the rain. It¡¯s not a part of reality, she knows, but it feels more than it. Soon her vision fogs, too. Amber fields, rolling against themselves. White clouds hovering over a calm, happy day. ¡°- Losing my head-¡° ¡°- third election-¡° Windchimes and white clouds. ¡°- Shia militants -¡± ¡°- spinning round ¨C¡° Windchimes and white- ¡°Fireside.¡± Harriet exhales. Light and sound slowly settle back in. She taps her earpiece, remembering their codenames. ¡°Blackbird.¡± ¡°Is the mission still on? You left your weapon in the drop spot.¡± The voice on the other end is poised and formal, in a way voices these days aren¡¯t. ¡°Took a lot of effort to get that, you know. My contacts in Najaf-¡± ¡°- the gun¡¯s a waste a¡¯ time.¡± Harriet interrupts, hearing the drawl in her accent. ¡°New stuff¡¯s got too many screens an¡¯ cushions an¡¯ gizmos, it jes¡¯ leaves me confused.¡± ¡°Those screens are wind calculators, Fireside.¡± ¡°I do the maths in my head.¡± ¡°And if that¡¯s not good enough? I know you''re ¡®old-fashioned,¡¯ but we¡¯re bagging a Reeve here. We can¡¯t leave things to-¡± ¡°Janet.¡± Harriet breaks decorum. ¡°I ain¡¯t gonna miss.¡± The other end goes quiet. Lets Harriet hear the rain. ¡°¡­ You¡¯re on the hotel roof?¡± She looks at the Courtyard sign. ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°And you weren¡¯t seen?¡± Harriet scowls into her mouthpiece. The silence answers. ¡°He¡¯ll leave at midnight. That¡¯s your best window. And be careful.¡± Janet hisses. ¡°Germaine FitzGerald might be an oafish boor, but you don¡¯t become the Court¡¯s enforcer without knowing how to fight.¡± ¡°Didn¡¯t think ya cared.¡± ¡°I need you for other kills.¡± Harriet rolls her eyes. ¡°Well, I¡¯m not some sobbin¡¯, traumatised, runaway Kept, so I imagine I¡¯m tougher than anythin¡¯ FitzGerald¡¯s handled this century. ¡®Less ya count¡­ hoistin¡¯ bags of bribes.¡± ¡°You sound annoyed.¡± ¡°I¡¯m jes¡¯ confused,¡± Harriet frowns. ¡°Why we killin¡¯ him, Blackbird? The others won¡¯t support this. Keaton declared him out of bounds.¡± ¡°Aubrey Keaton doesn¡¯t lead the Unbound anymore. Nobody does.¡± Janet speaks through grit teeth. ¡°And if he won¡¯t wage this war, I will. Tens of thousands look to us. Our freedom¡¯s on the line. It¡¯s hardly the time to play¡­ footsie with our former masters!¡± ¡°Keaton only plays footsie ¡®cause FitzGerald¡¯s a fuckin¡¯ sham.¡± Harriet replies. ¡°We hand ¡®im stacks, we don¡¯t get loud, an¡¯ he lets the Unbound own this side fer what? A century? What other Reeve¡¯s gonna let us rebuild?¡± ¡°He¡¯s a slaver. He¡¯s a rapist. He hunts mortals for sport, and he vomited on my shoes once in 1824. He needs to die.¡± ¡°An¡¯ if his death brings a Court army ¡®cross the river?¡± ¡°It makes killing them that much easier.¡± Harriet sighs. ¡°Fireside,¡± Janet interrupts. ¡°Do you remember the Revolt? Do you remember what he did?¡± Harriet tightens her grip on the gun. Sounds filter through her eardrums: blazing fires, stomping hooves, human screams. She remembers the bodies, impaled and charred and torn to shreds. And the others, dragged back to the Court, to the City, to their former Keepers. ¡°When you think of our murdered brothers, do you want to hand him a single cent? After all he¡¯s done, you¡¯d grovel at the man¡¯s feet?¡± Harriet raises her goggles to inspect her skin. Soft, and freckled. Little rivulets of light, travelling in what were once her veins. Aether. Magic within the blood, shielding flesh that should be dust and moving muscles that should be stone. Preserving her, just like this, until the very end of time. Normally, aether is dormant, quiet beneath corpse-like skin. But not tonight, not now. Now it blazes with a heat that warms the gun in her hands. A heat that¡¯s almost human. She doesn¡¯t know what to exactly call this emotion. It¡¯s not quite vengeance. Not quite rage. But Harriet knows that if she shoots him, she¡¯ll feel something. And that¡¯s enough reason to put a bullet in his head. Suddenly, sound. Clinking keys and creaking steel. Harriet turns around, staring into dull brown eyes. It¡¯s a boy, Asian, with doughy features below a mat of short, black hair. He wears a bellhop¡¯s uniform, the name ¡®Ismail¡¯ on the tag. He came up here to enjoy a cigarette. It tumbles, still lit, by his shoes. His vision focuses on Harriet, then the rifle, then her Harriet again. She¡¯s suddenly aware of her dress: the long beige coat, the combat boots, the elbow and knee-pads. They¡¯ll conjure only one word in that boy¡¯s mind. The word they¡¯re always hearing on the news. He launches for the door, but Harriet moves faster, pouncing with all her weight. They slam into the ground, and still, he struggles. Punching and kicking and clawing her sides. But even though she¡¯s half his size, she effortlessly stays on top. Pulls the uniform¡¯s collar back. Pins his arms down. She hears his gasp as her mouth opens, canines slowly growing into fangs. She bites him quickly. Before he can scream. And then¡­ ¡­ Release. That¡¯s the best way to describe feeding, for both of them. There¡¯s a little sting, like a needle, when her teeth pierce the skin. But after, when blood flows, everything tastes sweet. She watches the terror leave the boy¡¯s face, his muscles grow slack, hears a little moan of pleasure from his paling lips. Her skin glows through the whole process, his blood transforming within her. Strengthening her. Eventually, his eyes roll into the back of his head. If she latches off now, he¡¯ll enter a deep, deep sleep. But a part of her doesn¡¯t want to. A part of her wants to take and take until he¡¯s drained whole. The Wilds inside her demands that she feed. But Harriet sets the boy down. Stands up. Watches aether seal the wounds of her bite. She¡¯s used to pushing the voice back. Even if every decade makes its whisper a little louder. Harriet leaves him in a corner, tapping her earpiece. ¡°Blackbird, sorry. Had a surprise guest, but he¡¯s been dealt with. Any chance ya can get me on them sushi spot¡¯s-¡± Her breath hitches when she turns around. Silently, studiously, an obscenely large raven straddles the barrel of her rifle. Harriet has no idea how it got here so quietly, but it doesn¡¯t stop to peck, or claw, or preen. Just watches her with beady black eyes, furrowed in warning. In the distance, Harriet hears sirens. Her stomach flips. ¡°Oh, fuck.¡± ¡°Fireside?¡± Janet¡¯s voice rises as Harriet rushes towards her backpack. The raven soars away. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± ¡°Ashlin¡¯s here. Court¡¯s comin¡¯. They musta figured us out!¡± Harriet unzips the pack, pawing through a pile of pistols until she finds her pair of binoculars. ¡°What? No!¡± On the radio, there¡¯s a manic flurry of keystrokes. ¡°I encrypted every source, took every precaution.¡± ¡°They¡¯re closin¡¯ the roads right fuckin¡¯ now!¡± Harriet pries off her goggles and peers through the binoculars. There¡¯s already a convoy streaming down the bridge. Ten Renaults, all in Met regalia, black against the night. The largest is an open-faced truck, sporting a banner that flaps in the wind. A black sun on a field of gold. Its rays move like tendrils, writhing and living. The New Sun. The Court¡¯s Queen. And standing beneath her sigil, with arms as thick as streetlights¡­ ¡°Blackbird,¡± Harriet whimpers. ¡°They brought Cappie.¡± Marcus Kiley, South London¡¯s Deputy and Kept to the Reeve, is a tower of a man. He wears a thick beard, suspenders, and a shirt that can barely keep in his massive chest. Holsters litter his body, as unkempt as the custodian¡¯s cap on his brow. He squeezes the Renault so tightly, she can see the metal bend. Harriet ducks down as tires screech loudly against the cobblestones, followed by the clatter of dozens of heavy boots. She pulls the rifle¡¯s cold steel to her cheek, peeking out for a headcount. One, four, six¡­ ten. Cappie steps down last, burning so much aether that his body glows. Even from five stories above, Harriet can hear his knuckles crack. ¡°Owen, Baker, secure a perimeter!¡± He barks in his thick Cockney. They follow without question as he withdraws a handgun. ¡°Lyle, your team¡¯s checkin¡¯ homes. Nobody leaves! They ask, we¡¯s huntin¡¯ terrorists. Francine, Percy, you¡¯re wiff me. Everyone go, go! AND KEEP YOUR EYE FAHKIN¡¯ PEELED!¡± She watches the Deputy stride into the restaurant, clicking her earpiece to life. ¡°Blackbird?¡± ¡°-stupid, stupid. I KNEW that Najaf sale was too easy. Urgh, and if he followed my bills-¡± ¡°Janet!¡± Harriet can barely keep her whisper. ¡°Cappie¡¯s headin¡¯ inta the shop, ya gotta hack me in!¡± ¡°H-hack?¡± Blackbird pauses. ¡°Hack what?¡± ¡°Their cameras! Their systems! I dunno, you¡¯ve got the tech!¡± ¡°Th-that¡¯s not¡­ we don¡¯t live in the bloody Matrix! I can¡¯t just thrash my fingers around a keyboard until I magically-¡° ¡°Jes¡¯ get me fuckin¡¯ in!¡± A moment¡¯s silence, followed by the distant sounds of clicks and typing. ¡°Somebody set their password to ¡®password.¡¯ I¡¯ll play you the feed.¡± More static vibrates her eardrums, as Harriet slips out of position. She leans the bellhop on the door and shoves a pistol against the handle. It¡¯ll stall for time. Then she¡¯s back on the ground, rifle in hand. Studying the figures she can make out through the tinted glass. From her earpiece, a flicker. Cappie¡¯s lighting a cigar. She doesn¡¯t need to see him to know the habit. After all, they once called each other friends. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Blood drips from kanji-filled signs. Splatters onto the cute, smiling mascot that invites them to come again. At the sight of it all, the human behind Deputy Kiley heaves out his lunch. It¡¯s hardly surprising. These soldiers were Oathsworn, weak, tools and toadies all. Before, an odd few might have been plucked from London for their usefulness, but most were just fools, whoring their souls for a sliver of vampiric power. Now, they¡¯re nothing but what the Keeping allows them. Minds of melted clay, to be shaped by Keepers like him. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Germaine FitzGerald, the Reeve of South London, leans over the table, his six-inch fangs deep in a woman¡¯s neck. She¡¯s still wearing her sushi chef¡¯s uniform, the hat pulled over her eyes, the white apron stained a deep red. It¡¯s a grisly sight, but at least she¡¯s recognisable. The same can¡¯t be said for the¡­ stains by the counter. They were something, once. Now, just a slab of meat. Kiley watches with mild interest. Court laws don¡¯t like these kinda massacres. If it were a normal Nocturni, he¡¯d already be taking heads. But it¡¯s Reeve FitzGerald, so even if Kiley wanted to lift a finger¡­ he can¡¯t. The Reeve finally notices him. Rising to his feet, betraying a barrel-chested body in decades-old fashion. His gilded eyes follow the Deputy¡¯s movements. ¡°I warned them they shouldn¡¯t refuse me sushi.¡± He spits out a clump of skin. ¡°Sorry for the mess.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll call a cleaning crew later,¡± Kiley lights his cigar. ¡°But right now-¡± ¡°Silence.¡± Kiley¡¯s lips immediately slam shut. Aether flashes in Fitzgerald¡¯s eyes. ¡°I¡¯m not finished. Have you forgotten basic manners?¡± The Reeve kneels back down, his eyes reflecting the same gilded, weaving patterns as Kiley¡¯s. The Deputy stands, lips quite literally frozen, and watches the chef¡¯s corpse shrivel before Fitzgerald licks his lips. ¡°Proceed.¡± ¡°The Unbound¡¯s ¡®ere.¡± ¡°Which ones?¡± ¡°Blackbird.¡± ¡°Ooooh.¡± FitzGerald grins. ¡°Well, I¡¯m glad it¡¯s someone who¡¯s fucking entertaining.¡± ¡°Reeve, ¡®ese are Revolt vets, not ¡®ose tadpoles Keaton throws at us. So I¡¯s suggest you start getting serious, before you get yourself fahkin¡¯ killed.¡± ¡°And you¡¯d hate to have that happen, wouldn¡¯t you, Kiley?¡± FitzGerald crosses the table. ¡°Would rob you of the chance to put the knife in me first.¡± Kiley stays silent, his scowl deepening. It just makes the Reeve laugh. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Kiley. Your secret¡¯s safe. If we chopped a finger off every Kept with those thoughts, the whole Court would be without hands. But you¡¯re not going to stop me from enjoying this moment.¡± Kiley frowns. ¡°Enjoyin¡¯ what?¡± ¡°See? You¡¯re from Whitechapel. You don¡¯t even know.¡± FitzGerald bobs his head. ¡°See, there¡¯s thrill in death. Thrill in killing. You probably bashed some cripple¡¯s head in with a brick at ten years old, you¡¯ve known it your whole life. But I come from a dignified background, Deputy. My palette¡¯s more refined. And I can tell you that the greatest joys aren¡¯t from war or rape or wanton slaughter. Too easy. Too even. No. For a real thrill¡­¡± +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°... you have to hunt a tiger.¡± Harriet stalls her breathing, fixes her aim. The aether courses to her ears, her eyes, sharpening every sense. ¡°See, walking in the jungle, you feel like a king. The locals keep their heads down, the branches snap beneath your boots. Everything lives in fear of the cold steel in your hands. By the time you see that orange coat, slinking through the grass, you¡¯re already invincible.¡± It¡¯s hard not to picture the jungle with him. Towering canopies, zipping critters, sopping wet leaves. Harriet abruptly slaps her own cheek. Focus. ¡°But the tiger doesn¡¯t get you on its own. No. It waits for the heat. The bugs. The thorns and snakes and moisture. You thought the fight¡¯d be even, but the tiger only leaps at full strength. Only strikes when you¡¯re bleeding from a dozen unseen wounds.¡± FitzGerald pauses. The world¡¯s silent, beyond the rain. ¡°And when its claws rip through you like ribbons, and its bite cuts through your bone, and its roar shakes your ears like nothing in this world, you remember the truth of the jungle. You remember that you¡¯re not a predator.¡± Harriet¡¯s breath hitches. ¡°You¡¯re a rat behind a gun.¡± Her chest tightens. ¡°Scurrying like prey.¡± The rifle trembles in her hands. FitzGerald continues droning on, but his words lose all sound and meaning. Harriet pulls the gun closer to her chest, looping her hands around. Trying to recite the facts, even as the windchimes grow louder. Bolt-action. Three feet long. ¡°She¡¯s an animal!¡± Someone shouts at her. Adjustable sights. 3x scope. ¡°-abandoned by God-¡± ¡°YOU¡¯VE DOOMED US!¡± ¡°Scurrying like prey.¡± She grits her teeth, tucks her head. 7.62 millimetres. She¡¯s got ten rounds. She¡¯s got ten rounds. Eventually, the windchimes grow louder than any voice. Puffy white clouds replace London¡¯s overcast grey. She¡¯s not here. Or in the jungle. Or anywhere between. She¡¯s just focusing on her gun. Squeezing it, tighter and tighter. The gun will keep her living. The gun will keep her safe. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ POW! The little girl gasps as the tin carton plops into the soil. It¡¯s still smoking from the dent the bullet made. Harriet lowers the massive rifle Pa gave her and hops fiercely to get his attention. Her fiery red hair bounces with every leap. She wears a wide grin that betrays missing teeth. A gust of wind roars over the farm, bending grain and slamming wood shutters. Harriet¡¯s happy for gust, a cool salve to the Iowan summer sun. She looks beyond the copse of trees, to the fluffy clouds in a sky as blue as her eyes. All around her are sounds of insects, barn animals, life, the bronze windchimes just a whisper from the porch. ¡°NUH-UH!¡± Her brother Billy squeaks, struggling to hold his gun. The barrel of the rifle easily towers a foot over his head. ¡°That was my shot! Yer lyin¡¯!¡± ¡°Harriet.¡± Pa¡¯s voice makes her instantly stand taller. ¡°What¡¯d I say ¡®bout tellin¡¯ lies?¡± ¡°I ain¡¯t¡­¡± Harriet huffs, folding her arms. ¡°Ah, please. Anybody coulda hit that!¡± ¡°But I hit it first!¡± Billy bounces. ¡°Yer jes¡¯ jealous!¡± ¡°Jealous!?¡± Harriet takes a step back. ¡°Yeah! Yer jealous cuz Pa¡¯s lettin¡¯ me practice shootin¡¯ Injuns with ya!¡± Billy looks smug. ¡°Think I¡¯m gonna win?¡± ¡°You¡­ you¡­¡± Harriet¡¯s lip quavers. ¡°I¡¯d never be jealous of a dumbass like-¡± Smack! A stinging pain cuts Harriet off. She rubs her cheek, feeling the pink skin, before she dares to look up. A straw hat half-covers her father¡¯s angry glare. ¡°Harriet Josephine.¡± Her eyes grow wide. ¡°Where the Hell did ya learn that language!?¡± ¡°P-Pa, I-¡° ¡°Ya don¡¯t wanna shoot guns, is that it? Would ya rather help Ma cook the meals, or sew quilts with Suzie!?¡± ¡°N-no sir!¡± Harriet clenches her fists, breathing quickly. ¡°I-I-I-¡± ¡°Look at me.¡± She looks into his eyes. Standing at attention like his little soldier. ¡°Are ya gonna keep givin¡¯ that lip?¡± She shakes her head quickly, tears in her eyes. ¡°Then apologise to yer brother, now.¡± ¡°I-I¡¯m sorry Billy. Fer callin¡¯ ya a swear.¡± ¡°An¡¯?¡± She sniffles. ¡°A-an fer tellin¡¯ lies.¡± ¡°Good girl.¡± Pa nods, turning to his son. ¡°An¡¯ Billy, my boy! What a shot! Them Dixies march up, they won¡¯t know what hit ¡®em¡± He ruffles Billy¡¯s hair while Harriet looks at the ground. ¡°Yer gonna be a soldier one day, jes¡¯ like yer Pa! I can feel it. You¡¯ll make this country¡­ HARRIET!?¡± Harriet drops the gun, running across the unkempt fields. She doesn¡¯t care about the wind blowing off her bonnet, or the mud caking the hems of her dress. She just runs and runs and runs, past their targets, and into the trees. Branches cut at her skin, her hand pricks against thorns, but she has to find it. She has to show him. ¡°HARRIET!¡± Pa marches his way through the bush, swatting at branches and cursing under his breath. ¡°... little shit¡­ how many times I gotta¡­ gotta¡­¡± He finds her in the grass, resting on her hands and knees. A rabbit lays beneath, one foot stuck in the air, its pelt pristine. There¡¯s a hole where its eye should be. While he struggles to lift his jaw from the floor, Harriet looks up, beaming with pride. ¡°I wasn¡¯t lyin¡¯, Pa. Jes¡¯ didn¡¯t aim fer the carton.¡± Her father breaks into a grin and rushes her, scooping her up in a massive hug. ¡°Look at that. Look at that! Only nine years, an¡¯ my lil¡¯ coyote¡¯s get ¡®er first perfect kill!¡± Harriet makes something between a scream and a laugh, nuzzling into his chest. ¡°D-does that mean I get the special stew?¡± ¡°Special stew?¡± Pa laughs as he sets her down. ¡°Harriet, Harriet, shot like that? Yer gettin¡¯ more than a special stew. C¡¯mere!¡± Harriet gasps as he flashes a knife blade. Four inches of clean, sharpened steel. She reaches out before pausing, looking into his matching blue eyes. ¡°Ya¡­ I¡­ yer gonna¡­?¡± ¡°Show me ya can skin it,¡± Pa hands off the knife with a grin. ¡°Jes¡¯ like I taught ya.¡± +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ screeeeEEEEECCCH! Harriet blinks, and the whiteness fades. Her world fills with raindrops and steam and the sounds of tires. Her words are indistinct, but Janet¡¯s screaming in her ear. Her breathing¡¯s uneven, she¡¯s layered in sweat, everything¡¯s so dizzy- Then, she sees it. The largest van, pulling away and towards the bridge. It¡¯s FitzGerald. Fuck fuck FUCK! ¡°FIRESIDE!¡± Blackbird¡¯s buzzing finally forms words. ¡°THE TARGET HAS LEFT THE SITE! DO YOU-¡± ¡°SHUT THE HELL UP!¡± Harriet grabs her rifle, throws off the earpiece, and sprints, scanning for a clear spot. When one rooftop ends, she leaps onto another. Climbing and sliding, bending and ducking. The wind makes strange noises as she moves faster and faster and faster. Her eyes burst with bright light, aether building in her hands. Something whizzes past her ear: bullets, several. She turns for a moment, eyes the shooter down. Cappie drops the pistol, shouts a curse. Leaps into his truck, and starts barking orders while the engine roars. Streams of automatic fire pepper the redbrick of the rooftops. But they¡¯re too wild. She¡¯s too fast. They can¡¯t score a hit. She lifts her gun, looks, fires. Someone screams. Doesn¡¯t look, fires, someone screams again. She reloads like a machine, without stopping, without thinking. A bullet finally strikes her, grazing the forehead, knocking her down. But her aether is primed, pounces on the wound. Sealing her skin just as it starts trickling red. Abruptly, she slides to a stop. Nearly falls off the roof. Looks down. Abandoned cranes, blocks of cinder. A demolition site. She¡¯s five stories up, and there¡¯s no more street left. She watches the van. It¡¯s almost reached the bridge. They¡¯ve stuffed him in the back. There¡¯s no windows, no vantage. Cappie¡¯s right behind him. Something crackles by her fingers. Harriet studies them, the little sparkling lights. Aether. It¡¯s wild, energised, barely contained. She can use it. She stares at the wall below. Memorising the stones, the graffiti, the mortar, capturing it in her mind. Focus, focus, she¡¯s gotta focus! She squeezes her fist. Closes her eyes. And when she releases, they erupt into blue flames. A chunk of the wall has been copied. Reappearing, brick by brick, right on the bridge. Just in time for FitzGerald¡¯s van to reach it. Cappie¡¯s car collides an instant later, glass and metal splattering across the street. It caves in the back doors of the first car, which would normally be a problem, but Harriet¡¯s already peering down her sights at the van¡¯s exposed front end. She doesn¡¯t really understand cars - they¡¯re all well after her time - but she can gander what happens if she shoots the big tank. Sure enough, the front begins to blaze. It¡¯s a strange thing, Nocturni and fire. It doesn¡¯t burn their skin quite like Sunlight, but they despise it all the same, with an almost instinctive revulsion. Perhaps it¡¯s an aspect of their curse, or a legacy of the Predecessors that gave them this power. But when a flame grows near a Nocturni, every synapse in their mind tells them: ¡®run.¡¯ And if they can¡¯t? Even from this distance, Harriet can hear the thrashing, the screams, and watch the van tilt this way and that. Claws on clothes, teeth on flesh. One human manages to fire his gun, but it doesn¡¯t stop the caved-in doors from getting a few more human-sized dents. One by one, the screams die out, until she¡¯s forced to hear FitzGerald¡¯s claws scratch against steel. The Wilds took him. Clanking metal alerts Harriet to the other car. Cappie¡¯s slithering himself through the tatters of a window, his boots gone, hands and feet almost glowing with aetherial light. It only takes a moment for him to spring onto a building, sticking to the side as his fingers dig deep into pure rock. When he starts climbing like a spider, Harriet sucks in a breath. She¡¯s seen those fists hit people. She¡¯s gotta get the fuck out. She starts moving when she hears a disgusting sound from the first car. Burning aether. Bending steel. The back doors fling open, and FitzGerald charges out. He¡¯s on all-fours, layered in red, foaming at the mouth. Only when he feels rain on his skin does he stall. S lowly rise to his feet. Sniff the air, and search the clouds. It¡¯s too good a chance. Harriet lifts her gun. Her aether must glint off the barrel, since the Reeve of South London seems to take notice. But he doesn¡¯t run. Or shoot back. Or even think to shout. He just studies her as she lines up her aim, like a started deer. She¡¯s looking at his eyes down the sights when stands straight. Opens his arms. And smiles. Then she squeezes the trigger, and blows off half his head. Harriet sighs. The gun slackens in her arms. Already, bits of the Reeve¡¯s brain sizzle on the cobblestones, his body returning to the age aether would never let it take. Suddenly, her legs are jelly, and it feels like she¡¯s only just remembered to breathe. She did it. She actually did it. The Unbound¡¯s greatest kill in at least a generation. So why doesn¡¯t she feel proud? She doesn¡¯t see Cappie reach his rooftop. Hear his shout as his Keeper turns to ash. Doesn¡¯t realise how much his powers have grown in just twenty years. Not until he¡¯s crossed the street in a single leap. And his massive, aether-infused fist collides directly with her head. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Harriet opens one eye to dark clouds and shrieking pain. The other stays closed, layered in something sticky. She tries to scream, but her throat is filled. Tries breathing next, but she must have punctured her lung. Aether thrums all around her, but random sparks show that the magic¡¯s overwhelmed. She turns, with difficulty, towards her hand. It¡¯s resting on concrete, and a growing pool of blood. The demolition site. She¡¯s staring at the husk of a building. Can¡¯t find her goggles, but the sniper rifle is right there. Her hand rises, and falls. Just out of reach. Something rumbles in her stomach, and she vomits more red. Her memory catches up to her - the running, the shooting, Cappie¡¯s fist. Falling forever. Harriet starts to get up, but a dizzying amount of pain forces her back. She finally looks down, sees the beige coat in tatters. Three pieces of rusty, bent rebar stick straight through her chest. A crash. The loud crunching of gravel. Harriet squirms as Cappie lands a few yards ahead of her, approaching like a cautious cat. She starts frantically reaching for the gun, but her injured groans make him chuckle. He grabs her shirt and hoists her off the rebar. Letting her dangle in the air, held only by his hand. ¡°Fireside.¡± He says flatly. ¡°Been a long, long time.¡± He flips her over his shoulder. Harriet¡¯s face crashes into the dirt, scratching her cheeks, making her head spin. She tries to flop away from him, but he stops her with a kick, pushing her onto her back and pinning her to the ground. ¡°What ¡®appened to you, Eddards? I still remember when you was Scott¡¯s lil¡¯ girl.¡± He reaches behind his back. ¡°Scrappy an¡¯ scrawny an¡¯ full o¡¯ life. She wouldn¡¯t work wiff someone like Blackbird. She wouldn¡¯t get ¡®erself killed.¡± Harriet pales. Cappie¡¯s pulled out a wooden stake, six inches long and sharp like a razor. She starts squirming, until he presses his foot on her impaled ribs. ¡°When ey¡¯s find Janet, she¡¯ll get torn to pieces. ¡®Ey¡¯ll make flags of ¡®er fahkin¡¯ skin. But wiff you, I¡¯m bein¡¯ gentle. Makin¡¯ sure you die ¡®ere.¡± He taps the stake against his heart. ¡°You¡¯ll be frozen, you¡¯ll be oblivious, an¡¯ you¡¯ll feel no pain. Not until it¡¯s over. Not until the dawn.¡± She tries to speak, but only blubbers. Cappie¡¯s face hardens the longer he looks down. But she notices something past him A large, black shape. Buzzing around the cranes. A raven. The bird starts diving just as Cappie squeezes his fist. ¡°Shoulda kept wiff the others,¡± he says through grit teeth. ¡°Shoulda known your fahkin¡¯ place.¡± Wait for it¡­ He raises his hand. Wait for it¡­ The bird¡¯s halfway there. Wait for it¡­ In slow motion, she watches his knuckle move down. ¡­ now. Harriet screams, and forces her eyes wide open. The aether responds, a brilliant flash of light that makes Cappie pull back. The raven arrives a moment later, flapping its wings, clawing and cawing. Harriet¡¯s dropped like a sack of flour, the pain stinging through her body. She hears a howl from above; the raven pecked Cappie¡¯s eye. The stake¡¯s right there, on the ground, but she¡¯s not sure she can reach it. She¡¯s not sure she can stand. Then, she springs. First for the wood, then up. Leaping onto the massive figure, screaming into his chest. She levels the spike deep, aiming for the heart. She hears a rip as it tears clothes, a squelch when it pierces flesh. The momentum brings Cappie to the ground, and Harriet helplessly joins him. Crashing makes her stomach burn, and she heaves again, right on his chest. It¡¯s more bile than blood this time. Once it¡¯s over, she crawls away, eyeing the Deputy¡¯s body for movement. There¡¯s none. His muscles lay like tree roots. His face is frozen stiff. It takes Harriet a minute to reach the sniper rifle, and another to stand up. By that point, she can breathe again. She¡¯s using the gun as a crutch, in shock that she¡¯s still alive. Smaller footsteps approach, run past her. A woman dressed in all black points a Glock at Cappie, kicking his frozen arm. Her face is sharp and focused, and her headset hasn¡¯t left her ears. Harriet waddles over, swiping a sidearm from the woman¡¯s spare holster. It¡¯s a Browning. Has a comfortable weight. She opens the magazine, rubs her thumb over the rounds. Probably 9 millimetre. She counts to twelve. ¡°Fireside, I¡­¡± Janet turns around. ¡°Lord above. What in the blazes happened to you?¡± Harriet chuckles, then winces. Thank God for that bellhop¡¯s blood, or the Wilds would drive her to the same madness that took FitzGerald. ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter,¡± she heaves. ¡°The Reeve¡¯s dead.¡± ¡°Then my list is one name shorter.¡± Janet makes an effort to hide her immense pleasure. But it¡¯s clear in her glittering eyes. She gestures towards Cappie. ¡°But what should we do with him?¡± Harriet looks around, searching for the raven. Finnerty knew him better, but the bird¡¯s already gone. ¡°He knows our secrets,¡± Janet points out. ¡°Better than anyone the Court has. And with his Keeper dead, his position will be reviewed. They¡¯re gonna make him Reeve.¡± Memories of the Deputy pass by, fragmented by time, almost all forgotten. She sees him drinking with Red, sparring with Finn. Flaunting his muscles, singing his shanties, kissing his wife. His wife. She knows he had a wife. But Harriet doesn¡¯t know when she died, and she can¡¯t remember her name. An image seizes her mind. Looking down the sights tonight, seeing FitzGerald¡¯s grin. In the moment, she gave it no thought, too focused on the trigger. But now¡­ scurrying like prey scurrying like prey scrurrying like prey Maybe he was tired. Of the jungle, of the Court, of the Unbound, of the Keeping. He was looking for a way out. Maybe he was bored. Of eternal life, of the endless victories, of his own lack of honour or shame. Or maybe he didn¡¯t even understand. Just knew he had to die with a gun in his hands. Waiting for a tiger. But suddenly, Harriet can¡¯t feel vengeance, or rage, or anything else. That little something inside her is just static. Wind chimes and white clouds. The Reeve listened to the same stations. Fought in the same wars. Ended up in the same place. Killing not for justice, or joy, but because it¡¯s what he¡¯s always done. And she doesn¡¯t know any better. ¡°Leave him.¡± Harriet abruptly turns around. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter.¡± Janet reaches out. ¡°Fireside-¡± ¡°We could shoot a hundred Reeves.¡± She hobbles towards the waiting van. ¡°They¡¯ll always find another.¡± Chapter 2: The Call of the Wilds ¡°What ARE the Wilds? Every Nocturni¡¯s seen it; every Nocturni¡¯s heard it, and none of us can say we know. From what¡¯s been gathered, it is an unkempt and sunless world, ruled or once ruled by a race we call the Predecessors. They were the first to tame aether, the first to craft Keepings, and they gave us the Gift long ago, so that we might serve as their soldiers in a war against our former kind. Yet however powerful these Predecessors might be, they aren¡¯t the ones overriding our instincts. They aren¡¯t the ones who speak to us in our deathsleep. No. By every account, by our oldest members, this voice, hidden in all of us, is the voice of the Wilds itself. And make no mistake: that voice belongs to a world that¡¯s dark, and violent, and bestial. If we listen to its Call, it will have us be the same.¡± ¡°Report: The Predecessors.¡± Court Inquisitor Aisha Lakhani, October 17th, 1993 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Crash! Harriet sprints through the foyer, floorboards creaking under her shoes. The dead rabbit flops as she rushes to the kitchen, its feet pinned together. The space has an acrid smell, its stove fire blazing, plates with butter and cornbread biscuits laid all across the table. Harriet shoves them all aside to make room for her kill, eyes glittering as she smiles down at Pa¡¯s knife. Pa¡¯s knife. Her face shines in the steel¡¯s reflection. It¡¯s almost too heavy for her, but she¡¯d never think of letting go. She doesn¡¯t notice the woman, bent over a washbasin, with similar red hair but wiry eyes, until she¡¯s marching towards her. ¡°H-Harriet?¡± Ma crudely folds the blue coat in her hands. ¡°Wh-where¡¯d ya get that-¡± Srrrrrkk! Ma gasps as Harriet slices the rabbit¡¯s back, digging in with her fingers and pawing the skin open like a wet sock. ¡°Ah¡­ wash it, Harriet, wash it! Ya¡¯ll get all sorts of-¡± ¡°Let the kid have fun, Ida.¡± William leans against the wall. ¡°Ya can always clean it after." ¡°Harriet ignores them both, biting her tongue as she tugs the rabbit¡¯s skin off its feet. ¡°William¡­¡± Ma twitches. ¡°Where¡¯s Billy? Ya left him outside with a gun?¡± ¡°He¡¯s seven. I was shootin¡¯ possums at half his age. We¡¯ve got¡­ Ida?¡± His brow furrows. ¡°What¡¯re ya holdin¡¯?¡± There¡¯s too long a pause. Ma tries to fill it by speaking too quickly. ¡°Nothing.¡± She nods to herself. ¡°I-it¡¯s nothing.¡± ¡°Show me.¡± ¡°I-I was jes¡¯ about ta put it away-¡± ¡°Show me.¡± Harriet shrivels. Pa¡¯s using that voice, the voice that only comes out when he doesn¡¯t get home until late at night. Ma quickly unravels the garment, but Harriet barely gives it a glance. Gold buttons, a stars-and-stripes patch. A thick black ink stain lingering above the shoulder. Ma hides behind it as her husband rises. ¡°What did you do?¡± His knuckles squeeze. ¡°What did ya FUCKIN¡¯ DO!?¡± ¡°I was writin¡¯ letters! It spilled! I-I¡¯ll get it off, William, I promise! I¡¯m doin¡¯ everythin¡¯ I can-¡± ¡°That drawer shouldn¡¯t even be fuckin¡¯ open!¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry!¡± Harriet hunkers down, pressing herself against the table. The air around her starts to chime. She saws at one of the rabbit¡¯s feet, shoves the charm inside her pocket. For luck. Pa grits his teeth. ¡°Have ya any idea what I¡¯ve done in that uniform? What I could still do!?¡± ¡°I know, I know!¡± Ma¡¯s eyes dart to Harriet, then back to Pa. ¡°B-But please, not in front of-" ¡°What were ya doin¡¯ there, Ida? Playin¡¯ one of yer tricks? Fuckin¡¯ around!?¡± ¡°I WASN¡¯-¡± ¡°Lookin¡¯ fer the goddamn pelt!?¡± Ida freezes. The house goes quiet. Even Harriet can feel the air grow stiff. Pa stands still for a moment. But then those deep blue eyes alight. And he lunges for a broom. "WILLIAM!¡± Ma retreats to the counter. ¡°PLEASE!¡± ¡°YOU FUCKIN¡¯ CUNT!¡± ¡°PA, PA, PA!¡± Harriet steps in front of him, dangling the half-skinned rabbit. ¡°Look, look, I-¡± She screams when he slams his hand in her face, shoving her into the table. Cornbread biscuits roll around while Ma lifts her hand and sobs. ¡°WILLIAM!!! STOP-¡± Harriet curls into a ball, covers her ears. The thrashing grows muffled, then distant, then turns to whispers. There¡¯s nothing to hear but the windchimes. Windchimes, and her own breath. Her eyes fixate on the rabbit, bundled on the floor, staring at her with a non-existent eye. She reaches for her knife and crawls up to it. Slices open its belly and starts dressing the guts out. She¡¯s gotta do it right. Pa wants her to do it right. The ground rumbles when Ma falls, but Harriet only tells because the cut-out organs jingle. She snatches a cleaver from a nearby cabinet, lifts her hand, stares down. If she does it right, he¡¯ll be happy. She¡¯ll be quiet. Things will be well. In a single clean motion, she chops off the head. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°AH!¡± Harriet inhales, and blinks her eyes. Her breath turns frosty around her. She listens to birdsong and the whistles of the pines. Only then does she remember. She¡¯s here. Dressed in camo. A gun in her hands. Gone from that place by a hundred years, and four thousand miles. A deer stands in front of her, female, trembling as she watches the barrel of the gun. Harriet studies her for a moment, unsure how she found her, unsure how she even got here. But looking into the doe¡¯s face, she can¡¯t hurt it. Can¡¯t squeeze the trigger. She just wants to reach out. ¡°Hey.¡± Harriet moves slowly. ¡°I-¡± But the doe¡¯s already gone. Thundering through the woods, huffing through its maw, and leaving the stunned vampire well behind her ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Loch Tummel, Scotland March, 2004 Five Months Before the Reeve¡¯s Assassination ¡°Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, That saved a wretch like me.¡± The choir rings through the church¡¯s tight, wooden walls. Shepherding a solemn faithful as they file out of the pews. ¡°I once was lost, but now am found, Was blind but now I see.¡± Harriet slowly shuffles forward, caught between a manically praying woman and a man hobbling on a cane. Like most of this logging town, the churchgoers are old, calm, quiet. Workers of lost industries, too stubborn to follow the world on. That¡¯s why she chose to hunt here. Somewhere distant, and natural, where she could escape the city¡¯s unending youth, and put her feet on real ground. She dares to look up at the stained glass rendition of Christ. His face bores down on her, open and austere, and she burrows back to her folded hands. It¡¯s the 6AM service, just at the cusp of dawn, but she had to risk it. Not because she intended to listen to the pastor¡¯s sermon - the windchimes were more enthralling - but because she can feel Him, in this space. Something eternal, like her. Something that would never leave. Yes, she¡¯s old-fashioned. Yes, it¡¯s a little culty. And yes, for the record, Harriet does believe in dinosaurs. But let the other Unbound mock and jape. She knows what she feels when she listens to the windchimes closely, or studies the swirling patterns in the altar¡¯s wood. Him. And how could He not be real, when she¡¯s standing here? Breathing and living at a hundred-and-sixty. A walking miracle. ¡°The Lord has promised good to me, His word my hope secures.¡± She shuffles through the communion line, contemplative, barely aware. She tries to envision Him as a¡­ perfect ball of light, half-closing her eyes. But a hand falls over hers, forcing them open. ¡°He will my shield and portion be¡­¡± Dark fingers, uncalloused and clean. Placing in her palm a piece of bread, dipped in wine. ¡°The Blood of Christ, shed for you.¡± ¡°... As long as life endures.¡± Stunned, she looks up. It¡¯s a young man, close to her apparent age, dressed in a simple button-down and tie. His dark hair is short, his skin olive, his voice neither Scottish nor English nor anything she¡¯s heard, but still full. Still warm. But it¡¯s not his voice that¡¯s frozen her. It¡¯s his eyes. Rich and bright like sheets of gold. Burning with a fire she can¡¯t begin to describe. He smiles awkwardly, glancing at the bread, back to her. When it¡¯s clear she won¡¯t move, he reaches down, and raises her hands for her. She¡¯s held firm like that until the Sacrament¡¯s in her mouth, and then he brings them back down, gently. ¡°Christ is with you. Go in peace.¡± She barely whispers. ¡°A-Amen.¡± ¡°The earth shall soon dissolve like snow, The sun forbear to shine.¡± The crowd presses on Harriet, and she¡¯s pushed forward, hustling to the pews while looking furtively back. He¡¯s already serving the others. With a kind, genuine smile. ¡°But God, who called me here below¡­¡± It¡¯s only when she¡¯s turned around, deep in God¡¯s house, that he starts watching her. ¡°... will be forever mine.¡± ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Harriet shuts off the shower, and sighs with the steam. Another dreamless sleep before another wakeless night. The suite¡¯s bathroom is cramped, which makes drying an elbow-bashing, wallpaper-scratching chore. But Harriet doesn¡¯t really mind. She¡¯s used to tiny rooms. One of the ¡®perks¡¯ of Harriet¡¯s specific curse - the one that gives her the special, matter-bending powers - is that she can never sleep in the same place twice. Not the same mattress, or bed of a car, no, it¡¯s down to the soil. The radius fluctuates, but after decades of testing, she¡¯s narrowed the average down to 1.16 miles. Why? Who knows! The only person she could ask is long dead. So she¡¯s taken to drifting, flitting between hotels before anyone can stop and notice her. Harriet shakes her hair like a dog, content to let air handle the rest, and slips into her camouflage shirt and trousers. They¡¯re both a bit too big for her slim frame, but that¡¯s everyone else¡¯s fault. The mortals keep getting taller. She leans her rifle against the wall (Remington 700, Canadian issue, .308 Winchester rounds), and lifts her backpack, thick with hunting licences, local contracts, and other government-stamped bundles of trash. They don¡¯t even let her walk around with a handgun anymore. Not that their rules ever stopped her. All prepped, Harriet checks herself in the mirror. Greying skin. Mild light in her eyes. That ever-constant face of complete exhaustion. Good enough. She¡¯ll pass. Not like there¡¯s a Reeve out here to enforce anything. She¡¯s about to turn around when she spots a little vial on the counter. Scowls. It¡¯s a gift from Janet. L¡¯Oreal brand mascara. ¡°Come on, at least once.¡± She¡¯d been told. ¡°Don¡¯t you want to look prettY? Do you think it some sort of POISON?¡± Why does Harriet need to look pretty? She¡¯s never given an answer. Janet was a noblewoman, in a past life, and if she spends too much time with the Unbound, she gets into these¡­ moods. But maybe Harriet can humour her, just tonight. It looks easy to put on. And it¡¯ll help hide the curse, make her look a bit more like all the other¡­ ¡­the¡­ ¡­ the other¡­. There¡¯s a light ringing in her ears, and Harriet abruptly shakes her head. Her tongue reaches for her gums and pierces itself on her canines. Right. She doesn¡¯t have time to dally. If her fangs are poking out like this, it means Harriet¡¯s hungry. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°Ma, MA!¡± A little boy shouts in a thick brogue. ¡°Stephanie¡¯s got cooties. She kissed some¡¯un at school. She¡¯s GROSS!¡± ¡°NAHHHH!¡± A girl shouts back. ¡°Darrel jes¡¯ said ¡®at so he - JAMIE!¡± A toddler bolts from the table, waddling through the hotel restaurant with a stolen cookie in his hands. His sister charges after him, tackling them both into the old, crusty carpet, right in front of Harriet. But rather than cry from his injury, the toddler begins to laugh. The sister joins him, then their brother, then their parents at the table. Their hollers so loud they reach across the hall. Harriet takes a step back, a hand on her heart. With each raise in volume, she winces a little more. Eventually, it becomes unbearable, and she starts marching through the hotel before- ¡°Waaaaaaaaiiiiittt.¡± Harriet freezes as a wrinkled hand grasps her. ¡°Kin our lil¡¯ ¡®untress nae eat breakfast first?¡± ¡°M-Missus Fossaway!¡± Harriet turns to face a wizened old woman, noting the soft-boiled egg in her hands. ¡°That¡¯s, uh, mighty kind of ya, but I ain¡¯t-¡± ¡°Nonsense. Git ¡®ere!¡± Fossoway practically slams Harriet into a seat, setting the plate down. ¡°Don¡¯t matter what ye think, I can never let a guest go unfed. You¡¯re a Yank, ye understand.¡± Harriet laughs awkwardly. ¡°Aha, y-yeah. But¡­ been a long time since I went back.¡± ¡°Ah, the heart stays by its roots. Ye ken who¡¯s comin¡¯ up to help this week? Me own Sasha. Grandkid, ¡®member?¡± Fossoway sets down a glass. ¡°All that blether ¡®bout movin¡¯ to Glasgow, ¡®real living,¡¯ but she still scurries back ¡®ere come Easter.¡± This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. Harriet chuckles and shrugs, trying not to make a sour face as she watches the glass fill with orange juice. She¡¯ll drink and eat, of course. But, well, Nocturni aren¡¯t supposed to have¡­ people food. Burns up too much aether to run a functioning digestive system. So when it has to come out¡­ She winces. Not gonna be pretty. ¡°An¡¯ ye ken, for her sake, gotta ask¡­¡± Fossoway pulls back Harriet¡¯s attention. ¡°Ye got any secrets for keepin¡¯ ye skin?¡± Harriet blinks. ¡°Wh-what?¡± ¡°It¡¯s those city girls and their standards. Sasha gets so anxious ¡®bout, heh, gettin¡¯ wrinkles.¡± Fossoway waves a hand over her face. ¡°I ken, she¡¯s young, but I told her about ye. With ye lookin¡¯ the way ye look, thought ye might ¡®elp her.¡± ¡°O¡­ oh.¡± Harriet¡¯s nose curls. ¡°D-Do I¡­ really look that young?¡± ¡°Course,¡± Fossoway beams. ¡°Been comin¡¯ up to Loch Tummel for, what, twelve-some years now? An¡¯ ye don¡¯ look a day over twenty!¡± The innkeeper starts to laugh, but Harriet¡¯s expression breaks. Twelve years? Already? But then Harriet catches the innkeeper¡¯s gaze, and forces a laugh. ¡°Ahahah, yer too kind, Missus Fossoway, yer too kind. But I promise! Ain¡¯t no secret! Don¡¯t touch those cosmetics with a ten-foot-pole.¡± It¡¯s hard to keep the weight from her voice. ¡°G-Guess ya could say¡­¡± If Fossoway noticed, others have too. It will only grow more stark next year. And that means she can¡¯t come back to Loch Tummel. Not for a long time. Time this lovely, dying little town didn¡¯t have. ¡°... guess ya could say I¡¯m jes¡¯ lucky.¡± ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Loch Tummel hosts two pubs. One¡¯s right by the union office, filled with the same type. Ironically, Harriet fits in better there. She¡¯s far from well-versed in politics, but as an Unbound, memorising labour disputes and workers¡¯ songs is practically a requirement. She can tell them she¡¯s a student of history, listen to old men reminisce about the strikes she once attended. But feeding from them is another question, and for that, she looks to the Gilded Swan. Old-style, local whiskeys, no natural light. Always swarming with tourists and travellers, the kind of folk looking for a good time, and whose stories don¡¯t stick around. A watering hole, for all of them. So the location¡¯s good, but picking the target? Even more important. Harriet leans on the wall, searching the faces. Winning them over will be easy; she knows how she looks. Could honestly layer herself in deer guts and there will still be someone in their forties who will slobber all over her. From there, it¡¯s like a recipe. They¡¯ll start with some small talk, she¡¯ll repeat a few words in her ¡®silly accent¡¯, they¡¯ll saunter to the washroom, and she¡¯ll walk out by herself. Simple, safe. The process works. The problems come up when Mr. Forty-Something¡¯s had a little too much to drink, and now Harriet¡¯s injecting six shots of Saint Giles¡¯ Smoky directly into her aether stream. Or he¡¯s anaemic, and she didn¡¯t notice, but when he conks out they¡¯ll have to call the hospital. Or maybe, if the night¡¯s really special, Mr. Forty-Something picked up a little more than something on his last trip to Thailand, and now Harriet¡¯s mouth is going to be littered with sores until her aether can fucking purify it. So¡­ targets. Choices, choices, choices. That¡¯s when she spots him. Sitting alone on some stool in the corner. Half-sipping his gin, half-watching a rugby game. The guy from church. He¡¯s still wearing the same goddamn tie. Harriet walks across the bar lithely, swiping a pint from someone who ought to pay attention better. He turns as she nears, his gaze focused on her eyes as she sits down. Not her chest. That¡¯s a good start. ¡°You, uh¡­¡± Her mind blanks, and she gestures awkwardly with her hand. ¡°... ya go ta church often?¡± He smiles, leans back. ¡°When I can. But in places like this, not always. They don¡¯t always serve my sect.¡± She squints. ¡°Yer Catholic?¡± ¡°Orthodox,¡± he replies. ¡°I¡¯m from Cyprus.¡± Cyprus? Ain¡¯t that some kind of fruit? But she quickly corrects her scowl. ¡°Shit,¡± she forces a chuckle. ¡°I¡¯m pretty far from home, too.¡± ¡°I noticed.¡± He glances at her outfit. ¡°Do you always go to church dressed like that?" ¡°I was huntin¡¯.¡± ¡°Could have wiped your boots.¡± ¡°God invented worms. Don¡¯ care a lick if we come ta Him muddy.¡± Harriet sips her drink, makes a face. So sour. ¡°¡®Sunday dress¡¯, that¡¯s bandit talk. Wanna make ya feel bad so they can sell ya clothes an¡¯ take yer money.¡± ¡°Bandits?¡± ¡°Scammers.¡± He holds up his tie. ¡°And is there something wrong with buying nice clothes?¡± ¡°Depends on why ya buy ¡®em.¡± He shifts his head. ¡°They look nice. Formal, polite. It shows that I want respect.¡± ¡°See? Want, without earnin¡¯. Manipulation.¡± Harriet leans forward. ¡°It¡¯s a mask.¡± ¡°What if it¡¯s not for the respect of others? What if I¡¯m dressing like this so I can respect myself?¡± ¡°Yer self-respect¡¯s pretty weak if it needin¡¯ fancy clothes.¡± ¡°But it was strong enough for you.¡± He sips, leaving Harriet with a befuddled expression. After a moment, he smiles. ¡°So¡­ you hunt. Deer, I presume?¡± ¡°Y-Yeah,¡± she nods. ¡°Government contracts me. Populations get outta control in these parts. Ain¡¯t got no natural predators.¡± He laughs. ¡°Other than us, right?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t usually eat ¡®em,¡± she laughs back. Then she stops, licks her lips. ¡°... it¡¯s a good job. I like it. Lots of walkin¡¯, lots of woods. An¡¯ I¡¯m really good. Been shootin¡¯ since I was six.¡± ¡°So it fulfils you?¡± He swirls his glass. ¡°Gives you a sense of purpose?¡± ¡°Pfft, I dunno about that. Shootin¡¯ is shootin¡¯. Why, what do you do? Stocks?¡± ¡°Business. I¡¯m in tech.¡± Harriet snorts. Seems like everyone¡¯s in ¡®tech¡¯ these days. ¡°An¡¯ does all that tech jes¡¯ fill ya up with a ¡®sense of purpose?¡¯¡± ¡°As a matter of fact, yes. I¡­ feel my best working.¡± He sets his glass down. ¡°Sure, it¡¯s nice to have holidays like this, but¡­ imagining something, something that helps people, and watching it spring to life in your hands. It''s beautiful. Inspiring. It feels right.¡± Harriet finds herself staring again, and not because Nocturni have to remember to blink. Something in the man has¡­ changed. His voice is more booming, his movements more graceful. And his eyes, almost suns. Blazing in a smogless sky. ¡°... Ya know what? Since yer gettin¡¯ all¡­ filly-sophical,¡± she stumbles on the word. ¡° What ya said, ¡®bout beauty? That¡¯s how I feel, when I¡¯m shootin¡¯. Like everything¡¯s right.¡± The man¡¯s expression shifts. That vigour from before has vanished. Replaced with something rigid. Calculating. ¡°No. No, I don¡¯t think you could feel that way. In fact, I doubt you ever have.¡± Something rises in Harriet¡¯s throat. She scowls. ¡°Why not?¡± He looks into her eyes. So intensely, so certainly, that she¡¯s instantly caught on guard. ¡°With this, I can build.¡± He taps his head. ¡°But guns create nothing. They exist to destroy. Just like you, Harriet. Just like you.¡± Her spine tingles as he rises, throwing a designer coat over his shoulders. ¡°W-Wait!¡± Harriet springs up, as he storms past. ¡°How do ya know my-¡± But the strange man from Cyprus is already gone. And Harriet suddenly wishes that she could openly carry her Remington. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The forest is lonely at night. Beyond the calls of crickets and hoots of owls, Harriet hears nothing but her own footsteps. The Remington sits coldly in her hands; she¡¯s not generating the body heat that could keep it warm. There¡¯s a faint glow in her eyes as she scans the trees. Aether sharpens her senses, just like it curls her claws and makes her fangs peek out. If someone flashed a torch her way, she wouldn¡¯t exactly look human. But in the woods, that¡¯s okay. There¡¯s no fear, no pressure. The deer can handle a monster. Grass crunches in the distance, making Harriet lift her rifle. She¡¯s been following the scent, checking the tracks, and when she crests the hill, her eyes grow wide. It¡¯s a doe - the doe, from before. She¡¯s picking carelessly through the rocks. Lazy, unfrightened. If she heard Harriet, she¡¯s not much disturbed. These deers¡¯ knowledge of humans goes as far as the tourists who give them food. The creature pauses, lifts her head. Staring right into the vampire¡¯s eyes. Harriet feels that same tug of conscience from last night but, pushes it down, presses her rifle to the cheek. The town wants this, not her. And more will be born, more will replace her. Deer die all the time. It can¡¯t feel. She places her finger on the trigger. It¡¯s not a person. Windchimes start ringing in her ears. Hungry. She feels hungry. Not just for aether, screaming always in the back of her skull, but in her stomach, like a human. She remembers her mouth, watering. The taste of berries on her tongue, the satisfaction of swallowing meat. Where is this coming from? Why is this happening? Soon, the windchimes aren¡¯t alone. They¡¯re joined by puffy, pure white clouds. Slowly swarming her vision. Slowly pushing the deer away. Slowly making the hunger grow stronger¡­ ¡­ and stronger¡­ ¡­ and stronger¡­ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 1864 Summertime The squirrel hurries down from the branches, mesmerised by the many, many acorns piled below. He doesn¡¯t stop to ask who left them there, or why they¡¯re so stacked. He just starts shoving them in his mouth, hardly noticing the rope until he¡¯s already dug in his ankle. Slllllllck! The squirrel starts twitching and thrashing, as he¡¯s hoisted up four feet in the air. Acorns fall back to the forest like marbles. The rope pulley holding the squirrel high creaks against a branch. Suddenly, excited grunts, shredded leaves. To the squirrel¡¯s eyes, a giant is running towards it, everything upside down. Their eyes are desperate, their mouth salivating, and their mane a mess of red. The squirrel squeaks fervently when the giant cups their hands around it. Slowly petting the critter¡¯s head, shushing him, humming to him. Coarse and bony fingers linger around his neck. Harriet pulls, and hears a crack. The squirrel quickly stops squeaking, then stops moving, dangling from the rope. She starts taking quick, breathless laughs, before undoing the snare with a shaky hand. Her clothes are tattered and full of holes, loose against her shrunken belly. Her freckled face is caked with mud, her hair a mess of tangles. But no matter her state, she almost weeps with joy. Meat. Real meat. Not mushrooms and nuts and berries. With her kill tied around her waist, Harriet trots back to her hiding spot. Even the run exhausts her at this point, but tonight, that¡¯s gonna change. She just needs to grab her gear. A filthy blue coat she throws over herself, betraying a black ink stain by the shoulder. And the gun. Pa¡¯s gun. A Springfield Model 1855 muzzle-loaded musket rifle. Five-and-a-half feet long. Weighing a little under ten pounds. But with each day, it feels heavier. Harriet groans as she picks it up, weakened muscles screaming with exhaustion. But it doesn¡¯t matter how much it weighs, or that the powder¡¯s wet, or that she lost her last bullet. Harriet has to bring it. The gun will keep her safe. The gun will keep her living. Harriet marches back to her cave, squirrel in tow. A chorus of windchimes follow her, louder than the coming thunder. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°Cuh-... keh¡­¡± She makes more tiny grunts, the most she¡¯s spoken in days. ¡°... rrrghh!¡± She throws her flint onto the ground, leaning against the cave wall. She can hear the downpour of rain echo from outside, feel the damp rock seep into her clothes. The flayed squirrel lays skewered on the other side. Uneaten. Her stomach rumbles. Harriet hisses a breath. Crawls back to her little pit and starts working the flint again. Come on, it¡¯s been months. She hasn¡¯t had meat since she ran out of powder. Can¡¯t she just have anything FOR ONCE! She gasps. One of the sparks catches, she sees a flicker of smoke. Harriet bends down, blowing with all her might, her hands folded together, almost in prayer. ¡°Keh-keh-keh¡­¡± Her throat seizes up whenever she tries to make sounds. ¡°...nnnnnnn¡­¡± She freezes. Her heart stops. The little trail of smoke fades away. Leaving her with nothing but an empty stomach and a couple wet logs. At first, Harriet just hugs herself. Throws Pa¡¯s coat over her shoulders, and cries. But eventually the hunger consumes her grief, too. Meekly, she turns and studies the squirrel. The meat¡¯s pink, and gamey, and juicy. But it¡¯s clean. Nothing in the organs looked sick. It¡­ it¡¯s probably okay. Just a little bite. Harriet scooches forward slowly, checking the walls, as if someone might walk in and tell on her. After a frozen second, she pounces, shoving the squirrel into her mouth. It¡¯s chewy and tasteless, every bite sending waves of juices from her mouth. But once she starts, she can¡¯t stop. It goes down her mouth so easily. It¡¯s so good. So good. Her hands tremble as she bites deeper. The squirrel¡¯s blood mixes with her tears. For the next two days, Harriet has the runs. By the time she¡¯s able to stand, she¡¯s just as hungry, and all out of fresh water. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ She finds the stream at the bottom of a sun-baked cliff, azure waters still untouched by the dust and red rock all around her. The river¡¯s roar is joined by countless cicadas. In the unyielding sunlight, it seems to glow blue. Centuries from now, with a degree in physics, Harriet would know this is glacial runoff, from the peaks of the Rockies she can see in the distance. But in the moment, with Pa¡¯s Springfield shaking in her hands, it¡¯s nothing less than God. Harriet slings the rifle over her back and sprints, dunking her face deep. The water¡¯s bitingly cold, fraying her nerves, but she wants nothing less. She cups her hands and takes massive gulps, stunned by its tastelessness, its purity. As she starts to strip and dunk her clothes in the current, she¡¯s surrounded by a growing ring of brown. It reaches up to her knees The chill brings her mind into focus. Cave. She needs to find a new cave. There¡¯ll be fewer critters this high up, but she¡¯s already seen juniper, other berries. They can hold her over for the few days she needs to- She hears a crack and swings around. Pa¡¯s Springfield is already raised, the sight nuzzled by her cheek. But the man she sees on the other end isn¡¯t some trapper, or the Injun war bands she hides from. He¡¯s got a straw hat, tired eyes, coveralls. From the calluses of his hands, raised in startled defence, she can tell he¡¯s a farmer. ¡°H-... howdy there, lil¡¯ girl. M-mind puttin¡¯ that down?¡± He breaks into a shaky smile, his shrouded eyes never leaving the barrel. ¡°P-Pa probably told ya not ta trust strangers, but¡­ I-I promise I don¡¯ bite.¡± She notices the revolver, holstered by his hip. Very slowly cocks her rifle. ¡°Okay, okay! We¡¯ll¡­ we¡¯ll wait fer yer dad then. That¡¯s his clothes yer wearin¡¯, right?¡± His face quickly contorts. ¡°A-And ya know, jes¡¯ ta say, w-we ain¡¯t got no quarrel with a Union man. Rebs burned down our home, too.¡± Harriet starts huffing her breath, trying to look big. But it doesn¡¯t seem to work right, because the man¡¯s expression only softens. ¡°Shit. Yer alone out here?¡± He starts searching the treeline, bewildered. ¡°But¡­ we left in March. If yer this far West, h-how¡¯d ya survive the-¡± ¡°RAH!¡± The man quickly retreats back, but doesn¡¯t run. Harriet was hoping to make more than a guttural screech, but even that tore through her throat. ¡°Easy, easy, I-... I ain¡¯t gonna hurtcha.¡± He¡¯s blinking strangely, his smile crooked. ¡°L-look, our axle b-broke, but Fort Collins is only a day or two¡¯s walk away. I can getcha there, I¡¯ll come. They¡¯ve got food, shelter, m-medicine. A-and my daughter can spare a few dresses-¡± His words vanish. Her ears start to ring. Dresses. Dresses. Dresses. ¡°- nice and pretty.¡± He wants her nice and pretty. He¡¯s putting her in a dress. Why? Why? Why why why WHY WHY? ¡°Ya don¡¯ have ta be scared. It¡¯ll all-¡± He gasps as she swivels around, desperation in her eyes. ¡°Wait, wait. WAIT!¡± The water stings again as she leaps into it, hoping to match the current. But when her foot digs into the rocks, her eyes grow wide. It¡¯s not coming back up. She starts thrashing wildly, bubbles rising from her lips. Standing¡¯s impossible, everything feels so slick. Terror clenches her mind, freezes her nerves. And then, big hands. Gripping her waist, pulling her up. ¡°THERE!¡± The man gasps for breath, still holding her. ¡°G-got me terrified-¡± Harriet screams. Claws at his arms, bites at the air, squirms and wiggles and screams and screams and screams. The man pulls her forward, pushes her back, trying to do everything in his power to not drop her. ¡°No, stop, stop, STOP! I need-¡± In her thrashing, she sees it again. The gun in the holster. He¡¯s too busy trying to pin her. With a kick, the man¡¯s on his knees. With a twist, she¡¯s holding the revolver. They¡¯re both half-submerged when she lifts it to his head, water dripping down the barrel. He doesn¡¯t get a chance to speak. She instantly squeezes the trigger. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Harriet opens her eyes, takes a breath, and screams. The deer¡¯s faded eyes look back at her, darting wildly around, steam rising with each breath. Red mattes her fur, massive clumps stuck together, and through the lacerations in the flesh, Harriet can see bone. The doe leans against a rock, legs kicking helplessly. Harriet reaches out to help her, but stops when she sees her hands. Bits of skin stick to her fingernails, somehow sharper, and aether glows across arms that are elbow-deep in red. Something metallic enters her mouth. She licks around her lips, and the taste becomes overwhelming. She can smell it all over her cheeks. Dripping down her chin. Blood. There¡¯s so much blood. But for a dying deer, there ought to be so much more. She slowly walks back into a tree, falls to the ground. Her legs feel like jelly. Her arms won¡¯t move. And at last, the worst, she no longer feels hunger. Harriet lifts her hands, and starts hyperventilating. The forest, the stars, her skin, they all start fusing together. The windchimes are coming. She can hear them, in the distance. But they¡¯re not coming fast enough. ¡°Harriet?¡± Harriet screeches, and rockets back. She spots her rifle in the grass and pounces for it. But when the sights reach her eye, her heart plummets. A tall man¡¯s standing over the deer, his face a mask of horror. He¡¯s still wearing that goddamn suit and tie. His hands are raised in defence, and his eyes never leave her rifle. ¡°Don¡¯t!¡± Harriet keeps it levelled. ¡°Don¡¯t move. Don¡¯t scream. Don¡¯t do anythin¡¯!¡± ¡°I-I¡¯m not fighting,¡± he whispers. ¡°It¡¯s midnight in the middle of the woods. Are ya fuckin¡¯ stalkin¡¯ me?¡± ¡°I followed-¡± He notes the flash in her eyes, cowers. ¡°No, no, not like that! I was thinking about our talk, how I¡­ God, Harriet. We should call someone! ¡°No!¡± She shouts, a little too quickly. Calms her breath to collect herself. ¡°No. This is nothin¡¯. This is fine. There ain¡¯t shit ta explain.¡± ¡°It looks like you-¡± ¡°I said there ain¡¯t shit!¡± She blinks a few times. ¡°Listen, pardner, I¡¯m askin¡¯ the questions now. So ya better stop speakin¡¯ riddles an¡¯ start givin¡¯ answers. Who the fuck are you?¡± He stands there, frozen in thought, for what feels like an eternity. Then he finally lowers his arms, and lifts his head to her eyes. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter who I am.¡± He smiles. ¡°Only that I can help.¡± She looks at him like a frightened animal. ¡°At church, you seemed faded. Distant. Lost in your own world. It caught my eye, so I asked around. But every snippet I heard only made it sound worse. They talked of a girl who only comes out at night. Who carries a gun wherever she can. Who changes hotels as often as clothes, and avoids like the plague anything that could resemble friendship-¡± ¡°I ain¡¯t like most people,¡± she hisses. ¡°Don¡¯ need houses an¡¯ suits an¡¯ any bleedin¡¯ company. Ain¡¯t that fine? Don¡¯ I have a right ta live how I like!?¡± ¡°You say it¡¯s how you like. But how can you be sure?¡± He looks at her sternly. ¡°I don¡¯t think you remember what you like and dislike. You¡¯re just treading water.¡± She grits her teeth, stays silent. Arms wobbling beneath the gun¡¯s weight. ¡°Okay. You don¡¯t have to agree. But prove to me that I¡¯m wrong.¡± The man speaks softly. ¡°You can¡¯t spend your whole life hunting. What else do you do?¡± Shooting range. Deathsleep. Staring at walls. ¡°Do you try to find friends?¡± Only prey. Harriet winces. ¡°Wh-why should I? Friends go. People leave. Should I-I invest in a town that¡¯s shrinkin¡¯ every month? Visit a pub that¡¯s a blink from shuttin¡¯ down? Make friends when I know I¡¯ll jes¡¯ watch ¡®em die? What¡¯s the point?¡± ¡°Because it gives you connection. However small, however fleeting. That¡¯s why you come here, right? To connect with the forest, with your gun, with nature. But we need more than roots and trees. We need each other.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve lasted quite a long time doin¡¯ things my way.¡± ¡°And look at yourself in the mirror, right now, and tell me you still feel human.¡± Harriet looks down at her arms, faintly glowing with aether. It¡¯s only through magic alone that the dead muscles are even moving. ¡°What the fuck do ya know about¡­ connections?¡± She growls. ¡°Yer a pup. Ya make computers.¡± ¡°I told you, I create. And in those creations, I save people.¡± He slowly moves his arm back, and Harriet brandishes her gun. But it doesn¡¯t seem to faze him. They both know she won¡¯t pull the trigger. His hand settles down in the grass, then lifts. Leaving behind a small card that flashes in the light of the moon. ¡°Just like I think I can still save you.¡± She sees the card, and scowls. ¡°If ya think I¡¯m gonna drop anythin¡¯ an¡¯ follow you-¡± ¡°You don¡¯t have to accept. It¡¯s an invitation.¡± He stands back up, gestures to the scene. ¡°And I¡¯ll tell no one about¡­ this. As a show of my faith. Sometimes we need a knife. To crack open the shell, and see the pearl." He turns around, ducking back into the trees, and Harriet slowly shimmies her way towards the business card. But it''s written in Greek: ¦°¦Ï¦Ë?¦Õ¦Ñ¦Ø¦Í ¦¤¦É¦Å¦Ô¦È?¦Í¦Ø¦Í ¦²?¦Ì¦Â¦Ï¦Ô¦Ë¦Ï? ¦²¦Ø¦Ó?¦Ñ¦É¦Ï? ¦¶¦Ñ¦Ô¦Ò?¦Í¦È¦Ï¦Ô ¡°Wait! Why are ya doin¡¯ this? Why do ya care?" He doesn''t turn. "Look for me, and I will find you." And he''s gone again. Leaving her with a card she can''t read, and words she can''t parse. Harriet studies them for a final time, and notes the symbol. Dark black ink that shadows the entire paper. A trident, with three bold prongs. All upside down, so that they seem to be piercing her finger. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 1864 Summertime She clicks open the gun and lightly shakes the barrel, until three bullets fall out. One after another. She rubs them against her thumb, presses them to her cheek. They stick to the blood on her face, her palm, her clothes. Like the bits of brain and bone in her hair, uncleaned. But it doesn¡¯t matter. She curls into a ball, rocking slowly back and forth, watching the spinning wheel as she flicks the revolver¡¯s cylinder. Smith and Wesson, it reads in tiny font. The grip¡¯s made of rosewood. It can hold half a dozen rounds. The farmer¡¯s corpse has snagged on a rock, just a little downstream. His arms are outstretched, and she can still see the bottom half of his jaw. No. Stop looking. Focus on the gun. Smith and Wesson. Rosewood grip. Half a dozen rounds. Tears start falling, but her throat¡¯s too weak to sob. Instead, she makes light, wheezing sounds. Putting the grip to her forehead. Curling in, deeper and deeper. She can still hear his voice. See his eyes. NO! He¡¯s not real. He¡¯s not real. Nothing¡¯s real. Nothing but Harriet, the gun, and the wilderness all around her. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Chapter 3: The Girl from Bethnal Green ¡°Sovereign (noun): A Great One of such valour, merit, and esteem that the Court have deemed them worthy of independence. On becoming a Sovereign, any Keepings the Great One is enthralled to are terminated; and they themselves are free to take Kepts at their leisure. This is in addition to the allods and royalties customarily bestowed by the Court. As such, Sovereignty is a highly sought-after status, though the selection process has been known to last decades, and certain Magistries, like the Veneficii, are not eligible to take part. Among the terrorists of the Unbound, ¡®Sovereign¡¯ is a pejorative. Yet many of this putrid ilk maintain a hierarchy of their own. Those tyrants who manage to rule that lot through fear and violence are often given the informal equivalent title ¡®Freeholder.¡¯¡± Excerpt from So, You¡¯ve Been Vamped! A Newlydead¡¯s Guide to the Unlife, 2003 Edition, published by the Magistry of the Sc¨¢thshi¨²l¨®ir +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 1864 Summertime Her feet stomp through the dust, her clothes still wet from the river. The path is shaded only by steep cliffs and dead trees. She sees the wagon: cracked wood, white canvas. With a grunt, she crawls up the feedbox, ducking inside before either oxen can see. The farmer was right. One of the axles is busted. Harriet can tell by the way everything leans when she stands. Boxes and glasses and tins, but mostly boxes, stacked so tall she¡¯s terrified they¡¯ll fall over. Harriet slowly sets Pa¡¯s Springfield down, gives another wary glance, and swipes an opened tin. If nobody heard the gunshot, she¡¯s probably alone, but¡­ The lid slides back. A scent flares up. Harriet¡¯s eyes grow wide. Bacon. Pounds of the stuff, cured and hard and fragrant. Its mere presence makes her stomach dizzy. She¡¯s about to bite down, when¡­ The farmer mentioned a wife, a daughter. What will they eat? Who buys their boxes? After she¡­ she¡­ Harriet bites her lip and shakes her head, finding an empty sack and pouring half the tin into it. She starts tearing through the other boxes to do the same. Rice. Cornbread. Dried fruits. Even a little fresh fish and game. They all go into her sack, until she¡¯s nearly cleared the wagon, struggling to lift the heavier boxes until one spills out and gunpowder. Like black smoke it smears across the wagon floor. Harriet peeks inside the box, spots the musket balls, the little pouches for carrying them. She tries throwing food out of the sack to fit it, but the box is still too big. She¡¯ll just have to lug it back with her. The way back is hard. Harriet¡¯s sore, and starved, and exhausted. She tries to distract herself, think about other things, but all that comes are memories of her old pastor¡¯s sermons. How Christians should always help. How they have to cast down thieves. It¡¯s a matter of life and death. Heaven and Hell. Something bigger. Her brow knots. No. He could¡¯ve been a bandit. The family could be made up. And what the hell were they doing out here in this desert? Packing up their whole lives because a few rebels scared them? Harriet keeps telling herself this, even as her stomach refuses to calm down, until eventually, one thought emerges. Crystal clear. It¡¯s not a crime. It¡¯s living. And so she¡¯s able to leave the wagon, the farmer, and his wife and child behind her. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ August, 2004 The damp and fog have already rolled into London, warm with the summer air. The City is a staid place, smooth stone streets surrounded by elegant marble pillars, and this spot seems much the same. A courtyard tucked between ancient blocks, centred around a fountain. On its pedestal stands a woman, sharp-faced, haloed, pointy-eared. The statue breathes wealth, history, beauty. Most would assume she¡¯s an angel. But tonight, that beauty is marred. By the black hats and yellow vests of London¡¯s Met, pushing traffic back. By the bankers, accountants, and brokers, desperate to get home after far-too-long shifts. And by the gentle hum of the Rolls Royce, the click of its door, as a tall, lean man walks outside. Pale skin, short dark hair, a sharp vest to match his bow tie. He looks like many of the men he now pushes against, but not quite. His eyes are a little too tired, his smile a little too wide. And if one were to look at him through the fountain¡¯s water, they¡¯d find nothing. He doesn¡¯t cast a reflection. ¡°Halt!¡± One of the cops rushes towards him, holding a clipboard, clicking open a pen. ¡°Name and Magistry?¡± ¡°What happens if I don¡¯t provide it?¡± The cop looks into the man¡¯s smile. But not for long. It¡¯s an old trick of the aether; pheromones, or something, that makes the air feel cold and shrouds his face with migraine-inducing pain. Useful for preserving Court secrets. Necessary to keep mortals at a wide berth. The cop tries to explain. ¡°After your associate¡¯s murder, the City was asked to increase their security presence-¡± ¡°Theatre, officer. That¡¯s all this is. If we wanted the terrorists gone, we wouldn¡¯t be painting such targets.¡± He fixes his cuffs. ¡°Bright vests, eh? Might want to strip them off.¡± The human¡¯s angry. ¡°If you really think we can¡¯t defend-¡± ¡°No offence, officer, but I¡¯ve always understood that fighting crimes has been more of a hobby for ¡®London¡¯s finest.¡¯¡± That breaks the barrier. Magic can¡¯t contain rage. But when the cop finally pierces the veil, looks him in the eye, fear quickly grasps control. He sees skin that¡¯s grown sallow, black irises with no sclera. An ear-to-ear smile showing razor-sharp teeth. ¡°Careful, officer.¡± The man lowers his arms. ¡°I bite.¡± Suddenly, the cop yelps. Something cold and slimy slithers past his leg. The man looks down, sees a writhing black tendril. It piles and climbs onto the fountain, cold lingering wherever it seeps. A tiny bronze button clicks, and the whole base starts to tremble. Marble moves, water drains. Soon, the whole structure has opened up, revealing a platform ready to delve fathoms down. The officer watches it, frightened, desperate to speak. But a thousand whispers interrupt him, light and airy, sending shivers down his spine. ¡°S''il vous pla?t s''il vous pla?t-¡± ¡°- a wife, children-¡± ¡°- I¡¯ll give anything!¡± They join the shadows that build wherever the strange man walks. The officer can see faces in the murk. Eyes piercing through the fog. ¡°I suppose you must write something,¡± the man says while he passes. His accent is old, impossible to place. ¡°I don¡¯t want there to be any delays.¡± When he steps on the platform, the whispers are gone. The shadows disperse. The cop stares at him, pen dropped, hanging on each word. ¡°Name: Henri Ombras. Magistry:¡± The platform lurches down. ¡°Shadow-Walker.¡± +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°¡®No, Ombras, you¡¯re just an old tart,¡¯¡± the Nocturni speaks in a mockingly low accent. ¡°¡®They don¡¯t spill our secrets to any old guard. The Court chooses London¡¯s finest. Heh. Finest, my arse.¡± He taps his foot impatiently as the platform bears down. On his flanks: two gargantuan statues, soldiers rising dozens of metres tall. Their shields are elaborately carved, their faces shrouded by helms, as if they were mere vessels of their ancient armour. It makes Henri yawn. They must have awed him, once. But after five-hundred years, no longer. The platform stops with a thud, cueing a trail of light to shoot out before him. Aether weaves through the floor and walls, visible in glass panes, and grows wherever he walks. As he nears the great salt-brick walls, an ancient carving greets him. Boars, eagles, ibex and bulls, all bowing before a robed man who grasps the beaming sphere of the Sun. PRIMUS CUSTOS LUCIS LATOR Henri studies the mural, the man. His chin juts out and his brows tilt, just like the other statue. How kind of those ancient vampires to so perfectly steal the arrogance that came before them. As he passes the line of salt etched into the floor, the Court seems to rise with him. Massive pillars, vaulted ceilings, the stonework more impressive and far pre-dating any British cathedral. Aether flows through all of it, its gilded light trapped in lanterns, flaring stained glass, brightening altars. The room is centred around a gilded throne, and an equally jewelled platform that rises high above it. A woman dressed in white sings from there, in a language that all present have long forgotten. The beautiful notes shower over passages filled with whispers. The platform¡¯s angled, ever so slightly, so that Sovereigns like himself don¡¯t need to see her chains. There are three kinds of people in the Court of the New Sun, and like so many places, this distinction is kindly made clear in their clothing. Black-clad Sovereigns boast and jeer, sipping from their cups as quickly as their white-clothed Kepts can fill them. All of their outfits range a dozen centuries, though the retainers tend towards less skin. The real low-rung, the Oathsworn, don¡¯t wear clothes at all. Some are living furniture, their bare backs used as legrests or trays. Others are food, forced to sit on stone benches, waiting in terror beneath posture collars that leave their necks open. Blindfolds cover their eyes, their lips are sealed by bands. And in all this rush of dead and living, despite being the states reason they¡¯ve gathered, the Reeve¡¯s large coffin is completely forgotten. Henri approaches it, touches it. The smooth stone is as cold as his fingers. He knows that inside is nothing but ash and dust, but he still hopes for a¡­ presence. The Court provided a portrait of the man: a well-trimmed moustache, and a bright red uniform with a tiger¡¯s hide tied over it. Henri tries to remember when he last saw Germaine FitzGerald so poised, and clean. They must have drawn that when he was still human. A growl forces Henri to stop, look up. The source is standing in a corner, just behind the throne, his body layered in chainmail, his face covered by an armoured mask. But Henri can still feel the contempt beneath those beady glowing eyes. And immediately understand the message of the hand reaching down for an axe. ¡°Seems they don¡¯t want me here.¡± Henri whispers to the coffin, flashing the armoured man a Cheshire Cat smile. ¡°Alas, I only came here to tell you¡­¡± He taps the coffin and leans down, his voice barely felt on the stone. ¡°Br?le bien en enfer, Germaine.¡± He smiles vilely. ¡°Je serai toujours l¨¤, ¨¤ respirer.¡± And with that, Henri stands up, brushes his coat, and slowly slinks away. He¡¯s choosing his vintage from the serving Kepts when he catches the silence, the shift in the air. Henri searches the crowd for friendly faces, or even someone tolerable. Nothing but stares and covered mouths. Seems like many of the Court¡¯s whispers are now about him. And after the Shadow-Walkers paid for this? How welcoming. ¡°Ombras.¡± ¡°Deputy Kiley!¡± The heavy voice made Henri flinch. But he¡¯s more impressed than startled. Rarely can someone catch him so off-guard. He forces a grin. ¡°Though I hear you won¡¯t be Deputy for much longer.¡± Marcus Kiley¡¯s muscular arms are folded over a half-buttoned shirt . His clothes are white, but no Sovereign would be stupid enough to give orders to a man with that kind of glare. Two tendrils shoot from Henri¡¯s arm, curling over glasses of ¡®wine,¡¯ but Kiley lifts his hand. ¡°No phanks. I prefer to hunt wiff me own hands.¡± ¡°Not unwise in your position,¡± Henri sips. ¡°You have to stay in practice.¡± Aether is always stale when the blood within has cooled. But still, Henri can test the destitution of whatever poor sod this was taken from. It makes the drink sour. ¡°I heard that you¡¯ve been considered for Sovereign status. Congratulations!¡± ¡°Only took me a hundred eighty years.¡± ¡°Temperance, Kiley. You¡¯ve been with us only twenty. And the Court so rarely receives Unbound¡­ converts. You can¡¯t deny them their caution.¡± ¡°Heh, true. ¡®Ey don¡¯t trust outsiders.¡± Kiley smirks. ¡°S¡¯pose ¡®at¡¯s why ¡®ey never promoted you.¡± Henri blinks, lets the barb slide. Then makes his smile a little wider. ¡°The Shadow-Walkers have found a valuable place in the Court-¡± ¡°- A job ¡®at no-one wants-¡± ¡°Not every Kept can smash skulls quite like you,¡± Henri tilts his head. ¡°But they still have the right to try and become Sovereign.¡± ¡°Yeah, so ¡®ow many ¡®ave tried an¡¯ proved ¡®emselves this year? Phirteen? Twelve? From a pool of thousands?¡± ¡°A chance is still a chance. But we sidetrack.¡± Henri¡¯s smile fades, and he gestures to the coffin. ¡°I wanted to offer my condolences.¡± Kiley snorts. ¡°You¡¯d be the first.¡± ¡°Your feelings towards him might be complex, but losing a Keeper is never an easy transition. As a Porter, I¡¯ve seen this struggle in many. I have resources-¡± ¡°I ain¡¯t ¡®bout to start bein¡¯ some Shadow-Walker¡¯s bitch.¡± ¡°You wouldn¡¯t be. We need to foster a relationship, Deputy. FitzGerald and I¡¯s bond, it won¡¯t be easily replaced.¡± Kiley laughs again. Longer this time. Forcing Henri to stand awkwardly. ¡°...One fing I fink I will miss ¡®bout ¡®at codger, compared to youse tight cunts. The Reeve told it like he felt. And he fahkin¡¯ hated you.¡± Two insults, then. Henri¡¯s struggling to keep the fangs in. ¡°I-¡± The doors of the gate open, and a wave of sound rushes over. A horde of Nocturni push through the doors, dozens in all, their light skin and fluid movements betraying their youth. More than a few servants drop their trays and rush to join their comrades. They swarm over a man with a dark hat, a scabbard sword, and a blue coat littered with medals. A black scarf is all he wears to keep decorum, and he pushes through the Kepts with a singular purpose, even as they shout his name. ¡°Captain Morris-¡± ¡°-Captain Morris-¡± ¡°-Captain Morris!¡± ¡°Look at ¡®at,¡± Kiley frowns. ¡°Scurrying like rats on a capsized ship.¡± Henri barely hears him. His focus pinpoints the marks on the Kepts¡¯ skin instead. Cuts, and bruises, and more beneath their suits. The professional way they plead does nothing to hide the desperation in their voices. ¡°Captain, please, five minutes of your time-¡± ¡°- I had some ideas -¡± ¡°- you have to help me.¡± Henri barely speaks. ¡°Sailors always know where their ships can find safe harbour.¡± When the Captain nears the altar, he kneels down, whispers a prayer. The Kepts continue to loudly surround him. Henri can feel the scowls of the Sovereigns around him. Disturbed, obstructed, indignified. ¡°Why¡¯d ¡®e host ¡®is funeral, Ombras?¡± Kiley folds his arms. ¡°Don¡¯t look cheap. An¡¯ we boff know he ain¡¯t here to pray.¡± ¡°Reeve FitzGerald and the Captain maintained a strong professional relationship -¡± ¡°He told the New Sun ¡®e wanted FitzGerald gone.¡± ¡°Magisters often have responsibilities that go beyond their opinions.¡± Kiley laughs. ¡°Then Morris is the only fahkin¡¯ Magister who ever thought to bear ¡®em. Cah¡¯mon, Porter. Be honest, for once. You, him, all this. It¡¯s image, right? Offerin¡¯ bread an¡¯ circuses to distract from the link youse got wiff FitzGerald¡¯s killers.¡± ¡°Are you implying something, Deputy?¡± This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°Implyin¡¯ is a bit too subtle for what I¡¯m after.¡± Henri takes a step back. Hardens. Perhaps Kiley¡¯s not ready for Sovereignty, after all. He still doesn¡¯t know how to play. ¡°I could tell you, Deputy, that Morris has never contacted Fireside. That his relationship with Blackbird ended the moment she Shorned us. That his heroism in the last Revolt should have permanently assuaged such suspicions in everyone. But, frankly, I know you don¡¯t care. So instead I will warn against barking so accusingly, when your links to the Unbound are quite the more clear.¡± Kiley furrows his brows. ¡°I¡¯ve proven-¡± ¡°What was the Hermit King¡¯s name, Kiley? The one who made himself tyrant of the slums, lord of the East End? Who fed and raped and killed from whoever he chose, while you stood by and guarded him.¡± ¡°Ratcatcher¡¯s dead. I-¡± ¡°What of his get? The Freeholder, in Bethnal Green? The Oathsworn report mentioned ravens on the site. Can you remind me how exactly she controls them?¡± Kiley flexes his shoulders, and growls, fangs showing. Henri maintains his posture. ¡°Sorry to bring up old wounds.¡± He smiles. ¡°I know you two once shared a Keeper.¡± ¡°Your plan¡¯s not gonna work,¡± Kiley hisses. ¡°Market yousselves ¡®owever you like, it won¡¯t make ¡®ese Sov cunts forget why ¡®ey don¡¯t trust you.¡± ¡°Perhaps we¡¯re not marketing for them.¡± ¡°Porter Ombras?¡± A soft, squeaky voice pulls both men from their parlay. It¡¯s a young man, with bundles of paper close to his chest. He dresses like most Kepts these days: sharp, professional, even trendy. ¡°Oooooohh.¡± Henri turns. ¡°Finally, I get called on for a turn!¡± The boy meekly nods, stares at the ground. That¡¯s when Henri notices the bite marks around his collar bone. Likely ¡®gifts¡¯ of ¡®love¡¯ from his Keeper. ¡°I-I just need a-a-a few moments of your time-¡± ¡°Well, don¡¯t waste them stuttering.¡± The boy turns red. ¡°My K-Keeper said the Court wants me to be more useful. So I-I¡¯ve written together a f-few proposals on s-streamlining the Oathsworn process.¡± ¡°Oh. London¡¯s Met leaving you unimpressed? I was just thinking the same thing!¡± ¡°I-I was hoping to present them to Magister Morris, but the C-Captain¡¯s a busy man-¡± ¡°That he is.¡± ¡°- so I was wondering if you could make an introduction?¡± He can feel Kiley smirk behind his back, but Henri takes it in stride. Grasps the nervous boy by his shoulder and tries to not notice that signature Kept twitch. ¡°I see. You want me to, er¡­ what¡¯s that term the mortals have?¡± ¡°Networking, sir.¡± ¡°Network him!¡± Henri pushes the boy along. ¡°Well, young one, I too am a busy man, but I can respect someone so clever-¡± ¡°Ombras.¡± Henri turns again. Kiley¡¯s scowling. ¡°If ¡®ese young knew half of what Morris¡¯ done, ¡®ey¡¯d sprint away in fear.¡± Henri feels the boy quiver, his glance shifting between the two men. But the Shadow-Walker merely points beyond. ¡°Look at that mural behind you, Deputy. Can you read what it says?¡± They both study the back of the Court¡¯s gates, a display almost as stunning as the one in front. A tall woman, with greying hair and a rich dress of black and gold. From her back juts out a glittering bronze halo, and creatures of all kinds kneel towards her, just like her forebear. The desire for continuity is obvious - she even holds a ball of aetherial light. But there¡¯s a single break from Lucis Lator¡¯s beauty, something that immediately catches every viewer¡¯s attention. The eyes. No haughtiness. No pride. Just piercing intensity. Henri reads out the words on the bottom: ¡°Ego sum Sol Novus. Timete me sicut vos timete aurorum. I am the New Sun. Fear me as you fear the dawn.¡± Henri meets Kiley¡¯s eyes, keeps the boy back. ¡°So if you think Morris would terrify these Kepts, Deputy, I¡¯d say they¡¯re terrified already.¡± +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°God fuckin¡¯-¡± Harriet Eddards sighs as the keys tumble from her hands, clattering against the door. She presses her head to the wood and starts slowly kneeling down, but the pain in her chest turns biting. Putting a hand on her belly, she can still feel the holes. Her clothes might have changed: combat boots, coveralls, a Green Day t-shirt she found stuffed in Janet¡¯s van. But her aether¡¯s spent, and a wound like this will take more than one night¡¯s healing. ¡°Come on!¡± She hisses, trying to kick the keys up with her boot. She¡¯d consider asking the neighbours for help, packed as they are in the borough¡¯s tight homes and highrises. But they¡¯d just ask why she¡¯s so pale. ¡°Ya lousy-¡± A loud squawk and flurry of feathers send Harriet leaping from the porch. She nearly unslings her rifle, until she spots the intruder. A gargantuan two-and-a-half foot tall raven, its plume midnight black, its eyes glowing with trace amounts of aether. ¡°H-Howdy Nancy¡­¡± Harriet raises her arms as the corvid settles on a dead plant. ¡°P-P-Promise, I ain¡¯t-¡± Harriet¡¯s eyes flash as Nancy leans forward, the keyring held firm in her beak. The vampire smiles. ¡°Well look at that.¡± She takes the keys and slides them into the door. ¡°Guess ya finally decided to get off yer scary streak.¡± The moment the door opens, Nancy takes off, swooping into the kitchen. Harriet¡¯s quick to follow, once her nostrils¡­ adjust. Aisling Finnerty¡¯s home smells like its owner; a permeating mixture of sawdust and wet cat. Several rooms are filled with piles of¡­ things. Clothes and beer cans and fast food bags, sometimes so tall that Finnerty will slide into them like a fish and fall asleep. Every step Harriet takes comes with a tiny crunch of crumbs or broken glass. It¡¯d be a hazard to her health, if she wasn¡¯t already dead. But, through painstaking effort, Harriet has managed to turn the living room and kitchen into a relative isle of cleanliness. She throws her gun on the sunk-in couch and turns to Finnerty¡¯s - as usual - abandoned pile of mail. Finnerty likes to ¡®opt out¡¯ of the post office, just like she ¡®opts out¡¯ of the bank, the neighbourhood potluck, the Kirby sales pitch - anything involving people. But, as those poor Kirby salesmen learned, ¡®opting out¡¯ isn¡¯t always pretty, so keeping up with the Joneses has fallen mostly on Harriet¡¯s shoulders. She might only stay in the house once a week, but most mortals think she¡¯s the owner. ¡°Bills, bills¡­ kind of ya ta not feed on the Mormons this time, Ashlin¡¯... what¡¯s this?¡± It¡¯s a conspicuous envelope, with yellowed paper tucked within. Finding no return address, Harriet opens it cautiously, unfolding the letter to reveal¡­ ¡°Nuthin¡¯.¡± Harriet squints, holds it up to the light. ¡°Who the fuck sends an empty letter?¡± Tok. Tok-tok-tok. Harriet turns to find Nancy perched on the fridge. The raven looks at her, pecks the plastic, then looks at her again. ¡°Ohhhh, no. Mm-mm. Not gonna happen.¡± Harriet folds her arms. ¡°Yer jes¡¯ pretendin¡¯ ta turn over a new leaf, right? Hopin¡¯ I¡¯ll forget?¡± Nancy makes a low growling sound, then works even more intensely. Tok-tok-tok-tok-tok-tok-tok! ¡°Every time. Every goddamn time. Ya gimme that look, ya say, ¡®No Harriet, I¡¯m serious, I¡¯ve changed.¡¯ An¡¯ then I open the door an¡¯ what do I get? Bites an¡¯ claws an¡¯ shit in my hair. Ya think I¡¯m fuckin¡¯ dumb?¡± Nancy tilts her head, making her best puppy-dog impression. ¡°Yeah, keep makin¡¯ that face, birdbrain. Hope it works on yer ma.¡± Harriet huffs and turns away. For a few seconds, she hears light scratching. But it¡¯s followed by soft, sad coos. They almost sound like whimpers. A few more seconds pass. Harriet turns to open the fridge. ¡°Fine, fine!¡± Harriet pulls out a bowl of corn, the only thing Finnerty ever keeps in stock. ¡°But yer only gettin¡¯ a handful, cuz the last thing I need is - AH!¡± The moment she opens the lid, Nancy pounces. Everything becomes a blur of claws and wings. At one point, the bird pecks open her finger, revealing a thin trail of blood. ¡°YA FUCKIN¡¯ - SEE, SEE! I KNEW I-¡± The bird flaps away when Harriet¡¯s hand hits the table. Harriet snarls, triumphant, but the victory proves short-lived. There¡¯s a loud sizzling sound by her finger. She looks down slowly, and notes how her blood has smeared the blank page. Runic symbols appear in bright colours, the whole sheet swirling. Her eyes grow wide, and she hurriedly grabs the paper. ¡°Shit. Shit! SHIT!¡± She throws it towards the pile of beer cans just as the letter ignites, a flare so bright it leaves spot-marks in her eyes. Just as quickly, the flames die down, and the paper somehow turns into something intact. Harriet gasps for air. ¡°POISONED ONES!?¡± She huffs. ¡°JEEZUS CHRIST!¡± The veneficii, or Poisoned Ones, were the Court¡¯s most enigmatic servants. Powerful beings who, without rhyme or reason, seemed to control aether as easily as others breathe air. But that control was unstable, barely leashed by the Court through the Keeping and a blind, fanatic loyalty. They were known universally as rats, and thus were rarely an Unbound¡¯s friend. But¡­ magic pipe bombs? In the mail? Was it retaliation? The ground around Harriet starts to rumble, and she watches the silverware shake. A heavy base pushes through the window, joined by a roaring engine and a chorus of howling laughter. Harriet grips the table. Finnerty brought her friends. The front door swings open with a kick, immediately magnifying the bass. Nancy dives through the air and perches on the shoulder of a teenage girl, maybe twelfth-year, with a short brown bob and a brown trackie. An entourage of young boys follow her, sporting black sweats, ball caps, face-scarves, and a few too many layers for summer. She sets a half dozen shopping bags with a dramatic bow, while her crew stare at Harriet with cat-like yellow eyes. ¡°¡®Arriet Eddards.¡± A tongue rolls over Aisling Finnerty¡¯s fangs. ¡°We¡¯s present to you the finest fookin¡¯ gifts of the movverfookin¡¯ Blockbustah.¡± Harriet greets them with an awkward smile, trying to ignore the lead pipes they¡¯ve brought in. ¡°Hey Ashlin¡¯.¡± She peaks over the crew, to an unmasked young blonde, hiding behind his mates. ¡°Oh! Howdy, Andrzej!¡± The boy, newest to Finnerty¡¯s flock, flinches at her words. But he manages to whisper something in Polish. ¡°... Cze??.¡± Another man climbs the front step behind him, arms filled with bags of Doritos. His buzz-cut is a good two heads taller than the other boys, and three heads above his employer. ¡°Bird,¡± he says, with a thick accent. ¡°Where¡¯m¡¯I slappin¡¯ the crisps?¡± ¡°The fookin¡¯ couch, nudnik! What, youse gonna ¡®low it in me fookin¡¯ garms!?¡± Finnerty¡¯s way of speaking - a gargled hodgepodge of Cockney, wildly thrown swears, and foreign words - borders on unintelligible at the best of times. But with her ¡®mandem,¡¯ or whatever she¡¯s calling them now, it somehow gets infinitely worse. Harriet steps aside to let the tall boy, Jayden, through. ¡°Didn¡¯t realise we were hostin¡¯ a party.¡± ¡°Bet Man don¡¯t fink much ¡®bout most tings, innit?¡± Jayden replies, causing the other boys to laugh. Harriet knows she should be offended, but honestly, she can barely understand. ¡°Ah¡­ an¡¯ how ¡®bout yerself, Jayden,¡± Harriet folds her hands. ¡°Things doin¡¯ well?¡± ¡°Sure.¡± He glares at her beneath his face-covering. ¡°But a bit less wiff you.¡± Harriet shrivels back as he marches down the hall, giving Finnerty a fist bump and pulling the boys out behind. The Freeholder waits for the door to slam shut before she stops nuzzling her bird. ¡°I¡¯d hug ya, but¡­¡± She points at Harriet¡¯s chest. ¡°¡®Fraid somefin¡¯ might stick through.¡± ¡°It¡¯s the accent, right?¡± ¡°Wuzzat?¡± ¡°Yer friends? The, uh¡­¡± Harriet lowers to a whisper. ¡°The coloured ones? Issat why they don¡¯t like me?¡± ¡°The col-... you mean Jayden?¡± Finnerty snorts, shakes her head. ¡°Naw, naw, Man¡¯s just takin¡¯ piss. ¡®E¡¯d never-¡± ¡°You see ¡®at gun Fireside swingin¡¯ ¡®round?¡± Jayden¡¯s voice breaks through. ¡°Bitch fahkin¡¯ mental.¡± ¡°She¡¯s schitz, man.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t know what Bird be seein¡¯, bruv. Peng ting like ¡®at ain¡¯t worff-¡± The car¡¯s engine cuts them off, but Harriet stares worriedly at her friend. Finnerty merely shrugs. ¡°I mean¡­ maybe it¡¯s cuz youse callin¡¯ him ¡®coloured.¡¯¡± ¡°I - no, no, it ain¡¯t like that, Ashlin¡¯. I¡¯m old, but I ain¡¯t got no problem with-¡± Harriet stops, scowls. ¡°Actually, no. If yer gonna lecture someone, start with the damn bird.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t slander Nance! Girl¡¯s a gem!¡± ¡°She attacked me! Again.¡± ¡°An¡¯ you prolly fookin¡¯ earned it. Bitch got priorities. Now sit down and quit kvetching. Don¡¯t wantchu walkin¡¯ off and getting fookin¡¯ impaled again.¡± Finnerty waltzes off to the kitchen with her strange gait - hopping on her toes, bouncing side-to-side - while Harriet collapses onto the couch. She watches her friend strip off her hoodie and open the pantry, a space equally full of corn. ¡°Any chance I¡¯ll get ta see the real Finnerty?¡± ¡°No. ¡®Cause no one wanna see the ¡®real fookin¡¯ Finnerty¡¯.¡± ¡°I ¡®fookin¡¯ do.¡± Finnerty glances back with an exhausted grimace, which Harriet returns with a smile. The Freeholder sighs, flaps her arms about, and stands still while bright aether floods her entire body. The human-like shein Aisling Finnerty wears vanishes wherever magic touches it, revealing dark wispy hair, sharpened claws, dozens of scars, and skin that¡¯s pockmarked, cragged, yellow. Her face shifts even more, her ears elongating to points, her jaw shrinking into an overbite. Rich black feathers sprout along her arms and legs, turning thick and fuzzy by the chest. Finnerty¡¯s eyes take an eagle-like hue. ¡°¡®Ere.¡± Finnerty brusquely pulls out a bag of popcorn. ¡°Your fookin¡¯ magic trick. ¡®Appy?¡± ¡°Very. An¡¯ speakin¡¯ a¡¯ magic tricks, best be careful. We got Poisoned Ones.¡± ¡°Ah, fook.¡± ¡°Sent a letter through the mail that nearly blew my fuckin¡¯ face off. I think-¡± ¡°It look cool?¡± ¡°-my blood- wha?¡± ¡°The magic? Fire, sparkles, ¡®at sorta shite?¡± When Harriet scowls, Finnerty bobs her head. ¡°Mans make some fookin¡¯ scenes, I¡¯m just sayin¡¯.¡± ¡°Well, the letter¡¯s right over there, if¡¯n ya wanna read.¡± ¡°Pffffft, fook no! Fook the Veneficii.¡± Finnerty slams her popcorn into the microwave. ¡°Slytherin-ass little freaks.¡± The microwave roars to life, and for a few seconds Finnerty watches it, mesmerised. Like it might start spewing liquid gold. Harriet squints, confused. ¡°Uh, Ashlin¡¯? What¡¯re ya doin¡¯?¡± ¡°I¡¯m makin¡¯ popcorn.¡± ¡°Fer yerself?¡± ¡°It ain¡¯t for the fookin¡¯ Queen.¡± ¡°But yer dead. Ain¡¯t ya jes¡¯ gonna throw it up?¡± Finnerty mimics a high-pitched voice. ¡°¡®Ain¡¯t ya jes¡¯ gonna¡¯... bitch, I don¡¯t care! It¡¯s fookin¡¯ Movie Night! We has toilets!¡± ¡°Movie Night?¡± Harriet looks at the bag. Sure enough, a DVD case has edged out. She can read the title beneath the blue Blockbuster sticker. ¡°Really? Spider-Man 2?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t say it like ¡®at. It¡¯s Spider-Man fookin¡¯ 2. You¡¯re gonna love it.¡± ¡°But the first was so cheesy-¡± ¡°IT¡¯S A SUPERHERO MOVIE!¡± Finnerty bounces. ¡°IT¡¯S S¡¯POSED TO ¡®AVE FOOKIN¡¯ CHEESE!¡± Harriet gasps when she sees the clock. ¡°Ashlin¡¯, shit, we can¡¯t watch a film! It¡¯s four-thirty! Sunrise is in an hour-¡± ¡°We¡¯ll pull the fookin¡¯ curtains.¡± ¡°It¡¯ll put me in a deathsleep-¡± ¡°So tell the Sun to go fook itself! You ain¡¯t its fookin¡¯ bitch!¡± ¡°Ashlin¡¯,¡± Harriet whimpers into the pillow. ¡°I wanna heal.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll heal you wiff me fookin¡¯ jokes, an¡¯ me insightful critiques of the film¡¯s themes. ¡®Sides, can¡¯t stall. Tomorrow¡¯s Game Night.¡± ¡°Game Night!?¡± Harriet rockets up, but the pain in her chest sends her straight back. Finnerty points at a mysterious black box by the television. ¡°The fook you fink I got ¡®at PS2 for!?¡± ¡°But ain¡¯t vidya games fuckin¡¯ kids¡¯ stuff?¡±¡¯ ¡°Kid¡¯s stuff? Kid¡¯s stuff!? This ain¡¯t fookin¡¯ teddy bears, Eddards! This is real fookin¡¯ life!¡± Finnerty reaches into the Blockbuster bag, waving around a dramatic cover. ¡°Look, look! Castlevania: Lament a¡¯ Shadows! You play as a vampire hunter, it¡¯s like fookin¡¯ trainin¡¯ for us! And see? It says ¡®PEGI Twelve-Plus!¡¯ ¡®At¡¯s us! We¡¯re Plus!¡± ¡°But¡­ I-I ain¡¯t ever played a vampire game before-¡± ¡°And ¡®at¡¯s fookin¡¯ fine. You can fookin¡¯ watch!¡± ¡°Ashlin¡¯, if ya wanted me ta watch all these movies an¡¯ games, why didn¡¯t ya invite me at nine?¡± ¡°I was busy.¡± ¡°With what?¡± The microwave dings, and its door slides open. Finnerty greedily scratches the top off with her claws, speaking between bites. ¡°Somefin¡¯ important.¡± +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°ARRIGHT EVERYONE! THIS IS A FOOKIN¡¯ ROBBERY!¡± Finnerty fires her pistol, smashing a lightbulb and raising the shop¡¯s alarm. ¡°TONIGHT IS A FOOKIN¡¯ MOVIE NIGHT, AND I¡¯M ALL OUTTA ME BLOODY FOOKIN¡¯ CRISPS!¡± A half dozen boys leap out from behind her, knocking down shelves, splitting bags, smashing glass. They scoop up armfuls of cheap crisps and sprint out, sometimes using aether to move at super-speed bursts. Finnerty eyes a can of Pringles, barely noticing the manager and cashiers cowering behind her. That tweaker¡¯s blood gave her a great fucking high, but she¡¯s coming back down, she¡¯s antsy. She¡¯s about to pop her trophy open when she catches two boys, struggling to carry a TV. ¡°Oi. OI!¡± Finnerty rushes towards them, flailing her gun. ¡°What the fook does Mans fink ¡®eyse doin¡¯!¡± ¡°Look at the tag, geezer!¡± Jayden points to the shelf. ¡°It¡¯s fahkin¡¯ seven-¡¯undred quid!¡± ¡°An¡¯ youse slap it down, right fookin¡¯ now, an¡¯ fill youse fookin¡¯ arms wiff me movverfookin¡¯ snacks!¡± She turns, and her eyes twitch. Corn. Rows and rows of corn. They just stack it up like that, piled in the fridge? Four gunshots demolish the glass barrier between Finnerty and her birthright. She hovers over the cobs, hopping from foot to foot, before sliding them wholesale off their shelves, and bundling them into her trackie. ¡°¡®Is night.¡± Her nostrils flare, still reeling from coke. Her eyes are bloodshot. ¡°¡®Is fookin¡¯ night-¡± She freezes. New sounds. The manager¡¯s on the phone, cursing to himself in Bengali. The cashiers squeeze themselves right behind. Finnerty scowls. That won¡¯t do. That won¡¯t FUCKING DO! ¡°Hello, hello! My name is Rajendra Bose, I own store on Victoria Square. Please, you have to-¡± Finnerty¡¯s landing sends all three mortals back, so loud and heavy that she cracks the counter¡¯s glass. Her eyes glow menacingly as she tilts her head, lifting the gun sideways, never leaving her squat. She must look so cool. One of the cashiers - ¡®Eugenijus¡¯ - seems ready to piss his pants. ¡°Evenin¡¯. Labas. Salam.¡± She tries to catch all their tongues. ¡°Rude time to call. Can¡¯t see we¡¯s in the middle of somefin¡¯ major?¡± The manager doesn¡¯t respond, his phone rattling in his hands. Finnerty slowly reaches over, plucks it up with two fingers, and brings it towards her ear. ¡°Lucille, right?¡± Her eyes spark. ¡°¡®Eyyyyyyy! Wagwon, what you say? Oh, ¡®is? It¡¯s nuffin¡¯. I¡¯ll make sure to give you an¡¯ the kids a lil¡¯ back-to-school bonus.¡± Aether coursing through her hand, she smashes the phone beneath her fist. The manager¡¯s hand is still extended, so she gently drops in the largest pieces. ¡°Word of advice, for next time we do this.¡± She lets her tongue roll dramatically over her fangs. ¡°When you call 9-9-9, youse gotta ask for someone I ain¡¯t bought. Try Brian.¡± She smiles, winks, and then leaps backwards. Off the counter, and into the night. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°Ya showed them yer fangs?¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± Finnerty cackles. ¡°And it really fookin¡¯ spooked ¡®em!¡± Harriet¡¯s gone pale. ¡°A-An¡¯ did ya forget that we have rules ¡®bout these sortsa things?¡± ¡°What, ¡®eyse gonna call the cops? Fink me lil¡¯ show mighta perished the option!¡± Finnerty makes a clicking sound and fires a finger gun. Laughing to herself, she then proceeds to peck out pieces of popcorn from the bowl by her knees. Harriet sighs and buries her brow in her hand, until eventually even her friend notices. ¡°Oiiiii, ¡®ey! Don¡¯t give me ¡®at!¡± ¡°If ya put in a tenth of the effort you give ta robbin stores anywhere else-¡± ¡°I fookin¡¯ did!¡± Finnerty slams the popcorn bowl dramatically. ¡°I built me mandem, bought me house! An¡¯ look, look, right over there!¡± Harriet turns to where she¡¯s pointing, a framed diploma awarded for ¡®Community Development.¡¯ ¡°I went to fookin¡¯ uni!¡± ¡°With Ratcatcher¡¯s money-¡± ¡°Which I ¡®ad to find!¡± ¡°After he gave ya the bloody key.¡± Harriet sighs. Finnerty opens her DVD player, not even bothering to look back. ¡°Not like you¡¯ve found your fookin¡¯ zen eivver,¡± she hisses. ¡°Ploughin¡¯ ¡®round Court Town, shootin¡¯ ¡®eir fookin¡¯ Reeves.¡± ¡°FitzGerald was walkin¡¯ all over us. I had ta stop it. We¡¯re at war.¡± ¡°What fookin¡¯ war? The war we lost?¡± Finnerty turns back. ¡°They grow, we shrink. Every year. ¡®At war only exists in a century-old history book and youse crazies¡¯ fookin¡¯ heads.¡± ¡°How many Nocturni live in this city? Ten thousand? Twenty? An¡¯ how many a¡¯ those are slaves to that goddamn-¡± ¡°Not enuff to be me problem.¡± ¡°But one day, it will. They¡¯ll come marchin¡¯ in with their tanks an¡¯ cars-¡± ¡°No ¡®ey fookin¡¯ won¡¯t! Which you fink ¡®ey care more ¡®bout, Eddards? Their Smaug-ass vaults of wealth, or me an¡¯ me street friends?¡± Finnerty scowls. ¡°Only fing ¡®at¡¯s gonna change their minds is you and ¡®at goddamn madwoman slaughtering folk like it¡¯s fookin¡¯ Fallujah!¡± ¡°Yer only sayin¡¯ that cuz Cappie-¡± Harriet cuts herself off. The air¡¯s grown thick, and Finnerty¡¯s eyes are wild. The Freeholder¡¯s lips start to tremble, even as her brow bends. ¡°Sh-shit. Ashlin¡¯, I-I didn¡¯t know he was there. I¡¯d never-¡± She¡¯s interrupted by a swipe of fabric. Finnerty¡¯s pulled up her sweatpants to reveal a feathery leg. Strange blacks marking riddle the ankle; runes, writhing across the skin like smoke in lamplight. Harriet can read them clearly, even in a language she can¡¯t name. ¡®Aisling, Kept of Zalman.¡¯ Harriet turns away. ¡°Ashlin¡¯-¡± ¡°Look.¡± ¡°I-I don¡¯t wanna see-¡± ¡°Look.¡± Harriet bites her lip and stares. Finnerty slowly relaxes, her eyes stern. ¡°Ugly, innit? Well guess what? It don¡¯t come off! I get to walk ¡®round wiff it for the rest of me fookin¡¯ life!¡± ¡°I-I¡¯m sorry-¡± ¡°You see ¡®at Pole kid, Andrzej? Too scared to leave ¡®is trackie, jumpin¡¯ at fookin¡¯ owls? You know ¡®ow a Keeper does ¡®at to a man? ¡®Ow easily you can fookin¡¯ break ¡®em?¡± ¡°Of course. Half the Unbound are Shorn. I understand-¡± ¡°No, you fookin¡¯ don¡¯t! You don¡¯t know what it¡¯s like to ¡®ave every choice ripped from your fookin¡¯ skull. Existing on someone else. Bein¡¯ there¡¯s, forever! ¡®At¡¯s the fookin¡¯ fate of every poor goddamn sod ¡®at walks into Court Town. And yet you tell me off, while you keep fookin¡¯ sprintin¡¯!¡± ¡°I can¡¯t jes¡¯ stand by! Ashlin'', they killed our friends." "People die all the time. Don''t mean you ''ave to fookin'' join ''em." "But I need more than cheap blood and slashin¡¯ tires-" ¡°The fook you fink I brought us this?!¡± Finnerty yanks out the BlockBuster DVD case, giving it a few good shakes. Harriet squints at it, pulling back. ¡°I-I¡¯m not sure I-¡± ¡°What''ve we done, Harriet? From the second we walked in this city? We laid low, and took what we could. And maybe the Court won, maybe we lost folk, but now? Now, we¡¯ve got it easy. For the first time in our whole fookin¡¯ lives! We¡¯re drownin¡¯ in shit to do, and none of it will fookin¡¯ kill us! I know it, Jayden knows it, FitzGerald knew it, the fookin¡¯ ******. The only one who don¡¯t is you! Why can¡¯t you see ¡®at? Why can¡¯t you fookin¡¯...¡± Finnerty¡¯s expression freezes. Her eyes look somewhere past Harriet. ¡°... fookin¡¯...¡± Harriet knits her brows. Sometimes Finnerty gets that expression. When she¡¯s cussing out people¡¯s ¡®fake problems,¡¯ or she¡¯s remembers Ratcatcher by some unknown smell. She never says what¡¯s wrong, never allows a discussion, but they both know Harriet knows that feeling. Windchimes and white clouds. ¡°Hey, Ashlin¡¯?¡± Harriet slowly waves her hand over her friend¡¯s face. ¡°I¡­ I think I do understand what yer sayin¡¯.¡± Finnerty blinks a few times. ¡°You do?¡± ¡°Sure.¡± Harriet smirks. ¡°Ya also want me ta watch Shrek 2.¡± For a moment, the tension lingers. Hesitant, fleeting. But then the Freeholder of Bethnal Green¡¯s smile springs back. She dives into her plastic bag, and starts throwing out more than a dozen DVD cases. ¡°This is why we¡¯re friends, Eddards.¡± She pauses to devour two fistfuls of popcorn. ¡°You know me so fookin¡¯ well.¡± +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Chapter 4: The Unbounds Sign ¡°The neophytes ask, ¡®Why should our praxis include the Sovereigns? They did not chain me. They did not cheat me. Their policies did not starve my parents, and their boots never fell on my shores.¡¯ These are fools¡¯ questions. If capitalism is nothing but the grand consolidation of wealth, of power, who but the Court can say they¡¯ve amassed more? For all their strength, and all their knowledge, the Court needs mortals. They feed, they toil, they worship. But the Court can¡¯t Keep all of them. So instead, it herds. A bribe here, a suggestion there, until the humans are corralled by the very institutions that claim to protect them. Think: how much have the bourgeois shaped our society, in just the past ten years? Can you imagine what a cabal can craft, when we give them two millennia? Capitalism starts with the Court. Imperialism starts with the Court. It is the very antithesis of the proletariat revolution, because the Court wants nothing less than for all of humanity to resemble itself. A towering pyramid, impossibly bound, that leaves all below powerless, nay, eager, for the chance to be eaten. You might have been crushed by a mortal¡¯s boot. But make no mistake. The Court gave them that leather.¡± Unaddressed letter by Aubrey Keaton, Freeholder of Brixton, 1884 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 1865 Wintertime Her breath frosts in the air. Snow pools at the entrance. The fire roars, lighting damp walls. But no matter how close she nears it, the cold never leaves her fingers. This had been a good cave. Large but hard to see. High up, and free of others. Harriet stayed here longer than her custom, thought even of walling off its mouth with pine, hibernating like the bears below her. But then the snow came. And came. And came. And a biting cold, shortly after. She blows into her hands, and tries to wrap herself in her Pa¡¯s blue coat. But it¡¯s barely a coat anymore. Just stains and loose threads, roughly patched together. She had always skipped Ma¡¯s sewing lessons. That was women¡¯s work. But now¡­ Harriet slides onto the stone. It¡¯s warmed by the flames, a small mercy. She pretends that it¡¯s the wooden porch, and she¡¯s looking over the fields, as the sun sets in summer. It¡¯s a happy image to sleep to, better than the nightmares. And look. The flame even matches their colour. A soft¡­ soulful¡­ amber. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ She wakes up to something heavy. A snout on her cheek, and a wet paw on her shoulder. Harriet doesn¡¯t move. Doesn¡¯t dare to even flinch. She bats open an eye, looks at its silhouette in the dying flames. Long, graceful. A mountain lion. It swishes its tail as it nudges her skin. She can smell the blood beneath its claws. The cat slinks off. Her gun¡¯s two feet away. She tries to reach for it with bruised, bony fingers. They graze across crumbs. Stupid. Stupid. Did she really not hoist up her food, because she thought the winter would protect her? Fear grips her heart, and the windchimes, soon after. They ring so loudly now. When she falls under their spell, she¡¯ll pass whole days in slumber. No. She blinks. Can¡¯t slip. She finds the old Springfield, squeezes the stock. She has to be quick. Fluid. One shot, or her throat¡¯s out. Harriet closes her eyes. Primes her muscles for the pounce. But when she springs up, muzzle ready, a larger shadow¡¯s already leapt over her. Harriet can only see a mass, crashing into the wall, its snarls mingling with the cougar¡¯s. There¡¯s a sound like nails on chalkboard. The grind of shredding flesh. Harriet stands, her gun lifted. Doesn¡¯t matter what that thing is, a bullet- ¡°Not so fast, gadji.¡± Harriet gasps as cold steel is pressed to her neck. The strange voice whispers in her ear. ¡°We have other sources of supper.¡± Strong arms loop around hers, and tiny coins chirr with her brief struggle. Harriet follows the blade with her eyes. Curved, and sharp, and angling upward. The man holding her back is taller. The commotion by the cave wall has died down to soft sounds. Like someone drinking. She realises that the large mass is a man. A gargantuan man, taller and wider than any she¡¯s ever seen. He towers over the cougar, now a mangled pool of flesh. She feels a hand on her gun. The man with coins, pulling it back. ¡°Good. Good.¡± He starts guiding her arms, so that the Springfield¡¯s barrel to the ceiling. ¡°Keep the pushka away, and no-one-¡± She fires. Not angled to hit, but to deafen. Her plan works. The man stumbles. The blade leaves her throat, and she moves quickly, slamming the gun¡¯s barrel into something soft behind her. She starts to run, but screeches. The man¡¯s grabbed her hair. She¡¯s thrown to the wall. Her gun flies from her hands. When he approaches, she leaps. Scratching skin, clothes, anything she can grab. She even bites at the air, but a punch takes her back. First to her cheek, then her gut, then a kick to her knee. She¡¯s lifted off the ground. He runs. Her back bashes on a wall. The hands that wrap around her are stunningly cold. ¡°Keh¡­¡± she sputters voicelessly, flailing around. ¡°Gheh¡­ i-ich, k-k-keh¡­¡± He shoves her back in the rock, squeezes harder. She gets a look at the man. Dark hair, dark skin, bright robes like an Injun. But he¡¯s not wearing beads or feathers. And she¡¯s never seen Injuns wear beards. ¡°Du-te dracu, pidz?!¡± She sees the flare in his eyes, like embers. He starts leaning in, mouth towards her neck. ¡°When I¡¯m through with your corpse-¡± ¡°Stop!¡± Harriet jerks her head. The voice of the large man, still leaning over his kill. It carries a thick drawl. Takes his partner¡¯s surprise, as much as hers. ¡°Drop the girl.¡± ¡°She¡¯s feral, Red! Little more than a dog! B¨¢tu died in a mine, mother¡¯s probably a whore! We bring her to town, they¡¯ll just fucking-¡± Harriet screams, and claws at his face. When the man loosens his grips, she slams her boot into his groin. He roars. She¡¯s dropped, and scrambles. Grabbing her gun and flipping around just as he¡¯s about to hit her. ¡°Nnnnneh!¡± She tries to sound threatening, but it comes out a hoarse squeak. ¡°Geh-gehhhhhhh-¡± The man with coins doesn¡¯t move. His sword drawn, defensive. But his partner starts to rise from the ruined corpse that was his kill. Harriet¡¯s breath stops. He¡¯s even larger than she thought. Arms like tree trunks, chest like a barrel. Blood drips from his chin, and his nails are impossibly long. She hoists up her gun, hands trembling. He doesn¡¯t move, doesn¡¯t speak. Just stares her down, with eyes glowing red. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ August, 2004 Two Weeks After the Reeve¡¯s Assassination ¡°And if you¡¯re lonely¡­¡± A voice comes over the guitar riff. ¡°You know I¡¯m here waiting for you¡­.¡± The boy on the sign bobs up and down with the protestor¡¯s steps. The photo is grainy, ill-coloured, cheap. It shows him kneeling on the floor, playing with blocks, looking up. Red X¡¯s cross out his eyes. ¡°... I¡¯m just a crosshair¡­¡± ¡®SAIF, AGE THREE,¡¯ it reads. ¡®TONY BLAIR MURDERS CHILDREN.¡¯ ¡°... I¡¯m just a shot away from you¡­¡± ¡°Urgh, they¡¯re playing Franz Ferdinand at cafes, now?¡± Harriet¡¯s ¡®date¡¯ rolls his eyes. ¡°What posers.¡± They¡¯re at a ¡®coffee house,¡¯ which Harriet thought only temperance leaguers went to, but was assured that they¡¯re ¡®cool.¡¯ Everyone here dresses like the man across her: jeans and flannels and stitched hats called ¡®beanies.¡¯ When she asked him why he wore a scarf, he told her it was antique. When she brought up that ¡®antique¡¯ people also wore top hats and frock coats, she only got a stare. ¡°I promise, their next album? Gonna be soft as shit.¡± Harriet¡¯s confused. She thought Franz Ferdinand got shot. ¡°That¡¯s what always happens when an indie goes big. Coldplay, Radiohead, you hear them all the time now, and they¡¯re new stuff, you just go¡­¡± Harriet tunes out after that. The protest is more interesting. There¡¯s not many of them out this night, maybe a hundred, with twenty Met surrounding them. They all hold torches so onlookers can read their signs. Perhaps they have family there. She¡¯s enraptured by the rage in their movements. The passion in their cries. She feels a pull on her shoulder, and looks at her date. ¡°Uh, ya ask me somethin¡¯?¡± ¡°Yeah. Favourite bands?¡± He sounds flustered. ¡°The Strokes, Arcade Fire¡­?¡± ¡°Uh, I like Bob Dylan.¡± He blinks a few times, but Harriet¡¯s already turned back to the protest. ¡°Are you actually listening to me?¡± ¡°Uh-huh.¡± ¡°Because I was talking about independent labels, not-¡± ¡°This war, with Iraq,¡± Harriet interrupts. ¡°Why we fightin¡¯ it?¡± He lowers his cup. ¡°You don¡¯t know? It¡¯s on the news all the time.¡± ¡°I-I don¡¯t trust them telly speakers.¡± She sips her coffee, hates the taste. ¡°It jes¡¯ seems like they¡¯re killin¡¯ lotsa people-¡± ¡°Well, they¡¯re not meaning to. They have to get Saddam.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°They say he¡¯s hiding nukes. Harbouring terrorists.¡± ¡°An¡¯ that¡¯s a bad thing?¡± The boy¡¯s mouth hangs open. ¡°How could it not be?¡± ¡°Well, I dunno. Ya jes¡¯ told me ya appreciated all those¡­¡± Harriet¡¯s eyes fall back to the marchers, a finger curling through her hair. ¡°... ¡®independent labels.¡¯¡± ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The pub was louder than it had any right to be at 3 AM. Its name, ¡®The Gilded Dragon,¡¯ implied an age that wasn¡¯t there. It was a den of faux wooden tables and seats that shined too clean. The accents were wrong too, short vowels and harsh ¡®R¡¯s. It rises with the flow of the sports game on television. Football, she thinks. The United States kind. Grown men thrashing into each other. Harriet sighs, walks with her head down. London was home to some 20,000 Americans, and she did her utmost to avoid all of them. That Janet invited her here was either a sign of unusual stupidity¡­ or a direct provocation. Nocturni can drink. Why is unclear. Maybe alcohol mixes better with aether. For fear of spoiling the fun, Harriet chooses to never ask. She goes to the bar and, like always, orders their strongest whiskey. Tips her glass to the barman. Sips. It hits her gut like a brick. Perfection. Only then does she look for Blackbird. And it takes a mere instant to find her. Vampires are forbidden from exposing their true natures to mortals. It¡¯s the one thing all Courtmen and Unbound agree on. Humans, no matter how disparagingly they might be viewed, are quite frightening in large numbers. They¡¯re also prone to violence, demagoguery, hysteria. The risks are too high. Everyone adjusts accordingly¡­ except for Janet Lavender. Nestled into a booth, Janet wears a short black dress. It¡¯s joined by a black choker, black hat, black fishnets, and tall black combat boots with laces that are also black. Holding up an Agatha Christie novel, Harriet can see her black-painted nails, matching the shade of her lip gloss, her eye shadow, her hair dye. Two ankh-shaped silver earrings provide the only sort of distinction. And where most Nocturni, Harriet included, use aether to make their skin blush and mimic life, Janet¡¯s skin is deliberately pale, corspelike, cold. She is the mortal epitome of a vampire, and she always has been, matching her image to the tides of the decades. Mourning clothes in the gothics; leather jackets in the age of punk. The only constant is that ridiculous black colour, and the object always on her mind: ¡°Hey, Janet,¡± Harriet smiles. ¡°How¡¯s the list lookin¡¯?¡± A second¡¯s pause, before Janet calmly sets her book down. Wordlessly, she coils her hands through black leather gloves, before carefully pulling open a black three-ringed binder. The pages are all laminated, many torn at the margins and yellow with age. In each row is a name, an address, and the date and grievance that enraged her. Harriet watches the woman flip through each page calmly, scanning the lines like they were freshly written. A good many are scratched. Some were added only yesterday. Reeve FitzGerald was on page four. Janet sighs. ¡°It¡¯s not getting any shorter.¡± ¡°But at least I¡¯m not on it!¡± Harriet awkwardly grins. She gets no reply. ¡°You, uh, wanna tell me why I¡¯m in a room with a buncha chest-beatin¡¯, beer-guzzlin¡¯, cowboy-wannabes?¡± ¡°It was the client¡¯s decision, not mine.¡± Janet reopens her book. ¡°And one shouldn¡¯t speak of their countrymen so disparagingly.¡± ¡°There¡¯s a lot ta disparage. Country used ta mean a frontier, bein¡¯ self-made, twenty miles from the nearest postman. Not drivin¡¯ Ford pickups with half my drawl an¡¯ a fist fulla¡­ fuckin¡¯ burgers.¡± Harriet scowls when Janet doesn¡¯t look up. ¡°What? Should I assume that everythin¡¯ in whatever-the-fuck estate yer from was nice an¡¯ peachy?¡± ¡°I despised my home.¡± Janet turns a page. ¡°That¡¯s why I¡¯m not speaking.¡± Harriet leans back, eases off. Janet was once Kept to the New Sun herself, groomed for leadership, among other things. From the moment she was Shorn, the Court made her Enemy Number One. But she¡¯s still here. And in Harriet¡¯s eyes, that earns someone the right to act all mysterious. Stolen story; please report. Her red hair spills forward. ¡°So, client? That¡¯s new. Who-¡± She¡¯s cut-off by heavy footsteps, straining floorboards, clinking spurs. She scowls. The man who approaches looks the same as the first day she met him; a bear of a man, with a cattleman¡¯s hat and an eternally greying stubble. His hands pull at his studded belt, a blue ¡®8¡¯ emblazoned on his starlight silver jersey. Her eyes sharpen on his, glowing that signature colour. Harriet stands up, digs in her pocket for her gun, and shows her adoptive father fang. ¡°FIRESIDE!¡± Janet rises. ¡°Stand down!¡± ¡°Twenty steps back, motherfucker!¡± Red Eddards sighs through his thick Southern accent. ¡°Nice ta see ya, too.¡± ¡°Ten seconds, Janet. That¡¯s how long ya got ta tell me what the fuck¡¯s goin¡¯ on before I blow both yer goddamn brains out!¡± Red folds his arms. ¡°Seems like ya¡¯ve borrowed yer girlfriend¡¯s sailor mouth-¡± ¡°Ashlin¡¯ an¡¯ I are friends.¡± ¡°Fireside, please,¡± Janet tries to interrupt. ¡°Mr. Eddards made an offer-¡± ¡°Ahhhh. An offer?¡± Harriet turns towards Red, whistles. ¡°What¡¯s it this time? Grab a pint with the New Sun? Give my body to a Court Reeve? Or maybe, Keaton¡¯s mancave started gettin¡¯ a lil¡¯ smelly. So he sent fer his lapdog¡¯s daughter ta do his MOTHERFUCKIN¡¯- ¡°Ladies,¡± Red nods towards his back. ¡°Do y¡¯all mind?¡± They only then realise the stares they¡¯ve attracted from mortals. Janet retreats. Harriet doesn¡¯t move. Red¡¯s eyes shift slowly to the hand still in her pocket. ¡°Keaton had nothing to do with this,¡± Janet explains, quieter. ¡°When your father approached me-¡± Red interrupts. ¡°Though it wouldn¡¯ hurt ta take a line or two from his playbook.¡± Harriet snarls. ¡°The hell¡¯s that s¡¯posed ta mean?¡± ¡°What in God¡¯s name are ya doin¡¯, shootin¡¯ the Reeve? That man was the greatest godsend the Unbound ever had!¡± ¡°He was makin¡¯ us fat. Soft.¡± ¡°So ya had ta go an¡¯ paint the world¡¯s biggest target on yer back?¡± ¡°If some idjit¡¯s fool ¡®nuff ta try an¡¯ kill me, I¡¯ll welcome ¡®em with opens arms!¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure that¡¯s what those who died fer us wanna hear.¡± ¡°Least I¡¯m tryin¡¯ ta make them proud.¡± ¡°Both of you, stop it!¡± Janet¡¯s showing fang now, too. ¡°I did not bring you two together so that you could unfurl a century of history-¡± ¡°But that¡¯s all Keaton is. History. An¡¯ a history a¡¯ failures at that!¡± Harriet scowls at Red. ¡°Remember when he had me bomb that Orange water tower, an¡¯ it kicked off a goddamn war?¡± ¡°Yes, an¡¯-¡± ¡°Or that ¡®undercover¡¯ mission where he pumped me with opium an¡¯ stuck me in a goddamn whorehouse?¡± ¡°Fireside, I don¡¯t think anyone here¡¯s going to say that was-¡± ¡°Or how ¡®bout when, anytime Ashlin¡¯ or I suggested anythin¡¯, he¡¯d use his books an¡¯ his big words ta shut us down! Called us fuckin¡¯... lumpy proletariats!¡± ¡°Lumpenproletariat,¡± Red corrects. ¡°Coulda jes¡¯ said women,¡± Harriet snorts. ¡°That¡¯s what he was really mad about.¡± ¡°Fireside, look.¡± Janet removes her face from the hand she buried it in, waiting for Harriet to turn. ¡°Do you trust me?¡± ¡°Should I?¡± There¡¯s a pause. ¡°... No. But I¡¯ve never led you astray. And-¡± ¡°This ain¡¯t goin¡¯ back an¡¯ singin¡¯ ¡®kumbaya¡¯ in Brixton,¡± Red interrupts. ¡°It¡¯s shit that can bring down the Court. Shit of yer calibre.¡± Harriet stops, breathes slow, sees the sincerity in his eyes. She¡¯s still attracting stares, all over the pub. She squeezes the grip of the gun in her pocket, tries to funnel her rage through. Browning HP. Semi-auto. Thirteen rounds. ¡°Fine.¡± Harriet slowly sits down. ¡°Sell me.¡± Everyone relaxes. Red grabs a chair from behind and scooches it over. ¡°Well, let¡¯s start with a question. What¡¯s the Court¡¯s single greatest strength?¡± ¡°Money.¡± ¡°Ding-ding-ding. Investin¡¯s a big-picture game, an¡¯ five hundred years is a hella long time fer collectin¡¯ interest.¡± Janet¡¯s returned to her book. ¡°Her investment portfolio¡¯s the only thing keeping the New Sun afloat.¡± ¡°But she ain¡¯t the Court¡¯s main financier. That¡¯s her ol¡¯ getter, Caedmon.¡± Red growls. ¡°Big, lotsa armour, walks around with an axe. Now until the Seventh Revolt, Caedmon led the whole Court roost. But that was before Blackbird here-¡± ¡°She doesn¡¯t need the history.¡± Janet looks up. ¡°Suffiice to say, the Court needs Caedmon¡¯s assets, his companies, but he¡¯s ancient, and half Wilds aside. Barely understands what a currency is.¡± ¡°So the Court works around him with an army of Kepts,¡± Red explains. ¡°Bankers, traders, accountants. Young, and modern, and capable of buildin¡¯ whatever infrastructure they need.¡± ¡°Great fer them,¡± Harriet replies. ¡°Where do I come in?¡± ¡°Some of those Kepts have gotten sloppy.¡± Red pulls a laptop from his leather bag, sets it on the table. To his right, Harriet can see Janet struggle with print-outs of Yahoo Maps. ¡°Ya ever heard a¡¯ Enron?¡± No. But Harriet can guess. ¡°Are they in tech?¡± It¡¯s either that, or finance. ¡°Energy. An¡¯ a little tech.¡± Red shrugs. ¡°Though, towards the end, they started gettin¡¯ desperate. Tryna trade stocks on the weather.¡± Oh shit. Tech AND finance. ¡°Ya seem familiar.¡± ¡°Yeah, well, I go back ta Texas from time ta time. Was there when it all happened.¡± Red leans in. ¡°Five years back, by market cap, Enron was America¡¯s seventh largest company. But stocks are strange. Fake, funny numbers, that aren¡¯t real ¡®til ya withdraw, so nobody really cares. It¡¯s all part a¡¯ this new capitalist scheme, uh, global financialisation. Shareholder value -¡± Janet¡¯s hackles rise. ¡°Josiah¡­¡± ¡°With the colonies gone, an¡¯ cheaper so-called ¡®developin¡¯ countries¡¯ usurpin¡¯ the industrial modes a¡¯ production, Western billionaires have moved their vectors of wealth from the creation a¡¯ consumptive goods ta-¡± ¡°Josiah! Enough with the Keaton theories.¡± Janet¡¯s voice turns to a whisper. ¡°Remember who you¡¯re talking to.¡± ¡°Uh, actually, Janet, I have heard about these guys,¡± Harriet taps the table. ¡°They¡¯re the fuckers who played ¡®round with California¡¯s grid, right? To raise their stocks? Got that, uh, killer robot involved?¡± ¡°If ya mean ¡®It helped Arnold Schwarzenegger get the governor¡¯s seat,¡¯ then yes.¡± Harriet looks smugly at Janet. She drank from some numbers kid at LSE last year who liked to ramble. Learned a lot. Lousy feed. ¡°Well, the short version,¡± Red goes on. ¡°Enron was fakin¡¯ numbers. Lotsa numbers. The accountants were in on it, the regulators were in on it. When it broke, all three exploded. Billions of wealth gone, tens of thousands of jobs lost. An¡¯ then there were the links ta Bush an¡¯ Cheney. It was bad. Lotta burns.¡± ¡°Except the robot guy,¡± Harriet adds. ¡°He got elected.¡± Both Red and Janet fall silent. Harriet takes a second to savour her display of knowledge. And here they thought she was lumpy. ¡°So, basically, there¡¯s some company a¡¯ the Court¡¯s that¡¯s goin¡¯ Enron?¡± ¡°They¡¯re all goin¡¯ Enron. It¡¯s one a their oldest tricks,¡± Red explains. ¡°Divvy the Court¡¯s wealth between a hundred firms, have them all invest in each other. Lotsa growth, lotsa green. Mortals see it, think they¡¯re missin¡¯ out. They invest. Then the Court pulls, just before they realise their ¡®investment¡¯ was made outta clouds.¡± Harriet squints. ¡°Issat legal?¡± Janet snorts. ¡°Not for mortals.¡± ¡°Even Blair has his limits, though. They gotta hide well.¡± The laptop screen lights up Red¡¯s face. He¡¯s frantically typing. ¡°But this Polyphron, tech firm, it¡¯s growin¡¯ too fast, too large. They put a young blood in charge, an¡¯ he¡¯s squeezin¡¯ Sovs dry. Hundreds of millions in jes¡¯ three years. It¡¯s books gotta be better cooked than a Thanksgivin¡¯ turkey.¡± ¡°How¡¯d ya learn about this?¡± ¡°Our informants. Whistleblowers.¡± Red shrugs. ¡°Keaton didn¡¯t abandon every tradition, Harriet. We still have eyes.¡± ¡°If those books were to¡­ publicise¡­ the courts can¡¯t protect him. A disaster would unfold.¡± Janet gestures with her hands. ¡°All the Court¡¯s investments, smoke. And not just in Polyphron, but around it as well. That lack of due diligence, regulators will notice. And if they look into one¡­¡± ¡°The others follow.¡± Red stops typing. ¡°Like dominoes.¡± ¡°It¡¯s the event of a lifetime. The chance to hit the Court precisely where it most hurts.¡± ¡°Ya mentioned a pup,¡± Harriet asks. ¡°What¡¯s their name?¡± Red smirks, and flips the laptop. A video starts to play. ¡°Harriet, meet the face of the Court¡¯s future Enron¡­¡± She looks at the screen. Her eyes go wide. ¡°Soteris Chrysanthou.¡± It¡¯s him. The man from Cyprus, who offered bread at the church. With his olive skin and his flashy smile. Harriet still has his card, tucked in a drawer somewhere. But there he stands, right in front of her, shaking Minister Harcourt¡¯s hand. That fire is still in his eyes. The world slows. White clouds form. He¡­ he was Nocturni? But¡­ but that means he¡­ ¡°Sometimes we need a knife.¡± ¡­ how could she¡­ ¡°To crack open the shell. And see the pearl.¡± An agent of the Court, and she couldn¡¯t even tell. ¡°In Greece, he goes by Sotirios. But¡­¡± Janet stops. ¡°Are you alright?¡± Harriet blinks. The windchimes fade. Her thoughts are lost in fog. She leans back in her seat, awkwardly avoiding others¡¯ harsh stares. ¡°Uh¡­ yeah.¡± She looks at the ground. ¡°Jes¡¯... think I saw him on the telly.¡± Janet buys it. Red does not. He keeps watching, about to speak, but Janet butts in. ¡°Chrysanthou is the founder, CEO, public face. Net worth of some two-hundred-million. Owns a skyscraper in Central London. But that¡¯s just public info. In private, he¡¯s the youngest Nocturni to ever receive Sovereign status. In mortal years, he¡¯s forty-one.¡± ¡°So he¡¯s good with tech?¡± ¡°Or smoochin¡¯ the right investors.¡± Harriet squints. ¡°What¡¯s he doin¡¯ with the Defense Minister?¡± ¡°Launching Polyphron¡¯s first product. Ares.¡± Janet furrows her brows. ¡°A computerised security gate that the government hopes to implement in its counter-terrorist ops. According to Polyphron, it can identify, erm, choice individuals through scans of their blood.¡± ¡°Ah, there¡¯s the fraud,¡± Harriet chuckles. ¡°Ya can¡¯t make a scanner that reads blood that fast.¡± ¡°I know,¡± Janet nods. ¡°That¡¯s why it reads aether.¡± Harriet pauses, turns. ¡°Yer kiddin¡¯.¡± ¡°I wish that I was.¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± Red tilts his head. ¡°An¡¯ we all have doubt that it¡¯s Blair¡¯s terrorists that this thing¡¯s gonna start taggin.¡¯¡± Harriet stares at the laptop again. It¡¯s frozen on that handshake, just behind a podium. He called himself a builder. He said his machines help people. So why build something that was trying to kill her? ¡°Gotta say, way ya two been goin¡¯, can ya even be shocked?¡± Red sighs through his nose. ¡°Right now, these are jes¡¯ prototypes in Polyphorn¡¯s office, but Blair¡¯s hopin¡¯ to have these in every airport, tube station, fuckin¡¯ post office, by Q1 ¡®06. An¡¯ if we¡¯re all put on it¡­ heh, ya¡¯ve got more ta worry about than the Reeve an¡¯ fuckin¡¯ Keaton. ¡°Assuming we¡¯re right. Assuming they work.¡± Janet folds her arms. ¡°And assuming we don¡¯t expose them.¡± Harriet bites her lip. ¡°If those things are stuck between us an¡¯ the books, exposin¡¯ anythin¡¯s gonna be pretty fuckin¡¯ hard. Cuz, uh, I¡¯m guessin¡¯ ya didn¡¯t get the books from yer ¡®informants?¡¯¡± They give her a look. ¡°Great.¡± Harriet grins sarcastically. ¡°Guess I¡¯m breakin¡¯ inta a motherfuckin¡¯ skyscraper.¡± ¡°There¡¯s only so much they can do. That we can do.¡± Janet replies. ¡°I¡¯m the New Sun¡¯s sworn enemy. Red¡¯s hands are tied-¡± ¡°An¡¯ whose fault would that be?¡± ¡°I¡¯d still show up in Ares,¡± Red snarls.¡± ¡°An¡¯ I fuckin¡¯ wouldn¡¯t?¡± ¡°Harriet Eddards won¡¯t be pulling the heist.¡± Harriet catches the glare in Janet¡¯s eyes. The woman¡¯s smile. ¡°No.¡± She shakes her head. ¡°Yer not¡­¡± ¡°We think our little infiltrator¡­¡± Janet smirks. ¡°... will go by Jessica Connolly.¡± ¡°The girl I pretended ta be at school?¡± ¡°The girl you conjured. In her entirety. Demolishing any link between yourself and King¡¯s College.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but ain¡¯t Keaton already a fuckin¡¯ shapeshifter?¡± ¡°In appearance, not in fact,¡± Red replies. ¡°You change reality itself. Ya can magic new fingerprints, new documents, new DNA, new-¡± ¡°- blood types.¡± Janet finishes. ¡°I don¡¯t magic shit,¡± Harriet replies. ¡°That¡¯s Paradox.¡± ¡°Which you control.¡± ¡°Barely. An¡¯ its unreliable. Especially with tech. So I-¡± ¡°Conjure a text message onto this phone.¡± Red holds out his Nokia. ¡°Right now.¡± Harriet scowls, blood flowing, eyes burning. A buzz rings out as the phone rattles in his hand. He flips it open to read the message. ¡°¡®Dixie Red sucks Court cock,¡± Red rolls his eyes and pockets the phone. ¡°Very witty.¡± Janet shrugs. ¡°Well, at least we know it works on tech...¡± ¡°So we¡¯re prayin¡¯ I don¡¯t pick up on the scanners? That¡¯s the master plan?¡± ¡°Of course not, Fireside. I¡¯ll be there, same as always. With a lot more time to get intimate with their network.¡± ¡°Cuz that really warned us about Cappie-¡± ¡°There won¡¯t be a Cappie,¡± Janet says. ¡°It¡¯s a company. With employees. Most aren¡¯t even Oathsworn! You just stroll in, take a lift to their files, and stroll out, all done! You won¡¯t even be bringing your bloody pistol-¡± ¡°NO!¡± Janet stops. Harriet¡¯s sprung up again, her hands on the table, eyes wild and teeth bared. The windchimes are roaring. They can all hear her ragged breaths. ¡°No guns. No deal.¡± Janet frowns. ¡°It¡¯s an office building. You can¡¯t walk in armed!¡± ¡°Watch me.¡± ¡°We all know yer rules, Harriet,¡± Red lifts his hand. ¡°But please. We got one shot at this. It ain¡¯t the time-¡± ¡°Cram it! It ain¡¯t ever my fuckin¡¯ time. This whole talk, y¡¯all¡¯ve been ¡®one shot¡¯ this, ¡®only one¡¯ that, but I don¡¯ see any a¡¯ youse-¡± ¡°Are you not fucking listening!?¡± Janet rises with an anger to match Harriet¡¯s own. They both hiss. ¡°I tell you this could bring the Court down. That there¡¯s an imminent threat to all our work! And you¡¯d let that slide, you¡¯d let this boy kill us! All to appease your insipid, childish fears-¡± ¡°Blackbird, hey-¡± ¡°And wave your fucking guns around like you¡¯re Calamity bloody-¡± Red shouts. ¡°LAVENDER!¡± The Shorn woman rears back, nails out, the black makeup around her eyes casting a ghastly image. Her voice has doubled over. ¡°What?¡± Red speaks slowly, calmly. ¡°... Grab a mortal. Go outside.¡± ¡°I won¡¯t have my vengeance stalled-¡± ¡°Please.¡± Red grabs her arm. ¡°I jes¡¯ want five minutes alone with my daughter.¡± For a moment, Janet looks like she might tear his throat out. Or howl at the moon, or claw at the walls. The Wilds¡¯ temptation is clear on her face. But it fades in her eyes just as quickly. Janet launches from the booth at a brisk pace. Barely slowing as she takes a drunk college boy by the arm and yanks him to her supper. Red watches her leave. ¡°Sorry ¡®bout that.¡± He starts to turn. ¡°Ya prob¡¯ly know Janet better than I, but the woman¡¯s always been a little¡­¡± He stops. Harriet isn¡¯t looking. She¡¯s still facing the booth. Her head tilted down, her mouth hanging open. Her eyes glazed over. ¡°Hey. Harriet?¡± Red slowly extends his hand, waving it over her face. Her pupils dilate, but she doesn¡¯t give an answer. Red exhales, but rests his chin on his hand. ¡°Don¡¯t listen ta her. Or the TV, or the shoutin¡¯. Jes¡¯ follow my voice. Slow, an¡¯ easy. Yer starin¡¯ at that booth, right? What colour issit?¡± Slowly, Harriet blinks. Her brows start to tremble. ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯ need¡­¡± ¡°C¡¯mon,¡± Red smiles. ¡°There ain¡¯t any wrong answers.¡± She takes a slow breath. ¡°Green.¡± ¡°An¡¯ the table? What¡¯s it made of?¡± She presses her hand. ¡°Plastic.¡± ¡°An¡¯ if ya turn an¡¯ look, how many fingers am I holdin¡¯ up?¡± Harriet shifts slowly, an impish glint in her eye. ¡°Brown.¡± Red chuckles. He only looks like he¡¯s in his late thirties, but there are wrinkles beneath his eyes. ¡°How are ya feelin¡¯?¡± ¡°Ya coulda called.¡± ¡°I did. Fer seven years. An¡¯ the first time ya picked up, ya told me not ta-¡± Harriet runs into his arms. The embrace is quickly returned. She sniffles as she buries her face in his sleeve. Red lifts his hand and starts petting her hair. ¡°Been too long, little Sunrise.¡± Red whispers. ¡°Been too long.¡± They pull close, like the old days. When he shielded her from that fierce Wyoming wind. Harriet¡¯s breaths are ragged. ¡°I¡¯m scared.¡± ¡°Why? Ya jes¡¯ shot a Reeve.¡± She cannot say. ¡°Mmm.¡± Red nods. ¡°Ya remember that boy, Julius? Owned the casino? Hitched ya in the room upstairs when we first landed in London?¡± ¡°It was his sister¡¯s. Clara¡¯s.¡± Harriet squints. ¡°She died a¡¯ cholera.¡± ¡°You were already wowin¡¯ crowds with those guns a¡¯ yers, way back then. Shootin¡¯ plates. Hittin¡¯ coins outta the air. Julius loved it. Thought it attracted business. But then one night, I was downstairs, playin¡¯ cards, an¡¯... Blam! From upstairs, we heard Julius scream. Bullet went right over his eyes. But he was bent sideways cuz ya¡­ heheheh, ya ruined the wallpaper.¡± Harriet giggles with him, wiping her eyes. ¡°When he asked in that fancy accent, ¡®Red, what the blazes is she doin¡¯? Practisin¡¯ indoors?¡¯ I told him ya needed that Springfield ta sleep at night. Musta turned around, an¡¯ clicked the trigger.¡± He sighs, blinks a few times. ¡°... If the Almighty threw ya in Hell with a gun, ya¡¯d have a blast, huntin¡¯ demons. But take that away, ya lose that control. That safety. An¡¯ then suddenly, yer jes¡¯ like the rest of us.¡± ¡°Issat wrong?¡± Harriet grows stern. ¡°It¡¯s the City, Dad.¡± ¡°I know.¡± ¡°If I¡¯m caught¡­¡± ¡°I know that too.¡± Harriet swallows, her eyes are back on Soteris. That passionate heat and youthful skin. Even to mortals, he was a boy. But he stood on that stage like he owned it. And shook Harcourt¡¯s hand like he would own it, soon. If he was a Sovereign¡­ and he knew her¡­ ¡°Look for me, and I will find you.¡± She¡¯s not scared because she can¡¯t take him. ¡°You can still be saved.¡± She¡¯s scared because he knows she can. ¡°Tell me that this will break them.¡± Harriet says. ¡°That this ain¡¯t like the others. That it¡¯s gonna work.¡± Red sighs. ¡°Ya know I can¡¯t.¡± ¡°That¡¯s what I need.¡± There¡¯s a pause. Slowly, Red starts to readjust himself on his chair. Harriet lifts off, settling back into her booth. He looks at her. ¡°Ya never actually asked me why I stuck with Keaton.¡± ¡°Cuz yer a Commie.¡± ¡°Cuz he¡¯s right. We can¡¯t fight ¡®em now. An¡¯ win.¡± Red looks at the ground. ¡°Last Revolt, we outnumbered the Court, two ta one. Still lost. An¡¯ every year, that number¡¯s only gotten worse. There¡¯s no Rowe or Ratcatcher ta lead us. The young care fer crime, the old are lost in the Wilds. An¡¯ we¡¯re rippin¡¯ ourselves apart, all the while.¡± Harriet bites her lip. She hadn¡¯t helped with that. ¡°An¡¯ the mortals?¡± Red scoffs. ¡°Don¡¯ get me started with them. This Blair fella, with his markets an¡¯ wars¡­ thirty years back, the Left woulda shredded. But the unions, the clubs, they¡¯ve battered broken down. Mortals don¡¯t care ¡®bout equality. ¡®Bout us. They¡¯re jes¡¯ tryna stay the next step ahead.¡± Harriet¡¯s face wilts. ¡°How¡¯s a stock blowup gonna change it?¡± ¡°It won¡¯t. That flame¡¯s gone. Keaton an¡¯ I, we¡¯d be stompin¡¯ on cold ashes. But that don¡¯t mean we throw ourselves at a wall, strikin¡¯ whatever names we can from Janet¡¯s stupid list. The Unbound, they¡¯re still waitin¡¯, still listenin¡¯. If we hit the Court hard, hard enough they can¡¯t mend¡­ they¡¯ll rally. An¡¯ settle. An¡¯ stand an¡¯ fight.¡± ¡°Ya make it sound like we¡¯re on a suicide charge.¡± ¡°You haven¡¯t been?¡± She gives him a faint smile. ¡°It might be.¡± Red frowns. ¡°But it might not. An¡¯ after everythin¡¯ the Court¡¯s done, after everyone the Court¡¯s hurt, the Kepts, the Oathsworn, the colonised, the killed¡­ the Unbound can¡¯t die quiet. I won¡¯t sit an¡¯ watch ¡®em win.¡± Harriet returns to the screen, but doesn¡¯t focus on Chrysanthou¡¯s eyes. She stares at his hand. How easily had he lied to her? What sins were wrapped around that offered loaf of bread? Did he crush unions? Squeeze working folk? Use parts made from slaves, his own or someone else¡¯s, and tell himself and the world that, really, he¡¯s helping them? What about the Minister he so gleefully sells to? Harriet sees Saif. That Iraqi boy, with crosses over his eyes. How many of those protestors wanted guns tonight, and were forced to carry signs? Clacking heels grow louder. Janet sits down, wiping drips of red with her pale skin. ¡°Apologies that I¡¯m late. The meal-¡± Harriet stands so forcefully that she pushes the table away from her. Lifts her arms in front of her face, wrists touching, fingers curled. After a pause, she disconnects, elbows parallel to her shoulders. Like she¡¯s breaking chains. Her head bearing down, she sees Red Eddards¡¯ eyes gleam. Janet blinks. ¡°What is she doing?¡± ¡°She¡¯s in.¡± Then he stands and follows her, with the Unbound¡¯s old sign. Chapter 5: The Dream, Part 1 ¡°It is ironic, how many turn to God after they become creatures of the night. Reason cannot explain it. Their resurrection, their powers, the Predecessors, it should all contradict our old faiths. Yet many, myself included, press on. Barely perturbed. Perhaps it¡¯s the comfort, a piece of the past the Lighting can¡¯t take. Or perhaps it¡¯s mere stubbornness; mashallah, we carry that in spades. Maybe some find joy in worship, or a sense of humanity in their churches and pastors. But, really, I think there''s a simpler explanation. It is hard, at first, to embrace immortality. Watching all those you love, doomed to extinction. But through God, there is cause for it. Our lives are more than mere luck and whim. And what drives a man further than the belief he¡¯s been chosen?¡± Meditations on Nocturnal Existence, by Inquisitor Aisha Lakhani, 1997. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Aisling Finnerty¡¯s eyes reflect the telly¡¯s light. She squeezes her controller, bobs her head to the music. Courtesy of a strange new purple cube, Game Night came early. She¡¯s playing Wind Walker, or something like that, rolling around a small rocky island filled with human-like birds. ¡°Look at ¡®em! LOOK!¡± Finnerty points and hops around. ¡°These are my FOOKIN¡¯ PEOPLE!¡± It didn¡¯t take long among ¡®her people¡¯ for her to start throwing vases at their heads. As her friend cackles and plays along, Harriet watches in silence, a hand over her chest. The operation¡¯s tomorrow. She¡¯s leaving her guns here. And beneath a storm of wind chimes, she still doesn¡¯t know what to say. She could say nothing. Finnerty will be mad. She always finds out. There will be shouts, and tears, and the broken china won¡¯t be virtual. But that fight wouldn¡¯t be today. Harriet could¡­ no. No. She deserves to know. She looks back at her friend. Leaning on the couch, still lost in her game. Harriet scooches closer to her, whispering by her ear. ¡°Hey, Ashlin¡¯?¡± ¡°Flap on ¡®at, you stupid - yeah?¡± ¡°... What movie are we watchin¡¯ tomorrow?¡± ¡°Aviator. Like I said.¡± Finnerty blinks. ¡°Why you ask?¡± Harriet pulls back. Red hair spilling over as she closes her eyes. ¡°No reason. I¡¯ll be there.¡± +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 1865 Wintertime She huddles by the flames, and listens to the strange men bicker. They¡¯ve been going for an hour now, the big one called ¡®Red¡¯ and ¡®Menowin¡¯, the one with coins on his belt. They sometimes shouted, sometimes whispered, weaving between tall horses and a wagon of supplies. Their campsite was spacious, and deep in a valley, beyond the snowstorm. Two fires were lit on opposite ends so they could leave her here, by the slush-filled mud and dampened logs. Harriet¡¯s hands are tied behind her, her back pressed into a tree. She can do nothing to wipe her face of her tangled hair or the lingering, sticky blood. There¡¯s a large lump forming on the back of her head. Her stomach growls. It hurts to swallow. The pines around her reach so high, that she can¡¯t even see the starlights. She wants to hear them, but they¡¯re too far. And not as loud as the windchimes. There¡¯s another man by the wagon, kneeling towards the flames. She can¡¯t get a good look at his face, but she can tell from his clothes that he¡¯s a wealthy man. Supple boots, silk shirt, and a velvet leather vest. He doesn¡¯t say a word, even as the others shout around him. Or at him, by their looks. His eyes are tightly closed, and he whispers to a necklace with a wooden cross and brown beads. Suddenly, his hand lifts. The others stop. He stands, looks at Harriet, and walks slowly into the dark. Harriet¡¯s breath hitches. Against his belt, she caught a glimpse of steel. She tries to thrash her way out again, shoes slipping on the mud. Though she wears nothing but tatters now, their threads strain against the ropes. She growls, but its hoarse, too much like a whimper. His shape is lost, but she hears his footsteps, moving closer¡­ Tsip. Harriet stops. Her eyes are wide. The binds collapse around her. The man¡¯s boots squelch in the mud as he stands above her, tall and regal. He wears dark hair, on an angular face, much younger than Pa, but still older. She sees the silver on his belt, the emerald rings that match his eyes. She shrinks at the sight of his six-inch knife. But then, a ringing sound. The thunk of dirt and grass. The man¡¯s thrown the knife away. The blade wobbles in the ground, ten feet away from her. Slowly, the man falls to his knees, uncaring for the stains on his clothes or skin. Harriet growls until he lifts his hands. Instead of a weapon, he offers a bowl. ¡°God be with you.¡± His voice is strange. ¡°They call me Gawen Rowe.¡± The bowl¡¯s scent is warm. Succulent. A fine meat stew, with bread and fresh vegetables. But Harriet can¡¯t allow herself. Men this far West, they¡¯re not here for good reasons. She tries turning away, but he pushes the bowl further. ¡°Go on. It¡¯s not poisoned. Christ bid that we should feed all those who are hungry.¡± He takes the spoon himself, brings it to his lips. Only then does she reach for it, brusquely, but he pulls back, placing it gently in her hands. ¡°Careful.¡± His tone¡¯s soft. ¡°The stew just left the fire, it might need time -¡± She knocks the spoon off with her hand, slurps straight from the bowl. It¡¯s delicious. Brothy, filling. If she wasn¡¯t in front of him, she would cry. ¡°Or¡­ that.¡± He meekly nods. Even when she tosses the bowl into mud, his smile never fades. ¡°Menowin called you ¡®feral¡¯, but you seem to understand me. I seech mercy for his conduct. He¡¯s a good man, at heart¡­ but even Christ knows anger.¡± Harriet looks at the ground, saying nothing. But then, she freezes. Rowe¡¯s reached over, swiping loose locks from her face. She gives him a hostile look. He has her gun. She wants it back ¡°I¡¯ve offered you my name. Might I ask for yours?¡± ¡°H-... heh¡­.¡± Harriet frowns as her throat struggles. ¡°H-haaaa-¡± ¡°Ah.¡± Gawen stops her, lifts a finger. Her eyes follow it to the mud, where he starts carving letters. ¡°If you know how to read¡­ my nickname.¡± T H E B L A C K P R I N C E. ¡°Though, if you don¡¯t, I¡¯m certain we can find-¡± Harriet stoops down. Her letters are larger. H A R R I E T ¡°Mmm. Well, Christ¡¯s peace upon you, Harriet. You¡¯re truly full of surprises.¡± Rowe tilts his head. ¡°Is there a last name?¡± A moment¡¯s pause. She shakes her head. ¡°That¡¯s okay. I¡¯d hate for the first¡¯s beauty to be crowded out by another.¡± Harriet smiles at that. ¡°How long have you been out here?¡± She shrugs. ¡°Then where are you from?¡± She starts carving into the mud. I O W A M I S S I S S I P P I For the first time, his smile fades. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ a thousand miles from here. How did you-¡± She cuts him off with more writing. The words curt. Her face serious. I N E E D G U N O I L The Black Prince starts to laugh. It makes her scowl wither. ¡°That¡¯s what concerns you? The Springfield?¡± He offers a warm smile. ¡°We¡¯ll be cleaning that old musket while you sleep. But in the meantime we have food, medicine-¡± She growls. ¡°It¡¯s not a trick.¡± He lifts his hands. ¡°I would never think to disarm you. You¡¯ve been taking very good care of it.¡± She looks up at him, suspicious. Never breaking eye contact, even as she writes. W H Y A R E Y O U H E R E? ¡°You seemed in need of company.¡± She gives him a look. He smirks. ¡°You want the truth?¡± Slowly, he fades. ¡°... I don¡¯t get to tell the others stories.¡± He reaches for his vest. Harriet leans back, hackles raised, until a book is pulled from the fabric. It¡¯s bound in an old, leather cover. Written with words she doesn¡¯t understand. ¡°Come on.¡± He taps the log beside him, then beckons her. ¡°There¡¯s better lighting by the fire. The book¡¯s got pictures.¡± There¡¯s another long pause. Harriet¡¯s eyes search for exits. But like magnets, they always return to Rowe. His gentle face. His waiting hand. And slowly, her guard begins to lower. Standing is hard. Her knees wobble from aches and sores, and she can feel the blow to her head as she tries to balance. The Black Prince gives her lots of space, lets her settle, and makes sure their eyes meet as he moves closer. ¡°This is Cornwall.¡± He opens his book, revealing a map. ¡°It¡¯s part of England now. Have you heard of it?¡± England? Is that why his voice sounds so strange? Honestly, she finds the odd words and inflections funny. Harriet stares at the map, curious. Cornwall''s small, by the looks. A little stretch of rock jutting into the ocean. ¡°There¡¯s a lot more red-hairs in my country,¡± Rowe offers. ¡°You¡¯d fit right in.¡± She gives a sceptical look. Most people just make fun of her. ¡°But there still aren¡¯t many people in Cornwall,¡± he explains. ¡°We¡¯re a warm, green, rainy land. And that invites plenty of pigs and sheep and oxen. But humans find their way, in the towns, at the harbours. You could see Truro¡¯s from the castle by day, big men with crates, weary sailors seeking women. And merchants squeezing through it all -¡± She pulls back, looks confused. ¡®Castle?¡¯ she mouths. ¡°The one I grew up in.¡± He smiles at her glare. ¡°You didn¡¯t think I was called ¡®the Black Prince¡¯ for nothing?¡± He laughs, looks back down. ¡°When I was your age, I would climb to the very top of the tallest tower. The stones would freeze my feet in winter, and burn them up in spring. I¡¯d watch those busy shops and shipyards, the fields and flowers, and the sea. The sea touched everything. Especially at night, when it was quiet. You would hear nothing but the gulls and the waves.¡± He pauses, his eyes closed. It makes her mind wander, too. Not the ocean, she¡¯d never seen that. But the Mississippi. Her feet wading in its wide waters. Watching the streamers and oarsmen pass. The Black Prince shakes his head and laughs. ¡°But I¡¯m not here to¡­ heh, bore you with old memories.¡± He reopens the book. ¡°You¡¯re a guest. And though we might lack God¡¯s walls, I consider these grounds God¡¯s house. You¡¯re welcome here, as long as you like. And to celebrate that, I thought I¡¯d tell one of my people¡¯s oldest stories. Of Pen Draig, the great Dragon King. Who fought off great warlords in ancient years -¡± He¡¯s cut off by more scrawling. Harriet doesn¡¯t seem to be paying him any mind. ¡°Alright,¡± he concedes. ¡°Maybe you¡¯re too old for stories, too, but I¡­¡± Harriet scurries away, allowing him to read her message. W H Y D I D Y O U R U N ? He looks at her. ¡°Why did you?¡± Harriet starts to scowl, but her expression quickly softens. There¡¯s something in his face that¡¯s hard to describe. His eyes. A weight, a knowing. She didn¡¯t know what to expect from these men when she was brought here. Confusion? Fear? Desire? But she could never expect that. ¡°I haven¡¯t run, Harriet. I see the castle, every night.¡± He closes the book. ¡°In my dreams.¡± +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ August, 2004 Outside of the Offices of Polyphron, LTD. Rain patters the windshield, echoing a chorus outside. The City of London is a land of spotlights and neon. Ancient buildings shine and glass towers glisten. Against the shadows of passersby, the colours bleed into the fog. Janet¡¯s van, in turn, is awash with its own lights. Dozens of beeps and whirring fans, the flowing displays of monitors. The Shorn moves about the place, frantically typing. She wears a heavy metal t-shirt, and cut black jeans. Harriet swallows, ignoring the chance to mock. There¡¯s too much going on. Professionals crawl across the streets like rats. She¡¯s seen three Met cars already. And when she sticks her hand in her empty pocket, on instinct, the anxiety just gets worse, like feeling a phantom limb. She¡¯s on the wrong side of the river. ¡°Can you hear me?¡± Janet¡¯s voice has a strange echo as she switches on the earpiece. Harriet taps her own to answer. ¡°No.¡± Janet rolls her eyes as Harriet turns, fiddling with her clothes. The button-down shirt is oddly tight, constrictive and revealing. The heels are painful to stand in. And the pants¡­ ¡°You¡¯d be more convincing if you put on a skirt,¡± Janet sighs. Harriet gives her a look. Skirts are clearly not an option. ¡°Run your story, Fireside. One more time. Just in case you''re stopped.¡± Harriet exhales, blinking beneath the weight of the mascara Janet forced upon her. ¡°... My name is Jessica Connolly. I¡¯m an intern from IC.¡± It¡¯s strange hearing an English accent from her throat. But like everything with Jessica, it¡¯s been copied. ¡°9PM seems a bit late for an intern,¡± Janet mimes. ¡°I only come after class.¡± ¡°And why¡¯d you come here?¡± Harriet smiles. ¡°To slave away for our corporate Keepers.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t use ¡®slave,¡¯¡± Janet growls. ¡°Too on the nose.¡± ¡°I was joking.¡± Harriet walks to the van doors, wincing in her heels. ¡°You know me, Blackbird. If I got stopped, I¡¯ll just look cute.¡± ¡°Cute won¡¯t get you to their records floor.¡± ¡°If you ever stopped dating schoolboys, you¡¯d see how far cute can take me.¡± Janet bristles. It¡¯s a rather sore spot, her¡­ predilection in feeding. ¡°... and you¡¯re sure there¡¯s no secret guns in your pack?¡± ¡°None that I can remember.¡± ¡°No bullets, casings-¡± ¡°Janet, I¡¯m not a kid. I don¡¯-¡± ¡°Are you scared?¡± "No." There''s a long pause. Harriet exhales. ¡°... A lot can go wrong.¡± ¡°Just think one step at a time. You cross the street, walk in the door, approach the Ares gate, and then?¡± ¡°My blood type¡¯s B-negative,¡± Harriet replies. ¡°So nothing.¡± There¡¯s a rattle. The van¡¯s back doors creak open. Harriet grabs her bag and looks at Janet. ¡°Wish me luck, Blackbird.¡± She sees a brief smile on Janet¡¯s black lips, before the Shorn corrects herself. ¡°It¡¯s one of my plans. You won¡¯t need it.¡± Harriet¡¯s hair grows wet in the rain, and the van doors shut behind her. The whole walk across the street, Harriet keeps her head down. Doesn¡¯t matter that she keeps bumping into mortals, something about the towers daunt her. Those sleek shapes against the skyline, she¡¯s always thought they¡¯re too tall. That they have to fall down. But with every year, they just keep getting taller and taller. Her first snag is Polyphron¡¯s automatic door. Her aether¡¯s gone cold, and with it, the machine¡¯s sensors. But she can¡¯t fiddle with her powers, not now. She has to wait for a mortal to pass to slip inside awkwardly. The lobby is both austere and ostentatious: black marble, polished tiles, bold modern art and the trickling of a fountain¡¯s water. Harriet ignores the receptionists buzzing about a long desk, focusing on the guard, a Negro woman, with massive muscles and beads in her hair. She¡¯s reading a novel, with a name Harriet can¡¯t quite catch. Oblivious to the world and clearly bored. But as Harriet clacks along, she feels her hair stand on end. She tries her pocket again. Maybe this time, it won¡¯t be empty. The guard doesn¡¯t even look up as Harriet drops her bag. The tag reads ¡®Addana Chiagozie¡¯. Harriet smiles as she lifts her fake ID. ¡°Got the short stick on shift?¡± The ID comes back in. Stupid, Harriet, stupid. Why are you talking to the enemy? Harriet swallows, looks again at the gate. She expected Ares to be¡­ flashier. Dramatic. But it¡¯s no different from what she¡¯d see at Heathrow. After a pause, she steps through. A second passes. Two. Three. Nothing. Harriet sighs. And then an alarm goes off on the conveyor belt behind her. Harriet pales. The guard, Addana moves quickly, tossing out knick-knack after knick-knack, though she keeps that air of boredom. Harriet taps her clothes, jogs through her mind. The earpiece is plastic, so¡­ what if she¡­? This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°Ah.¡± Addana, fishes something small from the pack. Rifle casings. Their brozne glistens beneath the office lights. ¡°What are these?¡± Shit. ¡°That¡­¡± Harriet bites her lip, trying to think fast. ¡°Just a¡­ a gift! From my father.¡± Addana looks at her curiously. ¡°He¡¯s on tour. In Najaf.¡± The act slowly forms in her mind. Harriet folds her hands, looks down. ¡°Didn¡¯t make it to Christmas last year, but at least I got those. Told him I¡¯d much rather like more calls, but-¡± She¡¯s cut off. Addana laughs. Harriet looks up, startled, into Addana¡¯s lopsided smile. ¡°My father fought for Ojukwu, when I was small,¡± Addana says as she drops the casings in a small plastic bag marked ¡®For Return.¡¯ ¡°The things he thought to give us.¡± There¡¯s empathy in Addana¡¯s voice. Harriet tries to match it as genuinely as she can, but for a vampire, she sucks at lying. Decides to scamper down the hall instead, after offering a meek ¡®Thank you.¡¯ Her breathing returns to normal. Aether warms her blood. It¡¯s been a while since Harriet had seen an office building, and since she doesn¡¯t know where the lift is, she might as well explore. There¡¯s a lot more space now. People have their own rooms, or little felt walls that let them breathe. And more colour; soft greens and blues, few traces of the old brown. Where filing cabinets once stacked every wall, now they only inhabit the corners. And the computers. Harriet¡¯s gotten used to them, sure, but there¡¯s so many. The art is boring. Designed to be briefly looked at, and never conjure real feelings. ¡°Fi -zzhhhhhh - ide. Can you - shhhHHHH - e?¡± Static buzzes in her ear. ¡°I¡¯m getting - zzzZHHHHHH-¡± ¡°Have you tried speaking with a hacker voice, Blackbird?¡± After a few seconds, the static dies. ¡°ZHHHhhhh - Very funny.¡± ¡°I passed the gate,¡± Harriet says. ¡°Looking for the lift now.¡± ¡°I¡¯d offer directions if I wasn¡¯t bogged.¡± Harriet can hear her typing over the speakers. ¡°They might be a company of frauds, but Polyphron doesn¡¯t faff about with encryption.¡± ¡°You said he was into computers.¡± Harriet spots the lift doors, starts speeding over. ¡°You really can¡¯t get in?¡± ¡°Never said I can¡¯t, just that I¡¯d be slow.¡± ¡°Well, you¡¯ve got a few minutes. Still don¡¯t know which level¡¯s record. Suppose I could just check every -¡± Crash! Harriet¡¯s slammed face-first by a cart, filled to the brim with suits and hangers. They fall upon her in jumbled heaps, blazers and socks and ties. She hears the hurried clatter of heels as she shakes them all off, followed by the rapid apologies of the woman walking towards her. ¡°Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit! Sorry, sorry!¡± The woman stoops down, gathering dresses. ¡°God, such a klutz with these - hehehehe, it¡¯s a miracle a keep standing!¡± Harriet awkwardly stands up, giving the woman a long stare. She¡¯s caked in makeup, designer clothes, with pink highlights in her hair and a mass of large, dangling jewellery. There¡¯s something about the way she¡­ moves, hopping as she resets the clothes, eyes darting everywhere. Harriet doesn¡¯t know what to call it, other than¡­ ¡­ ¡­ squirrel-y. The woman gets frantic when Harriet tries to help. ¡°Ah, ah, ah! Don¡¯t you dare! My mess, my duty! But hit the ¡®up¡¯ button, will you, luv?" Harriet obliges silently. The woman plops down the remaining clothes with a grunt-filled heave, before scanning Harriet like she¡¯s wearing visors. ¡°Hmm¡­ if you cut those pants¡­¡± ¡°Pardon?¡± ¡°Oh, nuffin¡¯, luv. Just finkin¡¯ about ¡®at outfit. Great effort, ¡®specially round ¡®ere. Most folk can only give a fahk for turtlenecks and t-shirts.¡± The woman scoffs while Harriet steps back. She¡¯s talking a little too fast. ¡°Ah! An¡¯ the make-up! ¡®At black¡¯s gorj. What¡¯s the palette?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t tell her,¡± Blackbird whispers. ¡°Trade secrets.¡± ¡°Uhh¡­ m-maybe I just haven¡¯t learned the office vibe. I-I¡¯m kind of new here-¡± ¡°Stop.¡± Harriet shrivels back. The woman¡¯s got a hand on her heart. ¡°And I wasn¡¯t told?¡± Harriet stammers. ¡°I-I¡± Suddenly, she¡¯s being pushed towards the lift doors. Cornered by the woman¡¯s large, approaching cart. ¡°We know what that means we ¡®ave to do, right?¡± She says as she pushes. ¡°Absolutely, positively, no ifs, ands, buts, or pleas?¡± The lift doors slide open. Harriet hears a ding. ¡°NEW HIRE COOKIES!¡± Before Harriet can respond, the cart¡¯s forcing her into the lift. ¡°W-wait, I-¡± ¡°What¡¯s your fave? Chocolate, raisins, peanuts, brown sugar? Ohhhhh, an¡¯ you aren¡¯t allergic to dairy, right? Or gluten? ¡®Cause it¡¯s fine if you are, I don¡¯t mind at all. Really!¡± Harriet tries to shoves the cart off herself, eyeing the lift¡¯s buttons. ¡°Miss, look-¡± ¡°No, no, wait, wait, WAIT! I¡¯ve got it: icing!¡± The woman stamps her foot. ¡°WELCOME-parentheses-YOUR NAME, in big, frosty letters! Oh, that¡¯s posh, that¡¯s perfect, that¡¯s spic and span! And I¡¯ll make a whole batch for your team, don¡¯t worry! I-¡± ¡°How do I get to the records room?¡± Harriet interrupts. ¡°Ah! Level 20.¡± The woman taps the button with her heel, smiling widely. ¡°Astrid Traynor, by the way. Sorry if I got a bit excited there. Sometimes the mood carries me.¡± The lift starts shooting upward, it¡¯s gravity catching Harriet off-balance. ¡°Erm¡­ nice to meet you, Astrid. I¡¯m J-Jessica Connolly. Interning wi-¡± ¡°Right, right, sounds interesting.¡± Suddenly, Astrid flares up, taking a step away from the suits. ¡°¡®Ese aren¡¯t mine, by the way. Boss man, ¡®e¡¯s got-¡± ¡°I figured.¡± Harriet shrugs. ¡°You don¡¯t strike me as the consultant type.¡± ¡°No, no! I¡¯m more into the design of fings.¡± Astrid laughs, awkwardly. ¡°You know, I¡¯m not actually allowed on the records floor. Never asked why. ¡®Ese accountants, pffft. It¡¯s probably nothing.¡± Something in Astrid¡¯s voice implies otherwise. That it really is something. But before Harriet can or wants to inquire, the lift dings again. ¡°¡®At¡¯s your floor!¡± Harriet rushes out with the same energy as the Ares, waving back as she walks away. ¡°Um, lovely meeting you, Astrid, but-¡± ¡°Funny.¡± Harriet blinks, turns around. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± ¡°Your legs.¡± Lifting two fingers, Astrid mimics a walk. ¡°You move wiff your feet parallel to your shoulders. Not great for the heels. An¡¯ it makes you look¡­¡± The lift doors start to close. ¡°... manly.¡± And then the whole thing shoots away. ¡°zhhhHHH-ide?¡± Janet cuts in. ¡°Lost the signal for a moment, can you give me a read?¡± ¡°Sure,¡± Harriet taps her earpiece. ¡°I think someone just insulted me.¡± ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ When she was human, ¡®office-clerk¡¯ conjured images of threadbare, ill-fit men, backs hunched by the hours over their desks. Their eyes would squint in the building¡¯s poor light, pens in their hands shaking from the stale cold. It¡¯d been a while since Harriet, or anyone, for that matter, thought about salarymen that way. But when she sees the stale, windowless twentieth floor, the memories come rushing back to her. Harriet touches her earpiece, noting the horde of cabinets. ¡°You¡¯d think a records room would have more computers.¡± ¡°For conmen, you want less.¡± Janet replies. ¡°Anything and everything to obstruct discovery.¡± Harriet¡¯s gaze steels on a walled room in the centre. Through its windows, she can see that it¡¯s brimming with files. There. ¡°Blackbird, I found it.¡± Harriet runs for the door. ¡°But it¡¯s huge. Where do I start?¡± ¡°Balance sheets. Q1 and Q2, 2003. And correspondence, as much as you can carry. Words straight from Chrysanthou¡¯s mouth, will do exactly-¡± Harriet pulls the handle. It doesn¡¯t budge. She tries turning the handle around, fidgeting with the knob. Nothing. That¡¯s when she notices the keypad on the door. ¡°Hey, Blackbird,¡± Harriet scowls. ¡°Those ¡®contacts¡¯ of yours ever offer a code?¡± ¡°The code to what?¡± Harriet sighs. ¡°To the bloody door!¡± ¡°You don¡¯t need a code to get into the door.¡± ¡°Then I suppose I¡¯m just imagining things!¡± Suddenly, fear grips her. Harriet hushes herself, looks around. ¡°Blackbird, they just installed locks? What if we¡¯re compromised? Your contacts leaked, Polyphron found out-¡± ¡°If Polyphron found out, they wouldn¡¯t let you galavant about the gates. Can¡¯t you Paradox the lock?¡± Harriet huffs. ¡°With all those bits and gears? You know how long it would take?¡± ¡°Then try the bloody windows-¡± ¡°Wait¡­¡± Harriet¡¯s eyes dart to a faint light on the floor. An office. ¡°Hold that thought¡­¡± She takes off at a brisk pace. Within a few steps, she can hear someone struggling. ¡°Come on¡­¡± He grunts, followed by a crinkling sound. ¡°Urgh, hell!¡± Harriet stops just before the door, straightening herself, putting on a face like she¡¯s just walking past. Then, she peeks inside. ¡°Excuse me, sir? Did you need something?¡± The man looks up, his brow still bent in frustration. He wears one of those ¡®turtlenecks¡¯ Astrid was on about, along with grey trousers, and a mess of blonde hair. He¡¯s thin, even lanky, the Rolex on his arm sliding around. About him are objects that feel oddly banal: coloured mugs, old textbooks,a dozen little LEGO sets designed to look like buildings. He¡¯s trying to fold together a fresh cigarette. She sees that his hand is shaking. ¡°Sorry.¡± He¡¯s got a Southeast accent. His eyes are pale blue. ¡°I know they just implemented that ¡®No Smoking Policy.¡¯¡± ¡°Uh¡­ no.¡± Harriet pulls her bag close. ¡°No problem at all.¡± She walks towards his desk, eyes on the cigarette paper. ¡°Here, allow me.¡± Harriet straightens the liner out, careful as she clumps tobacco. She catches his nameplate as he steps aside. Randall Avery. He clutches his wrist, watching her. ¡°Not many your age could fold a fag like that.¡± If only he knew. She¡¯s got a century on the Marlboro Man. He realises that she¡¯s searching for a lighter. ¡°Um¡­ bottom drawer.¡± ¡°Got it!¡± Harriet takes a second longer than she needs to look around. There¡¯s a number on a Post-It note. 7535 ¡®New Install.¡¯ Perfect. She forces her Nocturni instincts down as she flicks on the flame. ¡°Long night?¡± Randall leans close, lighting the smoke. ¡°Like always.¡± She watches him take a drag. ¡°Seems like you¡¯re all alone up here.¡± ¡°Our senior members take late shifts. Can¡¯t trust the young with¡­ everything.¡± He says it nonchalantly, but Harriet pales. Shit. She¡¯s brushing up against a rather complicit mortal. Could be Oathsworn. Could be Caedmon¡¯s. He takes another drag. ¡°And you are¡­?¡± ¡°Right! Jessica Connolly!¡± She waves. ¡°Just an intern, for now, but-¡± ¡°Why¡¯d you come to work here?¡± Fuck. ¡°Oh, you know, just¡­¡± Harriet blinks a few times. ¡°I saw that Ares gate on TV, what it¡¯ll do to fight terrorists. My dad¡­¡± She pauses as he starts mumbling to himself. ¡°Excuse me?¡± ¡°Apologies, but I think you¡¯re lying.¡± Harriet can feel her heart pick up. Tries not to show it. ¡°You really wanna know?¡± He nods. ¡°Your boss, Soteris? Something about him spoke to me.¡± ¡°He has that effect on people.¡± ¡°He says he¡¯s going to change the world.¡± ¡°And you believe him?¡± ¡°Do you?¡± Randall pauses, like he hasn¡¯t given it much thought. Slowly, he pulls away from her, towards the glass. The view from the full-length windows could steal her breath. He looks at her through the glass. ¡°He¡¯ll change something.¡± ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The code works. Harriet slides through the door and leaves her bag to prop it up. For safety. She can see the lift doors, in the distance. If something goes wrong, it¡¯s just a straight line. Still, the room¡¯s cramped, overflowing with files. Mounds fill the floor, make bridges along the cabinet tops, and completely envelop the desk. She could spend months sifting through it all. But after talking with Randall, she only wants to spend a few minutes. ¡°Blackbird,¡± Harriet whispers. ¡°I¡¯m in. But I¡¯m gonna really need your help here.¡± ¡°If it¡¯s not electric, there¡¯s not much I can do. Left my all-seeing eye back in Mordor.¡± ¡°What¡¯s Mordor? Some sort of club?¡± Janet has one of those long silences that only seem to happen when Harriet¡¯s around. But as she thrusts cabinet¡¯s open, she¡¯s too busy to comment. ¡°These balance sheets are massive,¡± Harriet rifles through. ¡°How the hell am I going to store them all in my bag?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know, Fireside. Maybe use the powers that bend shape and matter?¡± Harriet¡¯s nose curls. ¡°Alright, smartarse¡­¡± She sniffs. Then sniffs again. On the third time, Harriet stands up. Predator instincts kick in. ¡°Blackbird, smell¡¯s off. There¡¯s a trap.¡± ¡°A trap?¡± Janet¡¯s voice quickly grows stern. ¡°Step away. Eyes on the floor, look for tripwires.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not wires.¡± Harriet closes her eyes, drowns the noises out. Deep breaths¡­ focusing¡­ ¡°Describe the smell to me. Fruity? Sharp? Whatever comes to mind. Just don¡¯t-¡± ¡°Done.¡± ¡°What?¡± A small device clatters onto the floor loudly. ¡°Nerve agents. Saw this stuff in Belfast. Guess they still don¡¯t know about us, because this wouldn¡¯t do shit if I just stopped breathing.¡± Harriet opens the ¡®2003¡¯ cabinet, and almost immediately growls. ¡°God damn it. The files aren¡¯t in order.¡± ¡°Have some been taken out?¡± ¡°More like they¡¯re all over the place.¡± Harriet starts tossing folders to the floor, rattling off the headers. ¡°¡®97, ¡®91¡­ meeting minutes, lawyer contracts, you can¡¯t fucking find anything!¡± ¡°It¡¯s the same trick as before. The trail¡¯s been made so muddy that even employees could struggle to follow it.¡± Harriet rolls her eyes. ¡°Because that¡¯s a grand fucking strategy¡­¡± She perks up, looks back towards the desk. There¡¯s an indent on one of the cabinets there, right where the little trap once hung. ¡°Wait a minute¡­¡± She rushes over, yanks the drawer loose, digs in. As she scans the headers, and looks briefly at their numbers, her smile starts to grow. ¡°Janet?¡± Harriet forgets the code names. ¡°I¡¯ve struck gold.¡± The Q1 and Q2 sheets are right there. But the contacts¡¯ numbers were wrong. The stock¡¯s not pumped by millions of fraudulent quid, but hundreds of millions. Different documents detail how: an intricate tree of shell companies, all Nocturnal, that funnel the same money around whenever investors or cops get nosy. Polyphron hasn¡¯t paid taxes in years. Its liquid assets dried up. Its debts are a hundred times greater than the past five years¡¯ earnings. Even she can tell this company should be doomed, and she went to school in a horse and buggy. Harriet squints at a particular page. ¡°¡®Project Hestia¡¯...¡± She pales. It¡¯s been signed by Randall Avery. ¡°Fireside, talk to me. What¡¯s there?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve got a letter from an accountant, addressed to Caedmon himself. But¡­ holy shit, they aren¡¯t frauds. Their products work.¡± She can feel Janet''s confusions. ¡°But the numbers¡­¡± ¡°I know, and they¡¯re bad, but Janet, I¡¯m being serious, that¡¯s all just for fundraising. It¡¯s the contracts they want, the contracts they care about.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°They¡¯re fronts. Excuses to¡­¡± Harriet swallows. ¡°... build weapons for Nocturni.¡± It finally hits Janet. ¡°Holy shit. The Ares Gate.¡± ¡°Think, Janet! How many people go through Heathrow in a day? Or the Tube? How much data can you collect?¡± ¡°And all of it, going back to¡­¡± For the first time since Harriet¡¯s met her, Janet sounds awed. ¡°They¡¯re not just hunting Unbound. They¡¯re building a mortal registry.¡± ¡°Exactly. And that¡¯s just the start. The gate¡¯s just to build buzz for this new project, ¡®Hestia.¡¯ I don¡¯t know what it is, but the R&D, it¡¯s insane. Caedmon¡¯s dumping billions into the project. Half his net worth.¡± ¡°Billions?¡± Janet pauses. ¡°Since when have they ever tossed that kind of money around?¡± Harriet scans the page, searching for clues. Improving PR¡­ Far Eastern investors¡­ Magistry intervention¡­ ¡°Wait, wait, hear this.¡± Harriet reads out loud. ¡°¡®The only item now missing from Hestia¡¯s production is its most critical: the subject. I¡¯ve offered my magistry¡¯s services, but Chrysanthou insists I not act, insists that we allow his plans to develop exactly as he¡¯s designed them to. I admit, I remain sceptical. The man¡¯s arrogance knows no bounds. But things have fallen as he¡¯s wished them to so far. And if he actually succeeds¡­¡¯¡± Harriet stops, her eyes wide. The page starts to shake in her hand as she reads the last line. She should be reading this right now. A sizzling sound fills the air. Little lights dance across the page. The paper keeps getting warmer and warmer. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°ZZZZZHHHHHH - anet!¡± A panicked rings out over the speakers. ¡°WE NEED TO - shhhhh - GET OUT!¡± It starts with a tiny beep. But quickly, it becomes thousands. Janet hovers over her desk, hands shooting across the keyboards. Her first monitor goes out, then the second. Third, fourth, sixth. All of them spewing static, just like her headset, as Fireside¡¯s panicked screams go louder. ¡°Fireside, please, I can¡¯t-¡± A stinging pain in her chest sends Janet crashing into the table. She blinks, feels her heart. Fiercely grits her teeth as she struggles to draw breath. Janet pulls her shirt down until she can see the marking along her collarbone. ¡®Janet, Kept of Anne.¡¯ The letters grow a fierce and burning red. Janet looks up, and her expression falls. The screens have all gone black, but something¡¯s trickling through. Runes. Bright, blue, flickering little runes. They sprinkle the screens like rain on grass. Shifting around, until on each screen they spell out words: FOUND YOU. Her face starts to feel heat, and her nostrils flood with sulfur. Janet taps her headset, terror in her eyes. ¡°FIRESI-¡± ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ She hears the explosion, thirty stories away. Her fingers are still on the earpiece when the static abruptly. She speaks, quietly, as if saying the word out loud will make all that she¡¯s feeling real. ¡°... Blackbird?¡± She needs to move. She needs to run. But her thoughts are in a rut. Her feet feel glued to the floor. Red-tinged tears start to glisten in her eyes. And as the windchimes and white clouds come rushing in, she¡¯s filled with an overwhelming dread that her luck¡¯s finally caught up. Then a cabinet crashes through the glass, and predator instincts take hold of her. ¡°AHH!¡± Harriet screams as the metal collides, spilling files across the floor. It was going fast, clearly thrown. She grits her teeth, digs her hand in her pocket¡­ wait. Fuck fuck fuck. NO NO NO! She starts hyperventilating, pulling her body close but another filing cabinet thuds against the door, throws her back to reality. That¡¯s when she feels tremors. Cabinets rattling their shelves, folders flapping into the air. The entire room has started to vibrate. Even the windows crack. And it¡¯s all bathed in a faint blue glow. The signature light of aether. Harriet charges through the door, shielding her face. ¡°GODDAMNIT!¡± The room erupts behind her. A cacaphonous wall of sound. Loose cabinets burst through the windows, floating in the air, chasing after her. She ducks, and they careen into desks before whirring off again. Harriet pauses, checks her surroundings. The lift¡¯s down the hall, she knows that, but¡­ but¡­ ¡­ she looks behind her. Nine cabinets float in a circle, bathed in blue, loose pages spinning like rings around them. They seem to centre around a raised, glowing arm, its elbow bent at a wrong angle. As Harriet watches, the arm twitches, slowly bending itself into shape with loud cracks. As if the magic itself wants to rip every muscle in half. He still has blonde hair. He wears the same turtleneck. But when he sees her, his neck jerks, and she can clearly see that light spilling from his face. It pours out of the mouth, the ears, the scars on his cheek, every pore and mark available. But most of all, it shines in his eyes. The pupils are gone, replaced with that flashing neon colour. Harriet¡¯s frozen by awe. Desperate disbelief. Randall Avery - the Venefici - raises his lighter high. It triggers an alarm, and bathes them both in sprinklers. Run. It¡¯s the only thought in her mind as she turns away. Breaking into a full sprint, even as filing cabinets start to whiz past her. The world blurs. The rows of desks, sky-high walls. She weaves around them, forcing distance. Behind her, to her side, clanging metal, tearing papers. Aether floods her bloodstream. Water drenches her hair. The air whirrs. She makes a turn. But her heels snag, and she¡¯s falling down. Splashes in a growing puddle. She cowers behind a desk, grips her head, tries to think. She¡¯s fought these fucks before, she has to know some trick. But instead of wisdom, panicked warnings. Of beings with godlike powers. Monsters with no mercy. You can¡¯t fight the Poisoned Ones. Run run run. DIE DIE DIE A water cooler flies over her head, yanking acomputer off its desk. There¡¯s a chorus of sparks. Harriet screams. Randall flings object after object. Never slowing, never stopping. He has an automaton¡¯s eyes. A predator¡¯s smile. Harriet¡¯s back on her feet. Changing directions with every throw. She feels the aether flowing, glow forming in her eyes. She stops. And turns. There¡¯s a rush of air. A coffee table, hurtling close. She lifts her arms. Magic roars. The table is met by its perfect twin. They both crash to the floor in splinters. Harriet¡¯s energised. She launches another copy, then a third. Always straight for Randall. He keeps using his furniture to swat hers away, but she can Paradox them faster. For now. A Venefici¡¯s got more aether. She¡¯s draining fast. So she distracting. Buying time. If she can just make it to the lift... The flying furniture stops. Immediately she runs. But Randall watches her go, his body alight. He lifts a hand, and three water coolers near her rise. Slowly, he clenches his fist. Their contents start to swirl, bubble, warm. Until burst from their plastic like bombs. Harriet¡¯s tearing through the hall at breakneck speeds. Leaping over ruined chairs and spilled files. But abruptly, she pulls back. Nearly falls into the growing puddles of water. Something¡¯s rising from them, long and serpentine. Two more join, one from each burst cooler. Wherever they land, air steams, water bubbles, and she can hear the tiles sear. She looks at Randall in terror. He smirks, and the snakes pounce. She slides under the first one. It hits a desk, melting metal. She quickly leaps back, four cabinets crashing against every last step. She dodges the second¡¯s front, but it hits her with her tail. She screams. The pain¡¯s blinding. Then, more heat. Something wet, around her ankle. The world flips. She falls. Hears a crack across her nose. She shoots up just in time to see the third snake approaching. She starts to crawl. Struggling to breathe as it shakes and coils. But as it lunges, a loud thump. A cabinet misfires. As Harriet takes off, the snake shatters into water. She¡¯s reached full speed. Can¡¯t breathe through her nose. The lift¡¯s so close. She¡¯s right there! With a leap, she could press the button. But cabinets and bookshelves and fridges crash behind her. He¡¯s not giving her space. He¡¯s not giving her time. She needs to copy something big, something he can¡¯t stop. But what? Godammit, fucking think! Fast fast FAST! Harriet spins, lifts her arms. Randall¡¯s there, across the hall, hurling a dozen desks right at her. Her fingers spark. Her hair stands on end. She pulses. Then blinks. Everything¡¯s suddenly dark. The desks loudly crunch against the stone beside her. She turns, reaches out. Feels something rough, and cold, and damp. She¡¯s copied a wall. Covering herself, and the lift doors. But judging from the growing sounds on the other side, Randall Avery¡¯s throwing half the room at it. Smashing it back to bricks. Harriet spins around. Can hear the crunch of metal, the shatter of glass. She frantically jabs the button. ¡°Come on come on come on¡­¡± The collisions are almost constant. Light starts bursting through. ¡°Come on come on COME FUCKING ON!¡± There¡¯s a ding. The doors move. Harriet feels her heart leap from her chest. She bursts through the doors, overcome with relief¡­ ¡­ until she feels the cold steel of a gun barrel, pressed against her head. Harriet freezes. The wall fades out. Slowly, she looks to her side. Addana Chiagozie¡¯s waiting by the buttons, a Magnum in her hand. In the other, a small clear bag, with three old rifle cartridges and a post-it note declaring, ¡°She¡¯ll switch blood types. ¡°Hey, Fireside,¡± she winks. ¡°How¡¯s the father?¡± Harriet¡¯s breaths grow ragged. She raises her arms, struggling to speak, when- ¡°Hrk!¡± Something in her spine. A stinging pain. And cold. Harriet¡¯s arms go slack. Blood pools across her shirt. She slowly looks down. A three foot long icicle has pierced clean through her heart. With every slowing beat, the ice turns a darker red. Randall¡¯s feet hit the floor. Exhausted, but triumphant. When he tightens his fist, the pain triples. She feels her heartbeat, slowing down. Suddenly, the world¡¯s a blur. White clouds and wind chimes. Shock overwhelms. He starts walking to the lift, just as Harriet slumps over. She twitches like a dying insect, her movements growing cold. Addana keeps the Magnum trained. Oathsworn, must be. Not taking any chances. Harriet can feel her blood freeze, the flesh turning grey and mottled. What the fuck can she say? What the fuck will she do? But then she looks again at the windows, the smoke trail, and all at once reality hits her. Janet¡¯s gone. Red can¡¯t get in. She never told Aisling. The same memories repeat, flooding her mind. Snow on red bricks. Squeezing cold hands. Corn in the fields. Blood in her mouth. She fires a gun. She fires a gun. She fires a gun. The flash, the sound, the scent of the powder. She sees and hears and smells it, a thousand thousand times. She never told Aisling. SHE NEVER TOLD AISLING. A hundred and fifty four years on this Earth. And it was finally over. She looks up at the Poisoned One as he approaches. His expression unfeeling. She can¡¯t speak anymore. Too much blood in her mouth. This is how it ends? In this building, on the floor? No Reeve, no big battle? Just a Keeper and his Kept, watching her blood freeze over? Wait. Freeze? She¡¯s undead. Cold can¡¯t kill her. Slow her down, sure, but when it thaws¡­ She pales. Looks at Randall. Beneath that Venefici face, the barest hint of a smile. He mentioned a subject. No NO NO It happens in a flash. She springs out, slaps Addana. The Oathsworn¡¯s off-guard, the gun rattles from her hand. Harriet lunges for it, snatches it, presses it to her own forehead. She cries at her luck. The trigger¡¯s cold on her fingers. Randall realises her intent. ¡°NO!¡± A blue light jerks the gun, just as she squeezes. There¡¯s a loud bang, chipped glass. Loud ringing in her ear. But Harriet screams, looking for it. Nails in her face. Not like this not like this! A twist. Then pain. Randall¡¯s magic moves the spike, sliding it across her heart. The feeling¡¯s indescribable. While it happens, she¡¯s barely lucid. Sees the frost in her breath when she is. Addana grabs the gun, scurries back. But there¡¯s no point. It¡¯s cold. Harriet loses feelings in her legs first. Then her arms. Everything stiff, almost statuelike. Until eventually, she can¡¯t move at all. Eventually, Randall stops. The light fading from his eyes. His shoulders sag; he¡¯s exhausted. She¡¯s not breathing at that point. Barely aware. He lifts his hand, and thin paper floats from his pocket. It¡¯s joined by a lighter, clumps of tobacco. The cigarette is built with perfect form when it falls in his waiting hand. ¡°Welcome to Polyphron, Fireside.¡± He takes a drag. ¡°Thank you for accepting our invitation.¡± Chapter 5: The Dream, Part 2 1865 Wintertime With a heave, Harriet tries to shove her gun onto the horse¡¯s holster. The saddle¡¯s high up, a destrier¡¯s - a real war horse, like in the stories Pa told. She found her gun in a maze of cargo, which she traipsed through in the dark. Already on the steed are cured meats, a bag of oats, and every piece of ammunition she thought the strange men carried. She looks back to the wagon, where they still sleep. They had only retired an hour before dawn. Forced her to move much more quickly. Something builds in her throat, that old pang of guilt, when she thinks of the Black Prince. The stories he told, the warmth in his eyes. He had offered her so much kindness. Was this going to be her reply? Yes. It has to be. No more warmth. No more stories. No more people. She¡¯d been down that road. It takes multiple tries to climb the horse. It kicks and stomps and even bucks, and she¡¯s too small and weak to stop it. Eventually, she wriggles on, like a worm. Her croaking voice can¡¯t calm it down. It¡¯s frustrating that she can¡¯t speak. The presence of others made that clear. But it was something she¡¯d have to get used to. It doesn¡¯t matter. She never had anything important to say. With a kick, the horse starts to trot, confused by her weight and constantly looking back. Harriet growls, kicks again. Finally, the thing breaks into a gallop. The sun hasn¡¯t risen, but the sky¡¯s turned pink and gold. She watches the Milky Way fade. Then the stars. One by one. She presses her cheek to the horse¡¯s neck, closes her eyes, squeezes her gun. She¡¯s exhausted. Can barely focus. But she has to keep moving. She has to survive. And if her body won¡¯t let her, the windchimes will. They¡¯re ringing in her ear already. Wrapping around her like- There¡¯s a force. Weight, then weightlessness. She¡¯s in the air. Arcing over bushes, sailing between trees. She lands in snow. Cold against her skin. Half a dozen boxes of dried rice and musket balls join her. She lifts to her knees, looks around. Gun, gun, gun. Where is it? Where- The destrier calmly lifts itself to its hooves, legs bruised by a long, heavy tree branch. Harriet blinks. She couldn¡¯t have missed that. How did she miss that? The horse plods slowly through piles of snow, past her, and places its maw in Red Eddards¡¯ large, waiting hand. He stares at her with malice. The man with bells stands beside him. Menowin. With a glint in his eye, he puts his glove back on his hand. ¡°Rakli nashli,¡± he hisses. ¡°Do you have any idea what we do to thieves?¡± She sees the man¡¯s swords on his belt. Glittering in pre-dawn light. She gasps. Her gun. It¡¯s still there, on the horse. She grunts helplessly as Red slides it out. ¡°K¡­ keh¡­ nnn-nnnn-¡± ¡°Xoxamno sap,¡± Menowin smirks. ¡°Svidetiv-¡± ¡°Menowin.¡± A light voice breaks through. ¡°That¡¯s enough.¡± The Black Prince pushes past the trees. Mud still splatters his clothes. His eyes have darkened. Menowin grits his teeth. ¡°Silence, rikono! Your trust got us here! The bitch made off with half our weapons. What happened to your war?¡± Gawen gives him a sharp look, before turning to Red. ¡°Hand her the gun.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°Hand her the gun.¡± ¡°Rowe, let''s talk serious. She¡¯s wild. Clearly doesn¡¯t want our-¡± ¡°Please.¡± Gawen¡¯s voice is firm. ¡°I gave you second chances.¡± A pause. Red sighs, unslings the Springfield. Gawen smiles as it¡¯s tossed in the air, landing in the snow. Harriet springs for it, embracing it, curling herself around the barrel and pressing her cheek along the trigger. Menowin watches in disgust. ¡°?oxani,¡± he spits. ¡°Lad?ajmos, kurva ?oxani!¡± ¡°Harriet.¡± Gawen ignores him, speaking quietly, kneeling down. ¡°We¡¯re not mad.¡± Red scoffs. ¡°Speak fer yer-¡± ¡°He¡¯s not mad either.¡± Gawen smiles. ¡°But you¡¯re tired, and hungry, and probably sick. It¡¯s not safe for you to be alone.¡± Harriet slides back, the gun pulled close. Hair falling over her face as she snarls. ¡°You don¡¯t want to join us. That¡¯s okay. But until I know you live a full life, I won¡¯t stop offering the tools you need to build one. Please.¡± He starts walking closer. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. She flinches. Lifts her gun. ¡°It¡¯s okay to stop. It¡¯s okay to rest.¡± Too close, too close, too close. ¡°It¡¯s okay to-¡± She fires. Black smoke fills her throat. The Black Prince leans from foot to foot, his breathing paused. As he wobbles, his eyes almost roll back. Trying to look up and see the gaping hole in his forehead. Red looks upon it with horror, his face now splattered by blood. ¡°GAWEN!¡± The Black Prince falls. Harriet runs. Red charges past Menowin as the strange man shouts in his strange tongue. She weaves between the trees. Legs pounding the frozen earth. Faster, faster, but Red¡¯s large, and strong. She can¡¯t run not fast enough. Heavy hands grab her shoulders. Thrust her into a tree. Harriet kicks, thrashes, claws at his arms. The touch, it¡¯s too much. Wind chimes roaring, louder and louder. ¡°Stop it, stop it! STOP MOVIN¡¯!¡± Her movements grow more frantic. Angry, angry, no no no! ¡°WHAT DID YOU DO!?¡± Red rattles her, forces her to look at his face. Fury mixed with sorrow. Rage blinded by tears. He looks¡­ confused. ¡°God¡­ what did you-¡± Harriet screams. A hoarse voice, cracking against the wind, as her world turns white. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ It¡¯s not correct to say she wakes up. In truth, Harriet was never sleeping. Hours have passed. Or maybe minutes. Or days. There¡¯s no way to tell. Harriet¡¯s lost all sensation except the wind chimes and white clouds. But eventually, she feels cold grass on her fingers. Her face half-smushed by rotting wood. And a taste of something foul. The stiff smell of rot and sinew and the texture of dried blood on equally dry lips. Harriet moves slowly, tearing something from between her teeth. Her eyes grow wide. A bit of cloth. It¡¯s Red¡¯s. ¡°- bit me. She actually fuckin¡¯ bit me.¡± She hears the Dixie¡¯s voice, somewhat muffled. ¡°Think we mighta grabbed the wrong puma?¡± She turns. Her confusion grows. Where once there was nothing but shrub and rock, now an extravagant tent stands. Its cloth is rich, and embroidered, flooded with bright colours. A wide awning at the front creates a space filled with shadow. But she¡¯d been in these men¡¯s wagons, she¡¯d seen its treasures, or lack thereof. Something like this... And why is it¡­ shimmering? Like waves of heat in the summer. ¡°Be glad she didn¡¯t draw blood, or we¡¯d have something much worse to deal with.¡± She can hear Menowin spit from inside. ¡°You should have left her. She''s marime. Something in her blood is¡­ tainted. Unclean.¡± ¡°Can¡¯t say I feel comfortable killin¡¯ a kid.¡± ¡°It¡¯s a luxury now. Won¡¯t be when she¡¯s older.¡± Harriet finds her gun. There, a few yards closer to the tent. She crawls towards slowly, carefully, listening to the men. ¡°Frankly, I¡¯m more worried ¡®bout this tent,¡± Red continues. ¡°Dawn¡¯s come. Wind¡¯s gonna pick up. Yer sure this¡¯ll keep the Sun ousside?¡± ¡°It¡¯s paradox, gadje. It doesn¡¯t follow a forest¡¯s laws.¡± ¡°That don¡¯ make a lick a¡¯ sense.¡± ¡°To you, it wouldn¡¯t.¡± Harriet puts her forehead on her gun. Breathing deep, squeezing the stock. But a stirring from the tent shakes her, makes her arm. Crunching boots that have sent the men into a frenzy. ¡°Hey, wait-¡± ¡°The Sun, karbaro! Don¡¯t-¡± The tent flap opens. A silhouette steps into the awning¡¯s shadow. Harriet feels her jaw drop as light slowly penetrates his face. She shot him. Right between the eyes. How¡­? ¡°Harriet.¡± The Black Prince still sounds calm. In his hands are twin curved swords and a revolver. ¡°Take these.¡± He throws them all on the ground. Menowin and Eddards reach out, clearly cautious to leave the tent space. ¡°Gawen, what the fuck are ya-¡± ¡°She has to feel safe before I can ask her to join us.¡± ¡°Enough fuckin¡¯ heroics. Ya don¡¯t have ta-¡± ¡°This is what she needs.¡± There¡¯s conflict on Red¡¯s face. Worry, fear, and none for himself. But Gawen turns back and gives a steely, knowing glare. Before sliding his arm from Red¡¯s fingers. Harriet lifts the Springfield. More terrified than she¡¯s ever been. But as the Black Prince steps into the awning, face lit by hints of light, she realises how foolish her gun would be. His face is dirty. His clothes torn. But he looks fine. Even with a trail of blood leaking from the hole in his forehead. ¡°You¡¯re frightened,¡± he taps his head. ¡°But not of us, or even this. You¡¯re afraid because you¡¯ve been taught to fear. Of everything you need.¡± Gawen stops at the foot of the awning, just before light can reach. ¡°Do you still dream, Harriet? Or have the demons of your past scared those from you, too?¡± His brow furrows. ¡°I¡¯ve already told you one of mine. Calm waves below my feet, a castle beneath the moon. But I dream of the people, as well. Butchers and fishwives, sailors and serfs. And when I came to this land, the dream only grew. Soldiers without limbs. Children scarred by war. And an army of souls, millions strong, marching back into slavery¡¯s chains. Sealing their deaths in steel tombs.¡± Gawen¡¯s hand becomes a fist. He stares at it, his voice low. ¡°I see their faces, Harriet. Lost and desperate and torn apart. Robbed of beauty, of purpose, of answers. This world is taking what makes them human. Like it¡¯s taken from me, and it¡¯s taken from you." She bites her lip. The Springfield shakes. The Black Prince¡¯s voice starts to rise in fervour. ¡°They think you¡¯re an animal. A terrified creature, lost to the wild. But that¡¯s not what I see. I see Harriet. The real Harriet, the human Harriet, the woman that exists beyond hunger and exhaustion and shame! I see her brilliance, her strength, her light. A light that wants to be lit. A light that wants to shine. A light that only needs a source she knows she can safely follow.¡± ¡°Geh-h¡­.¡± She shakes her head, her face contorting. ¡°K-keh-kehkeh¡­¡± ¡°That¡¯s my dream, Harriet. A world all can speak. A world where none are forgotten. Where humans can be human. And if you don¡¯t want that world, run. Take everything I have, and run as far as your legs can carry you. But I see your eyes, Harriet. You don¡¯t want to just survive. You¡¯re so tired of running.¡± Harriet¡¯s lowered her gun, little squeaks from her throat. Rowe watches her silently as tears fill her eyes. ¡°Stay, and I will help. Build you up, higher and higher, until you can see above the castle towers, until you can see beyond today. You will tread a path for all peoples to follow. You will dream again..." The other men gasp. Harriet¡¯s eyes grow wide. The Black Prince, with his long dark hair, and knowing eyes, extends his arm past the awning. It¡¯s grey, and filthy, and coarse as leather. When it enters the sunlight, it sizzles and sears. Flesh turning moulty, slides off in strips. But he doesn¡¯t pull back. Doesn¡¯t wince. Merely smiles. Serene, and satisfied, like meeting her here was nothing less than an act of God. ¡°¡­ But until that day, dream with me.¡± ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Chapter 6: The Monster Born Beside Us Author''s Note: This story refers to the Romani people, sometimes known as Roma, Rom, or Travellers, by the more archaic English term for the group, ''Gypsies.'' Whether or not one considers the word ''gypsy'' to be a slur varies wildly by culture, locale, and individual. In America, the word is considered offensive, and Roma or Romani are increasingly replacing it in common parlance; in Eastern Europe, however, ''gypsy'' is still widely used, even by members of the Roma themselves. This debate, however, was not present in 19th century America or Britain, and while Menowin refers to himself as ''Rom'', he has little issue with whichever word people use. In his mind, discrimination and exclusion are inevitable, either way. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°Our scouts reached St. Ives on midday the 16th, delayed some hours by the storms that so regularly rock the region. There they found a dockyard emptied of both ships and sailors. Interviews with the locals at first proved unproductive; the Cornish clearly hold some lingering affection for the Levellers, and the fallen Crown besides. Only when the Lord Protector¡¯s men threatened to raze the town did they speak; Gawen Rowe had not, as we believed, fled to his allies in the Isles. He¡¯s abandoned them entirely, taking what remains of his faction to our colonies in the New World.¡± ¡°This is our boon; with Charles¡¯ son in Scotland, the Irish in revolt, and Unbound still occupying vast swathes of the land, this ¡®Black Prince,¡¯ small as he is, can no longer drain resources we can¡¯t afford to spare. The Lord Protector has made clear that he has little patience for our requests, and until Sunwalker can restore his influence, Parliament will stand behind him. I say, let the Prince run. He enters a land filled with nothing but heathen outcasts, failing enterprise, and the war cries of heart-eating savages. Perhaps they¡¯ll better suit him.¡± ¡°The soldiers still torched St. Ives. Cromwell¡¯s orders.¡± Excerpt of a letter by Deputy Lucian Sinclair to his Keeper, Reeve Caedmon of London, towards the end of the Sixth Revolt. Dated February 19, 1649. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 1866 Springtime ¡°Ay - bee - cee - dee - ee - eh-eh-ehhh-¡± ¡°Eph. Ephhh.¡± The Black Prince lifts his finger, emphasising the sound. ¡°Don¡¯t release your lips too early. And remember, relax. The throat is just a muscle. No different than your arms and legs.¡± Harriet meekly nods, then tries again. ¡°Ee - eh-eh-ephhhhh¡­ gee!¡± ¡°Excellent!¡± He lights up. ¡°By Jove, you¡¯ve made such progress already.¡± Gawen Rowe lies. Harriet¡¯s voice is still grungy, and it fails to fully speak even the simplest words. But the girl smiles back anyway, her hands squeezing the barrel she sits on. Trying to ignore the red stains by her hands. Or the acrid stench of smoke still flooding her nostrils. By the wagon, Menowin marches over the many corpses, uncaring if he tears flesh or crushes ribs. Some still gather flies. Others are mere piles of charred bone. Red¡¯s on the ground, nose parallel to the soil. Sometimes he finds a headband, a rifle case, a bead necklace, and sniffs at it like a bloodhound. The camp was empty when they arrived, but signs of battle were obvious. Bits of blue cloth, broken arrows, and fabrics from the tippees that escaped the burning. She¡¯s not quite sure what happened. Perhaps the Injuns tried to sacrifice their prisoners. A raid went sour, or they stole one wife too many. She could tell by their faces that the three men knew. But for whatever reason, they refused to give answers. ¡°Alright.¡± Rowe shifts in his seat, high up on the wagon. ¡°Sentences next. My name is Harriet.¡± ¡°Muh-mmm-My name i-is H-H-Har-ie-et.¡± ¡°I am happy." ¡°I-I am ha-a-ppy. "I am free.¡± "Ah-Uh-I-¡± ¡°Rowe.¡± Red approaches them, a revolver in one hand and a red-stained cloth in the other. ¡°Got the scent.¡± ¡°Are you sure?¡± ¡°Whiskey, gun smoke, lingerin¡¯ trace a¡¯ gangrene? Yeah, it¡¯s them. We goin¡¯?¡± Rowe looks briefly at Menowin and the corpses. The man with bells gives a curt nod. Harriet scooches forward on the barrel, concerned. Rowe leaps off the wagon and kneels, so that they¡¯re eye-level. ¡°Harriet. I have a mission for you. It¡¯s very important. Do you think you can handle that?¡± He puts his hand on her shoulder while Red preps the horses. Her eyes on the steeds, she nods. ¡°I need you to take the oxen and lead them far off the trail. Find a cave, or even a gorge. We¡¯ll find you-¡± ¡°Why?¡± The word is scratchy, barely heard. She breaks into coughs and has to clear her throat. Rowe¡¯s brows wilt. ¡°It¡­ will keep you safe.¡± ¡°Rowe, c¡¯mon!¡± Red rears up in front of them, his Clydesdale kicking the air. Menowin follows on an Appaloosa, its black and white patterns bright beneath the moonlight. Rowe sighs, stands up, and gives Harriet a final stern look. ¡°Please, no games. Just this once. I know you¡¯re scared, but I promise, I¡¯ll explain everything when you¡¯re older.¡± Then he takes the reins of his black Friesian, and mounts. She sees something stick from the saddlebag. Small, and antique, showered in tiny gold dots against a wood as dark as the horse¡¯s mane. Ebony. But then he takes off at a gallop, and the box, the horse, the man, leave a cloud of dust behind them. She waits a half-minute, then looks about the ruined site, trying to map out a cartrail in her head, when she spots something in the smoulders. Yellowed paper, sticking out from the grey. When she swipes the muck off, she sees that it¡¯s a book. A cheap book, its pages already sliding from its binding. It¡¯s called Buffalo Bill, King of the Bordermen. The cover shows a man with a coon cap and cowhide, firing his rifle horseback at a stampede of colourful Mexicans. Harriet pulls it close, looks back to the distant dust-cloud that¡¯s formed behind the three men. They¡¯re riding towards their own adventures, and she¡¯s still here. In a field of ash and flame. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Harriet quickly surmised they weren¡¯t normal settlers. For one, they only travelled at night. And while it feels like they¡¯re travelling everywhere, in all directions, it never seems to be closer to California. Forest rows. Desert treks. Rocky cliffs. Running streams. Always in the distance, perilously tall mountains. Always hidden in the shade, slowly melting fields of snow. Menowin leads, Red takes the rear. Harriet likes calm nights most, when Rowe lets her ride with him, and they awkwardly try to stuff themselves and her rifle in a single leather saddle. He¡¯ll tell her stories of Cornwall¡¯s ancient castles, or ask her to point out all the stars. She¡¯ll silently wonder why his arms are so cold. It seems rather rude to ask. She''s told him she wants her own horse before. Rowe said he think¡¯d about it, which is his special way of saying that he doesn¡¯t really trust her. But tonight is not a clear night. She¡¯s supposed to be sleeping on the wagon floor. But the trails are rough here, every cut trench and loose stone rattling her and the tools that dangle precariously above. And she doesn¡¯t really want to sleep, either. This is the only time she can listen to the men speak freely. Though with Menowin, sitting at the wagon¡¯s front with Rowe, that might not be a good thing. ¡°You¡¯re not bothered by the way she¡­¡± Menowin slides his hand over his face. ¡°... fades out?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve known war, Menowin. Red has too. When a soldier, a boy, is faced with such carnage, such horror, his mind can freeze. He disconnects. From a world he¡¯d rather not understand.¡± Menowin laughs. ¡°And what war has she been fighting?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know. Perhaps you should ask.¡± Rowe smirks. ¡°Ply some of those fancy parlour tricks first. I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll entertain her.¡± Menowin growls. Harriet¡¯s not sure why. ¡°I¡¯m not playing in the dirt with a mute.¡± ¡°She¡¯s less silent by the day.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve caught on,¡± Menowin sneers. ¡°Pidz?. Have to love waking up to her screeching.¡± Harriet makes herself small. That wasn¡¯t her fault. She didn¡¯t want that. Rowe keeps insisting she practise. But Menowin doesn¡¯t care. It was just like when she relearned table manners. He only wants an excuse to tease her. ¡°Ya know, Gypsy, I gotta ask. What in the blazin¡¯ fuck is yer problem?¡± Red rides up to the wagon, scowling. ¡° Ya see that girl, strugglin¡¯ ta climb outta the mud, an ya jes¡¯ wait on the goddamn top, hopin¡¯ ta push her back down?¡± ¡°You¡¯ve taken quickly to the woman who bit you, Red.¡± ¡°Not a woman. A victim. A child.¡± ¡°Except she¡¯s not. Is she?¡± Menowin rises slightly, his voice growing heated. ¡°A trage cuiva, karbaro. How long was she in that wilderness? A year? Two? And half that time spent with her head in the clouds?¡± ¡°The hell are ya talkin¡¯ ¡®bout?¡± ¡°No mortal could survive that, Red. Much less one half-grown. Something¡¯s strange. Something¡¯s not right. And in all the warnings of my people-¡± ¡°I don¡¯t have time for travellers¡¯ superstitions,¡± Rowe replies curtly. ¡°My faith is in God alone.¡± Menowin is silent. Even Harriet can feel his rage. But its subsided by long, heady laughter. The man leans over the wagon and spits. Violently. As he turns back, the bells ring on his clothes. ¡°Farme?ev, gadjo.¡± He makes a gesture. ¡°I wasn¡¯t talking about those people.¡± +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°I met Red in Louisiana. A veteran, by then, of three different wars.¡± Rowe looks at the man blankly, studying the man¡¯s desperado hat, his long brown duster. ¡°The oldest was in Texas. An underdog fight, to cast tyrants from his home. He won. His land was independent, and free to know peace. But the men who led his state grew arrogant, thought better. Twice more he marched beneath their banner. His homeland had suffered for it, by the time I came.¡± Harriet watches the giant man from her perch by the fire. squinting. Rowe didn¡¯t mention it, but she knew Veracruz was his third war. That was the one Pa fought in. Strange. Red looks young. But the Texan war... ... that was thirty years back. ¡°I didn¡¯t find Menowin,¡± Rowe continues. ¡°He found us. A month or so later, among the Acadians and their bayous. But he was born beyond the sea, even further than I. Christian lands, still held by the Turk.¡± Menowin leans against a tree, his eyes closed. Harriet would assume he was asleep, if she couldn¡¯t see his lips softly moving. ¡°Beyond that, we don¡¯t know. He does not share his past, or my ideals. I¡¯m not even sure why he stays. But I¡¯m glad for it.¡± Rowe turns to her with a smile. ¡°He¡¯s a good fighter, a skilled healer, and a leader can only be as strong as their opposition. He¡¯ll come around to you. I promise.¡± Harriet wrinkles her nose. Rowe really likes to promise things. ¡°Well¡­¡± With a heave, Rowe lifts to his feet. ¡°It nears dawn. I have to hunt, then retire. But if you have any more questions, write them down. I¡¯ve-¡± He¡¯s cut off by a rush of movements. Harriet presses something against his chest. Rowe lifts it slowly, inspecting it by firelight. ¡°Buffalo Bill. A dime novel. What of it?¡± She mimics opening the book. Points at her lips, then at him, then back to her. ¡°You¡­ want me to read it?¡± She smiles and quickly nods before scooching into the dirt. He watches her slowly carve out the letters. I L I K E H E A R I N G Y O U T A L K. ¡°Because of my accent, right?¡± Her fingers weave through the mud. A L I T T L E B I T. He snorts. ¡°Alright. I can read the story. For an hour. Nothing more. And in recompense, you¡¯ll hunt our supper. Is that clear?¡± She grins. Pats the massive rifle slung over her shoulder. ¡°Thought so.¡± Rowe smiles. ¡°And also, no more writing in the mud. Bad habit. You¡¯re not a pig in their trough. You¡¯re a girl. Use a girl¡¯s words.¡± She does her best pig impression, to his delight. As he sits back down, she huddles up to him, ready to lose herself in the story. But she¡¯s quickly interrupted by sounds of rustling, down below. She sees Rowe¡¯s hand shift through the saddlebag. Passing by that black wooden box. He catches her gaze, meets it with a smile. ¡°Heirlooms. Nothing more.¡± Then he closes his bag, and they start reading, together. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°Aaaannn¡¯ there.¡± Red holds up the mirror, its glass glistening against the moonlight. ¡°Don¡¯ be modest, now. Ya like it?¡± Harriet grabs her hair with bone-thin fingers. Presses up against the intricate braids that hold it into a bun. Red¡¯s cut off three quarters of her locks, maybe more. Said it was the only to keep out the tangles and fleas. But she didn¡¯t ask him for the rest, and now her head looks¡­ ¡­ tiny. Seeing her confusion, Red sighs and turns back to his fire. ¡°Well. Least it ain¡¯t a frown.¡± He uses a poker to shift the logs, delicately. There¡¯s an unusual caution around all three men when they get near fire, always ready to leap back. Harriet¡¯s not sure why; surely they have fireplaces across. It¡¯s just one of those questions she knows she¡¯ll never ask, like, ¡®Why aren¡¯t you eating?¡¯ ¡®Why are you so worried about courts?¡¯ And her personal favourite: ¡®Who made all your teeth look pointy?¡¯ She winces. The pain down below has gotten tight again. She looks at the origin, clutching her chest. All day, it¡¯s been twisting, and she feels ill, bloated. And¡­ and the other part¡­ She dares to look up. Red¡¯s tending the fire. Rowe¡¯s hunting. Menowin¡¯s sharpening his swords somewhere in the campsite¡¯s far corner. Nobody¡¯s looking. For once. When she was holding the skinner¡¯s knife, Red was all over her. Giving instructions she¡¯d long known, advice she¡¯d always heeded. It took her slamming a rabbit¡¯s clean heart on the table to finally stiffen his lip. But now¡­ She can feel moss on the log. She just has to move quick enough. Draw no attention. She starts unbuckling her trousers¡­ Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. Red sniffs the air. Rapidly, the way one savours the waft of a Sunday ham. ¡°Blood.¡± His brows furrow, he turns around. ¡°Harriet, get back, we¡¯ve got-!¡± He catches her mid-stride. Jaw open, eyes wild, her pants pulled half down. Two clumps of moss rest in her hand. One freshly gathered, the other sticky. And smeared red. ¡°T-t-tehh-hh.¡± Harriet swallows, panic in her voice. ¡°T-ehhhh-¡± ¡°She wants you to turn around, karbaro.¡± Menowin calls. She watches him waltz from a tree. ¡°Thought you and the girl were practising talking.¡± Red bristles. Harriet shrivels back, desperate to cover her privates. Menowin knew. Fuck fuck fuck. No wonder he- ¡°H-how long?¡± Red turns around. ¡°Harriet, when did this start? Ya¡¯ve been with us fer months. Haven¡¯t ya had yer other cycles?¡± Cycles? She whimpers. It just¡­ happened, after she left the forest. And then on and off, at random. Sometimes weeks pass. Sometimes seasons. Wh-why are they looking at her like that? She doesn¡¯t know! ¡°Peh-peh-pluh-please.¡± She raises her hands, fear in her eyes. ¡°Duh-duh-don¡¯t-¡± ¡°When we next find a river, make sure her clothes are washed separately.¡± Menowin sneers at her crouch. ¡°It¡¯s marime. Unclean.¡± She lets out a frightened squeak. Red just looks confused. ¡°Ain¡¯t that why we wash ¡®em?¡± ¡°Spirits, you dog. I¡¯m talking about her spirits. The bad ones, the impurities, they''re seeping from her sex.¡± Menowin marches up. ¡°My people, we have Romanipen. A code to keep us pure.¡± ¡°What, like some kinda Gypsy Ten Commandments?¡± Red smirks. ¡°Cuz I always thought yer folk were missin¡¯ a few of those.¡± Menowin growls, unamused. ¡°When a woman bleeds, she shan¡¯t be touched. Nor the clothes. My people would have them burn.¡± ¡°Yeah¡­¡± Red winces, looking at her threadbare pants. ¡°I don¡¯t think burnin¡¯ is much of an option.¡± ¡°Then go to town. Buy a skirt. We ought to stop playing into her delusions anyway, and start dressing like a goddamn-¡± ¡°NO!¡± Both men turn. Harriet¡¯s screamed. And then she sputters into a rapid fit of coughing. She wobbles on the ground, seething at Menowin, feeling something wet on her cheeks. ¡°I-I-I-I¡¯m n-notta-¡± ¡°Not a girl?¡± Menowin breaks into laughter. ¡°Xoxajipe!¡± Her breathing turns ragged. The windchimes are getting louder. Red watches her a moment longer, then shifts. ¡°That¡¯s enough, Menowin.¡± ¡°Tch. Really? Just because she cuts her hair and swings that gun around, doesn¡¯t mean-¡± ¡°I said enough!¡± Red growls, storming towards him. ¡°Ya wanna dictate that girl¡¯s life, Gyspy?¡± ¡°Maybe I do.¡± ¡°Then go back ta yer own fuckin¡¯ people!¡± ¡°What?¡± Something in Menowin¡¯s changed. His voice has dimmed. Red doesn¡¯t let up. ¡°Get a wife. Tell some fortunes. Ya can be as Romanipen or marime as ya fuckin¡¯ want. But if you come here, don¡¯t ask us ta run on yer people¡¯s fuckin¡¯ clock! Why¡¯d ya even leave them?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t-¡± Harriet gasps. Menowin¡¯s skin is flush, all his usual bravado missing. When his eyes meet hers, she senses something deep inside. Fear. For a beat, Harriet swears she sees Menowin¡¯s lips tremble. Then his face hardens. His eyes narrow, and he spits. ¡°It¡¯s none of your fucking business.¡± He marches away from Red, bells ringing as he goes. ¡°Separate wash. At least do that, you gadje cunts!¡± They lose him to the dark. A few more seconds pass before Harriet breathes again. She dips her forehead in the mud, struggling to hold herself in. But she stops when Red jostles her shoulder. ¡°Hey. C¡¯mon.¡± He holds up a knife, and a strip of gauze. ¡°Let¡¯s at least getcha outta that.¡± There¡¯s hesitation. But she shuffles over and takes them. Slices a piece off and starts wrapping around her waist. Red¡¯s hands fidget through the air, following her movements. ¡°That¡¯s right, that¡¯s right. Wrapped around. An¡¯ yer gonna wanna a few good layers, jes¡¯ in case-¡± Harriet gives him a look, her cheeks blushing. ¡°Right. S-sorry, I¡¯ll¡­¡± He awkwardly turns away. His ears prickle as he listens to her. ¡°Clever trick, with the moss. But not clean. An¡¯ trust me, last thing ya want on top a¡¯ coursin¡¯ is an infection.¡± She gives him a look. Mouths the word. ¡®Coursin¡¯?¡¯ ¡°Uh, yeah. Yer, uh¡­ the blood.¡± He lowers his hand. Her expression doesn¡¯t change. Finally, he realises. ¡°... shit. Nobody ever¡­?¡± She slowly shakes her head. ¡°... well,¡± Red huffs, looks around. ¡°Okay! I, heh, ain¡¯t the best ta tell ya, but, uh¡­¡± He shuffles his feet, starts making more gestures. ¡°When yer, uh¡­ yer womb is ready fer a kid, but uh¡­¡± He catches her face. She looks like a frightened doe. ¡°Ya know what? Nope. Nope. Not gettin¡¯ inta that.¡± He awkwardly laughs. ¡°Y-ya bleed once a month. Other side effects, too, but they don¡¯t mean nothin¡¯. Good sign, probably. Happens ta every girl.¡± Harriet lifts an eyebrow, then points at him. ¡°How do I¡­?¡± He laughs again as he sits down by her. ¡°I had a wife. An¡¯ a daughter. When y¡¯all livin¡¯ in a one room house, it makes folk mighty familiar.¡± Harriet chuckles. It makes him smile. But she can¡¯t help but notice the way he mentioned them. Had. ¡°Ya know,¡± Red looks back. ¡°Menowin mighta been actin¡¯ like an ass, but he wasn¡¯t wrong. A skirt will help- Okay, okay! Dresses off the table, got it. Ya don¡¯t have ta hiss an; bite at me.¡± Harriet replaces her hiss with an impish smile. ¡°Well, alright, ya little demon, lemme offer somethin¡¯ else. When Abigail had her first, she got this crazed cravin¡¯ fer¡­ chocolate.¡± He smirks, leans down. ¡°Wan¡¯ me ta run inta town an¡¯ get some?¡± Harriet¡¯s eyes glisten. Her mouth already waters. ¡°Well, guess I got an errand.¡± Red Eddards stands back up, but not before he takes off his wide-brim hat and plops it over her head. ¡°Hold onta this fer me.¡± The hat¡¯s so big, it completely covers her eyes. She starts reaching around blindly. Red laughs as he starts to walk away. ¡°Rest up, Harriet. Much as ya can. I¡¯ll be back ¡®fore sunrise. And one more thing?¡± Harriet tilts the hat up to look at him. His face is stern. ¡°Did ya not tell us ¡®bout this cuz ya didn¡¯t wanna look weak?¡± Her cheeks turn red. She doesn¡¯t answer. He gives a soft smile. ¡°Well, no worries. No idea how y¡¯all women put up with this. Makes ya real soldiers.¡± +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Her skin prunes as she scrubs across the washboard. The sun¡¯s just set, the stars not fully out, and she can still see all the green that comes with spring. The stream is biting cold. Rowe insisted that she didn¡¯t have to go and please Menowin, but she felt called to, all the same. For one, it made her feel useful, and Red and Rowe rarely gave her such chances. But also, she wanted to do it for him. She knows it won¡¯t change anything. That he¡¯ll still be - God forgive her - a cock. But¡­ she understands what it¡¯s like, to miss home. Maybe she can help. Or¡­ do anything, at least. That¡¯s what Rowe promised, right? That she¡¯d be¡­ blazing trails, joining his dream. Not stuffed in the wagon like the rest of the cargo. When will he- ¡°You¡¯re lying.¡± Harriet leaps back. Right into the water. Everything¡¯s suddenly a flash of cold and wet and blue and brown. She pulls herself back out, gasping for breath, and looks angrily at the man in front of her. But that anger soon shifts to fear. Menowin. He¡¯s scowling. ¡°How long, I wonder, are we going to play this game?¡± He shifts his body at strange angles. Like a predator. ¡°Where you act the starry-eyed, dumb-as-rocks child, so that the gadje never ask who you were and what you¡¯re after?¡± He takes a slow step on her gun. Harriet hears herself gasp. He scans her like her skin is about to peel off. ¡°Chavaia! I can see it in your eyes. Smell it in your blood! The instincts are inside you. Or you wouldn¡¯t have survived!¡± Her lips tremble. What¡¯s he talking about? She tries to explain, but her voice fails. ¡°But I see. I know! From one jakhalo to another.¡± He makes a gesture, a circle. Thumb and index finger entwined, just before his forehead. ¡°You thought you could come here and hide. Didn¡¯t you, coyote!?¡± She freezes. Her skin turns pale. Her eyes wide. Menowin licks his lips to show off fanged teeth. ¡°You should have learned, before you left. For us, there is no hiding.¡± +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°Pilgrims, them bandits has got us, and thar¡¯s far too many ta be foolin¡¯ with yer guns.¡¯¡± The Black Prince clears his throat and turns the page. ¡°The young man turned to the fine, noble lady. ¡®Have no fear, miss, for they would hardly attack a woman of your bearing.¡¯ ¡®S¨ª,¡¯ said the Mexican, twirling his moustache. ¡°But surely, you don¡¯t have any valuables about you?¡¯¡± Harriet giggles, leaning back and keeping her grip on the reins firm. Rowe¡¯s letting her steer the horse while he reads, and she wants to be absolutely sure she doesn¡¯t do anything to bungle it. Beyond is a full moon, and a clear sky, so bright and wonderful among the desert cliffs that countless stars shine above her. Orion¡¯s Belt. The Little Dipper. Andromeda. Gawen Rowe fills her ears endlessly with their names. But every time, he speaks with a hint of sadness. ¡°¡®Just my jewels and several thousands in dollars,¡¯ the woman replied. And that made the Mexican smile. For when the highwaymen came, Latins all, their fellow passenger sprang up, withdrew his gun, and shocked them all with his signature black mask. For he was not merely a boon friend to these vagrants, he was their leader¡­¡± There¡¯s a hint of hesitation, even discomfort, as he rereads the lines. But then Harriet¡¯s head tilts up, so they can meet each other¡¯s eyes. He leans forward with a smirk, speaking with great inflection. ¡°They called him¡­¡± He pauses for effect. ¡°The Bandito!¡± Harriet starts to giggle, and Rowe soon joins her. ¡°No, come on, come on! It¡¯s the villain! The illustrator put painstaking effort to make sure-¡± His breath hitches. Harriet¡¯s started leaning further back. So far that her head rests on his chest, and those blazing red locks fall over his shoulder. She doesn¡¯t stop until her cheek nudges his arm. Warm flesh against icy cold. Rowe pauses. She can hear it in his breath, worry, fear. But slowly, that starts to fade. He lifts his hand. Rests it gently on her head. And for a moment, they ride on like that, in silence. ¡°Rowe.¡± They¡¯re both startled by Red, caught up to them on his Clydesdale. ¡°Reached it.¡± The air fills with the sound of a massive, blaring whistle. Harriet has to squint to see it. A darkened shape, travelling through the sky, piercing the night with a blinding orange light. Only after she blinks, does she see the smoke, the engine, and the long wooden bridge. Towering over the valley like the mountains. It all inspires awe. She¡¯d seen trains, of course. Little bundles of a dozen cars. Nothing like this, pummeling across the earth. But she can feel something in the air shift. Rowe dismounts, marches to the wagon. She watches him squeeze his fists, tighter and tighter. ¡°Menowin,¡± he speaks. ¡°How far can you get us?¡± Menowin starts to laugh. ¡°It¡¯s moving.¡± Rowe yanks a crate open, rifling through the contents. ¡°It¡¯s big.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s jes¡¯ track ¡®em to a station,¡± Red suggests. ¡°I want this as much as you, but if somethin¡¯ happens up there, those people-¡± ¡°We¡¯ll improvise.¡± Rowe finds what he¡¯s looking, leaps back to earth. ¡°A station attracts others. And I¡¯m not letting that man run for-¡± He stops. Harriet¡¯s placed herself right in front of him. Brows bent. Face confused. Her Pa¡¯s Springfield still slung over her shoulder. Rowe inhales, stepping back. ¡°... This doesn¡¯t concern you, Harriet.¡± She fills the gap, pressing closer to him. She tries to make herself look hard, demanding. She doesn¡¯t think it works. ¡°I made an appointment with the man who owns that train. He missed it. Now I¡¯m giving him a second chance.¡± Appointments? She mouths. ¡°I have appointments all the time. I just¡­¡± He bites his lip. ¡°... Don¡¯t always invite you.¡± She doesn¡¯t let up. Something¡¯s not right. What, she¡¯s not sure. Her mind flashes to those stories of masked men and Mexicans, but¡­ those were just stories, right? She¡¯s¡­ she¡¯s imagining things. He¡¯s Christian. But¡­ He grabs her shoulder. She flinches. Harriet¡¯s eyes turn to the other men, gathering ropes, tools. Menowin playfully flicks his swords. Then Rowe forces it back. ¡°Harriet. Do you trust me?¡± No. But she nods. ¡°Are you scared that you¡¯ll be alone?¡± Yes. But she won¡¯t answer. ¡°Tell you what. Feed the oxen, set camp, start a fire. I¡¯ll be back before midnight.¡± Gently, he moves aside. ¡°And I promise, the moment I get back,we¡¯ll hop right into that story. You¡¯ll know exactly what happens to those dastardly masked marauders.¡± He turns away with a smile, remounting his horse. In his absence, Harriet tries to smile back. It doesn¡¯t quite reach her eyes. And the Black Prince rides off. Leaving yet another promise behind him. As she watches the men leave, Harriet sighs. She¡¯d best start finding a spot, but she hates oxen duty. When Red was around, they always seemed calm, even eager to march. Without, they were just dumb beasts. Well, maybe she can find a prod, a bell, something to goad them with. Harriet walks along to the back of the wagon¡­ then freezes. Right there. On the crate Rowe was using. A little black box, with painted gold circles. Its bronze lock glistening in the moonlight. A second passes. Two. There¡¯s the distant sound of crickets. Then she races to find a key that fits it. The wagon¡¯s a disorganised, jumbled mess. Crates and nets and barrels were constantly rearranged to fit the needs of the daytime sleepers. But atop a pile of straw, Harriet fishes it out: Rowe¡¯s worn leather bag. And sure enough, as she rattles it, she hears metal clinking. Only when her fingers are inches from the lock does she stop. Pulls back. This¡­ has she lost her mind? Rowe trusts her. Put her in charge of the camp, for chrissakes, and this is how she wants to repay that? How is she going to show she can pull her own weight if she keeps acting like a child? He already said, he¡¯d tell her when she¡¯s- She feels her breath rise. Older. Always older. Never now. He invited her to join him. So why keep secrets? Harriet stares at the box again. And throws off the lock before her judgement can get the better of her. When she opens the case, her breath leaves. Even in the poorly lit wagon, in the darkness of night, she can see the colourful jewels glitter. Necklaces, rings, brooches. Gold and silver and amethysts and amber. There¡¯s no rhyme or reason in the box, things bunched together like buckets of nails. It¡¯s nothing like the set she once sold. No love. No sentiment. These aren¡¯t heirlooms. At least, not Rowe¡¯s. A flash, then noise. It¡¯s coming from behind. Harriet twists around, just in time to see the silhouette of the train. It¡¯s stopped on its tracks, the billowing smoke now thin. She sees another flash, hears another roar. It¡¯s followed closely by screams. A trembling hand reaches back, slowly squeezing cold metal. As it¡¯s pulled from sling, and pressed tight against her ragged chest, little facts about the gun burst through Harriet¡¯s mind. Paper cartridge. Forty inch barrel. Nine and a half pounds. And it didn¡¯t kill him. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Gawen Rowe rides back in exhaustion. It¡¯s clear from his face, his eyes. His clothes are rough and dirty and beaten, and he slides off the saddle, almost like a drunkard. But the more searches, the less tired he gets. The longer she¡¯s unfound, the more she¡¯ll know he¡¯ll start to call. Grow worried. Eventually, he finds her by the fire. A flame she started herself. She¡¯s sitting on top of a stump, legs pulled tight into her chest, gun resting along the wood, in easy reach. She didn¡¯t turn when she heard them. She hasn¡¯t moved at all. Red approaches first, his concern clear. Then, he looks back to row. The Black Prince with quiet steps. Almost soundless, like the night he first met her. ¡°Harriet.¡± She can hear the lie in that soft, worried voice. ¡°We were late. I plead mercy. Things did not go the way I-¡± Thwak! He¡¯s cut off by a surge of dust; the ebony box, thrown to the soil. Between the scattered jewels lies a book, cheap pages stapled against a cheaper cover. There¡¯s a drawing there of a masked man, sporting a hideous smile, a desperado hat. Between his two blazing revolvers, Harriet¡¯s scrawled something with charcoal. She mouths the word just as he reads it. ¡°You.¡± There¡¯s a pause. Rowe¡¯s calculating. ¡°Stories share souls with their authors, Harriet. They aren¡¯t the real world.¡± She gives him a look. Reaches for her gun. ¡°They¡¯re jewels. They were created to show excess and affluence. Compared to the money we need to not starve, I-¡± Harriet growls. He can see her eye twitch. Rowe pauses again. Studies her face. ¡°I lied to you. I¡¯m sorry.¡± She doesn¡¯t let up. Sorry won¡¯t cut it. She- ¡°Do you want to know why I did it?¡± He asks so abruptly, that it catches her off guard. ¡°Why I don¡¯t think it¡¯s wrong, and I¡¯ll do it again?¡± She doesn¡¯t know how to respond. Rowe swings around, stoops down to the box, and pries back out the book. ¡°Harriet, let me ask you. What makes the masked man bad?¡± Harriet reaches over for her piece of charcoal- ¡°No.¡± He taps his throat. ¡°Use your words.¡± ¡°Thieves.¡± She swallows down a cough. ¡°Steh-steh-steal.¡± ¡°They stole from the woman. Several thousands of dollars, and all her jewels.¡± Rowe¡¯s face turns harsh. ¡°But how did she get that money, Harriet? Did she work for it? Mine the earth, or smelt the metals? Has she ever spoken to anyone who sweat and bled for that necklace? Or was it all given? And her deepest connection to all that suffering merely the way the diamonds made her eyes sparkle?¡± Rowe leans down, his voice growing heavy. ¡°What claim does she have to those jewels compared to the men who took it from her?¡± For a moment, Harriet just blinks. But then, she manages. ¡°Th-the law-¡± ¡°What law?¡± Rowe shakes his head. ¡°Buffalo Bill could have robbed that woman. Shot that woman. Hunted her down like a dog. And they wouldn¡¯t hang him on a justice¡¯s noose. No. He¡¯d come back to cheering crowds. She was a hag, he¡¯d say. Crazy beyond repair. He didn¡¯t have a choice. And they¡¯d let him keep all that he robbed. For he claims to be a hero, and who in town could possibly stop him?¡± ¡°No,¡± Harriet¡¯s breaths grow ragged. ¡°That¡­ tha¡­ th-th-they wou-wou-wou-¡± ¡°They have. They do. You¡¯ve seen it.¡± He frowns. ¡°And if they had called it a red man¡¯s raid, you would have believed them.¡± Her breath hitches. Red man¡¯s raid. He¡­ he doesn¡¯t- ¡°There¡¯s nothing between a lawman and an outlaw,¡± he says. ¡°Except that one wears masks, and the other wears badges.¡± With a flick, he throws the book straight into the flames. They shoot up, greedily drinking. Harriet watches the lights dance across his face, hints of the skin she knew was mottled and rotten. ¡°Do you think I¡¯m a monster, Harriet? Because I am.¡± He swallows. ¡°But there¡¯s a monster out there. Larger than any serpent, more tempting than the Devil himself. It burrows in our minds, warps our very thoughts. From the moment we¡¯re born, to the moment that we pass, it whispers, right beside us.¡± He looks into the ash. ¡°It claims that it¡¯s always been there. That without it, you are nothing. Every house is its crib. Every road, another tendril. It speaks to your friends, your kin, your neighbours. Telling them where they¡¯ll live, how they¡¯ll act, who they¡¯ll worship, and when they¡¯ll serve.¡± ¡°And while you listen, its agents steal. Bandits in a gang so large that no one on Earth can count. They will rob, and murder, and take from you all that was once freely given. But these bandits don¡¯t lurk on highways, girl. They stand behind desks, sit upon thrones. Offer loans from their banks and salvation from their altars! And when the people are crushed, when they have nothing left, when it¡¯s fight or starve¡­ well. Have you ever seen the lawman protect them?¡± Harriet stares at him blankly. The barrel of her gun, falling to the dirt. ¡°The monster goads it. The monster orders it. It watches all this suffering, and it can only think to laugh. Everyone it whispers to, be it bandit or victim, thinks the monster works for them. When it marches, they salute. When it kills, they cheer. When they hear that monster¡¯s name, they will only feel pride. It doesn¡¯t matter in the slightest how many its slaughtered. It¡¯s whispered in their ears for so long, they think it''s part of them.¡± The Black Prince closes his eyes, and folds his hands. She can feel the weight in his breath. No trace of anger. Just sorrow, and pain. ¡°When I meet an agent of the monster, I always give the man a choice. He can offer his wealth. His land. His power. Serve the Lord he claims to love, and live a human life again. Sometimes, they accept. Most times, they refuse. But I drive the greed out, all the same. They can never crush again.¡± Harriet¡¯s small again. The gun too heavy for her arms. She¡¯s waiting for the windchimes, waiting to be taken. But they¡¯re not coming. They never do. ¡°The monster¡¯s growing, Harriet. It¡¯s swallowed my home. My people melt in its furnace, crushed beneath its jaws. Numbers on paper, soulless and starving, so that rich and powerful men can make bridges of their bones. I thought this country would be different. I thought we would hold it back. But it¡¯s marching West, ever further, with steel teeth and red-brick claws. That is why I steal. That is why I kill. Because the monster will not stop at this country. It will not stop at our shores. The monster will feast the world. ¡± He closes his eyes. ¡°Unless we can feast on it first.¡± Silence falls over them. The Black Prince looks back. At Menowin, at Red, at the smoking ruin of the brutalised train behind. His head tilts the ground, and he starts to walk back. ¡°You don¡¯t have to agree. You¡¯re not wrong for believing in the monster. But I was kept here for a purpose. And I will not-¡± ¡°Rowe.¡± He turns back towards the quiet, crackly words. Harriet stands before the flames. A face shrouded in shadow, a large gun in her hands. He watches the light play across her freckles, and glow against her hair. The fire shoots up as she stares at him, with impossibly deep blue eyes. He sees her thoughts, her feelings, her past. He knows she¡¯s seen the monsters. In stories she¡¯ll never tell, with words she¡¯ll never say. ¡°Is this yer dream? He nods. Harriet leans close, and speaks as clearly as she can. ¡°I. Want. In.¡± She sees his hesitance. A twitch, just barely contained. But there¡¯s nothing more. The Black Prince merely looks down, forms a cross, and mutters a prayer. ¡°If you¡¯re going to join us, you¡¯ll need something.¡± ¡°What?¡± The Black Prince doesn¡¯t speak. But as he stares at the small, wild girl, bathed in orange light, he¡¯s already chosen. ¡°Your second name.¡± Chapter 7: The Blood Pact ¡°Every Keeping¡¯s as unique as its Keeper. An ancient maxim, sure, but one that modern times has increasingly proven true. These days, you don¡¯t hear stories of vengeance, or pity, or some deep desire to preserve the human that¡¯s caught our eye. We just don¡¯t Keep like we used to. When a Nocturni makes another now, it¡¯s always to specialise. A fund manager, a security expert, or, God forbid, those dilettantes in the Dhoine Ros¨ªn ¡®hire¡¯ whole teams of designers! How else can us old folks stay relevant? Art, fashion, technology; it moves so quickly now. Even the mortals struggle to keep afloat. But God. These contracts, this allodry, one Kept for a dozen Keepers, they just exhaust me. It feels like there''s no soul in the damn things. Like we can never have any fun. But then, when I least expect it, my office gets graced by a good-old fashioned Keeping. One Kept. One Keeper. Sharing of blood, sharing of wills, all that jazz. And when I see that look of desperation in the Kept¡¯s eye, the bruises she poorly hides, the memories come flooding back. The new way¡¯s not good. But it¡¯s leaps and bounds better.¡± Excerpt from a letter by Henri Ombras, Sc¨¢thshi¨²l¨®ir and Porter of London, to an unknown European Nocturni. Translated from French; dated April 14th, 1989. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ At first, she thinks she¡¯s finally dead. Her eyes open, but she cannot see. Her skin feels air, but it¡¯s stale and temperate. Her head rings, and she¡¯s filled with the sensation of¡­ falling. As she slowly wakes, and memories pass, she tries to place herself from there to here. Was she captured? Was she killed? Or was it all just a bad dream, one that¡¯s refusing to end? For a moment, Harriet Eddards¡­ stops. Everything is so still. To most people, she thinks that¡¯d be calming, but for her, right now, it¡¯s just grounds for more fear. It happened, didn¡¯t it? She pulled the trigger, and her brains splattered the walls? In the heat of the moment, with the gun to her forehead, there was no hesitation, no second thought. She wanted it. But now, with the time, and the nothing, the weight of that bullet hits. Doubt. Regret. Fear. God, is this it? Is this where she goes? No. It can¡¯t be. God still has so much further to drag her. A jerk. She¡¯s tried to breathe. But there¡¯s something over her nose and mouth, something tight and padded that keeps the air out. She can feel hints of cold metal on the edges, clinging so forcefully to her jaw that she can hardly move her lips. As she blinks, her eyebrows touch more of the same padding. She flexes her arms. Her legs. Feels a rough, scratchy texture. They¡¯re both being held down by rope. Something pulls at her chest, as well. She lolls her head across her shoulder. Her ears are uncovered, but¡­ what the fuck is going? One thing¡¯s for certain. She¡¯s alive. But as that realisation cascades into more, the ice, the traps, the Venefici¡­ ¡­ Fuck. Damned if you do, damned if you don¡¯t, right? Harriet forces herself to relax, and leans into what must be a wooden chair, from all its creaking. She¡¯s trying to loosen her muscles and slip through the straps, like Red once taught her to do with handcuffs. But whoever tied her up clearly has experience. Tch. Figures. Janet always said the Court was filled with pervs. Oh, shit. Janet! Where is she? Or Red, or Aisling, or anyone? After this, who knows what the Court could have done? They were already leaving bombs on their desks. What kind of retaliation¡­ She starts pulling on the restraints. Fast. Hard. As much might as she can muster. But¡­ wait, wait. Paradox. Yes! What the fuck is she doing!? She could just think herself¡­ shhh, shhh, focus, she has to focus. She¡¯s low on blood, and deleting is always harder than copying. She¡¯ll need to be calm. She¡¯ll need to¡­ The thoughts stop. Everything goes quiet. She can imagine herself in this chair, sparks flaring across her skin, a glow bursting through the binds on her eyes. Yes. Yes. Space and time, bending before her. She can- ¡°MmmRRRphmmmm!¡± Harriet winces into the chair, so hard that it nearly falls. A migraine pierces her skull, burning and fiercer than any she¡¯s ever felt. The flares vanish, replaced by deafening white static. After a few seconds, even that is gone. ¡°Please.¡± There¡¯s a soft voice, a demeaning click of the tongue. Before she can react, she feels fingers on her cheeks, large hands fiddling with the metal on her mouth. She hears a strange whirr, the spinning of gears. Her lips flood with oxygen and her sore jaw falls free. The voice speaks again. ¡°After all your little tricks, did you think I wouldn¡¯t be ready?¡± Harriet sets her jaw. Her rage boils. ¡°Lissen here, ya ass bitch piece a¡¯ fuck. I ain¡¯- rrrmmm!!¡± The mask comes back on, as quickly as he took it off. Her jaw strains as it tightens into place. Harriet pulls on the ropes again. It only makes the voice laugh. ¡°I realise that you might be angry, but it¡¯s important that we start this relationship on the¡­ how do you say? The right foot?¡± She feels a strong hand on the mask, gripping the metal. ¡°I¡¯m prepared to have a civil conversation with you. But if you just would rather exchange insults, well¡­ I can come back in a week. Or two. Or three. We¡¯re immortals. No reason to skip ahead.¡± A pause. She knows he can see the way she shivers. Curses herself for it, under her shaky breaths. When it becomes clear that silence is all he¡¯ll receive, he grabs the mask again. She feels her lips grow moist in the air, his hand press against her forehead. His fingers are soft, and uncalloused, and warm. The blindfold is taken gently from her head, and blinding white light greets her. Once Harriet¡¯s blinked past them, she looks around. Drab grey walls, tile floors, blinds pulled over long glass windows. A row of clocks show different times, each denoted by cities. London. Seoul. San Francisco. Dubai. It¡¯s all built around a mahogany table, and sitting atop is him, the man with the mask, smiling right in front of her. She studies that bronze contraption in his hands: slim, but heavy, and clearly filled with all sorts of moving parts. He also wears a Rolex on his wrist, a black-on-black suit, tightly fit, the jacket buttoned. She looks into his face. Olive skin, slicked back hair, a hint of perfume. She knows he¡¯s Nocturni, but it¡¯s a struggle to find any piece of it. Except for his eyes. .He isn¡¯t using aether to hide his black sclera, but the flame she saw in Scotland is still there. Bright and wild, beneath irises of gold. ¡°Good evening, Fireside.¡± Soteris Chrysanthou grins. ¡°Are you ready to build our future?¡± Harriet blinks. Completely still. He leans back, relaxed, even affable. She should swear. She should scream. A million more ¡®shoulds¡¯ flash through her mind. But she can¡¯t put any of them into words. ¡°...I¡­¡± He laughs. Her eyes trail down. To her clothes. She¡¯d almost call her a jumpsuit. A snow white blouse with matching trousers. Bits of red hair cling to the fabric. She isn¡¯t wearing shoes. ¡°It took a lot of effort to keep those clothes tidy.¡± His voice is soft as silk. ¡°I hope you can appreciate them.¡± He changed her? Normally, she¡¯d be furious. Halfway to tearing his throat. But as she sits there, helpless, gunless, she can only feel windchimes. Windchimes and fluffy, buoyant white clouds. Her throat is parched. ¡°Where am I?¡± ¡°Still in my building. Thirtieth floor. There were¡­ logistical issues we had to resolve. You¡¯ve been in death sleep for two days.¡± That makes the windchimes louder. Harriet shuffles in her chair, looking around. ¡°An¡¯... yer gonna untie me, right?¡± ¡°In time. Not now.¡± ¡°Wh-... why the fuck not?¡± He gives her a look, and chuckles again. ¡°Alright.¡± She scowls. ¡°Then at least tell me why. If I¡¯m so dangerous ta keep around.¡± ¡°Information is a privilege, Fireside, not a right. Learn that lesson quickly.¡± His smile grows. ¡°You¡¯re curious, and that has its uses, but the days when you could ask countless questions and expect answers are over.¡± The words hit like a slap. She stares at him, her expression blank. But then, quickly corrects. This¡­ freak, h-he¡¯s not right in the head. But¡­ but that¡¯s okay. She¡¯ll deal with this like she would any man. ¡°M-Mr. Chrysanthou-¡± ¡°Soteris,¡± he corrects. ¡°Soteris.¡± She awkwardly smiles. ¡°I¡­ I realise that we mighta had a misunderstandin¡¯-¡± ¡°Is that what you¡¯d call it?¡± ¡°An¡¯ th-that maybe, maybe! I-I didn¡¯t fully appreciate yer offer.¡± Harriet shuffles again, struggling to keep her composure. ¡°But, really, that stuff with the Unbound, w-we can put that behind us! Y-ya said ya wanted ta help, an¡¯ shit, I¡¯m startin¡¯ ta reconsider yer-¡± ¡°Shhh.¡± Her eyes grow wide. He¡¯s put a finger on her lips, slowly lifting her jaw. His voice turns soothing as he pinches her cheeks. ¡°You¡¯ll get your help, I promise. But it¡¯s not professional to swear.¡± The windchimes scream. She starts to tremble in his hand. ¡°I can see your worry. But there¡¯s no need for it. I¡¯m not mad. In fact, the heist, the fight, all that set-up¡­ you performed exactly as I had planned.¡± He sees the way she pales. ¡°What? Who do you think set those traps? Let those whistleblowers slip? Leaked just enough info, performed with just enough arrogance so that you, and Keaton, and Blackbird all thought that I was a childish, fraudulent fool?¡± Soteris smiles. ¡°Not my best work, I admit. Obvious. Overzealous. A bit reliant on the Venefici. But, heh, the things you can get away with, when you¡¯re young. No one¡¯s quite ready to admit when they¡¯ve met their better.¡± He starts petting her cheek. Slowly, gently. It makes her twitch beneath the bonds. ¡°S-stop.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t understand the importance of this moment.¡± He talks over her. ¡°The history we¡¯ll make. The legend we¡¯ll become.¡± ¡°Let go a¡¯ me or I¡¯m gonna-¡± She gasps. He wraps his hand around the back of her head, pulls her up, and kisses her. The windchimes immediately respond. Her heart races, her breaths shake, and still Soteris digs deeper, tightens his grip the more she squirms. It¡¯s wet, and warm, and she feels a hint of his tongue. Her skin grows pink, the light leaves her eyes. When he finally pulls away, it¡¯s all she can do to sputter. ¡°What the¡­¡± She spits. ¡°What the fuck!?¡± ¡°This isn¡¯t something to doubt. This isn¡¯t something to fear. You¡¯re looking upon revolution, for all our kind. So please.¡± He smiles again, tracing her lips. ¡°All your burdens, they aren¡¯t yours to carry any longer. You can hand them off, calmly, safely, in the gentle, waiting arms of your-¡± The door opens, and they both jolt. Soteris quickly walks to a real seat, while her eyes focus like slats on the figure snaking into the room. He wears another black turtleneck, the same short blonde hair, thick binders and folders tucked beneath his arm. But that light blue glow isn¡¯t hidden now. It shimmers around him like waves of heat, seeping from the scars across his cheeks and blazing from his eyes. Harriet tries to scooch back. As far as the chair allows. ¡°N¡­ no!¡± Her breathing picks up. ¡°Get away!¡± Randall Avery watches her. And keeps watching. Studying her face the way a connoisseur might study artwork, even after she turns away. There¡¯s a flicker of light in his eyes, something magnified in his voice. ¡°Pale.¡± The word is motionless. Robotic. ¡°Light greens on a field of orange. Chrysanthemums in the bloom of spring. All of them shifting, mottled, broken. You are confused. Defensive. And most of all, afraid.¡± He doesn¡¯t pause for a reply. Just calmly sets down his papers while she tries to hold in her scream. Soteris frowns. ¡°You¡¯re a bit early, Avery. I haven¡¯t even had the chance to offer her tea.¡± ¡°She¡¯d bite your hand long before she¡¯d eat from it.¡± A few more seconds pass as Randall reads from his binder, looks at her again. ¡°Can you confirm that you are Harriet Eddards, terrorist, outlaw, Shorn Nocturni and Unbound operative acting under the alias ¡®Fireside¡¯?¡± She steals a glance at Soteris. Randall might look deathly serious, but the CEO seems annoyed. ¡°Uh¡­ no?¡± Soteris snorts, but Randall doesn¡¯t react. Doesn¡¯t even move. ¡°Can you confirm that you were hired by Janet Chisholm, outlaw, terrorist, Shorn Kept and Unbound acting under the aliases-¡± The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ¡°We can skip the formalities, Randall. Just give her the Pact.¡± ¡°You might not respect the traditions, Chrysanthou, but us Venefici live by them.¡± There¡¯s an edge in Randall¡¯s voice. ¡°The Canon exists for a reason. We cannot allow the circumstances-¡± ¡°Nothing about these circumstances are anything close to traditional.¡± Soteris leans forward. ¡°Are you Sovereign, Randall? No? Then consider reading that Canon again. It offers a pretty clear guide on what to do in my jurisdiction.¡± Harriet stays quiet. Randall doesn¡¯t seem pleased. But he takes the papers and walks towards her anyway, ignoring her growing protests. ¡°Wait, wait, i-if this is some sorta legal thing, don¡¯t y¡¯all have ta gimme a-¡± She stops as the papers fall next to her. Her eyes glaze over the words. Once, twice, three times. They only get more insane with each pass. ¡°The Blood Pact of Allodry and Retainment on this, the Eighteenth of September, in the Hundredth and Fifty-Sixth Year of the New Sun¡¯s Reign, between the Sovereign Entity Polyphron Limited; Harriet Eddards, Shorn and Kept; and Sotirios Chrysanthou, Sovereign, and Keeper.¡± Her face falls. It¡¯s real. They¡¯re serious. She''d seen the marks, of course. Black ink etched into the skin, on Janet, on Aisling. And she¡¯d heard the stories. But¡­ fuck, fuck, FUCK! That was them. It wasn¡¯t her. She hadn¡¯t gotten this far, she hadn¡¯t killed this many- She slowly looks at Soteris, her face wreathed in horror, her gut twisting in pain. He smiles. He puts his hand on his chin. Beaming. Randall folds his arms behind his back. ¡°As you are assumed to be unfamiliar with our ways, it is customary to explain the different expectations of your Keeping here. This Blood Pact contains two clauses: Allodry, and Retainment. Allodry enables Kepts to be enfeoffed to organisations or locales the Magistrates of the Council have designated as Sovereign Entities, including this one. When you sign the Pact, the Court will legally register you as an asset of Polyphron and its subsidiaries with Mr. Chrysanthou and I-¡± ¡°Property!?¡± Harriet cuts him off. ¡°So ya fuckin¡¯ admit it. Yer slavin¡¯ me!?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t be so crass.¡± Soteris smirks. ¡°¡®Slave¡¯ is such a transactional term. It misses all the Keeping¡¯s intimacy.¡± ¡°Intimacy!?¡± ¡°Fireside.¡± Randall clears his throat. ¡°You will find employment in the company. You will represent us in Court functions. And for security¡¯s sake, your aether will be bound to this location-¡± ¡°Which, in practical terms, means you can¡¯t leave.¡± She¡¯s looking at her clothes. White. It¡¯s all white. Those are Court colours, aren¡¯t they? Holy shit. Mother of God. Fuck fuck fuck FUCK! ¡°Tell her about Retainment, Randall,¡± Soteris taps the table. ¡°That¡¯s the fun bit.¡± She looks up at the Venefici, pleading for him to stop. But in that same drab voice, he continues away. ¡°In addition to the usual clause, the present Sovereign has requested that you perform what the Canon calls the Rite of Keeping.¡± Harriet pales. Soteris grins. ¡°You will drink the Sovereign¡¯s blood and aether, mark of ownership will appear on your body, mirroring the cut location. Under a retainment, directives given to you by Soteris take precedence over all else. He will be responsible for your care and discipline-¡± ¡°Why the fuck do I-¡± ¡°The Rite binds the will of the Kept so that she can perform exactly to her Keeper¡¯s image. When you drink his blood, a spell is formed. It will give him total control over your mind and body. The Court will register you as Kept. Soteris will be responsible for your care and discipline.¡± The windchimes are back. Louder than ever. Soteris fidgets in his chair, like a child waiting for Christmas morning. Seeing Harriet¡¯s frozen face, Randall walks towards her desk, holding two objects: a standard, ballpoint pen, and a long, serrated bronze blade. He sets them both parallel to a page awaiting her signature. Neatly. ¡°If you have any questions, please-¡± ¡°Heh. Heheheheh.¡± She breaks into giggles that quickly hyperventilate. ¡°Hehehehahahahahahahah.¡± Randall squints. ¡°Fireside?¡± She barely holds it in to speak. ¡°Heheheh¡­ are ya FUCKIN¡¯ WITH ME!?¡± There¡¯s a delay in Randall¡¯s expression. Like booting up a faulty. ¡°I don¡¯t-¡± ¡°Ya fucks musta lost yer minds. I ain¡¯t fuckin¡¯ signin¡¯!¡± She jolts. Knuckles crack. She turns towards their source: Soteris, growing angrier by the second. She can see the fury in his eyes. And beneath, a sense of hunger. Shit. She looks at him like a frightened animal. Where¡¯s her gun? Where¡¯s her fucking gun!? ¡°I-I wanna negotiate!¡± That makes Soteris snort. ¡°Negotiate? With what?¡± ¡°How old are ya boy?! T-twenty-five? Yer not old enough ta be a Keeper. Yer jes¡¯ some¡­ hyped-up Wizz Kid Steve Jobs wannabe!¡± ¡°Yet I¡¯m old enough to capture you,¡± he grins. ¡°Fireside, I¡¯m Sovereign. The Court recognised my talents already. Claiming you is my legal right, and claim you, I will. Surely, you don¡¯t think your pathetic bleating is going to stop me!¡± ¡°Ya got any idea what I¡¯ve done ta men with twice yer balls?¡± ¡°Plenty, I¡¯m sure, but when our paths crossed, I won. You lost. That should be all the proof of my competence that you need.¡± Harriet snarls. It only makes his eyes spark. ¡°It must be hard, to accept how totally you¡¯ve been outfoxed.¡± His smirk shows fang. ¡°I know how much you prided yourself on being clever.¡± She turns back to Randall, trying to push the CEO far from her sight. ¡°You. Y-y-you captured me, not him! Y-ya shouldn¡¯t stand fer this! C-Can¡¯t let him walk with the f-f-fuckin¡¯-¡± ¡°Language,¡± Soteris scowls. ¡°You¡¯ve already been warned once.¡± ¡°I¡¯m gonna say whatever I goddamn like!¡± ¡°I have claimed you, Fireside. Through the Allodry.¡± Somehow, Randall still speaks slow, calm. ¡°But-¡± ¡°Randall¡¯s Kept,¡± Soteris interrupts. ¡°So for him, no Keepings.¡± There¡¯s a hint of displeasure in Randall¡¯s sigh. ¡°I am not a ¡®Kept¡¯, Mr. Chrysanthou, I am Caedmon¡¯s top Inquisitor. The venefici have their own terms- ¡°Really?¡± Soteris shrugs. ¡°Nobody ever thought to tell me.¡± Harriet pauses. She can see that burst of pale blue aether that courses through Randall¡¯s eyes. Good. Good. Okay. Ignore Soteris, he¡¯s just.. pulling pigtails. Randall can be worked with. ¡°Mr. Avery,, right?¡± Harriet shifts in her chair, trying to nudge close. ¡°Ya work fer the Seneschal? Caedmon?¡± Randall gives her a disparaging look. Shit. It¡¯s not promising. ¡°He oughta be here, though, ain¡¯t he? I¡¯m a big, scary Unbound. Certainly he¡¯d¡­ y-y-ya can¡¯t jes¡¯ leave me-¡± ¡°Stop pretending like you know our laws.¡± Soteris stands up. ¡°You were captured in my office, which means that what happens to you falls within my-¡± ¡°Will ya just SHUT UP!¡± Harriet snaps, panicked. ¡°Yer not the fuckin¡¯ boss a¡¯ -¡± He slaps her. Hard. A firm backhand that leaves a red spot welting on her cheek. Harriet blinks, bewildered. Her ears ring. The world blurs. And Soteris towers over her, scowling. ¡°What did I say about swearing?¡± He points at her, his voice venomous. ¡°Try again. I dare you.¡± Randall starts rolling a cigarette, never giving them a glance. Harriet smirks. ¡°Ya hit like a BITCH-¡± A punch this time. Straight in the jaw. The force of the blow rocks her around the chair. Then he grabs her by the hair, yanks it back until it stings. Her lip splits. Her mouth floods with a taste like metal. ¡°There.¡± Soteris keeps pulling, until her scalp screams. ¡°Was that more to your liking?¡± Harriet wants to break him. Rip his bones from his flesh. Snap him out of existence. She feels the aether course through her veins, flare from her eyes. All her magic, all her rage, focusing on that stupid, disgusting little man. But then¡­ gone. The magic pulled, like a lightswitch. Then pain. She howls. The migraine¡¯s returned with a vengeance, blinding and needle-like. Her head grows slack in his arms, and as the Paradox slinks back into her veins, she hears Soteris¡¯ sharp, cutting laughter. ¡°Mentis Imperium. That¡¯s what the Court calls this power. I prefer ¡®Empire of the Mind.¡¯¡± His voice has doubled over, his skin glowing with golden light. ¡°It allows me to halt all those naughty little thoughts, so I wouldn¡¯t bother trying.¡± ¡°DO YA KNOW WHO I AM!?¡± Harriet strains against his grip. ¡°HOW MANY I¡¯VE KILLED!? WHAT I¡¯M GONNA DO TA YA THE SECOND I LEAVE THESE HANDS!?¡± ¡°You¡¯ll never leave these hands.¡± He snarls back. ¡°So I suppose you¡¯ll do nothing.¡± She spits. A good, healthy glob that splatters across his suit. Soteris grows quiet. She can feel the sheer rage in his eyes. It makes her laugh. ¡°Well,¡± she grins. ¡°Guess yer lil¡¯ mind power don¡¯t halt everythin¡¯.¡± He slams her hard into the table. Leaves her to sputter and cough as he wipes himself with a handkerchief. She hisses, showing fang. ¡°Untie me, ya fuckin¡¯ coward!¡± ¡°Fireside, please,¡± Randall interrupts. ¡°The Rite of Keeping is a sacred ceremony. It should not be-¡± ¡°There ain¡¯t gonna be a Rite, you FREAK!" ¡°You don¡¯t have a choice!¡± Soteris shouts. ¡°FUCK YOU!¡± She screams. ¡°This is bullshit! Ya wanna try an¡¯ fuckin¡¯ rule me!? THEN TAKE ME TO YER GODDAMN QUEEN!¡± She breathes. Opens her eyes. The men are silent. Randall watches her with a clear, quiet concern. Soteris¡­ something worse. She smiles in triumph, leaping at the chance. ¡°I can do that, right? Go ta the New Sun? Let that glowin¡¯ bitch sort this out?¡± ¡°You¡­ can,¡± Randall replies. ¡°But-¡± ¡°Do it. Do it!¡± She pulls at her restraints. ¡°I¡¯ll plead my case, I¡¯ll hold my trial. I¡¯ll do anythin¡¯ ya fuckin¡¯ want, as long as ya keep him - YARGH!¡± She¡¯s thrown violently to the ground. Her head crashes on the tile. The world is sideways, stars spark in her eyes. She tries to squirm, wriggle, force herself free. But she¡¯s stuck in the chair, ropes pulling the furniture along with her. She yelps. Something presses into her head, solid, patterned, and smelling of leather. His shoe. His fucking shoe. She starts to writhe as its sole smashes into her cheek. ¡°You¡¯d rather go to the Court!?¡± He laughs. ¡°This is what they think of you. This is what the New Sun looks like!¡± ¡°G-g-GET OFF ME!¡± He presses harder. ¡°Dung to be swept off. A pest to be destroyed! Do you not understand that I am the only thing holding you back from them now! Your trail would be a farce! Quick and merciless!¡± ¡°SO LET THEM KILL ME!¡± She sputters again. Soteris steps on her throat, and leans, adding more weight. She starts to thrash and flop. Can feel her lungs give out, the bones in her throat creaking. ¡°You think the New Sun will just kill you?¡± Soteris speaks through grit teeth. ¡°After all you¡¯ve done? That the death of a Reeve means nothing!?¡±" Harriet stops. Her eyes dim. She¡¯d completely forgotten the name Germaine FitzGerald. It sounds like something from an aeon ago. Something from a different life. Soteris sees the flash in her eyes. Pounces, with a smile. ¡°Can you imagine what that death entails? Flayed off skin. Pulled out teeth. Your organs ripped loose so they can regrowing come dusk, while all you can do is stand and watch them! You¡¯ll be drowned. You¡¯ll be starved. They¡¯ll leave bits and pieces of you to burn in the sunlight!¡± She starts to sputter. ¡°That¡­ I¡­¡± ¡°You think the New Sun knows mercy? Blackbird¡¯s dead. Swept from the streets in piles of ash. So where do you think our Potentate¡¯s vengeance will boil over?¡± Harriet doesn¡¯t speak. Or move. Just tries to process the words pounding in her skull. Soteris puts his shoe back on her head, using his foot to tug her face forward. ¡°You want to tell me that you¡¯d rather die, don¡¯t you?¡± He tilts his head. ¡°That you¡¯ll never give in, you¡¯ll never surrender. Because you know the Unbound expect nothing less. You know they want you to be a martyr.¡± Harriet makes herself small, never looking directly at him. But he doesn¡¯t seem to care. ¡°I might be young, Fireside, but I¡¯ve seen men die. In fear. In rage. In sobbing, helpless desperation. But the men who gave their lives freely, they¡¯ve always had something in them. A spark. Maybe you once had it, too, but not now. You could have ended this, if you tried. But I know you¡¯re scared of death. You have the eyes of a survivor.¡± She bites her lip, trembling beneath the shoe. She wants to tell him off. Prove him wrong. Give herself to the Sun with a smile on her face. But her mind keeps going back to the void she woke up in. Empty. Spaceless. Endless black and cold. She needs a gun. She needs a gun. ¡°It is a hard thing, to lose your pride. But my salvation is the only you¡¯ll see. So we will not negotiate. There will not be terms. Because right now, you are not an outlaw, or an Unbound, or a killer. You are nothing.¡± Soteris finally takes his shoe off, steps back. ¡°The legend of Fireside died on Thursday night. You can either die with it, or let me build a new one.¡± Silence. Soteris watches. Randall takes drags of his cigarette. Harriet curls into the ground. Her clothes. Herself. This shouldn¡¯t have happened. She shouldn¡¯t be here. She can¡¯t have failed. She knows she can¡¯t do this. Not for values, not for pride, fuck that, it¡¯s sruvival. She¡¯s seen the ass-end of Keepings. How they break. And this asshole who wants to enslave her¡­ ¡­ Godamnit. God fucking damn it, he¡¯s right. ¡°Fireside.¡± Soteris catches her attention. ¡°Did you hear me?¡± She looks at him. Her brows bent, her frown clear. Soteris meets the challenge with a mirthless smile. ¡°You aren¡¯t going to say it?¡± She snarls. ¡°That¡¯s alright.¡± He stoops down to pull up her chair, then starts to clean her. Dust swiped from her blouse. Fingers combing through her hair. Harriet squirms and tries to speak up, but he cuts her off there, too, dabbing his handkerchief over her bloodied lips. He finishes with a kiss on her forehead that makes her want to puke. ¡°You don¡¯t need to.¡± She watches him grab the knife. Study it, while a blue aura glows around her. Harriet¡¯s pulled towards him. The chair scraping across the tiles. Her broken face on the knife¡¯s reflection, getting larger and larger. Soteris calmly lifts the blade, pressing it to the side of his neck. Blood pools around the tip. Harriet looks at Randall again, a final, desperate call. ¡°Sotirios Chrysanthou, say the words.¡± ¡°Please.¡± She swallows her pride. ¡°Please, please, wait! Don¡¯t-!¡± And with a flick on Randall¡¯s wrist, her head¡¯s thrown back, her jaws are pried open. Wrenched apart by invisible hands. She pulls on the restraints, a final time, but knows already it¡¯s useless. Soteris slowly brings the blood. Red drips from the wound, and steam rises where blood meets air. He meets her eyes. She can¡¯t hold back the tears. ¡°Me aft¨® en¨®nontai oi psych¨¦s mas.¡± No. ¡°You and I are one.¡± A slice. Split skin. And then a geyser of blood shoots from his throat. Splattering her white-clad body. And falling into her open, waiting lips. Her body recoils, her muscles snap. Bound to the chair, she jerks in sudden movements. She can feel the two bloods mix, the magic merging, one aether fighting the other. Her heart starts to surge. Her body starts to glow. And her skin, her organs, everything, moving with regained strength. Growing impossibly hotter. She screams. It stops. She gasps. Her vision is lost beneath a blinding white light. But slowly, so slowly, the world comes back. The aura is gone, and she¡¯s gained control of her mouth. She takes a momento just¡­ breathe. Then looks up, staring into the bloodied bronze knife. Bits of blood drip from her chin. Her blouse is ruined, and bruises are forming. Her eyes are flecked with gold, and a brighter blue then she¡¯s ever known. But that¡¯s not what captures her. Leaves her silent and spellbound. A black mark has etched itself across her neck. Characters forming words, quivering across her skin like creatures swirling in the deep. It¡¯s not written in a language she knows, or wants to know. But the words still pound in her skull, forced upon her: ¦¶?¦Ñ¦É¦Å¦Ó, ¦ª¦Ñ¦Á¦Ó¦Ç¦Ì?¦Í¦Ï ¦Ó¦Ï¦Ô ¦²¦Ø¦Ó?¦Ñ¦Ç Harriet, Kept of Soteris. ¡°And so it is done. And so it shall be.¡± Randall continues. ¡°Keeper and Kept are bound. Forever.¡± She feels a hand on her shoulder. Wants to run, wants to leap, wants to scream. But inside, she can feel her blood pulling her towards him. Like magnets across a table, or the moon and ocean waves. Soteris leans down, until his lips grace her ear. He doesn¡¯t speak, can¡¯t speak, with the bleeding gash over his throat. But she hears him in her mind, either way. ¡°I am going to undo your bonds. You will not move.¡± His eyes glow, and hers follow. Little patterns in the irises that match and swirl and synchronise. Harriet immediately tries to disobey him. Squirm and tug and tell him. But she can¡¯t. Her body stiffens, and refuses to move. Like a leg falling asleep. Paralysis all over. Soteris cuts away at her ropes. Burns show on her skin, biting as they touch open air. She watches him with listless eyes, completely still, until he¡¯s finished and looks forward. He pulls back her hair, cups her cheek. She can¡¯t so much as twitch, and he seems to enjoy that fact. Takes her hand, squeezes it, presses his fingers deep into the knuckles. Her hand moves however he wants it to. He¡¯s only denied her control. Randall¡¯s words repeat in her mind. You two are bound, forever. Forever. FOREVER. ¡°When you get up, you will find the contract on it¡¯s final page. I¡¯m not going to order you to take the pen, and sign the Pact. You will, because you must. But there is something I want to you do. Sign it with your real name.¡± He smiles. Must see the flare in her eyes. Hear the question she wants to say. ¡°Information is a privilege. I told you that. And you are far from earning that answer.¡± Soteris stands up. Steps back. Winks. And only then says, ¡°You may move.¡± Harriet gasps. Nearly falls into the chair. Control of her muscles come rushing back. Her hands immediately grip her neck, pulling on the mark. It¡¯s real. She can feel it moving. She turns towards the binder, the table. The Blood Pact looms before her. There¡¯s hesitation. The final pleading thoughts of a mind that¡¯s trapped in a corner. But they die quickly, and her hesitance dies with it. Soteries watches. Randall smokes. Harriet forces herself to her feet. Wobbles at first, grips the chair for support. Without shoes, she can feel the cold tiles. But slowly, she works her way to the table. The pen. The dotted line. Her soul. She takes the tool. Closes her eyes. And signs without looking. A furious, ugly scrawl. It perfectly encapsulates her feelings towards that name. Harriet Josephine McClintock. Chapter 8: The Designer, Part I ¡°REMEMBER WHAT THEY STOLE FROM US¡± Graffiti near a cache of firearms believed to belong to the Unbound operative Fireside. Uncovered by the Reeve of East London, 2001. Also included, below the tag: ¡®MDCCCLXX¡¯ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ There was no great surge of magic when she signed her name. No flashes, no sparks, no explosion. Just the weight of her choice, pushing down with the force of a thousand tonnes. No. That was her first and, for a long time, only thought. No. This wasn¡¯t permanent. This wasn¡¯t real, wasn¡¯t anything. She drank the blood and signed the page, yes, but¡­ She¡¯ll escape. Others have! Janet and Jayden and even that snivelling Polish kid Andrzej. And their Keepers weren¡¯t delusional little tech boys. Soteris doesn¡¯t stand a chance. It can¡¯t end like this, okay? They can¡¯t steal a person¡¯s home and job and friends and purpose and¡­. and¡­ ¡­ ¡­ They can¡¯t sign away a life. She feels Soteris¡¯ hand, rubbing her open skin. His throat¡¯s already stitched together. Another power, must be. Aether shouldn¡¯t heal that quickly. In either case, it makes a gruesome sight. He¡¯s already looking down at her like she¡¯s¡­ owned. A pet who¡¯s acting fussy, or a child to bark orders to. She doesn¡¯t hide her snarl. Heh. Anyone else in the Court wouldn¡¯t bother trying to contain her, and she takes pride in that. But this man, and his arrogance - no. It¡¯s not quite arrogance, is it? He¡¯s a rooster, scrambling his way to the top and cawing over the spoils. It¡¯s like he knows he¡¯s spewing lies, but is still desperate for the world to believe them. Good. Arrogance, desperation. Both can be exploited. But the wizard¡­ Harriet turns. Randall¡¯s quiet on the other side of the room, studiously shuffling papers. He¡¯s the real threat. Beat her once already, and even then, he gave the distinct impression that he was playing with his food. That he¡¯s Caedmon¡¯s Kept is even worse. ¡®Masked Death¡¯ they called that man, when he was still Sunwalker¡¯s Reeve. Massacre after massacre, rape and loot and slaughter. The Unbound say he started the First Revolt by himself, so cruelly were Kepts treated beneath him. She has to be careful. Smart. No windchimes or white-clouding until she can get her hands on a gun. They have to be stored somewhere, right? When she can feel strong again, when she can feel safe again¡­ The door bursts open, and Harriet¡¯s pulled from her thoughts. The guard, Addana, marches in first, and Harriet gives the woman a full look for the first. She¡¯s big. Blocky, rotund. The ill-fitting uniform gives the impression that she¡¯s not much of a fighter, but every impression in the Court¡¯s deceiving. Another woman soon follows, hanging back by the door. Harriet blinks, caught off guard. This new one wears a purple blouse, knee-high trousers, espadrilles. There¡¯s a black scrunchie on her wrist, and her lips and nails are neon pink. Green eyes dart vigorously around the room, before settling on Harriet, the pool of blood, the stained white dress. There¡¯s a hint of fear, before she puts on a smile ¡°¡®Ey there, lads!¡± She waves. ¡°Heh, looks like I missed the party!¡± It¡¯s Astrid. The squirrel girl. Harriet stares back, watching as Astrid¡¯s eyes fall to her neck. The mark must be quite prominent. How will she¡­ no, no, don¡¯t think about that. That¡¯ll bring the windchimes, stupid. Don¡¯t think now. ¡°Violet petals on an ocean¡¯s wave.¡± Randall¡¯s eyes glow. ¡°You¡¯re excited to be here, but I was never informed-¡± ¡°I¡¯ve requested that Traynor show Fireside around her quarters,¡± Soteris explains, his voice restored. ¡°Introduce her to Court life, since she entered it so recently.¡± That makes Harriet pause. Astrid¡¯s Nocturnal? Really? It was hard enough to swallow the idea that that preppy MTV girl could even be Oathsworn. Randall frowns. Stares Astrid down. The girl gives an awkward smile back to him. It¡¯s quite clear to everyone that she¡¯s trembling. ¡°C¡¯mon, Randall. I¡­ hehe, I don¡¯t bite.¡± But before they get any further Harriet feels herself yanked back. Pulled into Soteris¡¯ arms. ¡°H-hey!¡± ¡°Let¡¯s make sure you understand.¡± With both standing, it¡¯s clear Soteris towers over her. He leans to pet her hair. ¡°Astrid Traynor is a very sweet girl, who understands better than anyone how to meet my expectations. I want to hear nothing of a cold reception towards her. Is that clear?¡± Harriet looks desperately at the others. The ¡®sweet girl¡¯ shuffles her feet uncomfortably. Soteris seizes her jaw, squeezing her cheeks until he causes pain. She starts to squirm, panicking as his eyes glow. ¡°Is that clear?¡± ¡°Yesh!¡± She shouts. Soteris lets go. But the gleam in his eyes stays. ¡°Full title.¡± She gives a low, animal growl. They stay like that for a moment, each waiting on the other to make the first move. But then... ¡°Yes, Keeper.¡± She draws each syllable out. Maximising their venom. But Soteris leans back anyway. Smiles. Digs a hand in his pocket. ¡°Excellent. I have a gift for you.¡± Her eyes nearly glaze as he reveals a thick choker. Black. Cloth. Very short gold chains on both ends. ¡°Something to hide the marks.¡± Bullshit. They both know he¡¯s handing her a collar. Harriet doesn¡¯t take it. ¡°Do I look like yer dog?¡± ¡°You look however I want you to look.¡± He lifts his hand. ¡°Now will you put this on, or do I need to order you?¡± She snatches it. So ferociously that even Soteris has to stifle a flinch. She¡¯s making the others uncomfortable. Randall, Astrid, both looking away. Only Addana has the balls to keep forward. They¡¯re probably not used to a Kept with this spunk. ¡°Say it.¡± Soteris scowls. ¡°Make it just tight enough for you to feel it choke.¡± Harriet gasps. Her arms move of their own accord, in jerky, forceful waves. The padding is soft on her skin, and the metal surprisingly thin, but both are pulled so taut that she can feel her breath stiffen. She tries to swallow, with difficulty. The gold is tucked beneath the black, creating the illusion that it¡¯s all an endless mass. ¡°You¡¯re not allowed to take it off,¡± Soteris commands. But not cut, she thinks. Or burn. Or slowly break down into a million little ribbons. Her growl is cut off when he loops his finger through the collar, pulling her harshly forward and ignoring her stifled cry. He takes hold of her back, kisses her cheek. She¡¯s never going to get used to his lips. ¡°But I will say¡­¡± He smirks as he pushes towards Astrid. ¡°... I think it really suits you.¡± She half collapses into Astrid¡¯s arms, then pushes out, glaring back furiously. She feels dirty. Humiliated. Enraged. God, she needs a gun. He doesn¡¯t care about her personal space? Fine. Neither do bullets. She¡¯s about to let him have it- ¡°Need anyfin¡¯?¡± Astrid pops into her sight, her smiling face between Harriet and Soteris. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. Harriet blinks. ¡°Wh-what?¡± ¡°New coat, baffroom break, some good shoes? It¡¯s a big building,¡± Astrid giggles. ¡°Gonna put on lotsa miles!¡± ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t-¡± Before Harriet can finish, she¡¯s being pulled from the room. Astrid''s dragging her by the wrist. ¡°Of COURSE you don¡¯t! We¡¯ll worry later!¡± Astrid hustles them out, and uses her heel to kick the door closed behind them. ¡°Oh my gosh, this is so exciting. Your FIRST DAY! And I never get to give the tour!¡± +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Harriet¡¯s eyes wander over the hallway, completely ignoring Astrid¡¯s rapid-fire words. They¡¯re in open offices again: black wood, grey counters, silver sleek laptops, even a beer-stuffed bar in the corner. But what catches her eyes most is the greenery. Vines and garlands, stretching over the desks or hanging from chandeliers and bright, fluorescent lamps. Good. Plants are useful. With Paradox, easily manipulated. She¡¯s been searching for exits the entire time. Vantage points, nooks and crannies. She notices quickly how Astrid pushes her past the locked doors. They¡¯re hidden in unlit alcoves, separate from the rest. But what are the chances they¡¯re holding some goods? Really high, if this is a Sovereign¡¯s- ¡°¡®Ello?¡± Harriet¡¯s interrupted by a swiping, ring-studded hand. ¡°I know you¡¯re not mute.¡± Harriet blinks. They¡¯re in a large office. Grey. Sparse. Nothing but a high-end computer and a heavy desk. ¡°Pardon?¡± Astrid puts a hand on her hip. ¡°I get ¡®at you¡¯re one of those scary, broodin¡¯ types, but I¡¯m just make some conversation.¡± ¡°Whaddaya wanna converse about?¡± ¡°Anyfin¡¯! I''m an open book!¡± Astrid smiles. ¡°Books, movies, even this place! It¡¯s won awards, you know. Ever since Soteris ordered ¡®at remodel, peeps-¡±? She puts her hand on Harriet¡¯s arm, but immediately pulls back. ¡°Sorry, sorry!¡± Astrid laughs. ¡°You don¡¯t mind if I touch you?¡± ¡°Huh?¡± ¡°Well, I¡¯m just a touchy person! Gotta make sure, you know? People, like, they seem like they don¡¯t really mind, but then they give you ¡®ese looks, act like ¡®ey don¡¯t want you here, you know? You ever get that?¡± Another laugh. More strained than the first. ¡°But no worries if you say no. ¡®At¡¯s why I got me furbies! Er¡­ not real furbies, mind. Cats. They¡¯re cats. Three in all! And I just love to¡­¡± She giddily waves her hands. ¡°... squish and cuddle and play wiff ¡®em! You dig?¡± Dig? Dig what? A hole? Harriet starts to slowly nod, even though she¡¯s not entirely sure what just happened. ¡°Ah¡­ if it¡¯s that important ta ya¡­ I-I can¡¯t say I really mind-¡° ¡°Splendid! Bless you. And God, I love that accent on you. It¡¯s just so spic an¡¯ span!¡± Astrid starts to rub Harriet¡¯s arm, before her expression jolts. ¡°Oh, shit! I completely forgot!¡± ¡°Forgot what?¡± But Harriet¡¯s being grabbed by the wrist again, dragged at a pace far too quick for Astrid¡¯s four-inch heels. ¡°W-wait!¡± ¡°Aight, ¡®Arriet¡­ can I call you ¡®Arriet?¡± Harriet¡¯s in a half-panic. ¡°Y-yes?¡± The woman squeals. ¡°Eeeee, that¡¯s grand! But you still good¡¯? Not cold? Not tired? Not, heheheheh, okay, okay, no drama, it¡¯s No Drama Month, but I¡¯ve known ¡®ose boys for quite a while, and I can tell you, ¡®ey get pretty intense.¡± Is she still good? No. Of course not! They¡¯re fucking kidnapping her! But for some reason, Harriet guesses Astrid doesn¡¯t want to hear that. It would really kill the mood! ¡°I-I guess I¡¯m doin¡¯ alright-¡± ¡°Awwwwww! Look at you~¡± Astrid squeezes her hand. ¡°Shoulda expected you¡¯d be tough. You¡¯re Fireside! You¡¯re a soldier! Me? Heh. On my first day of the Keepin¡¯, I fink I just fahkin¡¯ cried!¡± That piques Harriet¡¯s interest. Astrid drags them into a breakroom stuff with fridges, mailboxes, vending machines. But Harriet just rushes ahead. ¡°Yer Kept? B-by Soteris?¡± ¡°Well¡­¡± Astrid giggles. ¡°Technically!¡± She stoops down into the fridge. ¡°But it¡¯s not really a Keeping Keeping, you know? Allod, I fink ¡®ey call it. Fancy way of sayin¡¯ I¡¯m kept on a looser leash.¡± Yeah, Harriet guessed as much. Given that only one of them was wearing a goddamn collar. She swallows. ¡°So¡­ h-he doesn¡¯t do anythin¡¯ that could-¡± ¡°Ta-daaaaa!¡± Astrid springs up from the minifridge, turns around. ¡°Here it is!¡± Harriet squints. Astrid¡¯s holding a small plastic baggie, fogged from the chill. Inside, a clump of hardened dough, with blue and white icing. ¡°You didn¡¯t forget, did you?¡± Astrid claps. ¡°New hire cookies!¡± Harriet squints at the words the frosting forms. Written in an elegant, cursive hand: ¡®Welcome home, Jessica!¡¯ Astrid takes note of her confusion. ¡°They¡­ didn¡¯t tell me what your real name was ¡®till yesterday. I hope you don¡¯t mind.¡± She shoves the bag into Harriet¡¯s hands. ¡°Go on, go on, open it!¡± Deeply aware of Astrid¡¯s stare, Harriet undoes the ziplock. The cookie is hard, and cold. Harriet holds it up like unexploded ordnance, her fingers smeared blue by the icing. She brings it close to her nose, the sugary smell instantly hitting her. Astrid¡¯s expression starts to shrink. ¡°I¡­ heh¡­ I¡¯m just realisin¡¯ that, uh, you can¡¯t actually¡­ eat¡­ the cookie.¡± She bites her lip, scratches the back of her head. ¡°Y-you¡¯d fink I¡¯d know ¡®at, cuz I can¡¯t, but¡­ it¡¯s still a good gift, right? You could¡­ hold it. Look at it. It¡¯s¡­ it could still sorta be a decoration!¡± Harriet just stares at the thing, warming slightly in her pale hand. This¡­ she was taken by the Court, right? The league of corporates and killers trying to enslave humanity? ¡°Uh, Astrid¡­¡± Harriet slowly sets the cookie down. ¡°Ya¡­ know who I am, right?¡± ¡°Well, I¡¯d like to fink we¡¯re gettin¡¯ on.¡± ¡°N-no. Like¡­ what I¡¯ve done.¡± It¡¯s hard to describe Astrid¡¯s response to that. Her face stays the same, yet something incomprehensible changes. ¡°... ''Arriet, it''s No Drama Month. We shouldn''t be diggin'' out stories-" ¡°Okay, sure. But when ya normally hear a¡¯ folks like that, is makin'' sweets always yer first gander?¡± ¡°... You don¡¯t like it?¡± Harriet shrivels as the woman deflates. ¡°Oh bullocks, I¡¯m so sorry. I-I should¡¯ve-¡± ¡°No, no, no! That¡¯s not what I said! I like the cookie!¡± ¡°Really?¡± Astrid sniffles. ¡°You don''t have to-" ¡°I do, I do! It¡¯s a¡­ a good gesture. A great gesture! I¡¯m jes¡¯ tryna... why are ya bakin'' fer a criminal?¡± "Criminal!?¡± Astrid puts a hand over her heart. ¡°¡®Arriet, don¡¯t put yourself down like that!¡± ¡°But I-" ¡°It¡¯s like what me mum always said. Can¡¯t judge books by their covers! Or¡­¡± Astrid awkwardly laughs. ¡°Can¡¯t judge books by their insides, in your case. Cuz, uh, if I were to do that, heheheh¡­¡± She whistles and looks to the side. Harriet pauses at that, for more than a little bit. Her eyes start darting around the room, as if the various bulletins might reveal some long-lost answer. ¡°I...¡± She stops. Behind Astrid, the walls are replaced with a massive, floor-to-ceiling pane of glass. A heavy curtain¡¯s coiled over it, or maybe meshing, or a screen. She can¡¯t tell in the darkness, nor does she want to. She¡¯s too captivated by the view. When was the last time she was this far up? The Rockies, maybe. Curling beneath the aspens with a fire, pointing at the distant stars. But their heights can¡¯t compare to this. A metropolis beneath her feet, revealed by a sea of lights cut only by steel shapes that jut like rocks along a shore. She sees so much of the city: The London Eye, Victoria Tower, St. Paul¡¯s Cathedral. New constructions when she first came to these streets, now dwarfed by a metal maze two mortal lifetimes in the making. There are no trees. No grass. The cars are small as ants, to say nothing of the people. She hears wind pound on the window, and feels the building¡¯s sway. It makes her spine shrivel, her breath grow short and harsh. Her eyes tilt towards the sky, an old, habitual comfort. But that only makes her gut tighten more. She can¡¯t see any stars. Astrid finally takes notice. Harriet hears her approach, by the clacking of her heels. ¡°¡®Arriet? You arright?¡± Harriet squeezes her hands together. ¡°Yer¡­ ya been Kept by Soteris long, Astrid?¡± Astrid blinks, pondering. ¡°A¡­ couple months? But I¡¯ve known him much longer.¡± ¡°An¡¯ he¡¯s never made ya¡­ do things, right?¡± Harriet¡¯s face starts to twitch. ¡°Things that made ya feel¡­ d-dirty? Or¡­¡± Astrid shifts as she finally realises. Just in time for Harriet to collapse to the floor. ¡°Fireside!¡± Harriet¡¯s face is buried in her hands. Her breathing is ragged, her skin even more pale. No no no no no no no. The windchimes scream. ¡°¡®Arriet.¡± Astrid kneels down, grabbing her shoulders. ¡°Look at me!¡± It¡¯s happening again it¡¯s happening again it can¡¯t she doesn¡¯t want it but it¡¯s happening- ¡°He¡¯s gonna keep you safe!¡± That catches her. Harriet jolts up, staring into Astrid¡¯s eyes. They both seem equally terrified. Harriet speaks first. ¡°From what?¡± ¡°From¡­ from everyfin¡¯. From them!¡± Astrid waves towards the windows, the city beyond. ¡°I¡­ look. You¡¯re tough. ¡®At¡¯s what you want me to see, an¡¯ I know you are, but I also know you must be scared shitless cuz you¡¯ve fahked with some really powerful people out there!¡± Astrid struggles to not shout. ¡°I know you¡¯ve heard lots of shit. About Keepings and punishments, but it¡¯s more complicated than that!¡± Harriet blinks. Punishments? She didn¡¯t- ¡°Soteris is obsessed wiff you, arright? Has been since he got off the plane in Scotland. Do you fink a man would take on the entire Court just to¡­ just to use you like he could any whore?¡± Astrid shakes her head. ¡°This is a rescue. We fix you up. We teach you manners. We take you to the Court, and you get yourself redeemed. ¡®At¡¯s the end goal. ¡®At¡¯s mine. I¡¯ve been Soteris¡¯ friend for a long time. He¡¯s seen me through some real shit. An¡¯ I can promise you, wiff all my heart, he ain¡¯t that kinda man.¡± Harriet says nothing. Astrid¡¯s grip is firm. Her words certain. It¡¯s¡­ hard to not just¡­ melt in them. ¡°You believe me,¡± Astrid asks. ¡°Right?¡± Harriet slowly nods. ¡°Good. Awesome. That¡¯s¡­ that¡¯s just spic an¡¯ span.¡± Astrid stands up and dangles the plastic bag in front of Harriet¡¯s face. ¡°Come on. You forgot your cookie.¡± Harriet takes it, and watches the girl skip ahead, but stays where she is, her back against the glass. That girl¡¯s drawing something from her. She¡¯s breathing more, her heart¡¯s beating more, and her skin is always warm, like it¡¯s trying to match Astrid¡¯s heat. But what is it? Another power? Or¡­ Harriet seizes the cookie with both hands. Reads the little message and loops in her mind. Welcome home, Jessica. Welcome home, Jessica. Either Astrid Traynor is one of the sweetest girls in the Court of the New Sun¡­ ¡­ or one of its most dangerous. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Chapter 8: The Designer, Part 2 ¡°I was in a bit of a rough spot. Shiftin¡¯ jobs, you could say. But, uh¡­¡± Astrid laughs, whizzing Harriet through yet another hall. "... The Reeves don¡¯t take kind to, um, flexible labour.¡± The two women near a thick steel door, surrounded by more of those large windows. Harriet takes a moment to look around. The desks and offices have faded away, replaced by clean tiles, more large windows. ¡°But Soteris¡­ well. When he started Polyphron, there weren¡¯t much need for looks. Just enuff to hire some Latvians livin¡¯ on their screens an¡¯ a cheap microwave to cook ramen for the lot. But as it grew, he needed investors. Buzz. Those perma-drugged, quirky California types. An¡¯ ¡®at¡¯s when he reached me. A beautiful, God-given, extraordinarily desperate designer.¡± ¡°Designer?¡± Harriet squints. ¡°Of what?¡± ¡°The Ares gates?¡± Astrid leaves her hand on the door handle, her eyes fanning around. ¡°This?¡± Harriet frowns. "Ya designed his office an'' his weapons?" ¡°It¡¯s not a weapon, it¡¯s a gate ¡®at reads blood.¡± "That''s jes'' the lie they tell ''em ta-" "I don''t lie." Astrid''s voice grows suddenly stern. "I tell stories. ''At''s all design is, ''Arriet. Stories wiffout words. An'' the one I tell wiff Ares is true; it keeps people safe. You''ve made your own stories, too, I''m sure. Even though you pretend you ain''t got nuffin'' worth tellin''." They stare at each other like that for a moment. But eventually, Harriet exhales. "How does someone go about designin'' tech an'' furniture?" "I''m a bit of a Renaissance man." "Aren''t we all?" Astrid sighs, and squeezes the handle. ¡°Degree in Business Marketing, and after, set stages on West End. Roundabout career, I know, but the Court¡¯s got a shitty non-compete, so the Blood Pact ended all ¡®at eivver way. Still, won¡¯t complain. Decent pay, not god-awful hours, the fahkin¡¯ king of a benefits package, and¡­¡± She slowly pulls the door back. ¡°... Your Keeper lets me build shit like this.¡± The first thing that hits Harriet are the scents. Flowers, fruits, oils, and more mixtures than she could find on an artist¡¯s palette. The hall is split in half, colours merging around three doors. The left side, living space, looks much like the offices: white walls, hard floors, sleek black furniture. There¡¯s a plump leather couch, a gargantuan telly, and all the excess of modernity she''s come to despise. But the other side - the kitchen, the dining table - feels like a blast to the past. Except that it¡¯s a past that isn¡¯t hers. The mahogany¡¯s been replaced by birch and holly, all painted across the walls with stripes of bright and vibrant blue. It¡¯s no less wealthy, of course. Striking to eyes so used to cheap hotels and bargained furniture. But it is humbler. Calming, and warm. And in the corner, a Classical statue. A woman, with a veil over her hair and her figure hidden by sweeping robes. Her face is beautiful, but mature, her whole body stooped over a quartzite fireplace, her marbled hands just beyond the reach of the flames. Or¡­ wait. No. Not real flames. There¡¯s no smell, or smoke, or chimney. Harriet¡¯s staring at the screen of a fire. A fire that does only what Soteris wants of it. Give off heat. And light. ¡°So....¡± Astrid turns around, gesturing wildly. ¡°Pretty cool, right?" Harriet gives an awkward smile, not quite ready to appraise her new cell. But Astrid¡¯s all energy, diving into the couch before digging through a large crate filled with plastic. Records. ¡°Need anyfin¡¯, luv? AC, mood lightin¡¯, or maybe somefin¡¯ from ¡®ere? Boss got all sorts of oldies.¡± Harriet rolls her eyes. ¡°Yeah, alright, let¡¯s put on some Stephen Foster then.¡± ¡°Who?¡± Harriet smirks. But the smile vanishes as she studies Astrid''s fingers. Once again, they move a bit too quickly as they flit through the vinyls. Blurred. ¡°Yer usin¡¯ powers.¡± ¡°Wazzat?¡± ¡°Yer fingers. They blur.¡± ¡°Oh, yeah,¡± Astrid giggles. ¡°Superspeed! Pretty nifty, ''aveta say. There¡¯s some fancy Latin name for it, I know, but I don¡¯t really-¡± ¡°Ya sure we should be usin¡¯ powers in the open like this?¡± Astrid snorts. ¡°Who¡¯s gonna stop us? The cops?¡± ¡°Well, ya are in the middle a¡¯...¡± Harriet pauses, pondering the wisdom in saying it. ¡°... Reeve Central.¡± ¡°Tch. On the streets, maybe. But Court don¡¯t give two shits what ¡®appens up ''ere.¡± She finally fishes one out. ¡®Songs About Jane.¡¯ ¡°And you oughta be glad for ¡®at, luv, or ¡®at Deputy you left staked would already be fahkin¡¯ knockin¡¯.¡± Harriet tenses. Cappie. It¡¯d been a while since she thought of him. But he¡¯d gone through this same process, hadn¡¯t he? As hard to believe as that was. How did he keep his pride, through all this? How did he stare into that bastard FitzGerald¡¯s eyes without snapping anyone¡¯s neck? She¡¯s interrupted by music. A simple guitar twang, at first, but then a rising beat that crackles through the flat¡¯s many speakers. Astrid starts swaying to the music, whispering the lyrics under her breath. ¡°... the fire burning in her eyes, the chaos that consumed my mind¡­¡± Harriet leaves her to her musings, walking instead towards the large windows. These were much like the others with a big something hanging ominously above them. But right now, she¡¯s more concerned with her own reflection in the glass, the growing bruises, the mangled hair, and the thick black collar, taut across her neck. He ordered it to be tight, and tight it was; she feels it every time she swallows. But when she pulls it down, sees the writhing words that seem imprinted on her skin¡­ ¡­ no. No no no. Focus, focus. She''s been kidnapped, right? Soteris made that very clear, and all the luxuries of the world won''t change it. She needs to think, she needs to plan. There were several locked doors on their walk, tucked away in hallways Astrid always sped from. Utility rooms, on paper, but if the Sov cunt¡¯s lair¡¯s right here, what are the chances- She''s cut off. Through the glass, Harriet sees a flare of light. It dies off, then comes back, then dies off again. Harriet eventually turns around, casting a glance at the girl half-slid off the couch. ¡°The hell are ya doin¡¯?¡± ¡°I¡¯m wavin¡¯ me magic wand!¡± Astrid waves a small remote towards the fire with the statue. ¡°What¡¯s ¡®at spell in H.P.? Lumos!?¡± The ''fire'' roars to life, to Astrid''s audible glee. Harriet scowls. ¡°Ya¡¯d think Soteris could afford a real fire.¡± ¡°And be afraid in his own home? Piss on ¡®at.¡±| ¡°I can¡¯t imagine most Elders would approve of that cowardice.¡± ¡°But that¡¯s just it. We ain¡¯t Elders.¡± Astrid stands up, waves around the room. ¡°Forget roarin¡¯ hearths and spooky castles and hordes a'' fahkin'' bats. This is the future! We''re twenty-first century vampires!¡± ¡°How old are ya, Astrid?¡± Astrid blinks. Counts fingers. ¡°Twenty-ei-... no. Twenty-nine! Lighted six years ago, so you can do the maffs.¡± Harriet looks at her like she sprouted wings. ¡°What? Don¡¯t-¡± Astrid huffs. ¡°You¡¯d fink the Unbound would be less of a stick-in-the-mud.¡± ¡°The Court¡¯s lettin¡¯ ya design weapons when yer twenty-nine?¡± ¡°Gates. We''ve been over this." "So ya actually believe all the lies." ¡°He don¡¯t lie when it''s important.¡± ¡°Show me.¡± Harriet pauses. Astrid seems legitimately taken aback. ¡°... This tour, the nice room, it¡¯s s¡¯posed ta sell me on Polyphron, innit? So don¡¯t show me the fraud. Show me somethin¡¯ that works.¡± ¡°¡®I¡¯m not tryin¡¯ to sell-¡± ¡°Don¡¯t ya wanna impress me?¡± The gamble works. Astrid bites her lip, looks around. For Harriet, it¡¯s a half-truth, at least. She wants to see Soteris¡¯ inventions. Get a full stock of the man, before she sics the Unbound on him and lets a bullet sever his head. Now, Astrid probably wouldn¡¯t agree to that¡­ ¡­ but it¡¯s not like Harriet¡¯s going to tell her. The young vampire heaves a long sigh. ¡°Alright!¡± She slides up from the couch and grabs her leather bag. ¡°Vamonos!¡± ¡°Wh-where are we goin¡¯?¡± ¡°His latest invention.¡± Astrid points down the hall. ¡°Your bedroom.¡± ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Once upon a time, Harriet attended Aubrey Keaton¡¯s lectures. They were horrid affairs; hours-long rants about historical materialism or how to best kill scabs. ¡°The Falsehoods of Capitalist Architecture,¡± at first, seemed to fit the trend. Boring, droning, a bit too open in its violence. But one point, between the rants about landlords and single family housing, stood out. capitalists always act with profit in mind, and that bleeds into their buildings themselves. Take a fast food joint. Dirty, loud, with garish colours and uncomfortable seats. It¡¯s built to be unappealing, because they want to sell, and one''s peaceful dinner gets in the way of the next customer. Or a supermarket. It¡¯s not coincidence that they get so maze-like, or that all the treats are crammed in the final aisles. Harriet had been so stunned when she learned. How deeply the claws of the monster cut, in every possible corner. But why is she thinking about that now? Because her bedroom, her cage, is so unbelievably calming. It¡¯s a dark, cosy space. The windows are omnipresent, filling totally one side, but all their light is hidden by curtains, or devoured by richly-coloured walls. There¡¯s more wood in this room than the rest of the penthouse combined: on the floor, in her furniture, and the intricate designs of the four-post bed. She¡¯s surrounded by bookshelves and drawers, a jewellery box, a vanity. But it¡¯s all simple and modest and clean. Not the ornature of a rich manufacturer, but the beauty of a single craftsman, whose skill has been built over dozens of years. There¡¯s a banjo on the roughshod pillows. Reed baskets, plaid blankets, and a dozen dime novels with musty old pages. Harriet sniffs the air. Hay. Straw. Hints of pine. And running literally, through it all, ia gentle stream of water. Clear and crystalline, it starts parallel to the walls, but cuts across the centre floor, like a miniature river. ¡°I know.¡± Astrid stands right over it, a hand on her hip. ¡°It¡¯s somefin¡¯.¡± Harriet sticks her fingers in the trickle, tingling at the sense of cold. How they arranged all the piping to do this¡­ she doesn¡¯t want to know. The cost of this room alone could feed hundreds of starving families. She looks into another room, bright lights shining over white tiles. ¡°That the wash?" ¡°Full tub and shower. Marble counters, cutting edge radio.¡± Astrid whistles. ¡°You¡¯ll ¡®ave to share it, I¡¯m afraid. Even bossman¡¯s money got limits. But-¡± ¡°Share?¡± Harriet rushes to the door, leans over and peers at the other side. Astrid¡¯s right about its opulence, at least. But Harriet¡¯s far more focused on the darkened room at the other end of the bathroom, half-covered by its mirror-image door. Three rooms. Hers. The bathroom. So the other is... ¡°H-he¡¯s¡­ he¡¯s not sleepin'' with...?¡± ¡°Told you, ¡®Arriet,¡± Astrid smiles sweetly. ¡°Not that kinda guy.¡± Harriet breathes. For what feels like the first time in hours. She grabs her heart, and just brings it all in. A weight lifting from her shoulders. ¡°Honestly, girl, I love the vibe,¡± Astrid struts towards the bed, flitting through the many things. ¡°Do you actually play the banjo?¡± No. Well, yes, but she hadn¡¯t in years. Yet somehow, Soteris knew. Just like the books. Just like her name. He had to learn from somewhere, but how? She had covered her tracks. She had buried her past. Nobody but Red even knows- ¡°There we are!¡± Astrid bounces back, another little remote in her hands. ¡°Arright! So. ¡®Arriet. You see this, you fink, ¡®this is all fine,¡¯ right? No questions wiff the bed?¡± Harriet blinks. ¡°Uh¡­ what¡¯s with the plaid blankets-¡± ¡°Your little curse!¡± Astrid points the remote at her. ¡°Can¡¯t sleep in the same place twice! You sure it hadn''t crossed you, silly goose? Seems like a pretty big fing to not remember!¡± Oh, Harriet remembered, alright. She just opted to not tell. For one, she won¡¯t be staying around long enough for it be relevant. And for another¡­ she never actually figured out what happens if she¡¯s locked inside for two days, what the Wilds would do to the men who¡¯d try and stop it? But that sounds like the perfect sort of problem for someone who claims to be her better. Harriet scowls. ¡°Soteris mentioned logistical issues. This it?¡± ¡°Spic an¡¯ span.¡± Astrid snaps. ¡°We had to move quick, so the work¡¯s a bit shoddy. Poor engineer had to stay overnight. But the concept!¡± Harriet starts. The ground beneath her rumbles. She notices movement, spinning gears and strained pulleys, half-hidden by the posts. Her bed starts lifting, a whole foot in the air, and she swears that the wood below it starts to shift. ¡°Ya coulda jes¡¯ brought me outside,¡± Harriet offers. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Astrid gives her a look that¡¯s completely incomprehensible. Harriet stops. Marches towards the bed and its strange little system. The wood floor has slid out, but a steel frame still remains, with padding. Harriet reaches out and touches it just as the bottom begins to sink. But then she realises its not padding at all. ¡°Soil.¡± The frame winches its way to some hidden room below. ¡°... Ya filled the floorboards with soil?¡± ¡°Five square metres.¡± Astrid grins. ¡°Each cluster taken ten miles away from the next. ¡®Can¡¯t change her home¡¯ the bossman said. ¡®But we can change the home she sleeps under.¡¯¡± Harriet¡¯s stunned. Another frame rises to link with the floor, its own dirt unperturbed. They all click together with a loud clang, before the bed starts to lower back to its original place, spotless through the ordeal. Harriet¡¯s breathing picks up. ¡°But¡­ the weight of all those pulleys. Yer supports are too weak. Whole thing gonna cave in-¡± ¡°The whole penthouse is pillared against the 29th floor, Ms. da Vinci,¡± Astrid replies. ¡°Been that way since Soteris commissioned old Hestia.¡± Hestia. The marble statue, and the project, then. Harriet supposes it would make sense for Soteris to be that eccentric. Astrid takes her silence as a win. ¡°Change the soil once a week, have someone come up to fix supports¡­ and whaddaya know?" She beams "You can sleep in the same sheets, every single night.¡± Harriet scowls, pressing into the bed with her hand. She can¡¯t deny that it¡¯s clever. Changing soils¡­ why had she never thought of that? It saves so much trouble; no more wandering, no more hotels, no more final hour of every night covering windows with blackout curtains. When was the last time she could rearrange furniture? Decorate a wall? Leave a mark on her own space, just like¡­ ¡­ Just like he¡¯s made a space for her. Why? Why not lock her in a closet or chain her up to some basement? It would change nothing; God knows its what the Unbound expect. Maybe its part of his opulence. The noble wannabe whose servants live like kings. Or¡­ or maybe... If Astrid notices her musings, she doesn¡¯t seem to mind. She¡¯s bouncing around the different ornaments and knickknacks, always asking if Harriet likes them but never stopping to hear the answer. She¡¯s something else, too. Impossibly genuine. Even when she spills out lies. Harriet bites her lip. This isn¡¯t the Court she was told about. This isn¡¯t the Court she knew. What is she dealing with? What is she fighting? She doesn¡¯t know, and in not knowing, there is panic. What if she can¡¯t predict him? Anything? Astrid heels loudly clacking across the hall. She¡¯s still droning, still smiling, that brilliant spark within her eyes. ¡°Now the closet, whew. It ain¡¯t filled yet, but God, when you see the size of the damn fing¡­¡± But when the door opens, she stops. Leaving it open only partway. ¡°... Oh.¡± Astrid¡¯s expression seems to have vanished. Harriet approaches, curiosity and confusion plain. Astrid turns back, grows pale, and then springs into action, slamming the door shut with her back. ¡°Tour¡¯s over.¡± ¡°What?¡± Harriet shifts angles. ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± ¡°Nuffin¡¯.¡± Astrid shakes her head. ¡°Nuffin¡¯ to be finkin¡¯ bout.¡± ¡°Why would I be thinkin¡¯ ¡®bout it?¡± Astrid flinches. Harriet grows stern. Her stance harsh, her steps direct. Astrid might be a few inches taller, but she very quickly shrivels back. ¡°¡®Arriet, please. Just trust me this one time. You don¡¯t wanna-¡± She gasps. Harriet¡¯s sprung forward, her hand over Astrid¡¯s, slamming it into the door. The wood creaks. Astrid¡¯s breath grows ragged, and she starts blubbering excuses. ¡°There¡¯sbeenamistakeThere''sbeenamistakeYouweren¡¯tsupposedtoseethemonthefirst-¡± ¡°Astrid.¡± Harriet¡¯s voice is like gravel. ¡°Look at me.¡± The woman looks. Her eyes pleading. Harriet snarls. ¡°Step. Away." Astrid¡¯s face gives every indication that she wants to say ¡®no.¡¯ For a moment, Harriet thinks she¡¯ll actually fight. But then Astrid closes her eyes. And it turns out, despite her those protestations, she really did listen to all those stories about Harriet. She weasels her way around Harriet, apologising under her breath. The Unbound ignores it. Takes the handle. Opens the door. Her eyes grow wide. On the one hand, there''s relief. Vindication. For once, she finally sees something she expects from the Court. But that tiny victory is drowned by a sea of windchimes and white clouds. Soteris¡¯ real dream is displayed on hundreds of hangers before her. They''re just clothes. Ties and shirts, a dozen heels, socks of every length. They come in every colour: whites and blacks, reds and greens, all gleaming like gemstones beneath the golden light. But they aren¡¯t just clothes, are they? Clothes never are. The heels are always long. Four inches, at minimum. She sees hordes of lingerie, all lace, all revealing. The shirts have long v-necks, the tights are linked to garters. And the skirts. God. Thin, tight, and short to a pair. Harriet tries to find pants. Or coveralls. Or anything that won¡¯t betray herself the moment she bends over. There¡¯s nothing. Nothing. One outfit is already laid out. Chosen. A black pencil skirt. A white button-down. But the buttons don¡¯t button enough, the skirt ending before even her thigh. The outfit couldn¡¯t cover her bra. Much less¡­ much less¡­ Her face is frozen. Her eyes are unseeing. Astrid takes a cautious step closer, biting her lip, the guilt on her face plain. She starts to reach out. ¡°¡®Arriet¡­¡± Harriet springs back, takes the hand, much to Astrid¡¯s shaking fear. studies the darker skin. The pink fingernails. The many bracelets and rings. There¡¯s something black, beneath her wrist-scrunchie. Fluid and writhing. Her own mark. Astrid sobs. ¡°It wasn¡¯t me.¡± Harriet looks her in the eyes. Her hand slowly shifts down. And then she pulls on the wrist. Fast and hard. Until she heads Astrid''s bone crack. ¡°YAAAAARRGHHH!¡± Astrid stumbles, but Harriet¡¯s faster. She seizes the woman¡¯s neck, slams her head into the wall. There¡¯s a thud, more split skin, a sudden cloud of plaster. Then Harriet¡¯s running, from the bedroom. From the fireplace. Right through the steel door. ¡°PROTOCOL 19-C!¡± She¡¯s only three steps down when the space floods with red light and robotic speakers. ¡°PROTOCOL 19-C! THIS IS A CLASS A EMERGENCY. ENABLING FURTHER SECURITY-¡± Harriet screams. An alarm starts to sound. She¡¯s sprinting past the desks as fast as her legs can carry her. Not thinking, not watching. Her fangs dig into her lips, the hunger bright and furious. The Wilds is trying to claim her. They both want the same thing. Gun. Gun. GUN! ¡°PROTOCOL 19-C! THIS IS A CLASS A EMERGENCY.¡± Harriet takes such a sharp turn that she nearly stumbles. A door, beneath the red. Without the emergency lights, she¡¯d have missed it completely. And that must be the point. Yes. Yes! ¡°- FURTHER SECURITY -¡± She sprints into the door. When that doesn¡¯t work, starts clawing madly at its handle. She can barely keep her instincts in check to grab it. She pulls. And pulls. And pulls. It¡¯s locked. IT''S LOCKED! ¡°NO!¡± She slams her elbow against it, kicks at the door. ¡°nononononoNONO NO NO NOOOO!¡± ¡°PROTOCOL 19-C! " She¡¯ll kill the wizard first. A shot to the head, and his Oathsworn pet after! She imagines their blood on the walls. Bits of brain, bits of skull! She¡¯s split the skin of her elbow. There¡¯s a trail of blood. Paradox. It can make that handle gone. But he¡¯s poisoned her mind. He¡¯s stolen her strength. He - God. She sees him. That smirk. That voice. That arrogant flame in his golden eyes. ¡°PROTOCOL 19-C!¡± ¡°I¡¯LL FUCKING KILL YOU!" The air crackles with rogue aether. Her eyes spark. She levels her hand. In an instant, her mind explodes. Her vision lost in rending pain. But Harriet doesn¡¯t care. Grits her teeth, forces through it. How many has she killed? Will she let a fucking spell stop her!? ¡°PROTOCOL 19-C¡± Sparks fly from her hand. ¡°THIS IS A CLASS 5-¡± ¡°RAAAAAAGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!¡± The door flings back. Collides with a monitor in a shower of light. Harriet bursts in, looks around. Computers and cabinets and desk chairs, just like the rest of this cage! But she finds it, she finds it, a glass display, on the wall. There¡¯s vests and stakes and a fireman¡¯s axe and- She runs to the desk. Pulls out its chair. Holds it over her head, and charges, screaming. She throws. It falls. She stops. The gun. It''s there, it''s there! Right in her hands. Her feet bleed on a floor filled with broken glass. Beretta 92G-SD. Semi-automatic. Too heavy to be the nine-model. Its black metal is cold, warmed by growing, glowing blood. She unloads the magazine. 9mm. Fifteen rounds. She shakes a single one out, and lets it roll in her hand. Forty calibre. She breathes. God gave her a forty calibre. Harriet starts to cry. Presses her skin against the metal and lets it all out. She hugs herself, hyperventilates, and squeezes and squeezes and squeezes until she feels safe. The windchimes start to die. The white clouds start to fade. Until- ¡°PROTOCOL 19-C! PROTOCOL -¡± A bullet pierces the computer¡¯s motherboard. The lights dim. The voice stops. And Harriet turns to flee. The next few minutes feel like hours, and also pass instantly. She bounds through the halls and the windows and the hundreds of desks, but there¡¯s no sign of Astrid. Or Randall, or Addana, or anyone. She grips her gun with both hands, checking every door, every corner. How she wants to fire it now, smell the smoke, obliterate everything, but she won¡¯t. Not while she can breathe. Not while she can think. She passes the breakroom where Astrid gave her that cookie. In a distant corner, she sees that beer-filled minibar. But she needs to find stairs. Stairs to the end. No lift this time, God, has she learned from that. Shit, where the fuck are they? That alarm blared for minutes. Are they planning for something, or are they just scared!? She won¡¯t hunt them. Not without support. Not without more firepower. Right now her plan is to sprint down and down and down. Shoot open a window, and leap from the first storey. Sure, she¡¯ll break her leg, but she knows what she¡¯ll find on the ground. She¡¯ll contact Red, call in Keaton, call in the whole goddamn movement! She stops. She¡¯s by the bar, now. Checking the cupboards with her gun for any hidden fools. But when she looks up, she sees an old grey door, with just as old signage. Emergency stairs. She starts to run. Blood-sweat on her brow. Squeezing her Beretta- ¡°Freeze.¡± It hits her mid-stride. Her hands in the air, feet awkwardly planted on the ground. But she can¡¯t move. Can¡¯t correct. Even her eyes are still, forced to look directly in front of her. She hears his footsteps. Those sharp leather shoes on the clean tile floor. His voice is louder than it should be, like her body¡¯s drawn to it. ¡°Move again.¡± BLAM! A bullet whizzes into the wall. Cracks a bit of glass. She doesn¡¯t turn until she¡¯s fired it, but when she does, she smiles. She knows her guess wasn¡¯t that far off, because he¡¯s pressed his hand against one ear. ¡°Let me go,¡± she hisses. ¡°Or the next one causes more than ringin¡¯.¡± Soteris exhales. ¡°I suspected it would come to this.¡± Harriet lifts her gun. The ¡®Keeper¡¯ doesn¡¯t flinch. They stare each other down, lights in both their eyes. ¡°Cheap tricks. Base violence. They were never going to break your pride. But they should have.¡± Soteris scowls. ¡°Do you honestly still believe you have any power in this situation? That you¡¯re in any place to make demands?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t FUCKIN¡¯ TEMPT ME!¡± Harriet growls, cocks the gun. ¡°I¡¯ve seen yer clothes, ya Greek cunt! What the fuck are ya tryin¡¯ ta make me? Yer office slut? A dressed-up whore!?¡± ¡°Language. I want nothing more than an obedient servant.¡± ¡°I will end this ENTIRE FUCKIN¡¯ COURT!¡± She bares her teeth, revealing fangs. ¡°Ya¡¯ve lost, Soteris. Yer brains ta go along with yer mind. Ahahaha! Let''s see yer fuckin'' gizmos block-" She stops. Blinks. Tries to hold the trigger again. Her fingers slip right out of it, finding no surface, like it¡¯s been covered in oil. Her breathing picks up. She curses, shakes the gun, and tries to ignore his grin. ¡°Need a friend?¡± ¡°GO TA HELL!¡± She fires into the ceiling, smashes a light, hears the warm shards fall around her. But when she points at him again¡­ klik klik klik klik! ¡°What the fuck is happening!?¡± ¡°Clause 3c of the Blood Pact. ¡®The Allod is strictly forbidden from harming her new owners.¡¯ If you had been more polite, Fireside, we would have read over that.¡± "You fuckin'' bitch!" ¡°I don¡¯t need the Keeping to conquer you." Soteris smirk. "But it does have advantages.¡± She snarls. Her skin pulled back, her eyes wild. ¡°I have friends. Powerful ones, who will chew up yerself and yer fishstick of a wizard like the fuckin¡¯ toys ya are! YA HEAR ME!? I¡¯ve murdered children! More scores of people than years ya¡¯ve been fuckin¡¯ born! If ya think there¡¯s anythin¡¯ that is gonna stop me-¡± ¡°Silence.¡± Her breath cuts off. She frowns. Every time she tries to speak, her tongue fails, and the words don¡¯t form. The most she can manage are grunts. Soteris gives her a withering smile. ¡°There. I¡¯ve stopped you already.¡± She growls. A guttural, animal sound that makes Soteris hiss. He¡¯s walking towards her, in slow, measured beats. Instinctively, she steps back. With every second, he seems taller. With every second, his eyes glow. ¡°You¡¯ve learned nothing. No matter how many times I show you, no matter how many times I beat you, you still think you have control. You still think you can win! Take a step!¡± She does. In a startled, jerky motion, like a puppet dancing on strings. Her growl becomes a whimper, to clear Soteris'' clear thrill. ¡°Another. Another. ANOTHER! March to me like Gawen Rowe¡¯s little soldier!" There¡¯s a squeak. Patterns swirl in Soteris¡¯ eyes as he watches the woman walk. It¡¯s a monstrosity of a sensation. Aether pulling her muscles, forcing her into straight, symmetrical lines. She can barely twist back. Each step meets more resistance. Her eyes flood with fear ¡°Stand at attention." Her hands fling to her sides. Her feet shift to perfect right angles, like Pa always taught her. ¡°That''s a good girl." He grins. ¡°Hold out your arm. Show me the Beretta.¡± ¡°Mmmmm!!!¡± She starts losing it. Furiously shaking her head even as her body hoists it up. Her breaths are ragged, her heart racing. She¡¯ll kill him! SHE¡¯LL KILL THEM ALL! He looks triumphant as he strolls over. Lifts his palm until it¡¯s just a few inches below hers. ¡°Do you want to keep this gun?¡± She can''t respond. She''s nearly breaks into tears. Pleading with her uncaring body to please please please just pull away! ¡°Unfortunate.¡± He replies. ¡°Because I order you to put it gently in my fingers.¡± She¡¯s never tried so hard, in all her life, tried to not move something this hard. And it fails. She feels the weight leave her hand. And with it, everything. Soteris unlatches the gun, throws its magazine to the floor. ¡°If it helps, this wouldn¡¯t have stopped me. I don¡¯t store weapons here that can actually pierce my skin. You¡¯d need a higher calibre.¡± Soteris has looped a finger around her collar, pulling her in until their foreheads touch. She smells the mint in his breath as he smiles. ¡°Now let me show you what power looks like.¡± He slams her back into a pillar. ¡°MRM!!¡± Harriet struggles. Kicks and shoves and bites the air. Soteris snarls, his fangs showing as he squeezes her neck. Hard and tight, so that the mere shock makes her sputter and choke. She knows it won''t kill her. He knows it too. But it doesn''t stop the sensation. ¡°Go on!¡± He shouts in her face. ¡°Act like a bitch! Tell us what we already knew: that you are an animal! Rabid, feral, and biting at the bars of her cage! It! Will! Not! WORK!¡± He presses with more and more force as her body shifts and jerks and recoils so that she never lands a kick. ¡°The Court needs you. Polyphron needs you. Project Hestia needs you, and I will give them all what they need! A loyal Kept. A subservient Kept. A Kept so knowing of her place that she will not breathe without checking first with her master!¡± The anger¡¯s gone now. It¡¯s replaced by something cutting and twisting. This is the man who bought her those clothes. This is the man who gave her a collar. She claws at his hands, desperate for reprieve. Tears in her eyes. ¡°You will be tamed like man tames any animal: a test of wills. And I promise, McClintock, my will is far stronger!¡± He bashes her into the wall. ¡°Don¡¯t like my tone? I don¡¯t care. Hate your clothes? I don¡¯t care. Baulk at the thought of being my ¡®office slut¡¯? I do not FUCKING CARE! A horse learns to not buck its rider! A horse learns to wear its saddle! You will dress in those clothes and smile at my tone and bow at each of my orders because they will mould you into place, you have no choice, and you have no means to fucking stop me!¡± Harriet wilts. The grunts are less violent, and the struggle less forceful. But doesn¡¯t Soteris doesn¡¯t stop. He doesn''t relent. He keeps squeezing, and shouting, the veins beneath his skin bright. ¡°You had one chance, and that chance was spoiled! Now you cannot run. Now you cannot fight. All you can manage are pathetic insults muted with a snap of my finger!" He snarls. "You will not resist this anymore than a man resists drowning. You will struggle and flail and sink all the same. Because you are my whore! You are my slave! You are only what I deem you to be, and without me, you are nothing!" She''s whimpering now. Pleading like an animal. Barely holding together. "But prove me wrong. Prove that you can fight. Prove that you''re superior. I will let you go, right now, if you can open those lips and say a single thing.¡± She tries. God, does she try. But her tongue constantly trips, her mind keeps going foggy. She can¡¯t stop him. Her powers. Her wits. Her guns. She¡¯s tried them all, and still she can¡¯t stop him. She wants to be small. She wants to go home. ¡°Inevitable.¡± He releases her neck, and she slumps to the floor. ¡°What more is there to say?¡± She buries her face in her hands, and curls up in a little ball. She¡¯d been feeling this fear all night. This sorrow. This aching, heart-wrenching dread. But it had been silenced by her hope, stymied by her anger. Now? ¡­ The mark is never coming off. The others never found a way. That ink-black spot will dwell on her neck for the rest of unlife. Forever. Soteris watches her melt into a puddle. Checking his watch and straightening his suit. ¡°I¡¯ll keep you in silence for the next twenty-four hours. A fair punishment for this tantrum. And I¡¯ll have to speak with Randall about adding new security measures. This won¡¯t be repeated, educational though it may be.¡± She''s thinking about little things. Cheap motels. Shitty dates. The Highland forests, the shooting ranges, the drinks at Spoons and movie nights. They¡¯re gone. Gone. Gone. With a little stack of papers, they''ve signed a life away. ¡°Today, I am merciful. I could punish you for the swears, or, heh, how utterly you¡¯ve ruined your promise to Astrid. But I won''t.¡± He slowly kneels down. ¡°Punishments won¡¯t get us any further today. But don''t be fooled into thinking that I will tolerate this behaviour." She hears the words like they¡¯re behind a dozen walls. Her eyes are quiet, pleading, and listless as she turns them towards him. Perhaps Soteris takes some thrill from that, but she doesn¡¯t last long enough to check. She¡¯s slipping away. To the windchimes and the white clouds and the memories of a brighter world. ¡°I will see you, cleaned and uniformed, tomorrow at 9 PM. Until then, sleep.¡± Her eyes close. Her body falls. The rest is calm and dreamless. If only waking would be the same. Chapter 9: The Hermit Kingdom, Part I ¡°The Court¡¯s greatest failing goes by many names. Whitechapel. Bishopsgate. The Rookeries East End. But only one name captures its depravity, its lawlessness, the mark that¡¯s been cut into that poor borough¡¯s flesh. And that is the name Nocturni know it by: Ratcatcher¡¯s Hermit Kingdom. There are no cops in the Kingdom. No priests, no doctors, nothing of progress and chivalry and grace. This is the land of the Christ-Killers, and here their vices rule. Prostitution, miscegenation, base violence and petty thieving. The people live in misery and squalor, but don¡¯t rush to pity. They chose their fate like they chose their ¡®Harav¡¯. Ratcatcher addicts them to his blood, and they in turn barricade our roads, loot our wealth, and spy on us as Watchers. For Keaton might have ten-thousand faces, but Ratcatcher has ten-thousand eyes. That this monstrosity was allowed to form is a disgrace; that it has festered for centuries is nothing short of a crime. But the Magisters will never act. ¡®Too many Reeves lost¡¯ they say, or ¡®Too fetid to be our concern.¡¯ As if the mere presence of these degenerates does not sully all of England! Enough! I am Curator now, and I will not let this illness breed a moment longer. Our German brothers have started the fight to retake our homes and daughters! We must join them. Until the rot is cleared. Until the streets are clean.¡± Excerpt from a letter by Curator Britannica Lianna Stirling, to fellow members of the British Union of Fascists. October 3rd, 1936, the eve of the so-called ¡®Battle of Cable Street.¡¯ ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ August 2004 East London The twelve-year-old squeals. His arm is held painfully behind his back, his cheek squished against the brick. It leaves his backpack ripe and open for her to reach in, with claw-like fingers. ¡°Stop it!¡± The child keeps whining. ¡°Me mum- argh!¡± ¡°You fink I give two shits!?¡± She pulls on his arm, tighter and tighter, until tears flood down his face. ¡°Please! I need it! I¡¯m not doin¡¯ good in school!¡± ¡°Then learn to fookin¡¯ cheat!¡± Her fingers curl around a tiny bottle, and her eyes spark. She thrusts it from the pack. Adderall. Sixty beautiful white capsules of pure dissolving mist. She salivates at the mouth. It¡¯s a smaller dosage, sure; fifteen milligrams, not twenty. But that¡¯s okay. She¡¯ll just take two. Still pressing the writhing boy down, she undoes the top, pours out a few pills, and slams them straight in his mouth. God, these ¡®ADD¡¯ twats get twitchy, but whoever invented that term, she owes them a bloody pint. Feels like half the East End are ¡®hyperactives¡¯ at this point, and im-yirtzeh hashem, when she finds one, they give this shit out like candy! Thirty seconds. Long enough. The boy starts really struggling when she reveals her fangs. But that¡¯s the thing with kids, you¡¯d get more fight from a juicebox. The blood is sweet, like all childrens¡¯ blood. Flooded with Red Bull and Jaffa Cakes. But she doesn¡¯t care, she needs the hit! It should be in his bloodstream now, right? So why¡¯s it taking- Oh. There it is. She moans, the high hitting like a freight train. She revels in it, her muscles lax, her eyelids fluttering. Eventually, she realises that the kid is limp in her arms, that she¡¯s draining him to the brink of death. Oh, no. That won¡¯t do. Mortal are like cattle. The beef is nice, but there''s investment in milking. She leaves the boy on the cobblestones, staring into the rain. Her mind feels like fire, her senses sharp, her heart near bursting. How this helps anyone focus in school, she has no idea. But then, she never went to it! But then her phone cuts her off, mere seconds into it. Fuck. She knows immediately who it is. He set his own ringtone to Root Manuva. ¡°Ah what the fuck, man? We can¡¯t stay bruk, man. We never stuck, man, we on the-¡± ¡°JAYDEN!?¡± she barks. ¡°Bird. We¡¯ve gotta fahkin¡¯ problem-¡± ¡°No SHIT we¡¯ve gotta problem! I told mans not to call!¡± ¡°T¡¯ere¡¯s a man ¡®ere, bruv! Rolled up in a bait-ass whip and drove slow ¡®round the ends!¡± ¡°So fookin¡¯ rob ¡®im!¡± ¡°Ain¡¯t no fahkin¡¯ wasteman, man. T¡¯is bum be a fahkin¡¯ ¡®mmunity ¡®velepor!¡± Her expression falls. Community developer? ¡°You¡¯re takin¡¯ the piss.¡± ¡°Bet.¡± She seethes. ¡°... Movverfooker.¡± ¡°Innit!? So get youse squawky ass in the clouds-¡± ¡°Fook ¡®at. I walk.¡± ¡°Bird?!¡± ¡°I just tweaked, Jayden! Why the fook else I¡¯d say ¡®don¡¯t call me!?¡¯¡± She slams her phone shut, and gives a shrill cry. A distant caw soon follows. Her darling Nance, soaring over a food bank. Good. Girl can scout. She takes out her prized possession, her Shrek-green iPod, the one with all her serious songs. She¡¯s gotta get into that grown-up mindset. Gotta listen to fucking Weezer. Finnerty¡¯s about to run along when she remembers the boy, still unconscious, leaning against the wall. She glances at the pill bottle again. He said he needed them. ¡­ nah. School¡¯s a scam. Honestly, she¡¯s doing him a favour. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°Bum bum bum. Ba-dum bum bum. Bum bum bum. Ba-dum bum bum.¡± She runs with the music. Her eyes closed. Her iPod in hand. Her lungs filled with air cooled by the rain. ¡°When I¡¯m stable long enough, I start to look around for love, See a sweet in floral prints, my mind begins the arrangements.¡± She knows the buildings by heart. The Tescos and the churches and the Oxfams and the schools. Barbershops and karate halls and more Indian restaurants than there¡¯s any right to be. But she doesn¡¯t see them. She sees the streets once clogged with vendors. Stairwells full of shit, and backyards rank with bile. The flats weren¡¯t clean brick or steel then. They were misshapen, haphazard, layers stacked up piecemeal. The signs read Cephas Street, and Darling Row and Stepney Green and Killick Way. Two worlds united only by the street names. ¡°But when I think I¡¯ve found a good-old fashioned girl, then she puts me in my place." She runs through a home she¡¯s lost, though she never left. ¡°If everyone¡¯s a little queer, why can¡¯t she be a little straight?¡± ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 1867 The sky was red that night. A blazing furnace of factories and bin fires, that hide the rest of London in a wall of smog. The children of St Hilda¡¯s live on cheap beds. Loose threads, snapped springs, and edges always nibbled by vermin. They dress in rags, eyes sunk from the meagre meals offered by charities, or the creatures they scrounge, half-dead birds and starving dogs. One can see the cracks in the floors here, and the ways the bricks in the walls bend and lean. Nothing is sturdy here, homes and shops and churches always smashing against each other. There¡¯s a single latrine for all eighteen kids, and none of them wear shoes. Still, they laugh. Taunt and tease and jostle. But as the lanterns dim, and a woman marches through the door, they all fall silent. Ruth isn¡¯t like the other sisters. Attentive, and sweet, and always sparing of the rod. She takes her seat in a squeaky old chair. Tries her best to ignore the stench that infects every part of London, and opens her book, worn and well-loved, with a gentle smile. ¡°Good evening, little ones. Shall I begin?¡± No one dares to speak as she clears her throat. The children pile onto each other. ¡°Chapter 33: Of the Happy Life He Found There.¡± Far above them, in the half-rotted rafters, is another girl. Older, perhaps, but still in rags as torn as theirs, with a tichel over her hair. Watching the matching with searching yellow eyes. She¡¯s not worried about them seeing her cracked and mottled skin. Her nails growing into claws. Her chest, just starting to sprout feathers. They¡¯re all too enraptured with the story, and Sister Ruth, with telling it. It¡¯s impressive how quickly the kids¡¯ eyes fill with wonder, over a book whose name they can¡¯t even read. But then, in those rare moments where she¡¯s willing to admit it, she feels the same way. The story captures her. And she¡¯ll never read a thing. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Whitechapel Rookery The Heart of the Hermit Kingdom The streets are always small, and narrow. Two horses could walk through it side-by-side, if it weren¡¯t always filled with carts and vendors and people. Costermongers and shoe-shiners, vagrants and labourmen. Children stumble from the factory floors, covered in ash, missing limbs, and brush elbows with the shitmen who come out at night and rake clean the sidewalks. Everything¡¯s pale and brown and covered with dust. From the street it would be impossible to find a face in this crowd of patched coats and flat caps. But that¡¯s what makes a raven so useful. Through Nance, she sees differently. Aisling Finnerty marches through the streets with a look lets the smart ones know to piss off. She hasn¡¯t changed her form, for in Ratcatcher¡¯s Freehold, the mortal¡¯s all fear. And while she¡¯d love nothing more than to join her darling in the sky, cutting through the smog as a winged black mass, she knows she has to see the other girls. It¡¯s Collection Day. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.Everyone can feel it. The street vendors most of all. As the dawn gets closer, they always get more yippy. ¡°Foygl!¡± ¡°Foygl!¡± ¡°Got collars, lots of collars. Know your master likes the collars!¡± ¡°Salt circles ¡®ere! Don¡¯t want your young ones snatched by the bogeys!? ¡®En get yourself a salt circle!¡± There¡¯s dozens of them, all packed in, on every side of every street. They sell unlaced shoes and rusted tin. Rat soup, spare candles, even clumps of hair. Anything to keep them off the line. A ny means to secure themselves a loaf of stale bread. ¡°PLEASE!¡± Finnerty twitches. A particularly ragged man grasps her arm, throwing himself to his knees, babbling on in Harav¡¯s speech. ¡°Bite, foygl, bite!¡± He wears a torn kippah, yellow teeth. The grip grows tighter. Her breaths grow sharp. ¡°¡®Ey stole my gelt from poorhouse. A few more days, please! Ikh hab garnisht-¡± ¡°Shtey avek!¡± She throws him to the ground, lands a kick in his ribs for good measure. She¡¯s about to tell all the desperates off, beat them if she must, when she¡¯s interrupted by a chorus of slurred singing and broken glass. ¡°HERE¡¯S A HEALTH TO THE LASTING PEACE! FACTION END AND WEALTH INCREASE!¡± Nancy caws as she turns around. A massive omnibus trundles through the street before her, tearing through the crowd with the threat of thrown bottles and long, sharpened sticks. A half-dozen men holler atop it, all drunk out of their minds and layered in youthful finery. They get tourists like this every few days. Boys from the West End, tired of fancy living, who pay the toll to throw stones at cripples and hump whatever ¡®prizes¡¯ can¡¯t squirm away from them. They¡¯ve already found one. A girl of maybe thirteen, with a swollen black eye and running makeup. Her shirt¡¯s torn, her breasts hanging. There are seven men for that one girl. Six when one drunkard jumps off to claim another as his own. She trembles as she hugs herself, meeting Finnerty¡¯s eyes. That harsh breathing, before Aisling turns away. A thousand thoughts flood her mind, pushing the cart far, far away. She must have been a whore. Looking for attention. Or maybe she¡¯s just stupid, who cares? She deserves it. She has to deserve it. She deserves it, she deserves it, she doesn¡¯t fucking matter and she deserves it. Finnerty breathes. She can see the white steeple of St. Mary Matfelon, its chipped paint and lost roof tiles, rising haphazardly on a tombstone-covered hill. Beneath that half-torn wall sits her Harav, king of this city. And beneath the busted gates and clumps of grass¡­ ¡°GIRLS!¡± Finnerty sprints towards a half-dozen girls in maid crowns and black dresses. Curly hair, freckled faces, Irish all. She can tell her stench reaches them when they curl their noses. They snap to attention, eyes on the cobbles. ¡°AISLING!¡± ¡°Oi. Le¡¯s make ¡®is quick.¡± Finnerty folds her arms while the girls grab their dress hems. ¡°Loose.¡± The girls shake their clothes, red in the face. After a moment, tiny, sparkling gems fly from the seams. Ambers and garnets and sapphires. Finnerty eyes it all hungrily. But on one dress, fewer gems fall. And stop far earlier than the others. As the vampire approaches, the woman shakes her dress more frantically, before switching to frantic babbles. ¡°Fan, fan! I¡¯m sure t¡¯ere¡¯s still more!¡± ¡°A Mhaighdean, Cad¨ª!¡± ¡°The lady a¡¯ the house was watchin¡¯!¡± The girl folds her hands. ¡°Glacann t¨² an iomarca, Aisling. The Sassanachs talk among ¡¯emselves! T¡¯ey know ¡®ey¡¯re bein¡¯ robbed!¡± Cad¨ª screams as Finnerty slams her fist into old bricks. Plaster falls on their heads. Tears speck the girl¡¯s eyes. ¡°You say it like its my fault.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Aisling, I¡¯m sorry!¡± Finnerty growls. Less jewels means less money. And Ratcatcher doesn¡¯t like less money. She always gives him more. The MOST. Because she¡¯s the best. She¡¯s the absolute fucking best. Cad¨ª squeals as Finnerty pulls her close by her shirt collar. ¡°More.¡± ¡°T¡¯ere isn¡¯t more. Aisling! I need t¡¯is job-¡± ¡°Who gotchu the fahkin¡¯ job!?¡± ¡°What do ye wan¡¯ me to say!?¡± A squeak. Cad¨ª¡¯s lip quivers as Finnerty sniffs and strokes her hair. ¡°Nuffin¡¯. Say nuffin¡¯.¡± The vampire puts her hand on the dress, revealing a hint of skin. ¡°Just wait for the master to get home, an¡¯ use what God fahkin¡¯ gave ya.¡± Cad¨ª seems ready to sob, but a shout pulls both back. It¡¯s male, loud, and echoing from some forgotten corner. Nancy dives for it, and Finnerty¡¯s tempted to follow. But Harav wouldn¡¯t want her to check right away. Not without his Eyes. There¡¯s a street sweeper, on the block¡¯s other end. He wears a ragged flat cap, old hands shaking against a crooked broom. Normally he¡¯d tail rich folk, sweeping the cobbles ahead of their feet for crumbs or a bit of change. But now he stares at Finnerty with an intensity that¡¯s hard to describe. Tilts his head towards one of a dozen alleys. Pft. Amateurs. They come to the Rook on Collection Day, and don¡¯t even pay the toll. Finnerty throws a small pouch to the ground and barks at her girls to fill it. She has no doubt some will try to keep gems for themselves, but she¡¯ll chase them all down later. The alley¡¯s just like the chimneys of her youth, tight, dirty, and hard to squeeze through. One of the buildings has literally collapsed upon the other, forcing her to crouch and shrouding her in dark. Three men stand in the courtyard that follows, two cracking knuckles, the other pleading in Harav¡¯s tongue. Dockworkers all. ¡°Das iz nisht ams. Ikh hab gevaudan!¡± The Jew sees her fists, and folds his hands in reverence. ¡°Foygl. Foygl, please. They lie. I won fair and-¡± He screams as they kick him in the gut. As he sprawls across the cracked stone, one worker starts to laugh. ¡°Get outta ¡®ere, lass. Just teachin¡¯ ¡®is ol¡¯ rat not to cheat wiff cards.¡± ¡°But you didn¡¯t pay.¡± ¡°Wazzat?¡± The docker approaches, scowling. ¡°You¡¯re goyim, an¡¯ not a Mick. You wanna walk in ¡®is town, beat one of ours? You gotta fahkin¡¯ pay.¡± ¡°Pay to walk in me own fahkin¡¯ country?¡± ¡°It¡¯s not yours anymore.¡± ¡°Say that again, Mick!¡± The other worker laughs, even as Finnerty stands her ground. ¡°No. She ain''t no mick. I¡¯ve ¡®eard of you.¡± She stiffens as he approaches. He¡¯s easily twice her size. ¡°Chapel girl,¡± he tuts. ¡°Are the remours bout what he does to youse true?" ¡°Everyone seems to want ''em to be." ¡°I¡¯ll make ¡®is clear. We¡¯s not payin¡¯ ¡®im. Though¡­¡± he chuckles. ¡°For a piece like you¡­¡± He squeezes her shoulder, and her instincts flare. ¡°... Maybe you¡¯re open to anovver offer?¡± Finnerty looks at his hands, his eyes. ¡°Sure.¡± She matches his growing smile. ¡°¡®Ow much for your fahkin¡¯ life?¡± He doesn¡¯t even have time to respond before the knife in her boot is three inches deep in his ankle. ¡°YAAARRGHH!¡± Finnerty climbs onto him. Claws out. Scratching wildly. Her nails dig out skin, scrape against the bone. Suddenly, a heavy fist. She feels a rush of force, her head flying over the cobbles. She lands hard in a wall, spinning and dizzy. A fist rises through the haze, and she barely blocks it. A second time. A third. The fourth hits her gut. She feels the brass knuckles on five. Blood seeps from her cheek, teeth fly from her mouth. Then a kick in the chest. More blows. More blows. ¡°TWO OPTIONS, GIRL!¡± She hears one shout. ¡°WRAP YOUR LIPS ¡®ROUND OUR COCKS, OR-¡± A crash. An explosion of red dust. Finnerty coughs and scrambles from the wall, where one of the worker¡¯s legs now dangle three feet from the ground. His upper half¡¯s gone, fully sunk in the wall. She watches as a gargantuan arm reaches in¡­ ¡­ and Cappie pries out the man¡¯s coin-purse. The other dockworker freezes as the enforcer¡¯s veins glow, and Cappie pries a brick free. The mortal sputters, tries to run. But he¡¯s quicker, and slams the brick on the docker¡¯s head so harshly that the clay shatters. He grabs the man¡¯s neck, lifts him five feet off the ground, and launches him through one of the windows. The collision is joined by a family¡¯s screams. ¡°Really,¡± Cappie kneels down, and grabs the second purse. ¡°It¡¯s easier to jes¡¯ pay.¡± ¡°Schvantz!¡± Finnerty hisses. ¡°I fahkin¡¯ had ¡®em!¡± ¡°Maybe, but ¡®at means missin¡¯ out on me bloody payday.¡± Cappie throws something small in the air. ¡°¡®Ere.¡± It lands by her feet. The pouch of jewels. She seizes it, frowns at its weight. Must be half-empty. She spits out rogue blood. ¡°You stole!¡± ¡°I don¡¯t steal.¡± The Jewish man crawls towards Cappie, thanking profusely. Cappie shoves him down, takes his purse too. ¡°Consider it tax collection.¡± Finnerty growls. If this costs her¡­. ¡°Bit far from your leash, guard dog. You an¡¯ your wife fightin¡¯?¡± Cappie doesn¡¯t respond, for a few seconds too long. ¡°Keep your crow off Mags.¡± ¡°Not a crow. Raven.¡± "Whateva." He sighs. ¡°Harav wants you.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Does ¡®e ever say?¡± She huffs. ¡°Always ¡®as me runnin¡¯ ¡®is fahkin¡¯ errands. Me cartin¡¯ ¡®is little shits. Where¡¯s Above, Below? ¡®Ey getta loot while I¡¯m struttin¡¯ ¡®round? What do ''ey do, sit wiff thumbs up ¡®eir arses?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t ask questions when you don¡¯t want ¡®eir answers,¡± Cappie shrugs. ¡°Now-¡± He¡¯s cut off by a gargantuan sound. It rattles the Earth and stirs the dying streetlights. Finnerty¡¯s eyes shoot to the sky. A plume of smoke joins the factory smog, flames licking at the reddened clouds. A rush of screaming soon follows. An avalanche of stone. ¡°Fahk.¡± Cappie¡¯s jaw hangs open. ¡°Ain¡¯t at Rothschild¡¯s-¡± She¡¯s gone before he turns. ¡°Aislin¡¯!¡± Cappie races after her. ¡°The fahk you goin¡¯!?¡± ¡°To the one who did this!¡± ¡°Ain¡¯t no one did it! ¡®At¡¯s not cannon smoke! Some fireworks musta-¡± ¡°¡®OSE LOOK LIKE FAHKIN¡¯ FIREWORKS TO YOU!?¡± Cappie curses under his breath, uses aether to catch up. ¡°... Bank¡¯s¡­ under¡­¡± He speaks between breaths. ¡°... our protection. So who¡­?¡± ¡°The Unbound.¡± Finnerty gives him a boiling look, before she scowls. ¡°Who the fahk else?¡± ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Concrete and dust and bits of burning paper. The front entrance is a rubble field, along with the fountain, the street carts, and half a dozen homes. Women sob, soot on their hands, blood on their knees. The firemen - or what passes in these parts - watch helplessly beside now homeless-children. The howls of those trapped inside echo beneath the stones. And atop it all, on the roof¡¯s still-standing half, is a boy. Small and pale and scrawny, with heavy boots and a beige greatcoat. Keaton gives each of his men red-tinted goggles, but they do nothing to hide the fire in this one¡¯s eyes. When Finnerty lands on the roof, he turns, and bows. ¡°Ah, Fionnachta! I was told t¡¯at would get yer attention.¡± "Fionn ¨® Conaill.¡± She spits. ¡°I should¡¯ve guessed.¡± On his shoulders are two different sashes. One is bright green, with gold lettering. The other a bandolier, but not filled with cartridges or spare rounds. Just little sticks of red. ¡°An f¨¦idir linn ¨¢r m¨¢thairtheanga a labhairt?¡± He speaks with a singsong lilt. ¡°F¨¢gann an carn aoiligh seo as cleachtadh m¨¦.¡± ¡°Sea,¡± she replies. ¡°M¨¢s f¨¦idir leat stop a labhairt portach.¡± ¡°Portach? Really.¡± He puts a hand on his heart, but she can see the contempt through his goggles. ¡°But their language makes me feel so dirty.¡± There¡¯s a rush of air, the crushing of tiles. Cappie¡¯s joined them on the roof, and his scowl is instant. ¡°You. The fahk are the Fenians doin¡¯ ¡®ere?¡± ¡°¡®Fraid I¡¯m not Brot¡¯erhood business, Sassanach.¡± Fionn pulls a flask from his jacket. ¡°¡®En whose?¡± He shrugs, and takes a swig. ¡°Ah.¡± Finnerty folds her arms. ¡°He sends a message from ¡®is master.¡± ¡°Getter, Fionnachta!¡± Fionn points. ¡°Keaton merely rebirthed me. In the Unbound, we¡¯re free men.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure.¡± Fionn offers his flask to the others. When nobody moves, he throws it over his shoulder, and off the road. It adds to the flames. Finnerty rolls her eyes. ¡°Issat really what you tell yourself, Fionn? To stomach workin¡¯ for a Prod?¡± ¡°Keaton¡¯s done more fer us t¡¯an anyWest Londoner.¡± He makes the words bite as he digs again in his pocket. ¡°He helped ¡®48. He helped Wolfe Tone. He gave me the weapons to make t¡¯is¡­¡± He throws something at her feet. A sealed strip of white parchment. ¡°... and the tools to make far more.¡± She picks it up. ¡°What¡¯s ¡®is?¡± ¡°Ask someone who can read.¡± ¡°A summons,¡± Cappie studies it. Frowns. ¡°You callin¡¯ us to war?¡± ¡°No. The world calls. The billions crushed beneath the bourgeoisie¡¯s hooves!¡± Fionn pulls a red stick from his sash, waves it about. ¡°Ye see ¡®is before, Kiley? Know what it is? Dynamite.¡± The boys¡¯ eyes gleam. ¡°Some Swede made it to help clear the feckin¡¯ mines! Can ye imagine? Heh, I like the way I use it more.¡± Before either can react, Fionn¡¯s lit the wick. He howls with laughter as he watches the sparks, before throwing it high in the air. It explodes before it lands, a burst of smoke and yellow flame. As the others cover their ears, the boy lifts his hands, smiling wide, basking in the mortals¡¯ screams. ¡°That is the sound of freedom. That is the sound of ¨¦ire! An¡¯ t¡¯rough Aubrey Keaton, Sassana will hear it ten t¡¯ousand times more! The rich get richer, the poors¡¯ lives get shorter, an¡¯ to that we say, ENOUGH! Together the Unbound number six-t¡¯ousand strong! It is time for revolution. Time for the Eighth Revolt!¡± Something ruffles the back of Finnerty¡¯s feathers. Something quite like fear. ¡°The Seventh was only twenty years back.¡± ¡°An¡¯ we almost won!¡± Cappie growls. ¡°You were almost crushed-¡± ¡°We were BETRAYED!¡± Fionn¡¯s voice grows harsh. ¡°Sold out an¡¯ backstabbed, by class traitors an¡¯ PIGS! But no more. Now, Keaton comes to the Freeholds. Each and every one. To determine if they¡¯ll march with us, or if they¡¯ll be the first that we march against!¡± ¡°You¡¯re mad,¡± Cappie shakes his head. ¡°You¡¯ll get us all killed.¡± ¡°A price I will gladly pay! I lost three siblings to the Hunger! Another to the mines. Two more on ships to Australia! If I can join them in hell with the heads of a million English, I will do so, smiling.¡± Fionn struts. ¡°But ye are English, Marcus Kiley, so ye wouldn¡¯t get it. Not like you.¡± He pauses right in front of her. Staring through his goggles, into her rank yellow eyes. ¡°Join us, Fionnachta.¡± He smiles. ¡°You¡¯re better than petty thieving for scraps of coin. Yer crafty. Resourceful. And you still bear our peoples¡¯ scars.¡± He touches her arm. Instinct demands that she should tear it off. Instead, she pulls his goggles back. Studies eyes that flicker the same shade. ¡°You wanna know why I hate Fenians, ¨® Conaill? Why I see ¡®em pass an¡¯ wanna spit in ¡®eir eyes?¡± Fionn frowns. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me you¡¯ve gone pacifist.¡± ¡°Of course not, but at least when you mug you get whatcha want for it. The violence has its fahkin¡¯ point.¡± She scowls, feathers rattling. ¡°Which seems more likely, bogboy? ¡®Ose little candles spook the Brits into freeing our homeland? Or ¡®ey come back, twice as hard, an¡¯ sic ¡®eir ¡®protection¡¯ on every woman an¡¯ old folk an¡¯ child wiff a head of red?¡± He seethes. ¡°We don¡¯t save our country by doing nothin¡¯.¡± ¡°But ¡®at¡¯s what you¡¯re doin¡¯! Same as ¡®em! Beatin¡¯ the world, an¡¯ beatin¡¯, an¡¯ beatin¡¯, until what¡¯s left starts makin¡¯ sense, an¡¯ you can tell yourselves you feel better.¡± They stare at each other for a long time. To his rare credit, he seems to be considering her words. Or perhaps, figuring the best way to kill her. With Fionn, one can never tell. She spits on the ground and struts away. Fionn turns, pulls the goggles back over his face, and takes one final item from his coat. Grapnel, and long rope. ¡°Very well, Fionnachta.¡± He launches it towards a roof. ¡°Ye can keep to yer small self, and yer tiny little world. But there¡¯s a problem with being small.¡± ¡°An¡¯ what¡¯s ¡®at?¡± His words linger in her mind well after he¡¯s gone. ¡°Yer Ratcatcher¡¯s Kept. Ye know it already.¡± Chapter 9: The Hermit Kingdom, Part II Whitechapel 1867 It¡¯s always hard to sleep in St. Mary¡¯s Matfelon. The once-church carries the stench of rat dung, blood-sweat, rotted wood, human piss. The torn roof lets in wind, vermin bite at her toes, and rain collects in puddles by the corners. But Aisling Finnerty tries anyway. Curling up at the foot of what was once the church altar, now a throne of white cloth, church brass, and pew-wood. Her sleep is interrupted by a tug, the sounds of cold and heavy chains. They link to the iron collar around her neck, pull her, gasping and coughing, up the seat. Soon she¡¯s swarmed by a breath like rot, skin that¡¯s mottled, or pock-marked, and at the fingertips pink. She¡¯s held down as she squirms, pushed by her chin to look up. The man holding her wears a ragged coat, a scraggly beard, and a hat with small bite marks. His eyes are midnight black, stray whiskers shoorting from his nose. A rat slides out of his shirt collar as he reveals a startlingly clean smile. ¡°Foygl.¡± Ratcatcher scratches her cheek. ¡°Feelin¡¯ drowsy?¡± Her mind seizes in fear. Her fangs grow in need. As her Harav pulls her closer, she looks around. Once, it was said East London ended where one couldn¡¯t hear Matfelon¡¯s bells. But the belfry¡¯s collapsed, sinking half the steeple with it. She can see London¡¯s red smog through the fallen wall, the wood rotted, the white paint flecked away. It¡¯s preserved like this, in perfect ruin, by Ratcatcher¡¯s word alone. He¡¯s long since driven out any ¡®civil servant¡¯ who could stop him. And it makes his message clear: East London ends with him. The church is filled with his men, the men of the Rook. Soldiers and supporters. His Eyes perimeter the walls, and packed tightly in the chancel, the orphans where he raises them. Thugs line the pews, with pots and knives and stakes and clubs, shoulder-to-shoulder with fatcats and slumlords, those rare Rookers who ¡®made it,¡¯ and pay Harav tribute. At the far back stand his enforcers, Cappie and his even larger wife, Mags. Behind the throne, one for each arm, Ratcacher¡¯s top lieutenants. Her competition. Rathe Haversham. Padraig McCallister. Above in the sky, Below beneath the ground. Rathe is the pretty one, with a wizened face, and a patchy coat. The Lord of the Chimney Sweeps, seems ragged, half-starved, covered head to toe in soot. A spitting image of his child-Kepts, except that he isn¡¯t beaten. Padraig, in turn, is hideous; at night, the shitmen, come to every sleeping house, have more access to their secrets than anyone. He¡¯s half-rotted, coated in faeces, and always hosts a swarm of flies that he lets feast in his dead organs. But in Ratcatcher¡¯s Kingdom, disgust merits pride. How they envy her, sitting on Harav¡¯s lap. And she, in turn, envies them. She was Rathe¡¯s, once, a Kept of the roof tiles, but she was sold when she was young and scrawny, and Rathe has made known his lust for the flower that¡¯s since blossomed. She told him she would bite his cock if he tried. He had told her that¡¯s just how he likes it. But there are other men to concern herself with now. Namely, the Harav himself, master of 90,000 souls, holding out his arm for her. ¡°¡®Ow long since you last eaten, foygl? Blood. Blood. Her eyes gleam like the glowing veins. She reaches for it, claws out, the hunger pulling at every muscle in her body and screaming when Ratcatcher moves his hand away. A squeak flies from her lips, to his clear delight. "Answer." ¡°F-Four days.¡± ¡°Four days since you been the best. An¡¯ you ¡®ave to be the best, if you want the Harav¡¯s blood. Right?¡± She nods a dozen times. A hundred. The hunger¡¯s grown unbearable. He¡¯s ordered her not to eat from anyone else. To sate it, she¡¯d do anything. ¡°Good. So behave.¡± He pulls her by her hair. "Want you to give Keaton a good impression?" "On your lap?" Finnerty trembles. "H-Harav-" ¡°Shhhh¡­¡± He puts a finger on her lips. ¡°Jes¡¯ smile.¡± She does. ¡°Good." He forces her to look at the door. ¡°We ¡®ave company.¡± The church doors swing open, and a procession files out. But she¡¯s too distracted to see. The twist in her gut is almost drowned out by the overwhelming scent of his aether. They come from all walks of life. Steelmen, cab drivers, ¡®48 refugees. Patches on their coats denote them all, Irish and English and French and Russian. Each is armed, burly, well-fed. Seventy unions, they say, have joined him, along with all the exiles of all the past Revolts. Keaton¡¯s banner flies over them all, a long flag of blood red. They march with the discipline of a true army. She can¡¯t hide the fear that sparks. She was expecting brutes and bullies. Not this. One woman stands within the sea of men. Erika Mittenwalde. Keaton¡¯s Prussian. She¡¯s not pretty; an equine face with long blond hair. She dresses like her master, beige greatcoat, tinted goggles, a massive hunting shotgun. Somebody ignored Finnerty¡¯s orders to not try and take it. Their blood splatters Erika¡¯s coat. At her entrance, the pews erupt. In taunts and jeers and calls for sex. Ratcatcher demanded every pawn with a stake in his Kingdom make noise for the intruders, and the dogs do know how to bark. ¡°FAHKER-¡± ¡°- RIP YOUR ¡®EAD OFF!¡± ¡°SHOW US YOUR FAHKIN¡¯ ARSE!¡± Erika fires into the air, a cloud of smoke surrounding her. That only riles the Rookers further. They start slamming into the union men. Throwing punches, grabbing their guns. Finnerty¡¯s head perks up as the chaos unfolds before them. Ratcatcher¡¯s smile grows wider. ¡°ENOUGH!¡± The fighting stops. The union men stand tall. The East Enders grow quiet, and look back. As a final figure enters the church, with heavy, spurred steps, Finnerty knows that not even Ratcatcher could blame them. ¡°Aubrey Keaton!¡± Erika barks. ¡°VOICE OF THE WORKING CLASS!¡± At first glance, the Man with Ten-Thousand Faces looks like any of his men. Long coat, thick boots, smouldering goggled eyes. But with each step, she sees a new face. A boyish youth. A haggard crone. Blonde hair, curly brown, raven black. His face bends like a knife through honey, one shape after another, always twitching. The only consistency, that glow in his eyes. Even his voice changes with every phrase. ¡°A honour to meet you.¡± He stops at the throne. ¡°Hermit King.¡± A second passes. Two. And then Ratcatcher starts howling with laughter. It¡¯s a loud, obnoxious, braying sound. Finnerty fidgets on his lap, keenly aware of all the eyes falling on her. ¡°You!?¡± Ratcatcher points. ¡°You¡¯re the one threatenin¡¯ my kingdom? A¡­ a cheap magician? A pencil-pusher!?¡± He starts laughing again, but stops. Scowls at the silent reception. He grabs a loose stone from the floor, chucks it at Rathe Haversham¡¯s head. ¡°LAUGH, YOU SHITS! IT''S FUNNY!¡± The church erupts with laughter then. The orphans point. The fatcats lift their chins. Even Finnerty manages a frightened giggle. Then Harav lifts his hand, and everything goes quiet. ¡°You fink ¡®ose powers make you strong?¡± He spits. ¡°I could do ¡®em in me sleep.¡± ¡°Yet you do not.¡± Keaton replies with a woman¡¯s voice. ¡°And here I stand.¡± Ratcatcher offers a silent grin. ¡°The class war is as inevitable as the proletariat¡¯s supremacy over it,¡± Keaton continues, his eyes glowing. ¡°Without labour, there is no capital. Without labour, there is no power. Such is the preface of historical materialism, a philosophy free of the opiates of religion, a philosophy free of bourgeois sentiment. It states -¡± ¡°Ah.¡± Ratcatcher lifts a bony hand. ¡°Lemme skip to the good part. You fink I¡¯m a crook. I fink you¡¯re a bookworm.¡± ¡°It isn¡¯t thinking when I know you are.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t bovver callin¡¯ the cops. ¡®Ey¡¯re on ¡®eir way already.¡± Keaton frowns. ¡°Every society has a breaking point. Britain has reached ours.¡± Keaton takes the form of a Negro man, clenching his fist. ¡°You can see it on the street, the factory, in this very room. We drown in wealth, and yet we starve. We¡¯ve conquered the earth, and yet we slave! This country, this world, is dying.¡± ¡°¡®Low me to guess. You wanna save it?¡± ¡°No. I want to shoot it in the back of the head.¡± There¡¯s a long silence. Finnerty feels pink fingers pinch at her skin. "Well." Ratcatcher tilts his head. ¡°That''s a new take on fings.¡± ¡°Every hour, we bring class traitors to justice. Every day, a bourgeois hangs. The rich are running now, hiding behind their cops and their fences. Our only threat is the so-called ¡®New Sun¡¯. She smells the coming storm like sharks smell blood in water. Already, she tries to solve this crisis the same way she solved the last. Her weasels slink into our Freeholds with their bribes and their-¡± ¡°Bribes?¡± Ratcatcher''s intrigued. Keaton scowls through the goggles. ¡°The Hindu call it sakar ki churi. Knife of Sugar. Sweet to the mouth, but a blade all the same. You¡¯d be a fool to hold it.¡± ¡°Maybe,¡± Ratcatcher shrugs. ¡°But your blade tastes like iron.¡± Silence. She can see Keaton¡¯s anger, glowing through his skin. Ratcatcher rises, hoising Finnerty screeching off the throne. ¡°All youse scholars an¡¯ rebels an¡¯ university PRICKS! You fink I can¡¯t listen to what youse say ¡®bout me? You fink I don¡¯t ¡®ave EARS?!¡± He laughs mirthlessly.. ¡°Thief. Raper. Murderer. Jew. ¡®At¡¯s what you fahkers¡¯ always fink, ¡®bout ALL OF US! I ¡®ear the thoughts before ¡®ey even enter your heads. WE¡¯RE RUBBISH TO YOU! Yet you expect us to play in ¡®is fahkin¡¯ pageantry!¡± ¡°Because you took the New Sun¡¯s money!¡± ¡°I took ¡®er peace! An¡¯ saved my people from a losin¡¯ war! You saw ¡®at in Forty-Eight too, Aub-rey-Kea-ton!¡± He spits out each bit. ¡°Or you wouldn¡¯t ¡®ave tucked your schvantz in your tuches, and made pretty back in your noble daddy¡¯s manor in Dublin!¡± The crowd starts jeering again, encouraged by his words. Erika pulls her gun close. Keaton doesn¡¯t move at all. ¡°WHY SHOULD WE WORK WIFF A MAN WHO THREATENS US!?¡± Ratcatcher shouts to the rising crowd. ¡°WHY SHOULD WE GO TO WAR!?¡± ¡°And why are we talking, scum!? WHY SHOULDN¡¯T WE GO TO WAR WITH YOU!?¡± Ratcatcher stops, and looks. Erika¡¯s scowling, aether churning through her muscles, her face bright red. ¡°You¡¯re a warlord. A crimemonger. A freak! You¡¯ve taken the proletariat¡¯s plight, and turned it into a throne of shit and suffering!¡± ¡°Careful, love!¡± Finnerty bares her fangs. ¡°You¡¯re kneeling at ¡®at shit throne now! Don¡¯t like it? ¡®En best hide behind your master¡¯s coat.¡± ¡°Says the woman adorned in chains!¡± Erika skirts across the hall, towards. ¡°The Freeholds were made to be better than the Court! Not in every way worse!¡± ¡°Quiet, bitch! The East End''s as free as it gets!¡± Erika lunges towards the orphans. They try to leap back, but not fast enough. A nine-year-old¡¯s screams fill the hall, followed quickly by mass outrage. ¡°HARAV!¡± ¡°LAZ IR GEYN!¡± The East Enders start throwing bricks and glass. Erika ignores them all, pulls the kid close, pointing at every pock-mark, bruise, and yellowed scab. ¡°Look her in the eyes!¡± She slams her shotgun against the girl¡¯s cheek. ¡°Look her in the eyes AND TELL HER THIS IS WHAT FREEDOM IS!¡± ¡°DROP THE KID!¡± Ratcatcher¡¯s voice is shrill. ¡°NO ONE TOUCHES THE FAHKIN¡¯ KIDS!¡± ¡°EXCEPT FOR THEIR FUCKING KEEPERS!¡± ¡°GENUG!¡± Finnerty charges her, claws out. ¡°I¡¯LL SHOVE YOUR GUTS IN YOUR FAHKIN¡¯ THROAT!¡± She runs and runs and runs. Forgetting the chain, forgetting her tether. Until it pulls on her neck, and she¡¯s left sputtering on the rotten wood. Erika smirks, and is about to reply, when her cheekbones crack against the barrel of Keaton¡¯s revolver. He whips her again, a sharp blow that draws steaming, gilded blood. Then her grabs her shoulder, squeezes hard, and cuts off her words. ¡°Stop.¡± Erika growls. ¡°They''re monsters!¡± ¡°And workers all the same. It¡¯s not our war¡­¡± He stares Ratcatcher down. ¡°... unless they want it to be.¡± ¡°Issat your final offer, Aubrey Keaton?¡± This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. ¡°Refuse the New Sun, and we will part ways. Accept, and I will turn this town to ash.¡± ¡°You fink your boys will succeed where the Queen¡¯s Army failed?¡± ¡°Quite. Easily.¡± Ratcatcher¡¯s expressionless, at first. Then he grabs Finnerty¡¯s chain. She¡¯s still coughing when he pulls it, tripping over herself and slamming into the throne. But she looks up, meets his eyes¡­ ¡­ and slowly, her face upturns. To a look of joy. And wonder. ¡°It¡¯s funny you mention envoys, Aubrey Keaton,¡± Ratcatcher sits back down. ¡°Becuz, heheheh¡­ Joan Byron already sent one.¡± The tension rises, so thick that Finnerty could choke. She sulks behind the throne, pulling away crowns and trophies and baubles. ¡°Five million pounds. A formal treaty to recognise yours truly as Sovereign.¡± Ratcatcher smiles. ¡°A surprising offer, from a bigot. I half-expected her to show me thirty pieces of silver. But ¡®ere¡¯s somefin¡¯ neivver her nor you understand. I might be a Jew, but I ain¡¯t a pig!¡± Finnerty finds what she¡¯s looking for, still attached to its stick. ¡°An¡¯ when anyone fills me a trough and finks he can feed me like one... I MAKE SURE ¡®EY SQUEAL!¡± She clambors up his throne and lifts the impaled head. Erika¡¯s face falls, but the Rookers break into cheers. The head¡¯s deep grey, slathered in tar, dull pale eyes staring lifelessly ahead. Maggots fester in its bloated, bursting tongue. The orphans hop around, the fatcats beat their chests, even Below¡¯s flies make a buzzing, disgusting chorus. ¡°AUNDZER FIRER HARAV! KHBUD TSU AUNDZER MLKH!¡± Finnerty waves it around, riling the chapel up. ¡°WHO OWNS THE EAST END!?¡± ¡°HARAV!¡± ¡°WHO LOVES THE EAST END!?¡± ¡°HARAV!¡± ¡°Keyn har! Keyn geter! Keyn tates! Keyn harn! Di Rukeri endikt zikh mit Harav! Zal zeyn mlukhh doyern aoyf eybik! FOREVER!¡± ¡°FOREVER!¡± ¡°And may the Goyim.¡± Ratcatcher grins. ¡°Never forget.¡± For so long, she¡¯s lost in the moment. Giddy, inconquerable, the scent of his blood sending her high. But slowly, her eyes settle on their ¡®guests.¡¯ The Man with Ten Thousand Faces, who somehow wears no face at all. It¡¯s not with disgust that he looks at her. Or even something like Erika¡¯s rage. Finnerty¡¯s well used to those faces now, from the kids she robs, the priests she throws stones at, the words she insists don¡¯t really hurt. And a man like Aubrey Keaton feels nothing towards the beheaded man, except, perhaps, envy that Ratcatcher killed him first. No. His look is worse than all that. It¡¯s the look of the Society and the Samaritans, the slummers and bakers who throw bits of bread. It¡¯s a look that could drive her to madness. A look she would kill dozens for if it meant she never had to see it again. Pity. He looks at her with pity. And in doing so, denies her everything. It could make her aether boil. ¡°Do we ¡®ave an understanding, Aubrey Keaton?¡± Ratcatcher asks Keaton pulls away, scowling at her master. ¡°Perfectly.¡± With a wave of his hand, he, and Erika, and all the armed men, march out the way they came. Finnerty breathes. Honestly, went better than she expected. There will need to be retribution, of course, for the Fenian¡¯s little stunt, but that¡¯s for the others to worry about. With Keaton gone, her attention pulls itself back to the arm. To Harav¡­ ¡°Dinnertime, foygl?¡± Her lips tremble. Her fangs fall out. She¡¯s about to sob. ¡°Ah.¡± Ratcatcher pushes her back, before offering his palm. ¡°No freebies.¡± For an instant, her instincts can¡¯t even parse the words. But then, she springs. The pouch flies from her pocket, strings loosed. She¡¯s dumping all the gems into his gleeful, waiting hand. ¡°Hahahaha.¡± His eyes gleam. ¡°Kum tsu¡­¡± He stops. Finnerty seizes. The gems fall too short, too fast. He glares at her, and she feels her heart shrink. ¡°Are you tryin¡¯ ta ROB ME!?¡± ¡°NO!¡± She lifts her hands. ¡°H-Harav, please! Cappie-¡± ¡°Cappie! Always Cappie¡¯s fault, innit? And if not his, then Rathe¡¯s, or mine, or Queen bloody Victoria¡¯s!¡± ¡°IT¡¯S THE GIRLS! ¡®EY WON¡¯T LISTEN! Scared shitless of bein¡¯ caught, cuz there¡¯s nuffin¡¯ left to-¡± ¡°Enuff! I grow tired of the excuses. No feedin¡¯ today. Try ¡®arder tomorrow!¡± ¡°NO! Harav, I need it! I¡¯m gonna die!¡± He smacks her. Hard. ¡°Ain¡¯t ¡®at what you¡¯ve earned, you little lying shit!?¡± She buries her face in her hands, lost in panic. She should¡¯ve hit her. She should have BEATEN the bitch! Sent her back! She was weak, weak, WEAK! ¡°Foygl.¡± Her Keeper calls. ¡°Look at me.¡± The Keeping demands. Her hands pull away. Ratcatcher¡¯s hand flows from her thigh, to her belly, to her breast. Ignoring her squirms. ¡°¡®Ere are¡­ ovver ways¡­ to make yourself useful.¡± When he pinches her nipple, she lets out a whimper. ¡°H-Harav-¡± ¡°What¡¯s the problem, foygl? You know the ovvers don¡¯t get ¡®is chance.¡± ¡°Y-You said I could stop-¡± ¡°I did. When you was winnin¡¯.¡± She shakes her head, more from reflex than desire. Ratcatcher squeezes her skin, evoking more cries. His eyes still glow. ¡°What are you, Aisling?¡± He asks. ¡°What would you be wiffout me?¡± Tears form in her eyes. ¡°N-nuffin¡¯.¡± ¡°¡®At¡¯s right.¡± He fondles her. ¡°An urchin. Gutter trash. Doomed to die trapped in some dark an¡¯ claustrophobic chimney. Your own parents not even wantin¡¯ ya!¡± She nods quickly, her eyes shut. ¡°But ¡®at¡¯s not what I seen.¡± He strokes her hair. ¡°I saw potential. An¡¯ I gave you skills, an¡¯ jobs, an¡¯ immortality, an¡¯ even the fahkin¡¯ bird. I gave you time. So much time. I¡¯ve been so patient, ¡®aven¡¯t I?¡± ¡°You are, Harav, you are.¡± ¡°I coulda taken you when you was young. But I waited. ¡®Til you was nice an¡¯ ripe.¡± Her eyes can¡¯t leave his wrist. She¡¯s hungry. She¡¯s so hungry. ¡°I saw Keaton lookin¡¯ at you. Prolly finkin¡¯ the same fings. But does ¡®e care? No. ¡®Ey¡¯se liars. ¡®Ey say they fight for the rest of us, the stepped-on man. But ¡®ey ain¡¯t like me, Aisling. ¡®Ey just wanna be the next stepper.¡± She kisses him. A fierce, and warm, and sloppy kiss, letting his thick tongue choke her mouth. She swallows down the sensations, the pit in her gut, the aching fear. He throws off her headscarf, and she pulls down his hat. Kissing his nose, his cheek, his beard, down to the neck, until- ¡°Ah, ah!¡± Ratcatcher pulls her off, just before her fangs can sink in. ¡°We only feedin¡¯ if you do a good job. After.¡± Her smile cracks, thoughts consumed by hunger. He pulls down her rags, revealing swathes of mottled skin. But she doesn¡¯t think about that. She has to do a good job. Better. Better. Better. ¡°Now.¡± He grins. ¡°Show me ¡®ose fahkin¡¯ feathers.¡± +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ August, 2004 The raven flies from the window of the darkened old plant, swooping down to greet her mother. Finnerty¡¯s seen this place pass a dozen hands, churn through thousands of women. They spoke English, then Yiddish, then Bengali, made clothes then engine parts then microchips then finally clothes again. They always needed longer hours, and larger cuts. Competition, competition. Southwark¡¯s coming, then Jersey, then Taipei, then Chongqing. In all those centuries, it felt like the floor barely breathed. Until the day the competition caught up, and the factory, like so much else here, could simply breathe no longer. Nancy scrambles up her mother¡¯s shoulders, starting the dance between two species that reflects their speech to one another. To an outsider, it looks like a series of clicks, and squawks, and swaying around like wind-snapped trees. But Finnerty knows this language by heart. More fluent in it than any of the six she actually speaks. Nancy shoots away, and Finnerty pulls open the thick, heavy steel doors. Her mandem¡¯s already there, as she marches through rows of rust and concrete. They hold lead pipes and cricket bats and crowbars, nearly a dozen. The ¡®community man,¡¯ sits on a cheap plastic chair, his limbs tied to each end. Her youngest, Andrzej, a lanky Polish teen, rushes up to her with a notepad. ¡°U-Uhm, Aisling-¡± ¡°Thomas Allen. I fookin¡¯ know.¡± She shoves the notepad in his chest, forcing him back. ¡°Girls already told me.¡± A few birds still hang in the rafters. Pumblechook and Cratchit, Brownlow and Artful Dodger. Their eerie songs fill the space as she nears the seat. Withdraws her six-inch Fairbairn-Sykes knife. ¡°Wait!¡± The mortal squirms in his seat, trying to lift his hands. ¡°Allen! I¡¯m Allen. Th-there¡¯s been a misunderstanding, you see. I¡¯m trying to¡­ to level-up this historic neighbourhood! If you would untie me, I¡­¡± He winces as she keeps her glare. No doubt he sees just another dangerous child. She snatches the pamphlet Jayden offers her, filled with smiling families and the motherfucking Pearly King and Queen. She squints. Reading¡¯s still a challenge. The letters come slowly, jumble all together. ¡°Fook¡¯s ¡®is?¡± ¡°Not Mans.¡± Jayden whispers. ¡°The, uh¡­ the first phase of our renovation scheme!¡± Allen nods enthusiastically. ¡°So many lots in this town, disused or in disrepair. My company - with the backing of the city government, I¡¯d like to add! - is planning to invest millions. Tens of millions. F-far more than you¡¯d find in my wallet-¡± ¡°Cost.¡± Allen blinks. ¡°Wh-what?¡± ¡°Cost, Allen. ¡®Ow much will ¡®is fookin¡¯ cost?¡± Allen starts to bubble. ¡°W-well, current estimates and contracts-¡± ¡°Not the buildin¡¯, you fookin¡¯ nonce! The rooms! ¡®Ow much are the fookin¡¯ rooms?¡± She¡¯s flipping through the pictures. Trying to find a smiling family with a hijab, or a skin not bleach-white. Allen goes silent. For too long. Long enough to know. ¡°Um¡­ Miss¡­?¡± ¡°Aisling.¡± ¡°Ashley,¡± he smiles. ¡°There¡¯s a lot of nuance in community redevelopment, see? We¡¯re not merely trying to fix uphouses. We¡¯re trying to attract business. An economy! Don¡¯t you want to see cinemas? An¡¯ artists? And¡­ and I¡¯d bet you¡¯d fancy a good ice cream shop!¡± ¡°Ice cream would fookin¡¯ hit right about now.¡± ¡°Exactly!¡± Allen nods again. ¡°But¡­ the East End can¡¯t get that if we can¡¯t attract bet-... talented Brits! Young, skilled Brits, looking for an exciting locale to call their first home!¡± She tilts her head towards one of the Bengalis, Ayan. Subtle enough that Allen won¡¯t notice. ¡°So, Ashley, if you¡¯d understand-¡± ¡°Oh, I understand perfectly.¡± She thrusts her knife in his knee. He screams. ¡°ARRGHHH!¡± ¡°YOU WANNA FOOKIN¡¯ REPLACE US!¡± ¡°¡°No, no, NO!¡± Allen writhes around, held barely in place by Ayan. ¡°YOU DON¡¯T-¡± ¡°You fix the house. You raise the rent. Soon every scumbag does the same! Until ¡®ere¡¯s NUFFIN LEFT FOR US! Nuffin'' but coffee shops an¡¯ artists an¡¯ fookin¡¯ freaks!¡± She stabs him another three times. ¡°DO I LOOK LIKE AN ARTIST TO YOU!?¡± A fourth. ¡°DO I LOOK LIKE A FOOKIN¡¯ FREAK!?¡± Allen melts into sobs and whimpers. She scowls, grits her teeth, barks at her men. ¡°WHO SENT ¡®IM!? WHO FOOKIN¡¯ SENT ¡®IM!? Andrezj, you ¡®ave the files! Which fooker hired ¡®is fooker so I can KILL THE FAWKING BITCH!!!¡± She stops, covers her lips. Goddamn. This kvetch got her so mad that she¡¯s squawking. Her breath feels ragged, and sweat layers her brow. When she swipes the manila folder from Andrzej, she sees the way it shakes in her hands. ¡°In my town my town my FAWKIN¡¯ TOWN!¡± She throws sheets on the floor, looking for names, faces, signs. ¡°We¡¯re not trying to replace you, Ashley! We¡¯re trying to help-¡± ¡°It¡¯s perfect! YOU HEAR ¡®AT, SHITARSE?! THIS TOWN IS MINE, AND ¡®AT MEANS IT¡¯S PERFECT! JUST THE FAWKING WAY IT IS!¡± She reads the memo¡¯s header. Optimate Properties? Oh, that¡¯s fucking rich. She¡¯ll see how optimate¡­ ¡­ She blinks. Looks at the logo a second time. A third. A black Sun, rising over the company name, its rays bold and piercing. Ayan sees her expression first, his grip on Allen lax. ¡°Wagwan, bird? You lookin¡¯ par.¡± She stares frozen at the sheet. Jayden swipes it from her pale hands, before his expression falls too. ¡°Oh, fahk. T¡®ey¡¯se backed by the fahkin¡¯ Court!¡± Pandemonium breaks out among the boys. Finnerty doesn¡¯t move. Allen just seems dazed. ¡°The Court?!¡± ¡°The fahk ¡®ey want!?¡± ¡°Feds stirrin¡¯ shit up-¡± ¡°- ain¡¯t goin¡¯ back -¡± ¡°- it¡¯s ¡®at bitch Fireside¡¯s-¡± ¡°SHUT UP!¡± Finnerty barks. ¡°Shut the FOOK up an¡¯ let me fink!¡± ¡°Fink? Fink ¡®bout what?¡± Ayan loops around the chair, approaching her. ¡°¡®Is is war, bird!¡± ¡°No. Can¡¯t be. We don¡¯t fahk wiff the Court. We don¡¯t fahk!¡± Her speaking grows softer. She looks at her hands. ¡°It¡¯s the rule. Me one fahkin¡¯ rule. An¡¯ ¡®ey know it, ¡®ey know it, cuz we¡¯re better we¡¯re better we¡¯re better-¡± ¡°Are you scared?¡± Silence. The tension in the room spikes. Even Jayden steps back. Finnerty¡¯s head shoots up, her eye twitching. She stares at Ayan¡¯s trackie, his white Nike shoes. ¡°What did you say?¡± ¡°End ¡®im!¡± Ayan puts his pipe on the developer¡¯s throat. ¡°What the Court gonna do? ¡®Ey¡¯se stuffed wiff geezers an¡¯ corporates. ¡®Ey come to ¡®ese streets, we¡¯ll show ¡®em who owns it!¡± ¡°No.¡± She shakes her head. Stomach tight. ¡°We can¡¯t fight ¡®em. Not an option.¡± ¡°¡®Ey wanna force us from our homes!¡± ¡°AN¡¯ WE¡¯LL FORCE ¡®EM OUT FIRST!¡± Finnerty growls, looking at Jayden. ¡°Belgrave, I wanna fookin¡¯ spree yesterday! Twenty muggin¡¯s. Five lootin¡¯s. Three dead.¡± ¡°DEAD!?¡± Ayan shouts. Jayden gives her a look. ¡°Bird¡­¡± ¡°You wanna scare ¡®ese suits or not!?¡± She sees the fear in his eyes. The betrayal. ¡°What? Fink you¡¯re better ¡®an ¡®at!? JUST FIND THREE FOOKIN¡¯ BLOKES WHO DESERVE IT!¡± ¡°Deserve it?¡± Ayan grows fierce. ¡°You¡¯d rather kill your own!¡± ¡°¡®Ey¡¯re weak!¡± Something quirks in her voice. Her body shakes. ¡°¡®Ey don¡¯t matter! ¡®Eir sacks of meat, dead eivver way! An¡¯ if you¡¯re gonna challenge ¡®at-¡± ¡°I wanna challenge the fact that you hide the moment someone big come along!¡± Ayan grits his teeth. ¡°What the fahk does ¡®at make you, bird? It makes you weak.¡± Her breathing stops. Her mind shrinks. ¡°It makes you a fahkin¡¯ coward!¡± She hits him. A solid punch, fused with aether, that sends Ayan sprawling across the floor. She thrusts the bat from Jayden¡¯s hands, runs up, and starts wailing at him. Faster and faster. Harder and harder. ¡°I¡¯m the coward!? I¡¯M THE COWARD?! I¡¯LL SHOW YOU WHO¡¯S A FAWKING COWARD!¡± She seethes. The bat¡¯s broken. Blood pools on the concrete where Ayan¡¯s skin has been split. The other boys leap back as she grabs the disarmed pipe and starts beating Ayan with his own weapon. Finnerty screams. ¡°Aisling¡­¡± Jayden approaches slowly, placing his hand on her shoulder. ¡°Hey-¡± ¡°GET OFF ME!¡± She slams the pipe hard against his neck. He falls to the floor. ¡°I¡¯M NOT WEAK! I¡¯M NOT!¡± Ayan can barely breathe, his face smashed, and his body like a puddle. Finnerty hops around, wielding the pipe like an axe, swinging at the air whenever one of the terrified children moves. ¡°It¡¯s MY home! I¡¯m in charge! I won, I won, I WON! An¡¯ if any of you PRICKS try to STOP ME, I¡¯LL¡­¡± She pauses. Some of the boys, their expressions have changed. ¡°... I¡¯ll¡­¡± Something warm and metallic slides into her mouth. Blood. Mixed with her tears. The pipe falls to the floor with a loud crash. Finnerty¡¯s lip quivers, her scowl grows, and she marches through her men and back to the thick steel doors. Snatching Andrzej¡¯s shirt collar as she goes. ¡°A-Aisling!?¡± ¡°I need to feed me fookin¡¯ girls.¡± She doesn¡¯t wipe her face as she leaves. That would make her weak. That would make the tears real. She just stares at the ground as she returns to her true form and only stops when she feels the summer air. She turns, and points at Allen. ¡°COME TO MY TOWN AGAIN, AN¡¯ I¡¯LL CUT OFF YOUR FAWKIN¡¯ FINGAH!¡± ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Whitechapel 1867 She leans against the sloped brick wall, her mind split in half, her eyes clouded over. Finnerty doesn¡¯t know what candy tastes like. She¡¯s only seen it in shop windows, on streets too guarded for her to smash. But Harav¡­ his blood must come close. She can feel it flow through her now, making her stronger, sharper, better. She has to be better. She has to be. But there are bruises on her thighs, bite marks on her neck, and her clothes are still half-missing. She knows she should feel joy. Utter elation. But instead she feels¡­ feels¡­ She needs to preen. Her feathers are dirty. A flutter of wings, followed by a caw. Finnerty looks up from her knees, at the curious, prancing bird that pecks by her toes. Nancy. Shit. Nancy needs her blood too. Finnerty moves for her knife, but a rising shadow cuts her off. She¡¯s enveloped by it, black against the flickering streetlight. ¡°You.¡± She frowns. ¡°Where¡¯s Mags?¡± ¡°You were right.¡± Cappie¡¯s voice is too soft. ¡°We¡¯ve been fightin¡¯.¡± A tiny oblong rolls across the cobbles, settling into a divet by her feet. Finnerty holds it up, squinting in the smog-light. A porcelain teacup, with a bronze inlay. The handle¡¯s been knocked off. ¡°The fahk is¡¯ is?¡± Cappie shrugs. ¡°A shiny.¡± She gives him a look. ¡°¡®Is s¡¯posed to make up for the stolen jewels? Cuz Harav ain¡¯t gonna-¡± ¡°It ain¡¯t for Harav, dumbarse. It¡­¡± He exhales. ¡°It was a weddin¡¯ gift, arright? From before our Lightin¡¯, an I... I can¡¯t bring meself to throw it out. An¡¯ don¡¯ wanna see it in the hands of ¡®ose fahkin¡¯ pawners.¡± ¡°So you give to me?¡± ¡°Yeah. Why not? You ain¡¯t got shit. An¡¯ birds like shiny fings.¡± He storms out before she can reply. Laughing and shaking his head, as if everything he said was crazy. Finnerty looks down at the scrap of junk. Briefly considers throwing it at him, watching it shatter, just to prove his immense stupidity. But¡­ then she looks at it again. Shifts it in the light. It¡¯s still a piece of rubbish. And frankly, not even that fucking shiny. If someone offered it at her wedding, she¡¯d¡­ ¡­ She keeps thinking back to Cappie¡¯s words. ¡°You ain¡¯t got shit. You ain¡¯t got shit.¡± He¡¯s right. She doesn¡¯t. Everything she takes, she gives to Harav. Her jewels. Her coins. Her info. Her¡­ She closes her eyes. Maybe Harav doesn¡¯t need to know about this. Maybe she¡¯s allowed to keep one damn thing. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ August, 2004 She inspects the cute little golf ball, spinning it around in her hand. Blue coat, gold letters. ¡®James and Darla¡¯s 35th.¡¯ She can read it easily in the light. ¡°Aisling?¡± Her hackles raise. More from habit than any true need, now. The days of heedless murder have long passed the East End, except when she¡¯s creating them. She looks at Andrzej. He¡¯s sixteen, a bit younger than her. Shitty blonde haircut, some unknown band¡¯s tee, a thin, pimply face. She can see the fear his Keeper taught him every time her moves, and makes something rise in her chest, something fierce. She¡¯s so glad he had it rough. And so jealous he had it easy. He¡¯s struggling to carry her five plastic tubs full of corn. ¡°You want rest?¡± ¡°Nah.¡± She stands up. ¡°Keep going.¡± She keeps the golf ball in her fist, fully intending to place it in her nest, with all the others. But Aisling Finnerty still waits for the right moment to slip it stealthily in her pocket. Just in case. Someone in Hell might still be watching. Chapter 10: A Long Way Down ¡°Lucis Lator. Bringer of Light. Sunwalker. His line is Nocturni royalty. Every London potentate traces their blood back to him. Where he was from, and what he once was, we do not know. Some claim he was a Roman general, others a wandering soldier, or a Celtic peasant from some unnamed land. Even when he was with us, he refused to say. What is known is that when the Predecessors ruled this land they coveted him like no other, for he was the mightiest Veneficii to have ever un-lived. True Immortality. That was his power. His skin rang like metal when struck. Arrows could not pierce him, and swords could not cut. When he burst from his chains, the Predecessors tried with poison and acid and so many spells, but still he destroyed them. If the rumours are to be believed, even his name is not hearsay. He alone, among all Nocturni, could walk in daylight. Sunwalker is gone. Lost to the madness of millennia, he gave himself freely to the Wilds. But his get yet rule, with minds sharp as iron, and bodies nearly impervious to all the world may throw at them. But it must be said; with each new generation of vampires, the Lightbringer¡¯s power wanes. I do not know if the New Sun herself can step outside for a noon-time stroll. But I¡¯ll wager she isn¡¯t willing to test it.¡± On the Origins of Nocturnal Lineages, by Court Inquisitor Aisha Lakhani, October 1991. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ August, 2004 Bethnal Green ¡°My girl¡¯s a liar, but I¡¯ll stand beside her. She¡¯s all I¡¯ve got, and I don¡¯t wanna be alone¡­¡± Finnerty half-sings, half-hums to the music, shoving her hand through a backpack filled with pill bottles, stray feathers, and dysfunctional laptop cords. ¡°No, ¡®ere is no ovver one¡­ No, ¡®ere is no ovver one¡­ I can¡¯t-¡± ¡°Aisling?¡± A flimsy voice cuts her off. ¡°What are you doing?¡± She scowls. ¡°Listenin¡¯ to fookin¡¯ music, Andrzej, what it look like!?¡± She pries the corn-filled Tupperware free from her bag. ¡°You ever heard?¡± He¡¯s squinting at her accent. ¡°Heard what?¡± ¡°Music. ¡®At collection a¡¯ beats, rhyvvms an¡¯ sounds designed to evoke emotions. Issat a concept of which you¡¯re aware?¡± ¡°Y-yes-¡± ¡°Yes. ¡®Cuz you was born in 1988, not fifteen-oh-fookin¡¯-two, so stop pissin¡¯ on me iPod like some fookin¡¯ geezer.¡± ¡°I-I¡¯m sorry, Aisling." His voice grows small. "I¡¯m sorry.¡± She sighs. The boy looks ready to cry. Too hard, Aisling. Jayden always says you¡¯re going too hard. These kids, they¡¯re¡­ so soft. ¡°Go on, ¡®en.¡± ¡°Huh?¡± ¡°Who¡¯s your favourite?¡± "Y-you really care?" Finnerty shrugs. Better than watching the poor boy sweat and shake in his shoes. ¡°To bezcelowe.¡± His accent gets thicker with his nerves. ¡°You would not know them.¡± ¡°Ah, you dunno! I¡¯m a woman a¡¯ culture.¡± ¡°Republika? Raz Dwa Trzy?¡± He looks up at her, aether glowing against his acne, his smile revealing a bit of hope. Briefly, she can only manage a blank, slightly harried look. But quickly, she matches him. ¡°Of fookin¡¯ course I know Raz Vat Shit! No shock ''at you''re a fan." O-oh, good. He''s smiling, she reassured him, yes! "But ah¡­ you ever wanna fix ¡®at¡­¡± She swipes her hand over her mouth. ¡°Voice o'' yours... Prolly best to start listenin¡¯ to some English." She walks ahead, tossing her new tupperware to the top of Andrzej¡¯s stack, until they reach the spot. A small metal shed in the middle of the park. With wire fencing, slanted windows, and the caws and coos of more than thirty large birds. She hears the Tupperware rattle in Andrzej¡¯s hands. ¡°Nervous?¡± ¡°Y-Yes. I-In Katowice, we-¡± ¡°You¡¯re not actually s¡¯posed to say you''re nervous." She scowls. "You¡¯re a vampire. ¡®Ey¡¯re birds.¡± ¡°J-J-Jayden says that your birds attack people-¡± ¡°Cuz Jayden¡¯s a fookin¡¯ nonce!¡± ¡°I''m sorry.¡± Her eye twitches at that. If he says ¡®sorry¡¯ another fucking time¡­ ¡°¡®Ow¡¯s ¡®at goin¡¯, anyhow? Jayden figure out your powers yet?¡± ¡°N-no.¡± A pause. ¡°¡®Ave you¡­ tried to-¡± ¡°I do not want to. I hate them. They hurt people. S-Sorry!¡± His throat clenches up, and holds himself, shaking. ¡°And¡­ a-a-and my Keeper¡­ before she...¡± He starts babbling on, but she doesn¡¯t hear, her eyes glazed over in frustration. These fucking kids and their fucking little stories! ¡®My Keeper¡¯ this, and ¡®My Keeper¡¯ that. As if anyone wants to hear these shits whine, whine, WHINE! Your Keeper hit you? So what? Your Keeper touched you? Join the crowd! When she was a Kept, did she sit and pout and hold hands with a bunch of mewling shits in a fucking sob circle? No. So why do they think she wants to join them!? If only she could beat him. But she can¡¯t beat him! That just makes the crying worse! ¡°Andrzej, look. I¡¯m¡¯a be real wiff you-¡± ¡°You think I¡¯m weak.¡± Her mouth hangs open for a minute. He sniffles. ¡°You don¡¯t want me in your crew.¡± Finnerty blinks a few times. ¡°I never said that.¡± ¡°You said it yesterday. And the day before. You said I was going to die.¡± Fuck. Finnerty exhales and lifts her arms. ¡°Look, kid. Everyone dies someday-¡± ¡°But you said I''d die faster-" ¡°Cuz youse Nocturni, not some squeaky-arse.¡± She scoffs. ¡°Immortality, ¡®ey say, but nine times outta ten? Woulda lasted decades longer if we simply was never Lighted. Oh no. Hearing that just made him clutch himself even tighter. Finnerty bites her lip and slowly, cautiously, saunters up to him. She waits until the flinching¡¯s gone to pull him close. ¡°Hey. Wo?niak. You here?" He looks at her uncertainly. " The girls are scary, I get it! ¡®Ey¡¯re big, an¡¯ got claws, an¡¯ scream loud-¡± ¡°And bite hard.¡± ¡°- an¡¯ bite pretty fookin¡¯ ¡®ard.¡± Maybe if you¡¯re two years old, she thinks to herself, but shhhhh! ¡°But lissen. ¡®Ese tings? Chum change compared to what¡¯s out there. Fings be quiet ¡®ese months you been wiff us, but I¡¯ll tell you, Andrzej, shit can hit pretty fookin¡¯ fast. And you¡¯re Shorn now, you know? A wanted man!¡± ¡°But my Keeper is dead.¡± ¡°¡®At don¡¯t matter, Andrzej.¡± Her eyes briefly flick to her own mark, half-covered by a sock. ¡°¡®... At don¡¯t fookin¡¯ matter.¡± A loud caw. Fezziwig flies from the coop, spotting the corn, then twists back to inform the others. Soon, the whole shed becomes a wild chorus of delight. Andrzej¡¯s shaking gets worse, so Finnerty holds him tight. ¡°A¡¯ight, a¡¯ight. ¡®Ere¡¯s ¡®ow we do.¡± She brings his face to her level, points at the big metal door. ¡°The moment you step inside, ¡®ose birds are lookin¡¯ at one fookin¡¯ fing. Guessit?¡± ¡°The corn?¡± ¡°¡®At¡¯s right! ¡®At¡¯s so fookin¡¯ right!¡± She slaps Andrzej¡¯s back and sees a hint of that dopey grin. ¡°But you can¡¯t just spill ¡®at shit on the floor an¡¯ sprint out! You gotta spread it. Make sure each girl get ¡®er share.¡± ¡°But¡­ h-how do I-¡± ¡°You know shawks, Andrzej?¡± He squints. ¡°Shocks?¡± ¡°Nah, like¡­¡± Her fangs file out, and she bites at the air. ¡°In the sea, right?¡± ¡°Oh. Sharks!¡± ¡°Simple as!¡± She grins. ¡°An¡¯ what do shawks always do? What¡¯s the fing ¡®ey doin¡¯?¡± ¡°Uh, eating small fish?¡± God-fucking¡­ grrrrrrr. ¡°Swimmin¡¯!¡± She practically hops. ¡°¡®Ey swim, and ¡®ey keep swimmin¡¯, cuz if ¡®ey don¡¯t ¡®ey fookin¡¯ die!¡± ¡°Oh, but that is not true,¡± Andrzej butts in. ¡°Most species-¡± ¡°I¡¯ve got the uni degree, Andrzej. I¡¯m¡¯s the smarty one!¡± She presses the Tupperwares back into his chest, nodding towards the door. ¡°So you¡¯re gonna go in, you¡¯re gonna spread the corn, an¡¯ you¡¯re gonna walk calm, while I stand guard outside.¡± ¡°Wha-! Outside!?¡± ¡°You know, it¡¯s a learnin¡¯ experience.¡± ¡°Aisling-¡± ¡°Uni degree, Andrzej! Uni degree!¡± She hustles them both towards the shed, her fingers perilously close to the handle. Andrzej¡¯s stamping his feet, staring at the corn, muttering. ¡°Masz to, Andrzej. Masz to. Everything will be alright. It¡¯s just a couple crows- ¡°Ravens.¡± Andrzej looks at her. ¡°Co?¡± She thrusts the door open and shoves Andrzej in, shouting as she slams the metal back. ¡°¡®EY¡¯RE FOOKIN¡¯ RAVENS!¡± There¡¯s a flurry of feathers, the tearing of clothes, and soon Andrzej¡¯s pained screams join the melody of the hungry birds. Finnerty walks away, smiling to herself. Didn¡¯t exactly follow the move forward rule, but hey! The boy¡¯s giving effort. She flops onto an old park bench, staring up at the moon. She can''t deliver the Tupperware anymore; the little golden nuggets make her mouth water. Not fucking fair that they get to eat corn. Lucky shits! What she would kill to eat mountains of it and know it would always come out the right end! Not that it¡¯s ever stopped her from trying. She should stop, though. Finnerty knows that, in some distant, ¡®uni degree¡¯ sense. Same with taking pills, and snorting crack, and a myriad of other... hobbies. But she won¡¯t, and doesn¡¯t want to. What could happen? She¡¯s already dead! And it turns out that Speeding up and reviewing thousands of hours of illicit surveillance footage on all of her neighbours to add clips to the Floppy Disk Nest is just her ideal way of spending an after-moon. Harriet says she has an ¡®addictive personality¡¯, and, yeah. Her personality is pretty fucking addictive. Ah. Harriet. That''s right! Tonight''s Movie Night, the best night! And Finnerty¡¯s extra sure that Harriet will come, because she¡¯s ¡®borrowed¡¯ the keyring to all of her gun caches around the city. It¡¯s not really stealing when Finnerty intends to give it back after a movie or two. Or a dozen. Or three dozen. Look. One has to understand. If she didn¡¯t steal the keys, Harriet could forget. She hasn¡¯t, mind. Not once. But¡­ ... It¡¯s hard for Finnerty to¡­ vocalise her own feelings about this. Sure, the movies are nice, and it¡¯s honestly healthy that Harriet remembers every once in a while that they don¡¯t live in 1895! But that¡¯s not really why Finnerty does it. She¡¯s not watching the films so much as she¡¯s watching her. Checking that she laughs at each joke and gasps at each scary bit. But she¡¯s not sure why. Her feathers just get ruffly and - Wait. Wait! She has it! This feeling, it¡¯s¡­ ... it''s... She wants to put a big pile of bottle caps at the foot of Harriet¡¯s door. ¡­ ... Or maybe that¡¯s just the corvid in her talking. Suddenly, an all too familiar ringtone cuts through her thoughts. ¡°Ah what the fuck, man? We can¡¯t stay bruk, man. We never stuck, man, we never-¡± God. Fucking. ¡°JAYDEN!?¡± ¡°Bird, we need-¡± She squeezes her mobile. ¡°I made me instructions supah fookin¡¯ clear!¡± ¡°We¡¯s gotta distress call from Blackbird! In Court Town!¡± "Court Town?" Shit. Her face falls. ¡°What it say?¡± ¡°Nut¡¯tin¡¯! Just frizz! But get dis: moment our box picks it up, Hiu runs in, says he¡¯s ¡®earin¡¯ a fahkin¡¯ ¡®splosion!¡± She lowers her phone, looking at the clouds. Aether starts to course its way into her face, and sure enough, it¡¯s there. Caught by her instincts, a thick plume of smoke. Triple shit. ¡°House.¡± She tells the phone. ¡°Find the safe.¡± ¡°What safe?¡± ¡°Code¡¯s One-One-One-Four.¡± ¡°Bird, whatchu-¡± She hangs up before she can hear him. Just as she does, the shed door swings open, and Andrzej hurries out with a dozen cuts and two torn-apart Tupperwares. ¡°A-Aisling!¡± He scurries and shuts the door. ¡°I-I think I got-¡± ¡°Open the door.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°Open the FOOKING DOOR!¡± She slides her shoes off and stamps in place. Little feet stained by dewey grass. ¡°Jeste? szalony!¡± He looks back at the shed, still rattling from the birds¡¯ excitement. ¡°Aisling, you can¡¯t! Those ravens are feral.¡± ¡°Good.¡± Her hackles rise. ¡°¡®Ey fookin¡¯ better be.¡± ¡°Co robisz, Aisling? At least tell me what¡¯s-¡± ¡°SHIT HIT, ANDRZEJ! SHIT FOOKIN¡¯ HIT! NOW OPEN THE FOOKIN¡¯ DOOR, BEFORE I THROW YOUR ARSE BACK TO KRAK¨®W!¡± There¡¯s a lurch. Finnerty gives out a shrill cry. She hears the sounds of the boy straining, the ravens gathering, but doesn¡¯t turn. She already knows what it looks like. Just waits for... The door opens. The smallest hair. And every raven flings out like a super awesome bullet tsunami. Andrzej jumps back, hands over his head, barely given the time to duck. Through his elbows, he can see Finnerty¡¯s tiny frame, running after her birds. Her pale skin starts to glow, her feathers sprout, her claws extend. Until she leaps, truly leaps, a good five metres into the air. There¡¯s a flash, a blinding ball of light. And then she¡¯s gone. Replaced by a raven even larger than the others. Andrzej slowly scrambles up, his hands pulled away, staring at the lively black cloud. ¡°Aisling...¡± He hears a loud caw. The birds start falling into place. First in a swirling circle, but quickly after a v-shape. They dip, then rise, then dive and surge upward. Another call rings out, and they shoot for the distant skylights. Finnerty doesn¡¯t look back at the shed. Or the awed boy, getting smaller and smaller. She follows the plume of smoke, in her eyes, in her blood, in her nostrils. A single thought trapped inside as they sail over chimneys and park trees and streetlights. What if the keys didn¡¯t keep her? ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ It¡¯s hard to describe the feeling of bird-ing, of flight. When her body changes, so do her thoughts, and they escape any words that speech and writing can capture. She sees more. Feels more. Everything more in tune to some base part of herself, some instinct. She needs food. Wants wind. Seeks shelter. And then the human thoughts, the Aisling thoughts, drag her back, to the line of smoke and the steel towers. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. Her senses are sharp. Di talant fun di shtshur, Harav called it. The Gift of the Rat. She was used to knowing much, through whispers and screens and birdsong. But now every detail is heard and tasted and smelt for miles. So much, she could drown in them. Sweat down the neck ¡°Five-hundred pounds-¡± Squirrel plodding on branch ¡°An own goal from Manchester!¡± She looks to her right, her left. On all sides, her lovely daughters. She doesn¡¯t know how the human mandem truly sees her. Is she hip? A fossil? A tyrant they fear, or a friend they trust? So many questions. Too many. But she asks none of them to Pumblechook and Stryver and Bardell and Sampson Brass. She already knows. They love her. Finnerty flaps her wings, gaining height as the city itself grows taller. At this hour, it¡¯s still living. Men in pubs, drivers in cabs, so many rich and desperate working until they drop. The smoke is thick on her tongue, the acridness poison to her throat, the imposing steel structure piercing the clouds, then- Her breathing stops. She sees it. A white van, with nondescript plates, and few windows to let in the Sun. The back¡¯s blown out, doors missing, its metal dark and twisted by flame. The glass lies in shattered heaps, crunched by the boots of the Met. They¡¯ve quartered off the block, vests wet in the rain, their scowls deep as they shove off the buzzing reporters. Film crews and newsboys already flock here like flies, terror on their lips. Taliban. Hezbollah. IRA. Al-Qaeda. Empty. Empty empty empty. That¡¯s all she cares about. Melted plastic, broken monitors, but no bodies and no people. She starts searching for scents. Bloodstains and tire marks. But the cop cars ruin it, the scent of their petrol fresh. But what about sounds? There must be cues. The roar of an engine. Tires squealing on concrete. Or softer cries, human cries. Burns and tears and sizzling skin. If she¡­ A cry cuts her off. Sharp, shrill, and avian. Finnerty looks ahead, screeches, and pulls her wings back. Her daughter¡¯s falling, feathers shooting in the air. Others follow, five in all. With each, there¡¯s a flash. A bolt of glowing blue light. Finnerty studies as her other birds filter around. Runes. Sigils in an alien tongue, beaming into existence wherever wings near them, before vanishing again. Her human brain knows what made them, but her raven brain just panics at the sparks. They seem to follow the tower. All the way up, and all the way down. She launches away from the building, her girls still circling, still searching. But there¡¯s nothing to be found. Wizard trap. She¡­ a scream. A scream of steel and roaring oil. It¡¯s louder than the others, heavier, joined by a chorus of rubber on stone. Finnerty dives for it, fast as the wind. There¡¯s a pick-up swerving past red lights and stopped cars, pedestrians running, horns blazing. She gets down, down, to eye level, barely missing a stunned double-decker. Her wings beat. The wind sings. She¡¯s behind the car, then against it. Her daughters fall behind, unable to match. But she goes faster and faster and faster. Ready, ready, ready¡­ There¡¯s a flash. Breaking glass. Finnerty falls into the truck''s passenger seat, a human again, only to feel the cold barrel of a revolver press against her head. ¡°Red¡­¡± ¡°Get out.¡± ¡°Red.¡± ¡°I SAID GET OUT!¡± Finnerty stands still, but firm. She knew the moment she saw his car. Who else would drive a Ford Ranger in Central London? Her ears prick. She hears a faint, wispy breath behind. Tries to turn, rubs against the same barrel. ¡°Red, what the fook are you doin¡¯!?¡± ¡°Ain¡¯t yer goddamn concern, Finnerty.¡± ¡°We got a fookin¡¯ call!¡± ¡°Aghh¡­¡± Another faint sound. Finnerty grabs the gun, calling his bluff, and thrusts it straight into the dashboard. Then she looks behind, and her skin immediately pales. Janet Lavender stares at nothing, through her good eye. The other has melted, bits of blood and aether and brain juice bubbling in the burned-out, hollow socket. Her skin has vanished over the left half of her face, either crisp and black or clean white bone. Bits of it still cling to a soot-ridden black dress. Her remaining ear bleeds, and one can see the sinews holding together her jaw. Through the burst veins, the missing nose, Finnerty can still hear that faint sizzle and overcharged glow. Scrambling, desperate aether. ¡°Holy fook.¡± ¡°Comments ain¡¯t appreciated right now-¡± ¡°What the fook did you two do!?¡± ¡°I am DRIVING!¡± Red¡¯s breaths are ragged. ¡°Jes''¡­ gimme a minute ta think¡­¡± Finnerty looks out the window. At the Sainsbury¡¯s, Maccies, street signs. ¡°Left.¡± She snaps, points. ¡°Left gets you on Shoreditch.¡± ¡°No. We¡¯re goin¡¯ down Prince-¡± ¡°Bethnal Green¡¯s closer, Red.¡± ¡°Not ta people I trust-¡± ¡°In five minutes she is FOOKIN'' DEAD!¡± A screech. Red slams on the brakes, and pulls. Finnerty nearly flies from her seat as he careens to the left. ¡°Fuck!¡± She looks into his face, sees the horror wreathed on his brow. ¡°Was she in the truck?¡± His breathing¡¯s intense. He nods. ¡°Any idea what?¡± ¡°No. No bombs, no casin¡¯s¡­¡± ¡°Runes on the buildin¡¯, ¡®ough.¡± ¡°Shit. Shit shit SHIT!¡± He slams the wheel with his fist. Then squeezes it, knuckles white. Finnerty bites her lip. ¡°Red, I know ¡®is ain¡¯t a good time, but you ¡®ave very few friends in me fam. I¡¯m gonna need a really good fookin¡¯ reason-¡± ¡°It was a trap!¡± Red snaps, stepping on the gas. ¡°A trap we shoulda seen.¡± ¡°Thought Keaton was smarter than attackin¡¯ Court Town-¡± ¡°Keaton had nothin¡¯ to do with it! It was me. Me an¡¯ my stupid¡­¡± His eyes flare, and he slams on the horn, screaming at the running pedestrians. ¡°GET OUTTA THE WAY! FUCKING MOVE!¡± He¡¯s driving wherever there''s room, whizzing past houses, skirting along sidewalks. Finnerty clings to her seatbelt as Red¡¯s voice grows more manic. ¡°They played us. The little shits fuckin¡¯ played us. An¡¯ now Janet¡¯s half a pile a¡¯ ash, an¡¯ I-¡± ¡°Where¡¯s Harriet?¡± Silence. Silence except the sounds of the road. Finnerty feels her heart freeze. ¡°Red...¡± ¡°Not now, Aislin¡¯.¡± ¡°She¡¯s your fookin'' daughter, Red!¡± ¡°NOT FUCKIN¡¯ NOW!¡± She turns, and so does he. His face is a wreck. Flush and taut and harried. His fangs are out, seeping well past his lips. There¡¯s terror in his eyes, grief that can¡¯t grieve. She sees the tears starting to form. And feels like her soul has left her. Suddenly, the brakes slam. Red shifts it to park, and Finnerty collides the dashboard. They¡¯re at her house, her driveway. Red¡¯s climbing out as someone kicks open the front door. Jayden, with Andrzej behind. Her lieutenant found the safe. He''s fondling two Desert Eagles. ¡°OUT!¡± Jayden walks forward, the guns shaking in his hand. ¡°Get back in dat car!¡± ¡°Stand down, boy!¡± ¡°Dese are our ends, Eddards!¡± ¡°Only thing yer gonna do is blow yer own fuckin¡¯ arms off!¡± A loud roar interrupts their shouting. Red turns to see the Ranger¡¯s tire scream along the pavement. Finnerty¡¯s in the seat, nearly standing to fit, pressing on the pedal and cursing that she never learned to drive. Aether sparks across her arm. Tears well in her eyes. ¡°Aislin¡¯!¡± Red ignores Jayden¡¯s threats, pulls back towards the truck. ¡°Aislin'', goddammit-¡± ¡°WE ¡®AVE TO GO BACK!¡± ¡°It¡¯s suicide!¡± A snap. Her powers pull so hard on the shift, it smashes the plastic and slams into 5. Red leaps out of the way as the Ranger careens with her garage door. Still doesn¡¯t stop her. She looks, jerks the wheel. Presses down and down and down. Until it''s sliding free of the wood, smashing through foundation bricks, tearing down the street and grass. As it takes off, she screams. ¡°Jesus Christ!" "RAAAAHHHH!" The truck¡¯s too large, too fast. She turns sharp and merely spins. Spins, spins, spins. Colliding with a tree, rattling against the seat as the windshield starts to crack. She breathes. Slow, painful breaths. The front door is thrust open, a thick hand grabs her shirt, and soon she¡¯s kicking and thrashing, claws out, tearing skin. ¡°NO! NO! I¡¯LL FOOK YOU A NEW FOOKIN¡¯ ARSE!¡± ¡°We don¡¯t have time!¡± ¡°YOU¡¯RE LEAVING HER!!!¡± She¡¯s thrown from the seat, falling back-first on the grass. But Finnerty leaps up, charges again, fists pounding against a broad and massive chest. ¡°I¡¯LL MURDER YOU!¡± She shouts. ¡°SHOOT YOU, STAB YOU, SPIT ON YOUR CORPSE! Slamfaidh m¨¦ do cloigeann ar an gcos¨¢n, tan your skin into hides! And when I¡¯m THROUGH WIFF YOU, IKH KOB GEFITERT MENTSHN!¡± She stops to breathe. The tears can¡¯t stop falling. ¡°GEFITERT MENTSHN TSU ROYBN MEYNE!¡± ¡°Aislin¡¯!¡± Red lunges for her shoulders, jostles her to look up. ¡°Do ya think I wouldn¡¯t die fer her!? That I wouldn¡¯t storm in, right now, if I thought we had half a FUCKIN¡¯ CHANCE!?¡± "YOU LEFT HER!" "I KNOW!" ¡°YOU LEFT HER TO DIE!¡± ¡°I FUCKIN¡¯ KNOW!¡± "SHE WAS MINE, YOU YANKEE FAHK!" She''s struggling. "MINE! AND YOU... you... you fookin''..." ¡°Aislin''. Aislin''." He jostles her again, his voice heavy. "She''s dead." ¡°Dead?¡± Jayden asks, eying both of them. ¡°Who¡¯s fahkin¡¯ dead?¡± Finnerty can¡¯t reply. The word has pierced her like a bullet train. When Red lets go, she can barely stand. Everything distant, like shrinking stars. ¡°Harriet.¡± Red lowers his head, fists clenched. ¡°My¡­ my little baby girl.¡± She falls. Her eyes glaze over. Cold skin on wet grass. Thousands of memories rush forth. Video games. Sheaves of corn. Movies and gun shops and dances to old records. The flask they shared in Belfast. The bunker they hid in the Blitz. That fiery hair, that freckled smile. Gone. All of it, gone. She wants to scream. Cry out to all her children, so that they might perch with her and sob. As she dissociates, Red moves for the car, pulling free a woman missing an arm and both legs. Her face is only worse after the car crash. She hears Jayden tense. ¡°Issat Blackbird?¡± ¡°Yeah. But she won¡¯t be anythin¡¯ soon if we don¡¯t get her half a gallon of aether.¡± ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The mobile sits in her palm, its ring echoing through the sitting room. Finnerty stares at the furniture beyond it, a decades-old couch and Broken Bottle Nest. She¡¯s been here since Andrzej let them in, and the men rushed towards the cellar. She hadn¡¯t cried or curled up or done much of anything. Just called. Listening for the third time to that stupid, chipper voicemail from the front business of Aubrey Keaton. ¡°Top o¡¯ the mornin¡¯ to ye! Welcome to Fightin¡¯ Fionn¡¯s! Unfortunately, reservations are closed at this time o¡¯ night, but we¡¯re open Monday to Saturday, with events every eve, so leave a-¡± She disconnects and throws her phone into the scattering nest. She wants to threaten him. Who cares what Red says, she''ll rip him apart. Feed his eyes to the birds. She wants to be angry. But she isn¡¯t. Can¡¯t be. Not to Red or the Court or him. Weak. Weak, weak. A little voice scurries in the back of her mind, pulling her in two. You were weak, and so was she. She deserved it. She hated your guts. And she never, ever, fucking mattered. ¡°Aisling?¡± Andrzej catches her attention, peering from the hall. ¡°Uh¡­ B-Blackbird-¡± She rises without fuss, brushing past him. The hallway already feels less clean, the house itself more lonely. ¡°Can she talk?¡± ¡°We don¡¯t know. Uszy. Th-there was explosion. Her ears-¡± Finnerty cuts into the living room. Red paces around the kitchen. Jayden explores the shelves. Nobody¡¯s willing to look at Janet, and Finnerty can clearly see why. The oldest living Shorn sits on the couch with her remaining hand folded gently over her leg stumps. Staring at the dark glass of the telly. Her own reflection, the face half-blown off. Finnerty starts settling down. Flinching at the pops and fizzles she hears from Janet¡¯s aether. IT''s working, slowly, piece by piece. She''s grown back most of her jawline. "Janet..." Blackbird''s mouth cracks when she sees her, words bursting from her mouth. ¡°Raven, I didn¡¯t kill her!" ¡°Janet¡­¡± ¡°It was a mistake! Fireside is my greatest asset, our strongest weapon. If I had known the true risks-¡± ¡°JANET!¡± Finnerty grabs her shoulder. ¡°I get it!¡± It¡¯s only the touch that makes Janet go quiet. Finnerty scowls, trying to push the rage and fear and clawing sorrow far from her head. She points at her mouth, looks Janet in her good eye, and says: ¡°Read - my - lips.¡± Janet studies her mouth, and slowly nods. Andrzej ducks by the telly, fidgeting with his hands, eyes flitting around. ¡°What - happened?¡± Several seconds pass before Blackbird answers. ¡°Veneficii.¡± Finnerty feels the whole room tense. She looks at Red, sees the rage, the disappointment, the overwhelming sense of... futility. ¡°He runed in my van. Got into the computers like malware. How, I have no idea. Never heard of Poisoned Ones being able to digitise-¡± ¡°Who - owns - him?¡± Finnerty asks. ¡°Caedmon.¡± Janet lets the word hang. ¡°From Harriet¡¯s account, his Keeper is Caedmon.¡± Finnerty takes slow breaths. But Jayden can only scoff. ¡°Caedmon? You fahkin¡¯ claps went ¡®gainst Caedmon?¡± ¡°¡®Someone had ta, boy,¡± Red growls. ¡°You¡¯d ¡®ave an easier time killin¡¯ the Queen or the fahkin¡¯ Ripper!¡± ¡°Bruv.¡± Finnerty cuts him off with a look. Jayden huffs and goes back to the shelves, while Janet, only now, seems to notice Red. ¡°Josiah. Call Keaton!¡± She starts squirming on the couch, trying to push forward. ¡°Polyphron¡¯s developed more-¡± ¡°¡®Old on, ¡®old on!¡± ¡°If they finish those projects, we¡¯re-¡± ¡°JANET!¡± Finnerty reaches out, keeping the Shorn from falling off the couch. Janet stares at the ground, clearly trying to process her own lack of limbs. ¡°Right - now¡­¡± Finnerty pulls her back up. ¡°You - can¡¯t - do - anything.¡± Janet almost seems ready to cry. But it quickly twists back into anger. ¡°It was a trap. A well-laid trap. We didn¡¯t see the springs until we got to the eighteenth floor.¡± ¡°Eighteen floors is a long way up,¡± Andrzej looks at the ceiling. ¡°Didn¡¯t - see - the - runes?¡± ¡°Never. He must have installed them after.¡± She starts at Finnerty¡¯s scowl. ¡°Raven, you don¡¯t understand! We¡¯ve killed hundreds of vampires, we¡¯re not outwitted so easily! They gave me access to their network. Let Fireside read compromised files. If they¡¯re plan hadn¡¯t worked, or the whistleblowers published, or someone merely stumbled in¡­ the risks are incalculable!¡± ¡°Which is why they were calculated,¡± Red replies. ¡°Eighteen floors is a long way down,¡± Andrzej looks at his shoes. Finnerty squints. ¡°What kinda businessman sets ¡®eir company alight just to choke out one Unbound?¡± ¡°I dunno. You?¡± Jayden turns again, swiping an envelope from the shelf, and tearing it open with his fingers. ¡°Or him, or her, or any one of us? It¡¯s Fireside, Bird. The killer of a Reeve, the only freak in dis circus any of us is fahkin¡¯ scared of. You bag ¡®er, an¡¯ you bag bags.¡± Andrzej''s shaking. ¡°Eighteen floors is a long way up.¡± Red frowns. ¡°Except everyone in the circus knows they let in a feral lion. ¡°Didn¡¯t stop Glenmore," Jayden starts. "And it would¡¯t stop-¡± ¡°Eighteen floors is a-¡± ¡°Will you shut the fahk up, Man?!¡± Jayden sputters. ¡°- long way down.¡± Andrzej¡¯s eyes flare, and he looks around, meeting everyone¡¯s gaze. ¡°You are wrong. You are all wrong. This is not about bags and lions. Fireside is alive.¡± ¡°What?¡± Finnerty scowls. ¡°Eighteen floors. Eighteen floors.¡± Andrzej points at Janet, speaking more confidently than Finnerty''s ever heard. ¡°You let Harriet read records, when you can place bomb in car? You summon veneficii to fight her, but do not tell cops or Reeve? No. Eighteen floors is a long way up, when you can shoot her on first! But if you do not want to shoot her¡­ if you want her alive...¡± Finnerty¡¯s jaw hangs open as she realises his words. ¡°... then eighteen floors is a very..." He points. "... very long way down. Silence. Jayden squints. ¡°But why would¡­¡± He doesn¡¯t need to finish. Everyone knows the answer. Red moves first. Unholstering his gun. Tightening his grip. And storming towards the front door. ¡°RED!?¡± Finnerty races after him. ¡°Where the fook are you going!?¡± He gives an animal growl. ¡°Gettin¡¯ her out.¡± ¡°Wiff what!?¡± ¡°With myself, an¡¯ my contacts, an¡¯ enough ordinance to blow the Court an¡¯ half this city back to the fuckin¡¯ Romans!¡± ¡°¡®Ey ¡®ave a Poisoned One, Red! We need to plan!¡± ¡°We?¡± Red turns. ¡°What ¡®we¡¯?¡± Finnerty glares. ¡°If you¡¯re gonna rescue Harriet, Eddards, I¡¯m comin¡¯ wiff.¡± He considers it for the briefest of moments, before opening the door. "No." ¡°Bitch!?¡± He slams it in her face. "I ain''t invitin''." For a second she just gawks. But then she bursts back onto the lawn and screams. ¡°I''m a goddamn Freeholder! The fook you wan¡¯ me to do? Sit around!?" ¡°Yes.¡± Red turns. ¡°Keep yer boys outta trouble. Keep Blackbird alive. An¡¯ let the Unbound deal with this like we know how! This ain¡¯t yer scene.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve done more heists than you, Red!¡± ¡°An¡¯ how many ended with fuckin¡¯ corpses?¡± She seethes. Red steps into the truck they¡¯ve dragged back to the front porch. She hears the clink of keys, the wounded engine sputter to life. She''s gripping the doorframe so tightly that the wood starts to crack. ¡°Ain¡¯t worff it, Bird!¡± Jayden reaches her, pulling her back. ¡°Just lettim¡¯ go!¡± ¡°NO!¡± She breaks from his grip, bouncing on one foot to pry off her shoe. She launches it at the car, hand glowing with aether. It¡¯s soon followed by the other. ¡°YOU LISTEN TO ME!¡± Red tries reeling back in reverse, but he can hear his Ranger get pelted with all manner of knickknacks and small stones. She¡¯s emptying her pockets, picking things off the front porch. Jim and Darla¡¯s 35th Anniversary golf ball is the first to smash the glass. Then she lunges at Jayden, his bling, trying to pry it off his hands. Only then does Red crawl back out. ¡°Jesus, Aislin¡¯! Will ya jes¡¯ stop!?¡± ¡°FOOK YOU! You ¡®ave NO RIGHT!¡± She shoves Jayden into the house, walks forward, pointing wildly. ¡°She lives in MY HOUSE. She is MY FRIEND! An¡¯-¡± ¡°An¡¯ yer gonna go ta war with the Court ta get her?¡± Finnerty freezes, her finger still in mid-air. Something glazes over her eyes. Muscles stiffen. She can hear the hurried beat of her own, panicked heart. Red frowns. ¡°Wanna know why I ain¡¯t wantin'' ya, Aislin¡¯? Why no one will, an¡¯ no one does? Empathy. You are utterly incapable of carin¡¯ fer anyone that isn¡¯t yerself!¡± Finnerty looks frantic as he approaches her. ¡°Remember Rowe?¡± Red shrugs, his smile mirthless. ¡°Christian, quiet. Gave him a tour a¡¯ yer lot of the East End. There was a girl there, he told me. Irish, maybe twelve, bein¡¯ raped by three men. But did ya stop ¡®em? Did ya save her? Did ya even feel bad? No. You told Rowe that they paid ya five shillin¡¯s each fer the fuckin¡¯ privilege! And ya said it like ya were proud!" Finnerty¡¯s mind shrinks. Like clay squeezed by a potter''s hands. Every choice and thought strangled out except mindless, twitching rage. ¡°You told him that she wanted it, Aislin¡¯. Told him she coulda run if she cared. A twelve-year-old girl, and ya were obsessed with tellin¡¯ him that it¡¯s what she fuckin¡¯ deserved!¡± She snaps. "AND SHE PROBABLY FUCKING DID!¡± ¡°Ya think I¡¯d let the woman who tells me that within a fuckin¡¯ mile a¡¯ my daughter?¡± Red seethes. ¡°It¡¯s coward¡¯s talk, because that¡¯s what ya are! Ya spit on the weak, stomp on the helpless, but the moment somethin¡¯ tough comes along, ya run an¡¯ ya hide!¡± ¡°IT¡¯S CALLED SURVIVAL, DUMBARSE!¡± ¡°An ya¡¯ll survive great without her.¡± Finnerty wants to tear him in half. Rip out his tongue. Smash those stupid fangs to bits. But her arms won''t move, and her lungs won''t breathe. Her brain won''t let her move forward, or back. She... she can''t... ¡°Jes¡¯ run, Aislin¡¯.¡± Red softens with the words. ¡°I¡¯ll have more respect if ya do. Before lives are at stake. Before someone gets killed. Be the adult ya wanna be, an¡¯ run.¡± She doesn¡¯t respond to him. The words rattle in her thoughts, with the grief and rage and fear. The image of the Court, that building, threatening to crush her ribs. Her lips tremble. Tears build in her eyes. Red starts getting smaller in her sight, walking back to the car. But- ¡°Run like you did?¡± Red stops. Finnerty blinks, her face resetting. A sudden calm has fallen over her, one she can''t describe. ¡°¡®At¡¯s the problem, innit? ''At''s what ¡®is is all about.¡± He doesn¡¯t speak. Or turn back. But he doesn¡¯t keep walking, either. ¡°Where ¡®ave you been, Red, ¡®ese past twenty years? At her side, defendin¡¯ yer girl? Or were you waxin¡¯ nostalgic wiff Erika an¡¯ the union boys an'' Aubrey fookin¡¯ Keaton?¡± She exhales. ¡°While youse were pinin¡¯ for welfare states and workers'' strikes, she was out there! Riskin¡¯ her life! Makin¡¯ real the fantasies you fooks yap about in your book clubs! She was your tool!¡± ¡°Aislin¡¯-¡± ¡°¡®At¡¯s how she saw herself, Red! A fookin¡¯ weapon! For you an¡¯ Rowe an¡¯ Blackbird to use!¡± Finnerty grits her teeth, closes her eyes. ¡°An¡¯ I tried to change ¡®at, Red! Tried to pull her out, give her somefing ovver then an impossible war. But then you, and Janet, and all you Unbound shits just walked right back in, undid all ¡®at work! Gave her anovver chance to die for your stupid politics and your faded dreams! Heh." She sniffles. "You really surprised she fookin¡¯ took it?" Red¡¯s shoulders grow weak. His head low, hat high in the air. ¡°But ''at''s always been the Unbound, right? Stop the Keepings, still own slaves? You can call me a shitty person, Red, and you¡¯d be right.¡± Finnerty spits. ¡°But don¡¯t fookin¡¯ strut about and act like you ever earned her.¡± She turns around and leaves him there. Never bothering to see the pain on his face. The shame. She tries to recompose before stepping back into the foyer, to Jayden and Andrzej, armed and waiting. ¡°So,¡± Andrzej asks. ¡°Are we getting Fireside?¡± She nods. Immediately, Jayden¡¯s face warps. She can see the contempt on his lips, and cuts him off before he gets the chance. ¡°Don¡¯t.¡± ¡°She brought ¡®is on ¡®erself-¡± ¡°I said don¡¯t.¡± ¡°The fahk we doin¡¯, Bird? For years, youse sayin¡¯ don¡¯t fahk wit the Court, stay low, stick to plan! But the second its your friend-¡± ¡°You realise ¡®ow fooked we are wiffout ¡®er guns!?¡± Finnerty gestures. ¡°Or ¡®ow royally reamed we¡¯s all gonna be if ¡®ey actually manage to Keep ¡®er?¡± Jayden inhales, squeezes his gun. But nothing more. ¡°Good. Cuz it¡¯s gonna be a busy few nights, lads, and I''s too tired for the lip. We need guns. We need men. An'' I need lots an¡¯ lots of fookin¡¯ footage. But none of ¡®at matters right now if we can¡¯t even get through the goddamn door. So ¡®ave eivver of youse Keepers ever talked ¡®bout Venefici? ¡®Ow to break ¡®eir runes? ¡®Ow to kill ¡®em?¡± For a while, everyone¡¯s silent. But both boys leap back as a shadow envelops Finnerty. Her feathers rattle against a booming voice. ¡°Only one way,¡± Red scowls. ¡°Ya get another one.¡± Finnerty turns and looks him in the eye. He follows suit. Yet there¡¯s nothing between them that hasn¡¯t been said, so she merely throws up her arms. ¡°Oh! Lovely. Guess I¡¯ll just pick one up at the fookin¡¯ store! Maybe ''ey ''ave a discount-" ¡°Well, there is dat one Arab girl hopin¡¯ ta hook up wit you,¡± Jayden shrugs. ¡°¡®Ere is ¡®at one¡­ wait.¡± She springs up. ¡°What Arab?¡± Jayden flashes the envelope in his hand. ¡°Dis one? From the letter? Say''s ''Raven''s Eyes Only''?¡± Holy shit. It¡¯s the one that nearly blew up Harriet. Jayden gives her a suspicious look. "Do you not read your mail?" Finnerty snatches it from his hand. Starts scrolling through, but she can¡¯t read shit fast enough. ¡°What¡¯s it say?¡± ¡°Dat dere¡¯s a striga, fresh busted out the Archives, who wants to make a deal wit you over Keaton¡¯s crusty arse.¡± A deal? Too good to be true. But¡­ but the letter came before¡­ ¡°Jayden, does this, ah¡­¡± Red clears his throat. ¡°Moslem woman have a name?¡± ¡°Sure.¡± Jayden folds his arms. ¡°Aisha Lakhani.¡± Chapter 11: Human Loyalty, Part I ¡°Hoping to ¡®surf the Web¡¯ or catch up on your ¡®electronic mail?¡¯ Hundreds of Court members are browsing the Internet, just like you! However, the digital realm can be dangerous for the uninformed Kept. Always check to see that you are following the Official Court Guidelines for Safe Nocturnal Internet Use. Remember, these are NOT OPTIONAL: 1: Just like your mobile phone, use only Court-sanctioned computers, or those provided to you by your Sovereign 2: Always make sure you are connected to the Court¡¯s Virtual Private Network (VPN), or a similar structure created by your Sovereign 3: Never post or share identifiable personal data, such as names, addresses, National ID numbers, and dates of birth or Lighting. Usernames and passwords should never contain such data 4: Never arrange a meeting or submit an online order with any address other than the Court-approved Dead-Drop Zones (DDZs), provided in your yearly Court Membership manual 5: Never refer to another Nocturni online outside of their code phrase, provided in your yearly Court Membership manual 6: Never consent to being filmed, nor reveal yourself willingly on video 7: Do not, under any circumstances, state, imply, allude, or otherwise make reference to undead or supernatural presences, including those of your nature THE INTERNET IS THE GREATEST THREAT TO THE LAW OF SECRECY IN THE HISTORY OF THE COURT. DOZENS HAVE ALREADY BEEN COMPROMISED. FAILURE TO FOLLOW ANY GUIDELINES VIOLATES CLAUSE 21.C OF THE AVALONIAN CODEX AND WILL WARRANT IMMEDIATE EXECUTION. Please refer to the Court¡¯s Information Technology Allodry if you¡¯d like to know more. Contact details are provided in your yearly Court Membership manual. ¡± IMPORTANT: Court Guidelines for Safe Nocturnal Internet Use, distributed by the Office of Davison Wynter, Reeve of North London, January 1st, 2004. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 1866 Summer They file out in the distance. One after the other, a line of marching men. They bake in the summer heat, lit by the early, cloudless night sky. Their arms are muscled and their skin layered in dust. Harriet can¡¯t make out their faces, this far up the hilltop, but she knows they can¡¯t be happy. Gawen Rowe doesn¡¯t pray when people are happy. She doesn¡¯t know where they are, anymore. North, yes, but near what and by how far? It¡¯s a land of sloping hills, thick brush and roaring rivers. They¡¯ve abandoned the desert, but only just. Bison roam here, with elk and wild horses and fewer wagons than she¡¯s used to. This might be the biggest town she¡¯s seen in half a moon, and it¡¯s still a fraction the size of Keokuk, to say nothing of Quincy, the largest city she¡¯s ever seen. ¡°Miners,¡± Red calls up beside her. ¡°Work six days a week. Sunrise ta sunset. After seven hours, yer arms start ta shake. Ya grow half-blind from exhaustion at ten. An¡¯ this time a¡¯ year, boss is prolly makin¡¯ ¡®em work fifteen.¡± ¡°So they can blow their company dollars on the owner¡¯s booze and the owner¡¯s whores.¡± Menowin chuckles, chomping on his farmer¡¯s gum. ¡°And they still think the West will free them.¡± Harriet ignores their talk, searching Rowe¡¯s face, her Pa¡¯s trusty Springfield pulled tight along her shoulder. The Black Prince is deep in thought, uncalloused hands clasped together. He whispers in a language she can¡¯t begin to understand. ¡°Ro dhyn ni hedhyw agan para pub dydh oll. Ha gav dhyn agan kammweyth.¡± ¡°Rowe,¡± she whispers, grabbing his arm. His knuckles are white. The hurried speech grows louder. He¡¯s shaking. ¡°Kepar dell evyn nyni, dhe¡¯n re na eus ow kammwul-¡± ¡°Rowe!¡± He gasps. Opens his eyes. Slowly studies the landscape beneath his feet, before turning to her. For a moment, he looks more like a feral dog than a man, but it¡¯s soon replaced by a smile. ¡°That was so loud, Fireside. The training''s worked." He says it with a hint of pride. ¡°You aren¡¯t even coughing.¡± The sternness in Rowe¡¯s face returns, and he looks at the town, the mine, the weary men. ¡°Josiah. What do you know of our Pharisee?¡± ¡°Silas Berkeley. Yank. Smelt iron fer the Union, ¡®fore he thought ta strike out fer the silver.¡± ¡°Silas.¡± Menowin fidgets, like he always does when they haven¡¯t moved much. ¡°Why are they always named by pricks?¡± ¡°And the man in Fort Laramie,¡± Rowe continues. ¡°Do you trust him?¡± ¡°He was one a¡¯ Bedford Forrest¡¯s. I don¡¯t have ta trust him.¡± Red nods to the town. ¡°An¡¯ small places like these, word gets ¡®round. Men who sign contracts they can¡¯t even read. Get trapped in debt. Bills so high they don¡¯t afford posts to their homes. An¡¯ the treatment? Collars. Chains an¡¯ stockades. Even gettin¡¯ shot in the goddamn back if they try ta run. Nothin¡¯ short a¡¯ slavery." ¡°Except we¡¯re hunting the slavers this time,¡± Menowin remarks. ¡°For you, that must feel refreshing.¡± Immediately, Harriet shivers in the tense air. Red goes quiet, and Rowe turns bolt stiff. The only one who still seems animated is Menowin. Hopping from foot to foot, and grinning ear to ear. Red¡¯s jaw sets. ¡°Ya wanna repeat those words, Gypsy?¡± ¡°It¡¯s called a joke, karbaro.¡± Menowin reaches up and pats his shoulder. ¡°Maybe in a decade or two, that wounded Southern pride can stand to hear it.¡± He stops. Red has grabbed the darker hand. Squeezing it with a pale fist. ¡°Gadje!¡± Menowin tries to pull away. ¡°Let go of me!¡± Red growls. Deep, and animal. Rowe tries to step between them. ¡°Menowin, there is no need for these provocations-¡± ¡°Provocations!?¡± Menowin shouts back. ¡°I wasn¡¯t the one who hunted slaves!¡± The punch is fast. Loud. Hard. Menowin¡¯s forehead seems to crack, and he spirals into the sand, hand pressed to the gash that¡¯s started bleeding. Rowe tries to pull Red back, even as the taller man stands his ground. ¡°Ya think yer clever?¡± Red storms up, his voice ragged. ¡°Ya don''t know me. It was a diff''rent time-" ¡°Is that what you told the dozens you sent back!?¡± Red kicks. But Menowin¡¯s faster. Rolling across with a fistful of sand. He launches it gleefully into the cowboy¡¯s face. ¡°RRARH!¡± Menowin slams into Red. Punching and clawing. Harriet pales as she watches blow after blow. ¡°I¡¯m tired of you thinking you¡¯re better!¡± Menowin shouts between a hit. ¡°I¡¯m tired of pretending..." WHAM! "... like we all have a CHOICE!¡± His final punch strikes Red¡¯s jaw. The cowboy stumbles back, crashing into the rocks, while a dizzy Menowin stumbles. He laughs. ¡°And...¡± He shakes his head, points. ¡°And you still call yourself an Unbound!" ¡°What would you have me do, Menowin?¡± The Black Prince interjects. ¡°Deny him the same second chance I offered you?¡± ¡°I¡¯d have you stick to your fucking word!¡± Menowin turns around. ¡°Though perhaps I shouldn¡¯t. You two are cuts of the same cloth, aren¡¯t you, milord? Rich, pale gadjo, play-acting as Jacobins!¡± From the ground, Red snarls. ¡°Stay back!" ¡°You think you''re like your God!" Menowin gets close to the Prince. ¡°With your prayers and your lecturing. But at least your God felt the lash! Am I wrong for wanting to follow people who have known a fucking sliver of my-" ¡°STOP!¡± Menowin halts. Harriet has rushed between him and Rowe, arms out, breathing heavy. She gives him a glowering stare, Pa¡¯s Springfield shaking on her back. ¡°Leave. Him. Alone.¡± At first, Menowin¡¯s rage doubles. But slowly, she watches his face warp into bemusement. He looks at Rowe, then her again, focusing on her bare arms. The many freckles. The moonlit skin. She gasps when he grabs her hair and launches her into the dirt. ¡°We should¡¯ve kept you quiet.¡± And he turns away from all three of them. Harriet sputters on the ground, lacerated and bruised. She grits her teeth as she watches his figure shrink, her hand reaching back¡­ ¡°Fireside.¡± She turns to see Rowe¡¯s raised hand. ¡°He''s not our enemy.¡± Red slowly climbs to his feet, the tiny town in the distance still glittering to life. Rowe¡¯s silent for some time, listening to the distant cheers caught on the wind. ¡°Eddards, when Menowin spoke of the owner¡¯s whores and booze¡­ was that true?¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± Red spits out some rogue blood. ¡°Berkeley¡¯s Station, I think it¡¯s called. Also owns the post office, the general store, an¡¯-¡± ¡°Does he frequent it?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a small town, Rowe,¡± Red replies. ¡°An¡¯ most of us are better than you at drinkin¡¯.¡± Rowe faintly smiles. The cowboy smiles back. ¡°And Fireside, tell me. Do you get stage fright? ¡°What?¡± Red cuts in before she can speak. ¡°The easiest way to reach a man who controls everything is to present him with something he doesn¡¯t.¡± Rowe points to the redhead. ¡°You¡¯ve seen her little tricks with the gun. If we make it a sort of spectacle-¡± ¡°No. Not what I¡¯m askin¡¯.¡± Red points. ¡°We¡¯re¡­ we¡¯re bringin¡¯ her!?¡± ¡°She wanted to join us, Josiah.¡± ¡°An¡¯ ya didn¡¯t ask me?¡± ¡°It¡¯s not your choice to make.¡± ¡°An¡¯ it ain¡¯t hers, either.¡± Red huffs. ¡°She can get hurt, Rowe." ¡°I ain¡¯t scared a¡¯ gettin'' hurt.¡± Harriet frowns. ¡°I know. That¡¯s the problem.¡± Red sighs. ¡°Ya can fill her head with yer ideas an¡¯ theories, Rowe. But she¡¯s¡­ what? Fourteen? I¡­ I ain¡¯t gonna stand-¡± If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. ¡°Then don¡¯t.¡± A voice from behind replies. ¡°Stay right up here. The rakli and I can do this alone." Harriet tenses before she turns around. Menowin¡¯s back, a bandage over his forehead, the howling wind chirring the bells that dot his clothes. Red looks ready to tear him apart, but Rowe is calm as ever. ¡°You would join her, Menowin?" ¡°Sure,¡± he shrugs. ¡°Dress her with a necklace, a skirt, a diklo. I start the crowd with some svatura." He rolls his hand. "And everyone comes to see the magic girl!" ¡°I don¡¯t wear skirts, Menowin.¡± Harriet scowls. ¡°Pants, then. It doesn¡¯t have to be authentic.¡± Menowin watches the Black Prince, clearly deep in thought. He smirks. ¡°You said you wanted a spectacle, Rowe. You won¡¯t find more than with two Gypsies.¡± Harriet doesn¡¯t like it. Grips her gun firmly so that none can see her shake. But she can tell Rowe is already swayed by the fact the is silent. She keeps forcing down the feeling that this is some sort of betrayal. ¡°Two conditions.¡± Red cuts in, drawing close to Harriet. ¡°One: Ya two ain¡¯t gonna be alone. Rowe an¡¯ I will be right behind. That a problem?¡± Menowin shrugs. ¡°Not if you can keep quiet for-" ¡°Good, cuz answerin¡¯ me is Condition Two.¡± Red frowns. ¡°Two weeks ago, ya called her unclean. Now, ya want her ta tag along, get her ta dress like ya! What gives, Menowin? What''s yer game?¡± ¡°Paradox, gadjo.¡± Menowin shuffles back and forth. ¡°Maybe I like that she¡¯s pulling her weight around. Maybe I want to crush her little dreams! It doesn¡¯t matter, does it?¡± He smiles, amber eyes flaring. Harriet feels something stir, like windchimes on the porch. ¡° She wants to come, and you want Silas Berkeley dead. So you¡¯ll just have to trust me.¡± ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 2004 She wakes as she always wakes. Suddenly, and without dreams. Harriet¡¯s in a bed. A nice one. Not hers. Her back is eased by the cushions, and the linens are soft on her skin. She blinks away the ceiling lights, already turned on, and perks up, defensive stance, when she hears the sounds of running water. For a single instant, she¡¯s in the wilderness. The mountains, the aspens, that strong, dry Western air. But then her eyes fan towards the windows. And she finds herself at the top of one of the tallest buildings in London. Glittering lights, passing dusk, all twinkling hundreds of yards beneath her feet. The lights cast reflections of the room she¡¯s in, too. The plaid covers, the wooden furniture, the ornate bathroom tiles. A horrid, skimpy outfit has been left on a hook by the closet door. Taunting her. She breathes. Instantly, her neck strains against that thick black choker. Weapons. She needs weapons. She could tear the leg off an armoire, or rip the faucet from the sink. But as she searches, Harriet''s gaze falls inevitably to a new feature on the bedroom door. Something on the handle. A keypad. Metal. Heavy. Blinking red. Harriet starts to curse, but her throat suddenly seizes. Right. Soteris must not have lifted that command. Hunger. It comes as quickly as she¡¯s gotten her bearings. Her arms shake, her face grows taut, and she can barely hold in her fangs. When¡¯s the last time she fed? A week ago? And after burning through all that aether. She frowns. Whatever. Soteris wants to be her Keeper? He can be the one to bloody deal with it. Pulling off the covers, Harriet¡¯s relieved to find herself in the same white outfit, layered as it is in red. She keeps trying to talk, tingling at the odd resistance it always builds in her throat. Eventually, she notices the ornate note, tied with red ribbons and adorned with gold lettering, left on the pillow beside hers. She tears the accessories to shreds. Fireside I will arrive at 2100 hours. You will be dressed and composed by that time. Failure will be disciplined like any breach of our contract. She scowls. I know what you want to do. Don¡¯t. You have not seen anything close to my worst, and while I enjoyed last night¡¯s game, I get bored very easily. With joy, your Keeper. Shitbird. She tears the letter in half. How this man¡¯s haughtiness survived the Court¡¯s elders is a complete mystery. Maybe it¡¯s what inevitably happens when someone who¡¯s been Kept for decades gets a sliver of real power. She considers refusing him, right there and then, but¡­ then what? He hits her? Screams at her? Orders her to do it again? Running¡¯s out. Fighting¡¯s out. So what options does she have? Passive resistance, for one. Moving slow. Playing dumb. Blanking out to let the windchimes take her. But that doesn¡¯t gain her a victory, so much as it delays his. And Soteris doesn¡¯t care. His control is absolute. He could move her like a puppet if he wanted to. Half the shit he does seems to be for sheer amusement. Fine. Harriet springs from the bed. She¡¯ll play. Not seriously, but enough to keep Mr. Ego satisfied. She thinks of Red and the Unbound. They¡¯ll tear through the city. Avenge Janet. Know she¡¯s alive and find her. They have to. In ten days, Polyphron Ltd. will have a scar on the concrete. Two weeks, at most. But in the meantime, she¡¯ll scout the field, and line her shot. Harriet smirks. They¡¯ve taken her freedom, but not her dignity. ¡­ ¡­ unless Soteris breaks her first. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Warm showers are one of the few modern luxuries that Harriet actually enjoys. She could spend hours breathing in the steam, reddening her skin, and listening to the windchimes. But it¡¯s harder to enjoy it when she¡¯s in a prison cell. Albeit, an extremely opulent one. She¡¯s poised, ears pricked to the door to Soteris¡¯ room. so precariously close to her naked body. It¡¯s nice to get the grime out of her hair, but since she can¡¯t find a release latch, she has to wash while still wearing the collar. The shower¡¯s as extravagant as expected, with tiles of gold and lapis lazuli. The shelves are filled with more hair and skin products than one of her caches is filled with guns. They¡¯re all for men, and they all carry ridiculous names. ''Flawless.'' ''Aesthete.'' ''Bolero.'' Only one seems feminine, and she curiously plucks it out. It¡¯s in Greek, with an image of a small pink flower. She pulls open the lid and sniffs. Citrusy, and extremely fragrant. The four zeroes on the tag make her head spin, but goad her to rewrite her original plan, which was to layer herself in whatever smelled closest to Lynx. Now she pours out half the fancy glass bottle, grinning as the liquid gold seeps through her fingers. She probably can¡¯t stop him from dolling her up, but she can bankrupt him while he does it. Crash! Harriet rears up, eyes wide. The hunger immediately makes the whispers of the Wilds loud in her mind. Whatever it was, it came from the other side of the door. Heavy footsteps, rattling items. Harriet slowly twists the faucet off. How tempted she is to believe it¡¯s an Unbound, come to the rescue. But she knows better. She steps slowly out of the shower, shakes her head like a dog, and swipes herself roughly with the towel. The whole time, her eyes focused on the¡­ undergarments¡­ she¡¯s left in the corner. Lace. Panties and a thin bra, with elegant little designs that happen to make large swathes of the skin beneath see-through. Harriet spent ten minutes pawing through her drawers, and couldn¡¯t find any better options. It¡¯s a step above being naked, but only just. Warily, she forces them on. Adjusting the straps with grit teeth, the fabric on her skin only making her migraine harsher. By the time she¡¯s staring at her scantily-clad self in the mirror, half of her vision is covered by white clouds. Ten days, she reminds herself. Two weeks at most. She barely opens the door, peeking out her head. Addana¡¯s slumped on the far wall, reading a thin, well-loved book. Her dark eyes look up for just an instant, but the threat in the gaze is clear. It¡¯s tempered quickly by the body that steps between them. A done-up girl in matching denim jacket and jeans. Harriet¡¯s eyes widen as she gives a shy smile. ¡°Oi, ¡®Arriet. Sleep well?¡± Astrid Traynor waves, revealing a thick black cast on her wrist. Harriet stares at the cast, then Astrid, then the cast again. A part of her feels guilty. Another still angry. But mostly, she can¡¯t help but wonder why the woman didn''t take a sick day. She clings to the door, sheepishly covering herself, searching Astrid¡¯s excessively chirpy face for a sense of vengeance or sadism or anything. But no. There is the girl just leans to and fro, bouncing with giddy. As if they both can¡¯t see the impact her head made in the plaster. ¡°What¡¯s the matter?¡± Astrid lifts an eyebrow. ¡°Cat gotcher tongue?¡± Harriet¡¯s cheeks glow red. The feeling brings her back to her earliest days with Rowe. When she couldn¡¯t speak, and she was treated like a kid. ¡°Awwww. First punishment, innit? Well, chin up, girl! Each one gets easier than the last!¡± Astrid beckons. ¡°Now, cah¡¯mon, cah¡¯mon! Addana¡¯s a mum, she¡¯s seen girls in their undies!¡± From the growl, Addana does not enjoy being included in the conversation, but Harriet forces herself out anyway. She hugs her arms, overwhelmed by a sense of cold she shouldn¡¯t be able to feel. ¡°Aww, lush, ¡®ose freckles!¡± Astrid stamps her feet. ¡°So cuuuuuute~!¡± Harriet looks at the ground. The adulation isn¡¯t helping. ¡°Well, at least we know everyfin¡¯ fits!¡± Astrid chuckles. ¡°Now, ¡®Arriet, the hair. What¡¯s your standard routine?¡± Routine? Harriet blinks her. ¡°You know,¡± Astrid gestures. ¡°Brush? Blow-dry? Maybe some curlers if you¡¯re¡­ no.¡± She shakes her head at Harriet¡¯s growing confusion. ¡°No, girl, seriously! You¡¯ve got, like, twenty-five inches! There¡¯s no way you¡¯re¡­ fuck, there is. Are you just air-drying it out!?¡± Harriet looks around the room. Yes? Why wouldn¡¯t she? It¡¯s not like long hair¡¯s a problem, anymore. Been decades since she last got fleas. ¡°Okay, okay, ooooookay.¡± Astrid rubs her eyes and loudly exhales. ¡°Damage control. ¡®Arriet, nod or shake. You ever painted your nails?¡± Harriet shakes her head. ¡°Put on lip gloss?¡± Shakes her head. ¡°Face masks? Heels? Pierced your ears?¡± Shake. Shake. Shake. ¡°Who are you?¡± Astrid throws up her arms. ¡°I¡­ look, Soteris told me you might need some assistance, innit, but this is a cosmetic Blitz. An actual fashion emergency! Who¡¯d you spend the last century wiff? The fahkin¡¯ squirrels!?¡± At that, Harriet genuinely smiles, and nods her head furtively. ¡°Oh, now you get cheeky?¡± Astrid huffs, eyes on the clock. ¡°Well guess what, Chip an¡¯ Dale? Boss only gave us forty-five minutes to make ¡®is¡­¡± She draws a circle around Harriet¡¯s face. ¡°... business-friendly.¡± She turns around, and lifts something from the bed that makes Harriet shrivel when she sees. A massive cosmetic bag, overflowing with fake glass and black plastic. There¡¯s a dozen different tools she¡¯s barely aware of, and a dozen more she can¡¯t even name. "And while I will say your natural¡¯s halfway there¡­¡± Astrid smirks. ¡°... I didn¡¯t get Lighted by not tryin¡¯.¡± ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The next forty-five minutes are some of the most harrowing in Harriet''s... recent memory. Once again, Astrid Traynor makes liberal use of her Nocturnal super-speed. But it¡¯s one thing to watch those blurred hands work a TV remote; when those hands are whizzing across her face, it¡¯s something else entirely. Harriet feels her cheeks get pelted. Her lips smear. Her eyebrows pluck out. And through it all, Astrid¡¯s touchiness reaches a whole new stage. There¡¯s never an explanation, never any asking. She just rambles on, pressing on the redhead''s cheeks until her lips are puckered, or lifting her eyelids up to keep the poor girl from blinking. The fact that Harriet can¡¯t talk, and that Astrid¡¯s found a way to play Britney over the loudspeakers, only makes it all worse. ¡°So I had to go to the doctor¡¯s to get dis cast, yeah?¡± Astrid shouts over the music. ¡°And urrrgghhh, the hassle! Guess which emergency room ¡®appened to have no late-night openin¡¯s?¡± Harriet¡¯s eyes flick to Chiagozie¡¯s reflection in the mirror. Still leaned back. Still reading. Still utterly unwilling to engage. ¡°So here I am, cowerin¡¯ in the one room wiffout windows, listenin¡¯ to this nurse prattle on, an¡¯ bein¡¯ all like, ¡®Yeah, yeah, no dancin¡¯ doc, no worries there. But hahaha, you know, just between us, would you mind sparin¡¯ me a FAHKIN'' UMBRELLA!?" Harriet twitches. A second smooth texture is being pressed against her lips. More lipstick? Why? Didn¡¯t they already do this!? ¡°¡®Ey say the Court runs the gov¡¯ment, right? So why aren¡¯t there more people on the fahkin¡¯ night shifts?¡± Astrid sighs, reaching into her bag. ¡°I mean, seriously. We own half the country¡¯s wealth, but can¡¯t spend it cuz the shops are closed!? What kinda system issat! An¡¯ you KNOW what those geezer vamps are gonna say. ¡®You don¡¯t need healthcare, Astrid! You can heal!¡¯ Well okay, smart-arse, just wait. Only takes one fahkin¡¯ bloke to bite some poor sod wiff AIDS, and oh shit! Looks like you can''t heal from -¡± Harriet rears back with a hiss. Her eyes gravitate to the metal wand in Astrid¡¯s hand, bending the air with its heat. Harriet feels her fangs slide out, bearing her nails¡­ ¡°Oh, hush!¡± Astrid smacks the top of her head with her good hand. ¡°It¡¯s just a fahkin¡¯ straightenah.¡± She pushes Harriet back into her seat, forcing her to endure the Wilds-inducing sensation of flames across her locks. The inability to speak is... frustrating in front of others. She hadn¡¯t realised how much her voice could refuse or resist. But Soteris had. And it burns something inside her to know that this was exactly what he intended. ¡°Okay, but, like, I¡¯m not meanin¡¯ to give you a bad impression of the elders, right? The Court¡¯s great! I love the Court. Sure, there¡¯s a few downers, a few out-theres. But you¡¯re gonna make so many new friends! And - ergh!¡± Harriet suddenly feels Astrid let go, and hears the fiddling of plastic above. ¡°Cah¡¯mon, you little¡­ stupid¡­ how¡¯d you even get¡­¡± She''s struggling with the straightener. The handle''s gotten wedged in her cast. Suddenly, Astrid yelps. Harriet¡¯s climbed up the seat, eyeing the instrument close. Addana springs forward, heavy footsteps echoing on the floor. When Harriet grabs the plastic, the younger girl starts panicking. ¡°Wait, wait, wait!¡± She can hear the shake in her voice. ¡°¡®Arriet, don¡¯t-¡± Tch. Barely the hint of a sound. "... oh." Harriet twists the straightener around, her arm half-wrapped by the cord. She sets it down, and studies again the black cast she''s holding. Right over what should be Astrid''s wrist. Astrid looks at her like a frightened animal, until they both hear the click of Addana''s baton. ¡°That¡¯s it! Stay away-¡± ¡°Addana, stop!¡± Astrid shouts. ¡°Stand down!¡± The Oathsworn growls. ¡°Avery gave-¡± ¡°I know. But... please.¡± Astrid sighs. ¡°I can handle it.¡± Harriet¡¯s barely paying attention to their words, instead bringing her face closer to the object that contradicts them. She''s never seen one like this up close before, much less explored it with her fingers. It¡¯s surprisingly hard, and bumpy, and lifeless. Cut off from all of Astrid''s buoyant and unnatural warmth. ¡°¡®Eyyy.¡± Astrid kneels down, just as Harriet¡¯s face starts to twist. ¡°¡®Arriet¡­ are you worried about dis?" No. She isn¡¯t. She shouldn¡¯t be. Harriet looks away, cursing the forced silence again. Astrid¡¯s¡­ Astrid¡¯s a crook. A Court crony. She hurt her, and she¡¯s lying to her, even now. But... ¡°Awwww, don¡¯t be like ¡®at.¡± Astrid grabs her shoulder, her voice soft. ¡°Just a wrist, right? ¡®Ese fings fix up fast, an¡¯ you know me! I love a challenge! Always wanted to try a handicap on me good hand!" Astrid wilts, seeing the way Harriet still can¡¯t meet her eyes. She leans further. ¡°You were scared, right?¡± Harriet inhales. The way she smiles. Her eyes flashing bright. Something she can''t put down a sight. ¡°I would be,¡± Astrid nods. ¡°And people like us¡­ we do scary shit when we¡¯re scared. So no hard feelings, yeah?¡± She¡¯s broken a hundred arms. Blown the brains out of thousands. But this isn¡¯t like hurting FitzGerald. Or even like hurting Cappie. ¡°Cah¡¯mon,¡± Astrid slowly spins the chair until she''s turned towards. ¡°Let¡¯s get back to makin¡¯ you gorgeous.¡± +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Eight minutes to spare. She¡¯s had her hair brushed, her nails trimmed, her skin marked by a dozen different tools a hundred different ways. ¡°We¡¯ve gotta do somefin¡¯ ¡®bout ¡®ose ears,¡± Astrid remarks to herself. ¡°Bossman¡¯s gonna want piercin¡¯s¡­ but for now¡­¡± She swivels Harriet back towards the mirror. Makes little jazz hands. ¡°Ta-daaaaa!¡± Her breath would have been stolen, if Harriet could breathe. Her face is a canvas, as daunting in each part as it is in the whole. Her hair loops past her shoulders, clean, lush, curled and vibrant. Thick black liners make her blue eyes spark. Her cheeks and lips are a subtle red, just enough for one close to notice. And forget pale skin, or corpse-grey pallor. Whatever Astrid has caked on her face makes it look smooth, bright, and¡­ ¡­ alive. For the first time in a hundred years, Harriet looks like she''s living. ¡°You know what I¡¯d call ¡®at, luv?¡± Astrid wipes blood-sweat from her brow, folding her arm. ¡°Pretty spic an¡¯ span.¡± Harriet slowly reaches up to her eyelids, letting the dark shadow stain her fingers. She blinks once, twice, looking at it like a mirage, waiting for it to shimmer away. But it doesn¡¯t. It never does. ¡°Arright, last port. Want anyfin¡¯ changed?¡± Changed? No, never. But yes, everything. Her desire to look on is only barely stronger than the urge to scurry away. She feels so many things, too many things, all at once. Stunned. Disbelieving. Inspired. But more and more, as she feels the smoothness of her hair, sees the blush in her cheeks... Fear. She can only feel fear. ¡°Next time, I¡¯ll start teachin¡¯ you how to do dis for yourself. Nuffin¡¯ big, don¡¯t worry! Just the mascara, but consider it a favour for-¡± Astrid stops as Harriet¡¯s breathing picks up, louder and louder. Harriet¡¯s gripping her arms, her eyes looking past the mirror, at the button-down and skirt. ¡°Oh, I''m flattered.¡± Astrid completely misreads the room. ¡°You''re speechless!¡± But when the outfit comes on, even Astrid goes quiet. It''s so tight that Harriet needs help with all the zippers and strings. While Astrid works, the Unbound looks in panic at Addana. The baton now dangling from the woman¡¯s hip, with the brass knuckles, the radio, the cattle prod. There isn¡¯t a gun in sight. And Harriet still considers taking her chances. Eventually, there¡¯s nothing between herself and the mirror, but what Harriet sees is near unrecognisable. The shirt squeezes her chest, exposing bits of the lace bra and a freckle-filled cleavage she didn¡¯t know she had. The skirt is worse, revealing thick curves, accentuated by unveiled thighs. Add the collar, and the hair, and the makeup, and she looks like something between a secretary and a stripper. And that¡¯s before Astrid sits her on the bed, and coils black tights around her legs that attach to the garters. ¡°So, ¡®bout the heels¡­¡± Astrid¡¯s trying her best to ignore Harriet¡¯s paling face. ¡°Boss-man likes ¡®em big, but I talked him into startin'' small. Three-inches. You can do ¡®at, right? It¡¯s just balancin'' on little pieces of wood.¡± It¡¯s not at all like balancing on little pieces of wood, but Harriet lacks the voice to say that. Instead, she quietly whimpers as her feet get squeezed into the shoes, unaided by the constant rubs of her shin that Astrid must think are comforting. Click. Harriet starts. Her eyes rocket to the straps in her feet, now adorned with tiny padlocks. ¡°¡®Ey, ¡®ey!¡± Astrid raises her hands as Harriet starts to stand. ¡°Just¡­¡± Astrid hesitates when she sees Harriet''s fear. Her eyes twitch, then rocket to the floor. ¡°He... he insisted we add more security.¡± Security? Things start to connect. Harriet has no experience with heels, no training. Soteris has to know, and Astrid hasn''t offered. It will take most of her focus to walk, much less run. And if she can¡¯t take them off... Addana¡¯s sudden movement turns Harriet''s attention upward. Harriet¡¯s eyes dim at the sight of the object in her hands. A six-inch chain connected to little cuffs. They¡¯re padded on the inside, but outwards, the same black leather as her collar. The windchimes roar, now. Astrid''s hands are balled into tiny fists. ¡°Two options, Yank,¡± Addana spits out before Harriet can think too long. ¡°I can make this easy, or you can make this hard.¡± Harriet opens her lips, revealing her fangs, but the sight just makes Addana laugh. She¡¯s about to kick back when she feels weight by her feet. Astrid, hugging them. The Allod still can''t meet Harriet''s eyes. But seems to have no problem pinning down her legs. Breathing heavily, Harriet offers her wrists, recoiling inside as she feels the tightening leather. The black mixes with the white of the clouds. There''s no utility in them. She can''t stretch or reach or even put her hands to her sides. In the distance, they all hear the sound of an opening door. Astrid lifts Harriet to her feet, ignoring her desperate twitches back. The chains ring with each step, and the heels stab into her feet. Harriet¡¯s face reddens, and she breathlessly sounds out words she can¡¯t speak. ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± Astrid whispers. Beeping from the other side. ¡°He¡¯s gonna love you.¡± The door swings, the apartment comes into view, and Harriet is standing only inches away from her silent, waiting Keeper. The second he sees her, hunger fills his eyes. ¡°Look at you.¡± He seizes her face. "A real Court woman." He presses her cheeks, tilting her head, and ignoring her cries. Harriet wobbles in the heels and skirt, grabbing his wrist with her chained hands. He leans closer and closer, taking a deep waft her hair. Cyclamens. She''s constricted. Claustrophobic. Terrified. Exactly as he wants. ¡°Tell me, Fireside.¡± He pulls back with a grin. ¡°Do you still feel like a killer?¡± Chapter 11: Human Loyalty, Part II Harriet tries to step back. Snap at him. Leave any reply all. But her responses have each been stolen. Pushed down, one by one, by the man currently gloating over her. ¡°She¡¯s beautiful.¡± Soteris holds her face for a moment more, twisting it to and fro, before turning to Astrid. ¡°Well done.¡± ¡°Heh...¡± Astrid shuffles about, fiddling with her scrunchie. ¡°It¡¯s nuffin¡¯, boss. Really, all her." Soteris barely hears. With his other hand, he''s grabbed Harriet¡¯s collar, casually gazing at the ink-black runes. ¡°And Chiagozie, were there any-¡± ¡°None.¡± Astrid cuts him off. Addana perks up, clearly not expecting. But Astrid gives her a look and continues. ¡°We was just peachy.¡± Soteris doesn''t care enough to inquire. He''s squishing Harriet''s cheeks, watching them slowly turn red. ¡°Kept, I must say I¡¯m insulted. You haven¡¯t offered me a very respectful greeting.¡± She¡¯s trembling at this point, and watching him warily. Held like this, dressed like this... she focuses on the heels stabbing into her feet. Dreams about falling back. ¡°No curtsy, no deference, and all this... twitching. It won¡¯t do. You don''t want to mislead others into thinking you don''t enjoy this, do you?¡± He smiles, steps back. ¡°But tonight, I¡¯ll be lenient. How about you just greet me the way you greeted your last superior.¡± Her face falls. Her eye twitches as she glares at him. ¡°What was it called?¡± He pretends to consider. ¡°The Unbound¡¯s Sign?¡± Her breathing picks up. She looks at the cuffs, then him, then the cuffs again. Astrid doesn¡¯t know what¡¯s going on, but is clearly not comfortable. Addana¡¯s back to her book, a thin smile on her face. ¡°Fireside¡­¡± Soteris¡¯ voice turns tense. ¡°Are you going to force me to order you?¡± The windchimes scream. Harriet lifts her hands to sky, eyes on the ground, biting her lip. She follows the familiar motion, elbows bent, then arms apart. Ten more days. Ten more days. But she can¡¯t finish. She pulls her arms back again and again and again. But they never reach the position. She never snaps her chains. Visibly pleased, Soteris pulls her arms down for her. ¡°I like this Fireside. Silent. Obedient.¡± She¡¯s staring listlessly at the floor as he pets her forehead. ¡°Easy to reach.¡± Suddenly, Soteris stops, just as white clouds start to form. ¡°Astrid, how¡¯s the hand?" ¡°Oh!¡± Astrid nervously chuckles. ¡°It¡¯s fine!¡± ¡°Nonsense. Does it still hurt? Do you need help?" It''s bizarre to hear concern in his voice. "I can¡¯t imagine the terror-¡± ¡°I¡¯m used to terror, boss.¡± Astrid shrugs. ¡°Nuffin¡¯ a bit of ket won¡¯t fix.¡± Harriet¡¯s mostly checked out. She''s watching their lips, but nothing more. The windchimes are too alluring. ¡°Tell you what," Soteris replies. "Go to the Orphean tonight. My tab. I¡¯ll need you in top shape for the conference tomorrow, and fine or not, you¡¯ve earned the feed.¡± ¡°Boss¡­¡± Astrid scratches the back of her neck. ¡°¡®A-¡¯At¡¯s generous of you, really, but¡­¡± ¡°But what?¡± Her eyes flick to Harriet¡¯s. Then back to him. ¡°¡®Arriet ain¡¯t got her ears pierced!¡± More nervous laughter. ¡°A-An¡¯ I know ¡®at was a pretty big deal for you, so I was gonna-¡± ¡°That won¡¯t be necessary. I¡¯ll be using her.¡± And just like that, the white clouds take over. Soteris pulls her close, his arm looped over her shoulders. He eyes Astrid down. Challenging her. Astrid¡¯s nose curls like a rabbit¡¯s. ¡°Right. Orphean, then. Cheers!¡± Before she can saunter off in her heels, Soteris calls. ¡°And if you run into the ros¨ªn-¡± ¡°Yeah, yeah, boss. I call-¡± ¡°Astrid.¡± She¡¯s nearly out of sight when she turns around. Soteris offers a small grin. ¡°You can still call me ''Soteris.''" There¡¯s a brief hesitation, before she opens the door. ¡°Got it.¡± If Harriet could peer through the fog, she''d see that Astrid is smiling, too. ¡°That woman¡­¡± Soteris shakes his head. ¡°As if signing a contract means we¡¯ll just-¡± There''s a pause, before suddenly, Harriet squeaks. The windchimes and white clouds snap away as Soteris clutches her shoulder and rattles her. ¡°I know what you¡¯re trying to do.¡± He hisses, getting in her face. ¡°Don¡¯t bother. Those little games belong to the old Harriet. I won¡¯t be playing them. And if you keep trying to leave your body..." She shrivels. Soteris has grabbed her ass. Kneading it. Ignoring the twitch. ¡°... I''ll keep giving reminders." He stares at her again. The lace sticking through her shirt. The stockings on her legs. She''s frantic, looking for exits. But he uses that distraction to pull her in, squeezing her with a hug. Her hands fall on his chest. There''s nowhere else to put them. ¡°You can stay here, Chiagozie. In this state, I don¡¯t think she¡¯s much of a threat to anyone.¡± She squirms beneath his arms. Eventually, Soteris gets bored, turns her around. He prods her forward, back into the strange penthouse, his hand held precariously down her back. ¡°What I would give to hear your thoughts right now.¡± He whispers to her. ¡°How do you like it? The heels? The chains? Being done up like a Astrid''s doll? For you, it must be..." He reaches past her skirt and touches her thigh. Just to watch her flinch. ¡°... crushing." She doesn¡¯t look at him. Just focuses on one step, then the next, squeezing her folded hands. As they enter the main hall, with its rows of desks and walls of glass, Soteris doesn¡¯t seem to mind. ¡°With the conference so soon, I spent some time this evening considering what we should call ourselves. When you can speak, of course.¡± Conference? What conference? Is he bringing her to meetings? ¡°Keeper and Kept are classics, yes, but mine shouldn¡¯t be associated with something so common.¡± Harriet gasps as they stop. Soteris grabs her wrists, thrusting them over the back of his neck so that she¡¯s forced to look up in an awkward embrace of him. ¡°I¡¯m still debating what I¡¯ll call you. Retainer? Attendant? Pet?¡± He beams. ¡°So many options.¡± She starts pulling on his neck, hoping to knee him in the face. But something stops her muscles short. The magic seems to know her intent. ¡°But I know exactly what you should call me. It serves well enough in professional and private environments. Sir.¡± His eyes start to spark. ¡°Can you say it? Quickly?¡± ¡°Yes, sir,¡± her lips reply, the voice utterly deadpan. Soteris chuckles, rubbing her arms with both of his hands. ¡°See? We¡¯re already perfect.¡± He undoes her hands only to push her along, so harshly that she nearly stumbles. She can see the minibar in the distance, and, close to it, the lift. ¡°Come on,¡± he says. ¡°We have people waiting.¡± +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ By the time their lift doors open to the twentieth floor, Harriet¡¯s barely keeping the tears in. In the ¡®privacy¡¯ of the space, his groping has only intensified. Whenever she lifts her hands to stop it, he only forces them back down. Now he lingers on her hips, her neck, her thigh. And because she¡¯s shaken from vanishing whenever she tries, there¡¯s no option but to feel every tug. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she knows it doesn¡¯t make sense. Nocturni are corpses. They shouldn¡¯t have his... urges. But Soteris continues to defy the norm, no matter how disgustingly. Even his touch is warm. She gets the distinct feeling the restrictiveness of her outfit is the only thing keeping him from ripping it off her. ¡°Remember,¡± he starts as they step off. ¡°In front of others, I expect professionalism. I have an image you need to uphold. The tantrums stay between us.¡± Of course. Harriet mirthlessly smiles. Clearly, she¡¯s the one having problems with professionalism. ¡°Don¡¯t mind the mess.¡± Soteris opens a door, to a breakroom packed with arcades, fridges, a ping-pong table. ¡°The veneficii are an odd bunch, and they all have their-¡± Harriet blinks. Levitating, only an inch from her eye, is a tiny plastic grey brick, with a glowing blue aura. Thousands more float about the room. ¡°... hobbies.¡± They¡¯re standing in a constellation of Legos. The whole structure moves constantly, bricks joining and unjoining, little figures walking along paths that form before them. There¡¯s a hum through it all, like a ceiling fan. She watches tiny doors open and close, spires form, little cars swirl past. In time, they all churn towards the same direction, the bricks merging faster, the structures growing taller, until they¡¯ve fully formed on a cheap plastic table. Her eyes widen at the final product; the fountain, the pillars, a replica of the building they stand in. A lighter flicks to life right near its top. ¡°Ocean blue on rocks of silver. Good evening, Fireside." Randall turns, the flame licking his cigarette. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. "I see you¡¯re not pleased to join us.¡± She watches him do a double take, those glowing eyes burning holes through her clothes. Harriet shrinks back, her cheeks growing hot, the cuffs pulled as far as possible to her sides. Soteris watches her, glowing with pride. ¡°I told you I could make her docile, Randall.¡± He pats her back. ¡°Impressed?¡± The Veneficii stares at Soteris for an awkwardly long time. For most of it, his expression is entirely blank, but Harriet watches his eyebrows slowly crease, and his lips form a frown. ¡°Not exactly my choice of words.¡± Randall thrusts his arms, and three plastic chairs glow with his aura before yanking back. Soteris drags her forward, seemingly unfazed. As she stumbles into her seat and experiences her clothes'' new tightness across her chest, she¡¯s greeted by a cigarette pack. Randall flicks a filter out with a cold, grey thumb. ¡°Go on.¡± He says robotically. ¡°You roll them quite well.¡± Her eyes shift towards her Keeper, and she bites her lip. Soteris'' chair was set between her and Avery¡¯s, but, unsurprisingly, he''s dragged it to get closer to her. Randall¡¯s hand hasn¡¯t moved. ¡°Awfully quiet today.¡± ¡°Fireside is experiencing the consequences of her insolence.¡± Soteris sits a little taller. There¡¯s a pause. With his pallor, it feels like Randall¡¯s simply frozen. ¡°And you don¡¯t think that muting her could impact our meeting?¡± Soteris frowns. ¡°Discipline comes first.¡± Randall¡¯s eyes lower lower past her chest, to the awkwardly cuffed hands. He closes his pack and sits back down. "Clearly." Manila folders flit through the air, their contents spilling onto the table, or folding directly into Randall¡¯s hand. The scent of his smoking permeates the room. ¡°Well, we¡¯ve all made our introductions. I see no reason to review yesterday¡¯s meeting. Though, Soteris, I was curious about the conference¡¯s progress-¡± ¡°I¡¯ve gotten calls from all of our prospective customers. Agents are in their airports now, if not on flight already.¡± Randall looks up. "All fifty-four firms?" Soteris smiles, and lifts his hands. Three seconds. Randall scowls. ¡°Our venue can¡¯t fit fifty-four firms.¡± ¡°Working on it.¡± Two seconds. Randall sighs and waves his hand. Just like the folder, a small notepad inches from a cabinet on the wall. Harriet watches its voyage before it lands on her side. A pen nestling right next to it. ¡°As you¡¯ve just heard, we¡¯ll be unveiling Project Hestia to potential investors tomorrow,¡± Randall explains. ¡°I understand that your orientation has been cut quite short, so if there are any lingering questions-¡± She snatches the notepad and scrawls across an open page. With her hands in cuffs, it¡¯s an annoying and cumbersome hassle. But in time, she turns it his way. Who are you? Despite everything, Harriet tries her best to look like a threat. Four seconds. Randall shrugs. ¡°Not your enemy, for one. Once you¡¯ve learned of our project, I think you¡¯ll find that our interests are quite aligned.¡± ¡°And what would that project be?¡± ¡°Even we do not entirely know its scope. That depends enormously on you.¡± Randall rises from his seat, pacing, his arms behind his back. ¡°My kind alone are tasked with understanding the truths of our powers, of our race. We have gotten good at uncovering those truths. Your past wasn¡¯t unknown to the Veneficii because it was well-hidden, but rather because none of us had previously cared to glance.¡± Randall grows stern. ¡°But in the Nocturni¡¯s hour of need, I have dug. I have found powers our sources cannot easily explain. All walkers of the night can, to some extent, bend matter through their aether. But to snap locks out of existence? To form brick walls from thin air¡­¡± ¡°Don¡¯t speak too fondly, Randall.¡± Soteris butts in. ¡°She couldn¡¯t snap herself out." Harriet gives a violent glare at that. Soteris only grins. ¡°Perhaps,¡± Randall nods. ¡°But its uniqueness is worth recalling. I am not alone in finding it odd that this¡­ Paradox¡­ has only ever been recorded in two beings. One, a teenager, born four thousand miles away from our home. And the other, a Traveller, of which we know nothing except that he Lighted the former.¡± Traveller? Harriet smirks. How he''d love to hear that. ¡°There is clearly a glue that binds you two.¡± Randall frowns. ¡°He knew it. I think you know it, too.¡± Harriet takes her notepad back, writes. He never said much. ¡°But he must have said something. We do not per se inherit our getter''s powers. We are not Sunwalker''s line. So do you really think I¡¯ll believe that he transformed you, and your powers matched his, on a whim?¡± Her pencil stalls. So many factors at play, and not at all helped that he¡¯s asking her to go back centuries to remember. For one, she¡¯s surprised that Randall would so willingly show his hand. They know nothing, she knows anything, and he¡¯s practically told her that that gives her cards. But¡­ how much is anything? God knows she asked Menowin these questions a hundred times, only to get blocked again and again by that same stupid phrase. ¡®Paradox.¡¯ ¡®Paradox.¡¯ ¡®Paradox.¡¯ Somehow, she guesses that if Book Boy hears that answer, he won¡¯t share her getter¡¯s amusement. And, of course, even if she knew more, that wouldn¡¯t change how much she wants to share. From her position, it¡¯s not great form to convince her Keepers of her ¡®unique values.¡¯ She wants to be tossed away. Pencil still in hand, she writes out another question. What do I lose if I don¡¯t tell you? ¡°Beyond discipline?¡± Randall leans the table. ¡°Every Nocturni, Unbound or not, that you¡¯ve ever met or cared about will die.¡± She stares at the paper, suddenly still. Randall watches for a moment, then adds. ¡°Red clay baking in the light green sands. Listen, Harriet. I know a part of you believes me.¡± Soteris starts tapping his foot. Disgruntled. ¡°Why are we bothering with these theatrics, Randall?¡± Randall''s eyebrows lift. ¡°Am I the one being theatrical?¡± Harriet snickers. Soteris takes it as well as one would expect. ¡°We¡¯ve seen her limits, when she thinks she''s facing death. Her trick with the Ares proves it can be digital. What more testing could we need?" ¡°And here I thought the technology expert would understand the need for quality.¡± Randall scowls. ¡°Especially since I imagine you''ll use Hestia to resolve tomorrow''s venue problem.¡± ¡°Again. Performs well under pressure." Harriet¡¯s only half listening to them, focusing instead on the notepad. The windchimes trickle in with the memories. Pushed to the dirt. A knife at her throat. Hugs and curses and laughter. With only half her mind, she grabs her pencil, remembering the words in a foreign tongue, the scratchings he made in the sand. ¡°The Veneficii have a process, Chrysanthou-¡± ¡°And we''d invent nothing if we followed them!" ¡°It is one thing to build flashing gates, and another to bend space-time!¡± Randall''s more animated than she''s ever seen. ¡°Are you not aware of the damage she could cause? To the markets, to the Court, to reality itself!? Such powers demand study. Caution, research and time.¡± ¡°And do you think the market will wait for that? Or close our one and only window?" Soteris stands, too, his fists on the table. "You do not know the mortals like I do, Avery. Six months is a decade in their time. One delay, and we¡¯ve lost forever the chance to say we''re ahead!" ¡°Cut them, then.¡± Randall shrugs. ¡°We do not need mortals from Osaka and Shenzhen and Seoul. You have every resource right here!¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t become Sovereign just to sell myself to Caedmon-¡± ¡°But you already have.¡± Randall exhales. ¡°That¡¯s why I¡¯m here.¡± Soteris grips the table, so hard the plastic squeaks. He glares at Randall, fangs filing out from his grit teeth. ¡°Verdant greens on the blood red ash.¡± Randall replies. ¡°And where would you be without him?¡± Whap! Harriet slams the notepad down, interrupting both men. Randall turns, looks at it, only to find a sheet filled with wayward lines and shading. It often spills over, spots in the table where Harriet marked it. He lifts it up, pale eyes scanning. Circles. Large and short, untouched and intersecting. In the centre of it all, between a hand''s closed thumb and forefinger, a single eye. With two caruncles. Neither left nor right. ¡°He... showed this?¡± Randall¡¯s voice goes soft. ¡°What did he call it?¡± She mouths the words out. Just nonsense, to her. But the notepad in Randall¡¯s hand trembles, and she can¡¯t help but see the bits of aether sparking all around. "Randall?" Soteris is clearly incensed to not know what¡¯s going on. ¡°Spit it out!" ¡°We need to speak.¡± He looks at Soteris. ¡°Alone. Immediately.¡± ¡°You don''t think Fireside ought to know-" Randall storms out of the room, taking only the cigarettes and lighter with him. The Legos sway to and fro in his absence. Soteris blinks as the door is slammed shut, turning to Harriet with a sneer. ¡°And here I thought you were uncivil.¡± He shakes his head, and marches after him. Harriet sits when he''s gone, watching the door''s new keypad blink red, then listening to the ticking of the clock. He''s left her silent. Alone. And in chains. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The balcony gardens on the 29th floors are normally a calm space. It was built for the employees, with wicker chairs and soft cushions and a tiki bar on either end. But none come at night, and when the winds didn¡¯t howl and storm clouds couldn¡¯t be seen, he would spend hours here, among the foliage and the glass guards, swaying with the trees. Few birds flew this high, and insects were unknown, leaving only the sounds of distant traffic and air travel to penetrate this little realm. But now, even they fall silent to the soft hum of ten thousand runes, their sigils built atop each other, showering him in pale lights. His fortress. His tapestry. Wind strengthens his cigarette¡¯s flame, because Randall Avery allows it to strengthen. Every person, every object, is his to invite or expel, so long as aether burns in his veins. It is not effortless; he can tell by the way the wind cools his warm body. But it has been built over hours of ritual, decades of study. With a flick of his arm, the gate opens. Instantly, cool rains pours around him. London comes to life, the roars and whispers of three million. And, shortly after, one of the black masses nears. A raven, larger than ravens should be. It soars about, studying, scouting, before it decides to swoop up and surge down. Randall waits, letting it get larger, and larger, and- He closes his hand. The runes return. Beyond the door opening behind him, he''s bathed again in silence. ¡°Avery," Soteris storms up. "I''m warning you." Randall Avery grabs a cigarette from his pack, and turns around to watch the colours before him. They spill out in a living canvas. Merging and weaving and billowing up like solar flares. He studies them all, unwilling to act before he knows the exact mixture. They others call it a curse. A malfunction in his Lighting, a defect of excess aether. But in the Soul Sight, Randall Avery sees only a gift. To mortals, emotion has no home. It exists in language and tone and gesture and eyes, imperfect. Misleading. But to him¡­ Emotion is no mystery. He sees them on their sleeves. "Do not challenge me in front of the Kept again. She watches. She hears." What does he see in Soteris Chrysanthou? Red-clay mud. Fields of black. Whirring grass cut by silver scythes. Rage. Envy. Randall slowly moves his dead lips. ¡°Your authority is challenged too easily.¡± ¡°She is searching for weaknesses,¡± Soteris continues. ¡°In you, in me, in the very building." Randall is used to lavender. Ripened grapes, an unfashionable dress. Heather in the gardens, a contemptuous gaze. There will be truth in Soteris'' words, but he speaks them from wounded pride. Pride Randall will not engage with. ¡°Any slip, she¡¯ll use to exploit! So if you second-guess me again-¡± ¡°Fireside is Veneficii.¡± The Poisoned Ones are not supposed to lose themselves to emotion. From the moment they are reborn, they are taught their minds are tools, no different than their bodies, all machines for the aether. To be used and bent and rebuilt as the Court and themselves demand it. Yet still, he clings to the pieces. Smoking, for instance; a habit he never stopped, despite not needing the air to breathe it, or having to use levitus to force the tar back out from his lungs. Similarly, he can feel excitement in these words, a smug anticipation to watch this arrogant Sovereign be dismayed. But as the seconds pass, Randall¡¯s face shifts. The colours don¡¯t change. ¡°You knew?¡± Soteris stays silent, but smirks. The Poisoned One flares. ¡°Why wasn¡¯t I told?¡± ¡°I was hoping we could avoid this conversation.¡± ¡°Avoid it? Forget Project Hestia, forget your pride. She is not merely Veneficii, she is something..." He stops, remembering the Code. "... The Court must know. She must be placed in a Full-¡± Soteris chuckles. The lightness in his voice makes Randall¡¯s aether sizzle. ¡°Soteris. It is the law.¡± ¡°Then like all bad laws, I will ignore it.¡± Soteris moves past him, settling on the railing. ¡°I do not expect you to understand. You only know what was left to you by your own ¡®Full Keeping.¡¯¡± Randall growls, something unspoken pulling at the back of his mind. ¡°It is not ignorance, but wisdom. We do not perform Full Keepings to be unjust or cruel. We perform them because they are the only system that works." ¡°So say all men who find themselves on top.¡± ¡°We have powers humans weren¡¯t built to comprehend, Soteris. A Full Keeping deals with this imbalance." ¡°And creates a new one with its power!" Soteris shakes his head. "Fireside is mine, and that makes her an asset as much as an output. She did not slaughter hundreds without talents you risk squandering!" ¡°And saying these words risks our executions!¡± Randall sighs, collecting himself. ¡°I am not at liberty to explain, but her powers are more than aether gone rogue. They are constructed. And right now, uncontrolled!" ¡°Your training will help her control them.¡± ¡°My training will only strengthen it! You might be able to cow her now, Soteris, but what if the Paradox breaks those bonds!?¡± ¡°It won¡¯t.¡± ¡°What if somebody breaks them for her?¡± ¡°Who would?¡± ¡°Them.¡± Randall points past the runes. ¡°It has been three days since I destroyed that van. Addana has yet to find a body or ash. Blackbird lives.¡± For once, Soteris¡¯ colours turn productive. Sapphires on the forest floor. ¡°That is a setback. The New Sun would be more receptive to us if I brought her the corpse of her rogue Kept." ¡°She is dangerous. And she will not let Fireside go.¡± "And that will make her recapture easy." ¡°Have you lost your mind!?¡± Randall grips the railing. ¡°To make war with the Unbound-¡± ¡°We would not make war. They''re relics. Ghosts of a bygone age. They had their chance, once, and never again. One day, Fireside will thank me for freeing her from them.¡± Randall scowls. ¡°Even a relic can still kill us.¡± ¡°Only if they have the imagination to see it." Yellows are blazing. Bolder and brighter than the sky-like blues. "Any Sovereign would tell you to fear them." Soteris rolls his eyes. "Fearing them is beneath me.¡± He looks down, swiping the lighter from Randall¡¯s pocket. He lights a cigarette of his own, staring into what, for him, must be nothing but a bright skyline. ¡°Do you remember why you came to me, Randall? Why I was asked to lead Hestia?¡± ¡°Because you were the only Sovereign who would listen-¡± ¡°Because I alone exist in this century. They do not. Even those who claim to be fighting for change.¡± Soteris exhales. The smoke carries on the wind, fizzling on the runes like boiling water. ¡°London was once a city of flowing blood. Now it is lethargic, streets of clogged arteries. The Unbound are no different than the elders they fight, the mortals they feed from. Obstacles, parasites, millennia-old walls built to keep out all those with talent. Not for tradition, or equality, or the morals they claim, or the laws they pretend to follow. They act in fear. Fear of a challenge they know they¡¯ll lose. Fear of a world where those who rule are the same as those who deserve to rule it." ¡°I am that challenge. I deserve to rule. You see it. The investors see it. And in placating me, the Court shows that they can see it, too. Project Hestia will save our race. It will forge a new dawn. But I cannot make this city¡¯s heart beat again, if its blood continues to coagulate around me.¡± For a while, Randall pauses. Plucking a cigarette out to match. ¡°And what if you¡¯re wrong? What if you don¡¯t deserve it? The Court has outlived every mortal government for a reason. What you call weak will, they call foresight. You¡¯ve bet on one right horse, Soteris, and Polyphron is the fruit of that gamble. But people like Caedmon or the New Sun have seen thousands of horses. For every one that succeeds, a hundred break their legs.¡± ¡°Because they listen to men like you.¡± ¡°Because they ride themselves ragged," Randalls replies. "A Full Keeping on Fireside, or my money leaves." Soteris sighs. ¡°I do not understand you, sometimes. You agree with me in the need of Hestia, but in the face of such a crisis, you think the old ways still work. That we can solve all our problems without changing a thing.¡± ¡°And do you have a better solution?¡± Randall replies. ¡°Or is dressing Fireside like you run a sex shop part of your coveted methods?¡± ¡°Ah,¡± Soteris chuckles. ¡°So you disagree with that solution?" ¡°I disagree with anything that is needless to our business and will only aggravate the woman further! You run a corporation, Soteris. With cameras and computers and, even among your humans, moral boundaries. Privately, you can dress her how like. Discipline her as you please. But I did not put two hundred million of my Keeper¡¯s money into-¡± ¡°I am speaking your Keeper¡¯s language!¡± Soteris cuts him off. ¡°Do you think I¡¯ll corral Fireside with stock options and Christmas bonuses? She grew up in a land of slavery. Where punished men were beaten and shot and hanged. That is the world she knows, and that¡¯s the world the elders know, too. If we want to win them to our side, we must display our prize accordingly.¡± ¡°Our prize?¡± ¡°Yes. To them, she will be nothing but a trophy. Prim, muzzled, and loyal to our cause. And they will look at us, the men who tamed the monster, and think to themselves, ¡®they are the Court¡¯s future.¡¯¡± ¡°And how will you convince one of the world¡¯s most successful assassins to waltz into the hall of her greatest enemy as your pet?¡± Soteris smirks, and takes a drag. ¡°Loyalty.¡± ¡°Loyalty?¡± Randall scoffs. ¡°I thought you were doing away with the Full Keeping.¡± ¡°We are. But there are other ways, older ways, of binding others to ourselves. Ways the Court insists we¡¯ve forgotten. It is earned, and thus worth striving for, no matter how much others scorn it. There is no firmer grip that one can hold on one¡¯s will than human control. Human loyalty.¡± Randall tilts his head, studying the colours. "What does this ''human loyalty'' entail?" ¡°I must find what she needs, and then be relentless. Prescriptive. Unyielding. Cracking the shell until she has no choice but to see it. Part by part. Piece by piece. She will resist. Curse and scheme and fight and flee. But I will crush each of them. Overcome all. And when the truth is laid bare. When she has exhausted all options, when her spirit has resigned, there will be nothing left but to name me invincible. And that is when our work begins. Like a ceramic, we wait until just the point of cracking." "And what if she cracks?" Randall shrugs. "What if there''s something you can''t overcome?" Soteris flings his cigarette off the balcony. It sails briefly in the air, before burning to crisps in the runes. ¡°There won¡¯t be.¡± He turns around, a smile on his face, the colours bright and bold. In Fireside, Randall has only seen the ambers of fear. No loyalty beyond that of the collared. But in her Keeper.... cornflowers on golden silk. Blood reds over fields of green. Soteris knows. It¡¯s part of his plan. ¡°Give me three months, Poisoned One.¡± Soteris marches towards the door. ¡°And when she walks into our mould, smiles at our clothes, and fights more ferociously than Blackbird could ever dream, you will see. Embrace the future, and Project Hestia will do more than save the Court. It will make this the Court¡¯s century.¡± Randall waits for the colours to pass before he calls. ¡°Soteris?¡± The executive stops at the door. ¡°There¡¯s another word for ¡®human loyalty¡¯, isn¡¯t there?¡± A pause. Soteris looks back before he leaves. ¡°None that you can remember.¡± But Randall does. As the cigarette settles on his lips, he sees them in the rising smoke, the pale blue lights behind him. Shapeless forms. Unheard screams. A thousand faces from lifetime lost. All of them, blurred and billowing. He sighs. Soteris is Keeper, Randall is Kept. He can''t really pull out before he convinces Caedmon, and both knew from the start that the Sovereign would gamble. ¡°There''s a flaw in your plan, Soteris Chrysanthou.¡± Aether pulls the cigarette back, so he can force the smoke out. ¡°Loyalty goes both ways.¡± Randall grips the railing with his once-living hands. Stares at the colour surrounding him, and tries to remember his own. Chapter 12: The Springfield, Part I ¡°The Springfield 1835 musket - known to United States Ordinance authorities as US Musket, Model 1835 - was developed and produced by the Springfield Armory in Massachusetts, and saw heavy use during the Indian Wars, the Mexican-American War, and Civil War. It was one of the Armory¡¯s last muskets to be built with a smooth bore and flintlock action, making it closer to the weapons of the American Revolution than the percussion lock rifle-muskets that would define its period. It was larger than prior Springfield models, with a barrel length of forty-two inches, but added little weight to the overall design, totaling when loaded to approximately ten pounds. To fire the musket, the shooter must first load the muzzle, usually in the ¡®ball-and-buck¡¯ method favored by US Army personnel. Instead of firing a full .69 caliber shot, soldiers would opt for a smaller, perhaps .65 ball, and fill the rest of the muzzle with buckshot to create a wider, ¡®shotgun¡¯ spread. In time, paper cartridges would be sold that produced the same effect. In ideal circumstances, the Model 1835 enjoys a firing range of anywhere from 100 to 300 yards, at a rate of three balls a minute. Any true soldier, though, would treat the marketed statistics with a dose of skepticism. In reality, the musket had a maximum range of about 75 yards, and most users could comfortably fire twice. While commonplace and popular during the Mexican-American War, the Model 1835 was quickly outclassed by the more adaptable percussion-lock muskets of the 1840s and 1850s. To Springfield¡¯s credit, however, the Model 1835 was built with these developments in mind. As one of the first US Armory muskets to feature fully interchangeable parts, it was not uncommon to see them converted into percussion-loading or even scoped musket rifles. The Model 1835 was used by both sides of the Civil War, as the rifles often found their way in the hands of state militiamen. As many veterans were allowed to keep their rifles on discharge from the Mexican-American War, the rifle became a symbol of family pride, of generations of men, serving their country, with weapons passed down to sons by their fathers.¡± ¡®The 1835 Springfield Musket¡¯, entry in Shelby Stroud¡¯s The Arms and Armaments of the Civil War, 1995. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°Australia, Canada, New Zealand, the Raj. The Nile Delta, Pearl Delta, Gold Coast, Crab Coast, Jamaica. Some princess or another from Oman.¡± Henri Ombras sinks deeper into the jacuzzi, smiling wide. ¡°Once, I even played around with this lass from the Vrystaat. Daddy must have worked for de Beers.¡± ¡°Did she have any?¡± A voice calls from his side. ¡°Any what?¡± ¡°Diamonds.¡± The young woman wades up to him, black hair over her breasts, sipping a cocktail. ¡°If she¡¯s from de Beers, she must have had diamonds." ¡°No!¡± Henri throws up his arms, exasperated. ¡°She told me she was ¡®boycotting¡¯ South Africa! Who would do such a thing?¡± He sighs, letting the steam from the hot tub calm his nerves. Five-hundred years, and he¡¯s never gotten tired of spas. Lounging back, drink in hand, a beautiful girl at his side. And compared to last century''s conquests, she had more teeth, healthier hair, softer skin. With each decade, the mortals just get better and better. He wears sunglasses and swim trunks and not much else. The whispers are mercifully quiet, and the water heats his skin to the point its tone is almost normal. ¡°One more spin, one more spin, please-¡± ¡°I¡¯LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING!¡± ¡°I CAN¡¯T DIE-¡± He turns and smiles as his girl wrings her hair along his shoulder. ¡°Seems like you¡¯re quite the world traveller,¡± she remarks. ¡°Oh, doll, that¡¯s just the colonies.¡± Henri starts counting them with his other hand. ¡°There¡¯s France, Finland, Milan, Bavaria. Czechs, Swiss, Poles from all three sides! Brazil, Abyssinia, Persia, Wallach-¡± He¡¯s interrupted by her lips. A long and deep kiss that almost feels like passion, but he pushes her back, blinking. ¡°Wait, wait, darling, stop. Wallachia, that¡¯s still a country, right?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve never heard of it.¡± ¡°Shit.¡± He looks to the side. ¡°Well, from wherever they''re from, too! You see, I have some experience in these things¡­¡± ¡°And how many of those experiences were paid for?" ¡°Woah.¡± He gives a low laugh, and sips his drink. Like everything else, it tastes of sawdust. Centuries of undeath have not been kind to his tongue. ¡°Word of advice, doll¡­¡± He sets the glass down. and brings her in by the back. ¡°... don¡¯t insult the one giving tips.¡± He pulls the hair from her face, leaning in¡­ only to feel the sting of rattling ice cubes in an empty glass. She''s holding it up to him, with a faux-naive face. "One more?" "One more!?¡± He furrows his brows. ¡°That was your third.¡± ¡°So?¡± ¡°They cost sixteen pounds!¡± ¡°But you can afford it.¡± ¡°I can-" He growls. "It¡¯s not about affording it, doll. It¡¯s about the principle. Have you ever heard of opportunity costs? Over the hour we¡¯ve dithered, I could have made five times more than what I paid you. And you want to add four drinks to that calculation!?¡± ¡°I¡¯m Albanian.¡± His eyes widen. ¡°So?¡± ¡°You¡¯ve never fucked an Albanian." He puffs up, his finger pointed perilously in the air. She gives him big, pleading, probably-not-really-Albanian-because-she''s-definitely-making-it-up puppy-dog eyes. But it doesn''t matter. He''s a sucker for foreign women. So instead, he gives a hiss as he climbs out. Once he''s dried, Henri slides out a mobile phone from his suit sleeve, left folded over a plastic chair. ¡°Cameron! I need another one of the coconuts.¡± ¡°Ombras? Finally. I¡¯ve been trying to reach you for an hour! There''s been a summons from the casino-" Henri growls. ¡°Do you think I rented your penthouse so that I could be reminded of my fucking casino!?¡± ¡°Sir, they said it was urgent!" "They always say it''s fucking urgent, Cameron! That doesn''t mean-" ¡°- from Magister Morris him-¡± ¡°- fuck!¡± Henri squeezes his phone. Hard. With grit teeth, he replies. ¡°I¡¯ll be there shortly.¡± He disconnects. Whispers and curses under his breath as he starts to throw on his suit. His hired help resurfaces, climbs onto the concrete. ¡°Morris, Morris, that stupid fucking sea captain! Should never have put his name forward, should never have propped him up! He¡¯d still be shining your fucking shoes if only-¡± ¡°Henry!¡± She shouts the name he gave her. ¡°Where¡¯s my drink!?¡± Henri turns, his shirt still undone. ¡°Do you not yet realise that I have a more pressing concern?¡± ¡°You haven¡¯t paid!¡± ¡°... Right.¡± He stops, brows flaring, as his hands slide behind his back. ¡°Well¡­ about that..." She freezes. Behind her, the jacuzzi has started to bubble. She turns to see water black as ink, slick and slimy, tiny tendrils spewing. When she sees Henri again, his skin his ashen and pulled back, a thick fog spewing from his eyes. His words reveal rows of sharp teeth. ¡°I was never really intending to pay you.¡± She starts to sprint. Little feet pattering on bits of water. But the tentacles move faster. They trip her, cling to her, coil around her legs. When she starts to scream, the murkiness falls over her mouth. Henri watches it all, his fingers twitching near his pockets. It would be nearly impossible for a mortal to see the threads connecting his hand to the storm drain. Moving it all like a puppet on strings. ¡°I need honesty.¡± He thrusts her towards him, his senses sharpened by aether. She¡¯s upside down, and he can smell her sweat, the chlorine, the salt from her tears. ¡°Are you actually from Albania?¡± She blinks furtively, whimpering in the black. His eyes dilate. He feels it. Blood. Blood. Blood. Henri sighs. ¡°Disappointing. I do try and keep track. Though, I suppose I''ve been misleading you too. See..." A single tendril pushes her head forward. Until their skin almost touches, and her eyes hang over his teeth. ¡°... I didn''t pay your pimp to fuck you." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Harriet¡¯s been staring at the rain for an hour, but it¡¯s only just started to make pattering sounds on the glass. She¡¯s in the apartment, that ornate, ostentatious side of black marble and minimalist decors. The strange bars still suspend from the windowtops, and the Greek statue looks on, silently, her hand lifted to the fake flames. Sitting comfortably on the couch is¡­ difficult. Harriet''s feet are beyond aching, but with the heels locked to them, she can only rest by laying them along the table. That in turn invites an increasingly familiar tightness against her chest, her hips, and pulls at the cuffs still clinging to her hands. Her breathing is unhelped by the collar, but it would be short and sharp regardless of what she wears. Her fangs keep bleeding through her lips. She''s hungry. ''Use her.'' That''s what Soteris said he would do, and she''s been mulling over what those words mean. On the one hand, it¡¯s obvious. From the moment the garments were strapped on, she¡¯d been fondled, and stared at, and every feature Astrid plastered onto her face only made the urges worse. But¡­ what urges? Most Nocturni were asexual. Often, they only fucked to feed. Especially the men. She imagines it must be somewhat hard for them to conjure all the blood and aether a corpse would need to... ... well... ... to put out. But she can¡¯t presume safety like that. This is Soteris Chrysanthou. As far as she knows, he''d drain an orphanage if it meant finding some new way to torment her. Harriet frowns, frustrated that even her sighs are silent. She could try and take her mind off it, but there¡¯s nothing to do. The telly feels like poison, a gateway to a lost world, and the windchimes have come and gone. While there are a great many books she doubts Soteris has ever opened, to stand and walk and grab one would be to break the strange decorum she¡¯s kept with her prison guard. Addana. Addana Chiagozie sits in the blue-and-white side, on a barstool by the door. The Oathsworn picked her up a minute after Soteris left, and hasn¡¯t spoken since. As she was dragged here by the arm, Harriet couldn¡¯t help but notice the keypads added to every doorway. While those on Floor 20 flashed green by default, on the thirtieth floor, his floor, they all blinked back red. But Harriet still leans in, curious. Of all the people in Polyphron, Addana''s spoken to her the least. Is that malice, or prudence? It''s hard to tell with Oathsworn. With so many varied Keepers, one can never guess what they know. But... away from Randall... she could be friendly. Astrid was. Harriet slides further up the couch, beneath Addana''s notice, at first. The woman seems so engrossed in her little novel. But... maybe... ¡°So, Fireside¡­ do you think your father will make it back in time for Christmas?" Addana sticks a thumb in her book. "You told me he was in Najaf.¡±" Harriet''s breath hitches. Addana stands, and smiles. ¡°Still playing dumb? Or do you lie so often, vampire, that you can¡¯t even remember?¡± As Addana walks closer, Harriet shrivels back. The clothes only make their differences more obvious. Addana must be six feet, if not even taller. ¡°We both know what you¡¯re going to try and do. Warm up to me, with those teenaged looks, and sad little glare. Talk about solidarity, common ground, cry sympathy for a fellow Kept. Until my guard is down, of course. Then, I¡¯m just another body, and it¡¯s a race to see how fast you squeeze the trigger.¡± Addana leans, venom in her eyes. Harriet can only skirt back so far, constricted as she is. ¡°Randall told me you¡¯d try something like that. It¡¯s how you hunt. But one look at your sweet little face, and I knew I didn¡¯t need the warning. Your tricks will work on Astrid, for what it''s worth. She can afford it. But us Oathsworn, we see the real you. What you¡¯ve become, or maybe what you always were.¡± She turns back around, pulling something from her pocket. Harriet catches its gleam in the light. The bullet from her bag. ¡°I¡¯ll be keeping this as a memento. To the friends that you¡¯ve killed. To the lies you¡¯re still spinning.¡± Addana sits back down, returns to her page. Harriet reads the title. Chinua Achebe. Things Fall Apart. ¡°When your Keeper comes through that door tongiht, and sends me away, I want you to know that what happens next is just monsters being monsters.¡± Addana smirks. ¡°Enjoy the view from your knees.¡± Harriet feels her stomach twist, her hands tremble in their chains. She wants to correct her. Explain to her. Plead with her. It¡¯d be as fruitless as talking Soteris out of¡­ out of¡­ Ten more days. The words ring out with the windchimes. It can¡¯t possibly last more than ten days. Beep. Beep beep beep beeeeeeep. Harriet straightens, rocketing back to reality. She can barely look at the man who walks in, poised as always, loosening his tie. ¡°Apologies for the delay, retainer. I was rehearsing for tomorrow''s exhibition.¡± Soteris walks towards the couch, puts his arm on it, leans towards her. ¡°Did you miss me?¡± She focuses on the wall, the fake fire, his simple desk and fancy computer. But her cheeks start to glow, and from the ring of his laugh, she knows he takes that as an answer. Soteris turns to Addana. ¡°I hope my Kept has continued her good behaviour?¡± ¡°More or less.¡± The Oathsworn kneels down to gather her things. ¡°Maybe you should keep her silent.¡± She walks out of her own accord, leaving a new fear to lodge in Harriet¡¯s mind. Soteris calls out as she goes. ¡°Get some rest, Chiagozie. You¡¯ll have a big task ahead, keeping our partners from tearing out each other¡¯s throats.¡± Addana laughs at that, and calls back. ¡°I don¡¯t rest, Soteris. You¡¯ve never been a mother.¡± The door closes, and with it, what scraps Harriet had of composure. She squeezes her hands, refusing to acknowledge him, but feeling his stare. The aether that pumps through her is thin, frightened, and the Wilds wrench with their displeasure. The rain¡¯s sound has vanished again, leaving nothing but silence, the gentle hum of the fake flame. ¡°You look beautiful in those heels,¡± Soteris remarks. ¡°I hadn¡¯t thought to glance.¡± She sets her hands down on her lap. Never needing a gun so badly. But suddenly, the staring stops. Suede shoes cross the tile floor. Harriet hears the opening of cabinets, the cutting of plastic bags. And soon after, she smells gas. She creases her brows, slowly craning her neck. Soteris has an apron tied around his vest. A bowl in one hand, a whisk in the other. He stirs and stirs, focused for minutes on a mixture only he can see. But eventually, he catches her unblinking, wary stare. ¡°What?" He shrugs. "It''s been days since you fed. You need dinner." He''s not wrong. Her stomach is twisting in on itself, and vampires and hunger strikes rarely cross, no matter how she might dream. But doesn¡¯t mean she''s going to speak. Even if, well... she could.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. ¡°Come and I¡¯ll show you.¡± Soteris returns to his work until he realises she won¡¯t move. ¡°Are you scared?¡± She interrupts her stare with a single blink. He sighs and shakes his utensils. ¡°I can¡¯t very well grab you, Fireside. First woman I¡¯ve ever met who dislikes when I cook for them." That''s when the scent hits her. Blood. Rich, fragrant, raw. Normally, it wouldn''t stir her to any degree, but now, she can barely keep from slavering. If she doesn''t go up, the Wilds will. At least... that''s how she chooses to frame. Harriet still frowns as she draws close, watching him like prey. Her steps are shaky, and painful, her feet sore as they are. Her heels echo loudly as she moves from the dark half of the room to the brighter. ¡°Blodpl?tter,¡± Soteris twists his hands to show. ¡°A Swedish recipe. Not my personal favourite, but¡­¡± Harriet sees a thick red slop interspersed with bits of flour. Is he¡­ making bread? No. Pancakes. She can''t do anything to hide her fangs. ¡°I¡¯ve had to make adjustments, of course.¡± Soteris puts a portion of butter on the stove. ¡°Scrap the egg, a bit less flour, but you can get away with keeping the sugar and the salt and the cinnamon without your body rejecting it. Normally, I throw in some mint, too,but I don¡¯t think you¡¯d enjoy it. It¡¯s a Cypriot thing.¡± He sets down his tools and spins her around. Harriet hisses, reaching back to swat him, but he pushes her forward before she can. "There¡¯s a record player over there. Do you know how to-¡± She¡¯s already halfway there. ¡°Excellent.¡± He grins and returns to the food. ¡°I didn¡¯t get a Kept or those speakers for neither to be working." He starts pouring the batter as she explores the plastic-filled box. The scent is good, in a vampire way, and she can hear the air sizzle and steam. Contrary to Aisling¡¯s mockery, Harriet does know how to use most machines. It¡¯s just not very easy wielding them. This time, though, she''s getting tripped up by the catalogue. Snow Patrol, Radiohead, Spice Girls, Coldplay - who are these people!? She starts pawing her way towards the back, as much as her cuffs will allow, until finally, mercifully, she finds herself in the ¡®60¡¯s. ¡°I¡¯ll admit, it¡¯s not all my purchases.¡± Soteris calls from behind. ¡°Sometimes Astrid has a looser interpretation of budgets than you and I do. But if there¡¯s something you¡¯d like to add-¡± ¡°Help!¡± Upbeat guitars ring through the room. ¡°I need somebody, help! Not just anybody, help! You know, I need someone¡­¡± Soteris turns. Harriet¡¯s smile widens as the Beatles give a final, long ¡®Heeeelp~¡¯ He scowls. ¡°... clever.¡± The first verse is filled with an energy that¡¯s hard to ignore. Harriet springs back up, bobbing about, letting her victory sink in. Her instincts pull her to the pan, and she doesn¡¯t stop them. She leans over the batter, a good distance from Soteris, letting the scent waft into her nostrils. But he closes in with a step, and pulls her into his chest before she can react. Harriet flails and squirms, trying to worm her way through his grip, but he takes her by the cuffs and brings them by the pan. ¡°Ah, ah. No. If you''re that interested, we¡¯ll cook them together. Ever flip pancakes before?" She gives him a venomous look. Of course she has. She''s from the 1870s, not Biblical times. He wrings her fingers around the metal, even as she tries to scooch away from the small flame. "No, no." He pulls her back towards it by the hair. ¡°Eyes here.¡± She squeezes the handle. What she''d give to launch this batter in his face. ¡°You have to wait for the tips to brown, there. And¡­¡± He settles onto her shoulder, counting quietly. ¡°One. Two. Three!¡± The blood-cake flings into the air, landing on the pan perfectly. ¡°Excellent, Fireside! We¡¯ll make a domestic of you yet.¡± He laughs as she moves against. Not with the pan, or stepping on his foot, the Keeping bans those. She just lightly shoves him back. Alright, message received.¡± He takes the pan from her grip, nods to the table. ¡°Set it, would you mind?" She does mind, actually. Harriet''s eyebrows flare, and lifts her hands, making a face as she rattles the cuffs. ¡°What? Do they hinder you?¡± Soteris smirks. ¡°Just move slowly.¡± Harriet''s rapidly running out of hostile faces to make at him. Soteris leans close. ¡°You won¡¯t get a ¡®please¡¯ from me before you get an order.¡± She rolls her eyes to turns towards the cabinets. After three seconds. Just to make clear she isn¡¯t giving in easily. For a while, the room is filled with nothing but the sounds of clacking heels, sizzling blood, set silverware. The Beatles drone on, a full musical range weaving with them. There¡¯s long songs and slow songs, songs about gaining girls and losing them. By the time Harriet¡¯s hobbled together most of the table, the Beatles have firmly moved onto the latter. ¡°Suddenly¡­ I¡¯m not half the man I used to be¡­ there¡¯s a shadow hanging over me¡­ oh, yesterday came suddenly¡­¡± There are two white-painted chairs, on an equally simple wooden table. There¡¯s barely room for the platter and the two of them, though she nearly leaps back when Soteris places down a lit candle. He watches her hackles rise with a laugh. ¡°A hundred-and-fifty-three years old, and you¡¯re still scared of fires?¡± Bitch. It¡¯s because she¡¯s a hundred-and-fifty-three. Her meal looks thin and rubbery, with a colour close to chocolate. Soteris¡¯ fills two glasses with the Court¡¯s signature ¡®wine¡¯, and sets her down, folding a napkin over her lap himself, and ignoring the glare that gets him. Still grimacing, Harriet watches him take his utensils, and she follows suit, the fork and knife held uncomfortably close by her chained hands. ¡°Ah! Fireside.¡± He smiles, considering. ¡°We¡¯re forgetting something.¡± Harriet''s breath hitches. He gives her a stern look. "The most important part." Suddenly, the fear is back. His words repeating in her mind. Use her. Use her. She thinks of his touch. Of his lips. Everything Astrid denied, and Addana warned. ¡°... love was such an easy game to play... now I need a place to hide away¡­¡± His eyes start to glow, and he sets his utensils down. But Soteris Chrysanthou never rises from his seat. Never takes her body. Doesn''t even glance. Instead, he folds his hands and says. "You can speak freely. Would you like to say grace?¡± Every sound fades, except for the Beatles''. ¡°... oh, I believe in yesterday.¡± She watches him with a blank expression, before finally pulling herself together. ¡°Ah... I-¡± She coughs. A long, hacking fit, that forces her to clear her throat. ¡°... the church... the sermon... yer really Christian?¡± ¡°Aren¡¯t you?¡± He asks back. She scoffs. ¡°I¡­ l-let''s jes'' say, I ain¡¯t given grace in a long time.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve been assured God doesn¡¯t mind.¡± He smiles. ¡°Besides, you were taught to read at St. John¡¯s Episcopal, were you not? They must have drilled into you some verse.¡± Honestly, she had forgotten it was even called St. John¡¯s until he mentioned it. But Harriet folds her hands regardless, bowing her head. Reciting not a prayer she heard in Iowa, but the one she spent her first nights of unlife with. ¡°Um... May all be fed. May all be healed. May all be loved.¡± ¡°Amen.¡± They say it together. Soteris watches her for a moment more, before cutting his pancake, and starting to eat. Harriet doesn¡¯t join him, studying the food. Eventually, the silence becomes oppressive, and the thought flings from her head. ¡°Why?¡± He swallows before he speaks. ¡°Why what?¡± Her shoulders fall, and she looks about the room. ¡°... All of it.¡± He pauses, considering. Slowly, he cuts another, smaller piece, and lifts it with his fork for her to see. ¡°Because¡­ no matter what has happened, or what you and I might do, I would like both of us to be people who sit down and cook their dinners.¡± Soteris returns to his meal, but she lingers, sniffing at the wine. ¡°So,¡± he starts. ¡°How are you feeling?¡± ¡°How am I-¡± She stops herself with a chuckle. ¡°Are ya really askin¡¯ me that?¡± ¡°Of course. I ought to know.¡± She scowls. ¡°Well I¡¯ve been doin¡¯ quite miserable, how ¡®bout yerself?¡± Soteris laughs, dapping his lips with a napkin. ¡°The food¡¯s good. You should try it.¡± She clicks her utensils together. ¡°Be a bit easier ta cut if I had full use a¡¯ my hands.¡± "It would be.¡± But he doesn''t make any move. Her scowl deepens. ¡°Ya know it¡¯s gonna hurt my wrists eventually, right?¡± ¡°Then it¡¯s a very good thing that you so quickly heal.¡± Harriet frowns, but starts - awkwardly - cutting into the meat. She has to bring both hands all the way to her mouth. The bite is¡­ good. Unseasoned and coarse, sure, but surprisingly tender. She can feel the Wilds instinct calm with the taste, the scream softening to a whisper. She quickly follows with another. ¡°It feels nice, doesn¡¯t it? To actually chew.¡± Soteris watches her eat. ¡°It¡¯s usually custom to pay respects to the chef.¡± She looks up, chewing with her mouth open. ¡°Go fuck yerself.¡± He sighs. ¡°Vulgar language again. After I only just unmuted you.¡± ¡°Yer not gonna re-silence me,¡± she shrugs. ¡°It¡¯d ruin the dinner chat.¡± ¡°It would.¡± His eyes start to glow. ¡°I¡¯ll just forbid you from swearing instead.¡± ¡°Biiih-¡± Harriet stops, her throat suddenly clenching. She furrows her brows, and tries again. ¡°Ffff-ffff¡­ ah-h-h-!¡± Soteris laughs. Laughs. It sends Harriet over the edge. She stands up, hands on the table, malice in her eyes. ¡°What does it matter if I swear or not? I don¡¯t have ta play nice.¡± ¡°There are certain standards of etiquette at Court-¡± ¡°Every vampire in a hundred miles knows exactly who I am,¡± Harriet hisses. ¡°Do ya think any a¡¯ them¡¯s gonna stop me an¡¯ tell me ta mind my fff-ffff-froggin'' table manners?¡± Soteris sets his utensils down, looking her straight in the eye. ¡°Do you know why I studied computer engineering?¡± "They had a course on monologues?" ¡°It was still unknown, back then. There was no Microsoft, no Macintosh, and even lessin our country. I wanted to lead a company, I wanted to be successful, so why not join the Randall¡¯s of the world in finance? Can you guess?¡± Harriet rolls her eyes. "They''d realise yer a giant fraud?" Soteris chuckles. ¡°Definitely no. I already told you, I like to build. I can¡¯t trust another to make a product good enough for me to sell, and I can¡¯t trust a product that hasn¡¯t been made in some part by my hands. Kepts, to me, are the same. I could loosen your leash. Let you galavant as you¡¯ve always done. But then you wouldn¡¯t be mine. Because my things exceed all possible standards.¡± ¡°What a charming philosophy.¡± She smiles. ¡°You should feel charmed. Polyphron employs only the best. It Keeps only the spectacular. That you are sitting here, by my side, in a position I have never trusted to another, is the greatest endorsement I could ever give. An affirmation in my belief that you are almost without equal.¡± ¡°Ah!¡± She puts her hands on her chest. ¡°An¡¯ here I am, feelin¡¯ ungrateful.¡± ¡°You know people clamber to get into this company, right? I rank every employee one to five. The bottom ten percent are always cut. The top¡­ I make sure their salary doubles.¡± ¡°Ya know, ya Court folk chat about ¡®meritocracy¡¯ all the d-d-... darn time.¡± Harriet frustratedly chews. ¡°Maybe this is jes¡¯ my experience, but I¡¯ve always found that the folks floatin'' to the top are always cheats." ¡°Perhaps there is merit in cheating.¡± She gives him a look. ¡°Did ya go ta Oxford?¡± ¡°Cambridge.¡± ¡°Cambridge.¡± She nods. ¡°It shows.¡± He leans back in his chair, looking around the blue-and-white room. ¡°I designed this space to look like my mother¡¯s, back in Cyprus. She would bake bread on a stone stove there. Wash our clothes in a basin here. Pray to the icon of Theotokos right along that wall. But I can¡¯t reimagine much of the house beyond that. Each floor was the size of this room.¡± She furrows her brows at that. But he grows more serious. ¡°You may preach against my achievements. You may deride as one of your dreaded rich. But the truth remains that I started as proletarian as you. And yet I was able to-" ¡°Soteris.¡± The harshness cuts him off. Harriet pushes her plate forward, resting on her elbows, glaring daggers. ¡°I¡¯m only sayin¡¯ this once. So I wan¡¯ ya ta listen.¡± His expression hardens, but he beckons her. ¡°I get that the Court thinks yer different. ¡®Cause yer young, an¡¯ yer foreign, an¡¯ if Mr. Avery¡¯s any indication, bein¡¯ Sovereign don''t mean they started listenin'' ta ya." ¡°The Unbound never took your advice, either,¡± he smiles. ¡°They didn¡¯t. An¡¯ I know ya see that, an¡¯ ya hear my accent, an¡¯ ya know all ¡®bout my quirks an¡¯ my head things an'' my guns. An¡¯ yer thinkin¡¯ ¡®Great! She¡¯s different, jes¡¯ like me. That makes us the same.¡¯ But it don¡¯t. It really don¡¯t. It ain''t ''bout money, or country, or pasts. Ya coulda come from the farm right nexta mine in Keokuk, an¡¯ I¡¯d still never be like you.¡± Another pause. No motion from Soteris. Just an intensity in his eyes, that¡¯s hard to match the gaze of. ¡°I suppose that¡¯s true." He frowns. "After all, only one of us is a Keeper.¡± She flings her fork into the plate. It whirs, blurring the air, as it sticks up perfectly from the pancake. ¡°Dinner was good.¡± She stands up and takes her plate, wobbling towards the sink. ¡°Ya got that goin¡¯ fer ya.¡± The dishwasher is out and half-loaded, but she kicks it back into its place, turns the faucet on. Something about this man makes her yearn to be old-fashioned. Harriet grabs a sponge, a dose of soap. Even with all the blood, she scrubs with more force than she needs. She can tell that Soteris is standing right behind her, but for once, he lets her work. Until she sets the plate down. Then he grabs her arm, and starts dragging her across the hall. ¡°Ah - HEY! Ya coulda asked!¡± ¡°You need training before Ensei.¡± Training. She looks back down at her outfit, the black lace bra, the tights, the heels. No, she¡¯s not quite interested in any training he could offer. So she looks for something to distract him with, instead, and it¡¯s hard to ignore the giant slab of marble. ¡°Statue!¡± She tugs desperately back. ¡°Wh-who¡¯s the statue?¡± ¡°You have a Masters. They never made you study Classics?¡± Oh, they might have tried, she realises. But she Paradoxed her grades for all the boring stuff. ¡°I got better things ta do then read ff¨Cffffff-fumblin¡¯ Plato!¡± Soteris grins. ¡°Another subject we¡¯ll have to familiarise you with. That is Hestia, goddess of the hearth, last seated of the twelve Olympians.¡± ¡°Oh, like yer Project Hestia?¡± ¡°Look at you, catching on.¡± ¡°A project I still don¡¯t know ¡®bout, bein¡¯ announced tomorrow at a conference I¡¯ve never heard of!¡± She realises that he¡¯s taking her near his desk, the windows. If only her heels could stake into the floors. ¡°D-Don¡¯t ya think that¡¯s a bit more important than - ugh!¡± He pulls her into his chest with a tug, then spins her around, setting her against a pillar. She raises her hands in a meek defence, but he takes the chain, and uses it to hoist her arms to her sides. ¡°We can do both at once.¡± His hands start pressing into her shoulders. Harriet quivers, blinking in confusion as he moves to different parts of her body. He pushes on her hips, her back, even kicking her feet apart with his shoe. Whenever she starts sliding into a more comfortable position, his hands return, moulding her into place like a potter would with clay. ¡°Have you ever practiced posture before?¡± ¡°Somehow, the practice eluded me.¡± ¡°It shows.¡± He takes a hand to her chin, slightly raising it. "You slouch when you stand. It looks¡­ undignified, and frankly, it won¡¯t do. I might not always need you, but I expect you to keep form. Back up, head forward¡­¡± He presses into her chest, so that she can feel it in her diaphragm. ¡°... just so.¡± Harriet twitches back, harried, horrified. ¡°I-I¡¯m not a doll ya can-¡± ¡°Pretend you¡¯re a statue, Fireside. Just like Hestia there.¡± Suddenly, her muscles are stiff, her eyes refuse to move, and her lips remain closed. The sensation of sleep paralysis dominates again, merged with the wretchful feeling of Soteris¡¯ touch. ¡°... you like to look at the ground when you stand. When you''re with me, that¡¯s perfect, deferential. But for the others, keep your chin up, your eyes straight. You serve with pride.¡± Yeah, Harriet. How can you possibly not feel proud? ¡°You¡¯ll be greeting the Ensei partners tomorrow. They all come from East Asia, where traditionally, showing you are open to serve is signified with¡­¡± His hands push on her back, slowly leaning her until she holds a right angle. ¡°... a bow. You may speak. Does that make sense to you?¡± She flexes her lips a few times. It¡¯s the only thing she can move. ¡°Wh-why am I bowing ta a bunch a¡¯ Orientals?¡± ¡°Entrepreneurs," he corrects. "Ensei will bring in some of the greatest tech magnates in that continent. Their electronics are ubiquitous, here and around the world. For Project Hestia to be successful, I need to bring on board each one of them.¡± ¡°What happened to yer friends in the government?¡± ¡°Nothing. But I never planned on working with them for long.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± ¡°Because they don¡¯t own me,¡± Soteris replies. ¡°And I can¡¯t own them. Blair¡¯s government is cleaner than most, but even then, it¡¯s unbelievably compromised. You can¡¯t shake some party toad¡¯s hand without stepping into another Nocturni¡¯s turf.¡± ¡°So yer goin¡¯ fer the pond no other vamp¡¯s found?¡± ¡°Precisely.¡± Harriet stays silent, considering. Her eyes quite literally glued to the floor. This is the most information about Polyphron Soteris has given freely. Useful information, anyway. And¡­ it makes sense, as far as she knows, which isn¡¯t very far. But given what she knows of the Unbound¡¯s reach, him going global only makes things more complicated. ¡°Thankfully, we have an advantage. The Asian tech market is young, and not trusted. Westerners watch their tellies, drive their cars, but have convinced themselves that these marvels are cheap copies, derivatives, fads. ¡®97 and the dot-coms ''proved'' them. So the true titans of this industry are desperate to shake the image, find some new innovation they can enter on the ground floor.¡± ¡°An¡¯ Hestia can be that?¡± she asks. ¡°It will,¡± Soteris corrects. ¡°But if they''re going to realise that, we have to flatter.¡± ¡°An¡¯...¡± Harriet grunts. She¡¯s trying to force herself out of this stupid stance, but her muscles just tingle. ¡°What, am I yer flatterer in chief?" ¡°You¡¯ll be ushering them to the venue. The first Polyphron employee they see!¡± There¡¯s a hitch in her breath. ¡°Dressed like this?¡± ¡°Of course! I have to be a good host! Champagne, Alaskan crab, you. All part of the refreshments.¡± ¡°Ya¡­¡± Harriet feels her cheeks glow. She can tell from the air on her legs that her skirt¡¯s ridden up with the bow. Precariously close to revealing a different part of Soteris¡¯ carefully selected outfit. ¡°An¡¯ ya think they¡¯ll see this, an¡¯ be fine? I-I-I mean, what if one a'' them''s a woman?" Soteris laughs. A long, patronising laugh, like he might give to a child. He puts a hand on her back, scratches it. ¡°You¡¯re adorable.¡± He pushes her back into her original posture, then steps away, finger on his chin. "Do you think that you could hold that position for¡­ about two hours?¡± Her mouth hangs open. The heels still stab into her feet, but with the loss of bodily control, that¡¯s become a duller pain. ¡°Uh¡­ yeah? Not sure why I''d want to..." ¡°Splendid. Then you can move again, but don¡¯t. You¡¯re going to practice while I catch up on the past two days of work. That is an excellent position for you to keep when we¡¯re in our office.¡± ¡°Office?¡± She squints. ¡°What office?¡± ¡°You¡¯re an employee of Polyphron, now. I expect you to work in the office.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t see anyone else out there!¡± ¡°That¡¯s because we keep daylight hours.¡± The way he completely ignores her exasperated look is infuriating. ¡°Ya what?¡± ¡°Please. It¡¯s nothing to make a fuss about.¡± ¡°Uh, sorry, I think our imminent deaths from the windows is a pretty flippin¡¯ important thing ta-¡± He presses a finger to her lips. She growls. ¡°Tomorrow''s problem,¡± he smiles back. ¡°Today¡¯s problem is figuring out how best to stand by my side.¡± ¡°What, am I not gettin¡¯ a desk?" Why does the smirk on his face tell her ¡®no¡¯? ¡°You don¡¯t need one.¡± He sighs. ¡°I suppose, if you tire, I can get you a pillow to kneel on¡­¡± ¡°What exactly am I gonna be doin¡¯ in this office?¡± ¡°Whatever I think suits you.¡± She flares up. ¡°Oh. Great! What you think suits me? Guess I¡¯ll be arm candy fer everyone! Ya know, I would be a lot more useful if ya would tell me anythin¡¯ about the product I¡¯m s¡¯posed ta-¡± ¡°Right. Hold that thought.¡± He lifts a finger, steps away. ¡°I have another gift for you.¡± Harriet follows him as far as her eyes will go, until she hears the beeping of more locks. She doesn¡¯t leave her posture - not because she¡¯s at all inclined to ¡®train,¡¯ but because she¡¯s fully aware that he¡¯s just looking for the excuse. He returns with a small object held in both hands. A sheet of glass held by a strip of metal, with two coiled bits at the end. She realises its a visor, and starts to protest as he sets it on her forehead. ¡°Soteris-¡± ¡°Shhh, shhh.¡± He says calmly. ¡°I told you, no moving¡­¡± The visor snaps into place, tightening around her skull. She blinks. It feels like she¡¯s wearing sunglasses; the world¡¯s taken a caramel hue. But she learns quickly that it won¡¯t be shaken off. ¡°Wh-what is this?¡± ¡°Rather sleek.¡± Soteris takes her cheeks and twists her head, so she can see their reflection in the window glass. ¡°Don¡¯t you agree?¡± It¡¯s ridiculous. Her outfit was horrid enough, but now her eyes are veiled by something that looks like it crawled out of Aisling¡¯s science fiction shows. ¡°Y-Ya know, funny thing ¡®bout UV rays. We don¡¯t really gotta deal with ¡®em, so I don¡¯t know why-¡± She yelps. There¡¯s a tiny beep, and the sound of sliding metal. Then, darkness. Everything becomes pitch black, and all sounds are lost beyond her heartbeat and the windchimes. As quickly as it was lost, her hearing and sight return, and she blinks at the tiny remote Soteris waves before her. ¡°Interesting, right?¡± He keeps pressing the button, so that the metal falls over her eyes, then leaves, then falls. ¡°I started building it after the Ares Gates. A little side project.¡± The metal moves fast. Few gears. Only a faint whirring. There must be a second switch, releasing darker, opaque lenses. Harriet realises all this, and that, engineering-wise, it''s a tiny marvel. But that only makes her next question more pressing. "Why?" ¡°Did you know that every Keeper used to have a device like this?¡± Soteris approaches, tapping the visor with his thumb. ¡°Big bronze masks that could discipline their Kepts when words and decorum failed. They fell out of fashion when the Laws of Secrecy were written, and human power started matching our own.¡± ¡°Completely unsurprised that ya¡¯d wanna bring it back.¡± ¡°I told you that information would be a privilege. Now, I can enforce it.¡± He sees her face, wreathed in confused anger, and adds. ¡°I know all the pageantry might seem unnecessary now, but trust me, I only bring out these tools because I understand the task at-¡± ¡°Are ya gettin¡¯ off ta this?¡± She regrets it the instant it leaves her lips, but for once, it gives him pause. Soteris looks away, considering, before grasping her cheeks, and lifting her face towards his eyes. ¡°Perhaps,¡± he smiles. ¡°Are you?¡± With her cheeks scrunched together, it¡¯s hard to give him an expression that¡¯s suitably intimidating. ¡°We both know the optics. A Keeper of my age, a Kept of yours, it''s never been done. And yet, in all the Court¡¯s millennia, there might never have been a pairing with so much at stake. And so, I must ensure, if you will not, that we are always striving for the same thing.¡± He lets her go, and turns towards his computer, seating himself and clicking up Hotmail. Harriet sputters behind him. ¡°An¡¯ what are we strivin¡¯ for, Soteris? Ya won¡¯t tell me! Are we buildin¡¯ a superweapon? The fraud a¡¯ the century?¡± ¡°Right now¡­¡± he holds out the remote. ¡°We¡¯re striving to eat pancakes.¡± Then the opaque glass falls over her face, and, at the very least, Harriet¡¯s given a reprieve from Soteris¡¯ constant talking. Chapter 12: The Springfield, Part II 1867 Summer Dust covered all. The homes of faded paint, the post office, the rail yard, the fields of cut trees. It clung to the legs of stomping horses, the footprints in the muck, the cuts and sores of the mine¡¯s weary men. Only two pairs of shoes in this town were clean of it: Menowin¡¯s, and her¡¯s. But she could already guess that that wasn¡¯t why so many folk were staring. She walks slowly through the main street, her hand never leaving Pa¡¯s gun. Her felt hat¡¯s come off, replaced by a golden bandana that just fails to cover her short hair. She wears a long, white shirt, loose leather jacket, colourful patchwork pants - enough to pass for a boy, if she wasn¡¯t so weighed down by all the amulets, rings, and a loaned earring. With every step, her clothes ring, laced as they are with tiny bells. She leans into Menowin. ¡°These pants are huge. They¡¯re gonna slide off.¡± ¡°That¡¯s why I gave you a belt.¡± He smirks. "Perhaps boy clothes don''t suit you?" She growls. Berkeley - a town named after its founder - reminds her of nothing good, and plenty bad. The sermons her pastor gave in Keokuk painted the West as a lawless Gamorrah, a land of outlaws, fallen women, and few friends. She wasn¡¯t sure about the townspeople - a few seemed upstanding, or at least kept to their chores. But she couldn¡¯t ignore the hungry gazes, the emaciated dogs, the women who dressed¡­ ¡­ well, not like her mother. ¡°¡®EY, GYPSY!¡± One girl hollers from a balcony, in a wooden building full of drunken men. ¡°Ya can swing with me when ya get bored with her! I hear it¡¯s GOOD FORTUNE!¡± Harriet looks at her, aghast. She¡¯s covered in makeup, fishnets, a corset torn at the ends. Even now, a dust-covered hand kneads her thigh. ¡°Durikerav, gad?i!¡± Menowin shouts back. ¡°There¡¯s room for two!¡± That gets a raucous reply from the balcony. Harriet clings to him. ¡°They don¡¯t really think we¡¯re¡­¡± ¡°Romni nashli so zeita. They do, chindilan!¡± He pats her back hard enough to spin her forward. ¡°Why else would I bring a girl?¡± She turns red. Suddenly, another door opens, and a drunkard flings from the saloon¡¯s back. Falling with him, a surge of chips, playing cards, all caught in the dirt and wind. Another player follows down the creaky steps, revolver in hand, clambering over the first and beating, beating, beating, to the cheers of the table inside. Harriet watches it all with wide eyes. ¡°W-we have a plan, right?¡± ¡°Sure. You go kirchima, buy me a beer, lovin¨¦, and then I sit back while you make the noise.¡± She shrivels when she hears the gambler¡¯s bones crack. ¡°Me? Why jes'' me?¡± ¡°Because you wanted to help, rakli.¡± He violently grabs her hair. ¡°L-Let go a¡¯ me!¡± ¡°You should be leaping at any chance I offer.¡± His grip tightens as he drags her up the front steps. ¡°Like a dog.¡± Before she can stop him, he throws her through the swivelling wooden doors. "Now, bark!" Harriet crashes onto the floor, quickly scrambling to her knees. It¡¯s a massive hall. Crowded tables, discarded bottles, gargantuan men. There¡¯s a game of blackjack in the corner, more girls in fishnets on the stairs, the distinct smell of piss by one of the tables. Two men tend a bar chock-full of glasses and kegs, nestled close to a team of fiddlers. Almost everyone has a gun. There isn¡¯t a child in sight. And the moment Harriet bursts through, they all turn their eyes towards her. She blinks at them, bewildered. ¡°Uh¡­¡± Suddenly, she feels something push into her ass. Menowin¡¯s given her a light kick. ¡°Lovin¨¦, chindilan.¡± She waits until she can''t hear the bells that join his footsteps, before climbing to her feet. ¡°Asshole¡­¡± She walks directly, seriously, her eyes never leaving the bar even as she suffocates beneath the silence all around her. As she struggles to climb up the stool, the Springfield still strapped to her back, the bartender looks at her like she''s a carcass being picked clean. ¡°Um... we don¡¯t usually let kids up-¡± ¡°Whiskey. Scotch.¡± She says it all a beat too fast. ¡°Two glasses a'' the strongest shit ya got.¡± He hesitates for a moment more before getting to work. Harriet turns to all the stares she''s still getting, and starts combing through her dishevelled hair. ¡°What? Never seen someone get a drink?" Two shot glasses slam onto the counter. ¡°That''ll be twelve cents.¡± Instantly, she pales. "Cents?" She chuckles, awkwardly, and starts pawing through her clothes. Menowin must have sewn a dozen pockets onto this thing, but all of them are empty. "Heheheh..." She tries, and fails, to laugh it off. "I... shit, th-that''s right, I gotta-" "Yer not tryin'' ta gyp a few drinks off us, are ya?" The slur makes her quiet, and she watches the bartender''s hand slowly move down to his hip. She casts a desperate glance to Menowin. He''s smiling. ... this is his distraction, isn''t it? Harriet scowls at him. "Sonuvabitch." "What wazzit?" "Nothin''!" She swivels back to the bartender, eyes wild. "Uh... l-lissen, pardner, I might, at this current time, be a lil'' strapped fer cash-" She sees a hint of metal. "BUT BUT BUT there are other ways a''... tricks." She blinks a few times, the idea forming in her head. "What if I did a trick fer it?" "A trick?" The bartender doesn''t look very impressed. Harriet smiles, leaping off the stool and swinging the rifle into her hands. ¡°Name a target, any target. An¡¯ I could be drunk, bound-up, one-eyed, but I¡¯ll hit it! Whaddaya say? Folks gimme a challenge, but when I win, they buy my glass!" "Hahaha!" When of the men at the bar. ¡°Girl, give that gun back to yer Pa. It''s nearly big as you!" ¡°That don''t matter." ¡°Good Lord, don¡¯ lissen ta her, Zachariah.¡± Another man further down slams his shot glass on the counter. ¡°These gypsy fortune tellers an'' magic men, they''re always fulla-" There¡¯s a roar, a burst, a scream. The man hurries back, hands over his face, as his glass erupts into shards. Everyone stops, staring at it, only breaking from their fugue when she blows the smoke from her gun barrel. "I said..." She opens her palm, revealing a half dozen musket balls. "... I''ll hit." Everyone''s silent as she starts replacing the powder, inserting the ball. But eventually, one man particularly reeking of alcohol leans into her. ¡°Ya see that Chinaman by the tables?¡± ¡°Uh-huh.¡± Harriet brings the gun to her shoulder, looks down the sight. ¡°He the dealer?¡± ¡°In the flesh.¡± She squints. The table¡¯s far. Far enough to ignore her last shot and continue with their game. The dealer has a strange mustache, pins in his hair to keep on a tiny hat. ¡°Always good ta prank the yellow bastard." The drunkard rants on. Harriet tunes him out. Holds her breath. "I¡¯ll buy ya three scotches if ya hit that tiny-¡± A roar. Smoke. The saloon fills first with gasps, and then furious Cantonese. While the men look on in awe, Harriet swipes her two glasses, quickly downing them both. ¡°Blegh. Ya owe me three!" The other men surround her with offers, but the bartender Zachariah''s catches her first. ¡°Ya see that birdnest by the roof?¡± She lifts her gun. ¡°In the rafter there?¡± ¡°I¡¯m s¡¯posed ta knock it off,¡± he starts filling her shots. ¡°But if ya can shoot it clean-¡± ¡°From the ground?¡± A miner slams his hand on the bar. ¡°I''ll bet twenty cents, no way in hell.¡± Someone else shouts ¡°Thirty cents, she does!¡± ¡°Fifty cents, she hits the fuckin'' bird!" ¡°Zach.¡± The other tender grabs his arm. ¡°What are ya doin¡¯? Silas already raged at us ¡®bout causin¡¯ damage-¡± ¡°We''ll tell Silas I got it done!¡± Harriet tunes them out, eying down the nest. Concentrate... concentrate... Menowin watches silently from the wall, chomping on another piece of farmer''s gum. He¡¯s unsurprised when men start crowding around the girl, and unsurprised when Gawen Rowe approaches him with two mugs in hand. ¡°How¡¯s the distraction going?¡± The gun fires. Rowe turns just in time to see falling pieces of the nest. It''s followed by curses and cheers. Menowin swipes the glass and says before he downs it, ¡°?inavas, so ?oxani farmi?evas.¡± He sputters, and looks at the mug. The Black Prince has handed him water. ¡°Forty cents!¡± ¡°Fifty cents!¡± ¡°Sixty!¡± The betters are getting louder and louder. Rowe makes a face when Harriet lifted onto the table, and the bartender pours whiskey into her mouth, straight from the glass. "We should stop them. She''s going to get sick." ¡°I think it''s part of the next challenge." Rowe watches his eyes. ¡°You called her a ?oxani. Mercy if I''m false, but doesn''t that mean ''witch''?" Another gunshot. Even louder cheers. Menowin gnaws for a bit longer, before folding his arms. ¡°How long has she been riding with us, Rowe?¡± ¡°Maybe four months.¡± ¡°You ever see her miss?¡± His smile grows as the Black Prince slowly frowns. At the bar, the bets are going into the dollars now. Harriet¡¯s being hoisted up on people''s shoulders. Rowe turns resolute. ¡°You were wondering how she survived. Now, we know.¡± ¡°Are you serious? I might not know war like you, gadjo, but I¡¯ve never heard of a rifle so good-" ¡°What are you playing at, Menowin? She''s an excellent shot? Great. Even better that we brought her! But it has you clucking like the morning hen." He gives him a look. "Feeling outmatched?" Menowin yanks the farmer¡¯s gum from his mouth, waving it. ¡°Rowe, I know you so adore the miracles of your nailed god, but if you think they''re really real-" Another roar. Menowin yelps, his hand reeling back. The farmer¡¯s gum is gone. In its place, a hole in the wall, a few scattered bits of wheat. Menowin turns. Harriet''s slurredly walking up to him, nearly tumbling as she gives a bow. "Farma?eva. Are you fucking with me!?" "Course." She gives him a big smirk, and repeats one of his barbs. "Why else would I fuckin'' bring ya?" ¡°Hey there, pardner. How¡¯s it-¡± She hiccups. ¡°G-goin¡¯?¡± The crowd loses it. They¡¯ve stopped betting on whether she¡¯ll hit and started betting on how many drinks it will take to knock her down. Rowe pulls Menowin back before the traveller can show fang. ¡°Menowin, wait. This isn''t-" Rowe feels something get pushed into his pocket, before Menowin pushes off ¡°Alright, rakli. You want a fucking trick?¡± He opens his hand, unveiling a slim silver dollar. ¡°Let¡¯s try a moving target." Harriet pales. The men behind her start whispering. ¡°Take a good look at this coin, chindilan. In ten seconds, I''m throwing it in the air. You don''t want a bruise on your cheek, you''ll knock it out before it hits the ground." ¡°It can¡¯t be done!¡± Someone shouts. ¡°Ten dollars it fuckin'' can!" Menowin keeps the coin outstretched, letting Harriet stare at it with a blank, uncertain face. Then he spins on his heel, walks as far as the saloon goes. Harriet''s squeezing her gun. Her face hardens, and she lifts it onto her shoulder, eyes set. He smiles. Spins the coin a few times in his palm. She opts not to watch him, but the air above. Waiting for the arc. She¡¯s hit moving things before, squirrels in the treetops, rabbits in the grass. But those were easy. This¡­ ¡°Ready?!¡± Menowin shouts. She brings the gun to her face before giving a curt nod. His thumb flicks. She holds her breath. Hold... A tiny sliver of light spins through the air. Hold¡­ ¡°Stop! STOP!¡± A portly man in a fine suit bursts through the doors. ¡°Gentlemen, gentlemen! What in tarnation are ya-" A roar. The room falls silent. They all wait, and watch, and breathe in the black powder. But eventually, they all hear a coin land. And see the smoke rising from a deeply-cut tent. The entire saloon goes wild. People crowd around her, gaping, pointing, hoisting her up. The well-dressed man - and the shotgun-wielding mountain of a bloke behind him - witness it in clear confusion. ¡°What are ya jackals doin¡¯?! This is my saloon! I don¡¯t pay you people to make mincemeat of my-¡± ¡°Silas Berkeley!¡± Harriet slides off a miner''s shoulders, finger pointed in the air. ¡°I... hic... I¡¯ve been¡­¡± For a few seconds, she wobbles, then crashes straight into one of the tables. The cheers that accompany each of her actions suddenly grow more confused. ¡°Jes'' the man I..." She springs back up, trying and failing to make a salute. "I was hopin'' ta speak with ya." Silas looks at her seriously for the first time. ¡°An'' who are ya?" ¡°Harriet!¡± She blinks, correcting herself. ¡°FIRESIDE!¡± ¡°An¡¯ what can I do ya fer, H-¡± ¡°I heard ya was fuckin¡¯ rich.¡± Silas stares at her. She smiles. "Ya know... hic... f-f-fer money... I can perform a trick or two." The Black Prince pales. Harriet''s still wearing a dumb smile, but the men around her turn stone cold. Silas laughs, then saunters up to her, scanning her like the prize at a county fair. "Well, heheheh... I''m not usually the one receiving offers fer tricks but..." Rowe starts rushing forward, but Menowin holds him back. "What are you doing!?" "Making a new plan." "Have you gone mad!?" Harriet gasps when Silas grabs her shoulder. Holding it firm and tight. "Wait! Wh-whaddaya-" ¡°Shhhh." He puts a finger on her lips. "I can think of a few." Her eyes grow wide. She reaches for her Springfield, but the mountainous man moves first, lifting his shotgun. The men that were surrounding her are all looking away. The girls in fishnets already.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. "N-No..." Her voice turns harried. "Th-th-th-that wasn''-" ¡°Come on, little lass¡­¡± Silas presses her into his chest. "I''ll get ya some nice jewellery." ¡°Get off, Menowin!" Rowe growls. "Quiet." Menowin pushes him into the wall as Harriet''s dragged away. "Where better to hunt a lion then its den?" "She''s gonna get hurt!" "She?" Menowin smirks. "Check your pockets, Rowe." Rowe gives him a confused look. "My pocket?" "That''s where I left it, right?" Rowe fishes in, his eyes widening as he feels the rivulets of a second silver dollar. Menowin watches expectantly as Rowe slowly pulls it out. The Black Prince''s expression falls. The coin is warm to the touch, and dented, as if somebody shot it. Rowe looks back, to the smoking spot where the first coin lay. He looks at Menowin, his brows wide. ¡°How¡­¡± ¡°Perfect copies, Gawen.¡± Menowin grins. ¡°They have to be.¡± +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 2004 The Yeoman¡¯s Respite Casino is an ostentatious, arrogant place. One of the oldest casinos in Soho, it has swallowed the many small shops and pubs and townhouses that were once crammed in the street beside it. Henri remembers when its walls were wood, not brick and marble and glass. Neon flashes across the entrance at all hours, bathing him in an almost heavenly light. Calling with gold letters and whirring sounds for the shoppers from Oxford Street, the tourists of the Circus, and the addicts from every growing shithole in this country to buy, buy, buy! Spin, spin, spin. He waltzes through the grand hall, a facade of gold and bronze and alabaster. Up the steps, and through the dens, private rooms of darkened lights, where old-fashioned men can smoke their fags on couches of red velvet. Under a gorgeous chandelier, the casino truly begins rows and rows of slots, tables of roulette, craps, pai gow, baccarat. The bars give free drinks, the dealers are required to have beauty checks. And with his aether so in touch to the building, Henri can hear the thrumming beat of his club deep below. The Underground: his latest and greatest. Where the young of this city can drug and fuck and hand him cash, while pretending they¡¯re still better than their ''upstairs'' fathers. Yes. In the Respite, there is only luxury. One finds no clocks or windows or prices as they walk down its polished steps. Intoxicating music abounds, and his palace is surrounded by a nigh invisible army of managers, bouncers, and hustlers. They keep the cash-flushed drunk, the too-drunks clean, the cashless quiet, and the troublemakers. ¡­ well¡­ If one were to check in the corners, at the couples almost kissing, they would learn what the Respite does to troublemakers. What the Court¡¯s allowed them to do. But no one ever spies. And Henri Ombras handles it personally when they do. As he climbs up an antique Persian rug, to the quieter, high-roller rooms, Henri reflects on how his business has grown these hundred-odd years. Before, the Respite was popular, now it¡¯s irreplaceable. There¡¯s nowhere more legal to feed, and the food clamouring to get in. So much free flesh and blood that it''s perhaps the one place that everyone goes. Courtman, Unbound, the Respite never cares. That kind of space can be useful. At times, it was all that kept the Sc¨¢thshi¨²l¨®ir solvent. Once or twice, it''s even kept the Reeves'' blades off his neck. He''s in the upper bar, the sole part of this old building he''s kept intact, for his most ancient of clients. But even then, in the back of his mind, he hears faint new sounds. Whispers of fourth drinks, and Albania. ¡°Mr. Ombras.¡± A tuxedoed attendant clings to him, clipboard in hand. ¡°I just wanted to review with you the-¡± ¡°Approved. Go.¡± Henri pulls open a door, storms into the private bar, and lifts a finger against the sharply-dressed figure turned away from him. ¡°You better have a bloody good reason to-¡± The pop of champagne. Captain Edward Morris turns on his heels, as stiffly as the day he became a corpse. He pours two glasses in his dress blues, with gold sashes around his arms, a ceremonial sword at his hip. When he''s finished, he hands a bewildered Henri a glass, staring back with midnight black eyes. ¡°Henri. My schedule is packed from now to December, so I had to make sure we celebrate this." Henri peers down. The glass is only half-full, but it''s likely the most generous serving of alcohol Edward Morris has ever poured. "Celebrate what?" ¡°On November 5th, a hundred and ninety-nine years ago," Morris lifts his drink. "Your side fought mine on the waves of Trafalgar." Henri blinks a few times as Morris clinks his glass. The old bar is a space of dark wood, few lights, luxury gin, walls that smell like cigars, complete and utter silence. "Excuse me?" ¡°I was a boy in that battle, fifteen years old. Serving as midshipman under Captain Pellew¡¯s Conquerer.¡± Morris pauses, letting the champagne fizzle by his eternal stubble. ¡°But I sailed out of that fight a man." ¡°Morris, how many times do I need to tell you? There is no my side or your side. I wasn''t even born in France! ¡°You were born in Calais. Calais is in France." ¡°Only because you sods managed to lose it!¡± ¡°Perhaps we didn¡¯t lose it.¡± Morris lifts a brow. ¡°Perhaps, upon meeting your personage, the King and Court both decided to cut our losses on the continent, lest we attract more with your miserable sense of humour.¡± They stare at each other for a few silent moments, before bursting into a laugh. ¡°How are you doing?" Morris smiles. "Former Keeper?" ¡°Well, I was doing quite well,¡± Henri bobs his head ¡°Had a nice sauna and meal waiting for me at the Grand before you-¡± ¡°Would ''meal'' be shorthand for another prostitute?¡± Morris turns again, towards a gramophone. But Henri gives him a look. "Don''t tell me your still on about that." Morris sighs. The gentle piano keys of Bellini start filling the room. ¡°By law, Ombras, you are Sovereign, and so can do as you will on your properties. Since my moral arguments seem to inevitably fail-¡± ¡°What arguments? They¡¯re whores!¡± "You terrorise them. Murder them-" "Only when I can''t help it!" Herni folds his arms. "And we''re not in a Dickens novel, Morris! They¡¯re not all battered women anymore. This one was quite aware of what she was doing, I will gladly say, which was scamming me out of every hapenny she-" ¡°You are talking about a living being, not a toy!" "We are vampires!" Henri makes a face. ¡°What do you think we were built for? And - and you know this is nowhere near as depraved as the others get! Shit, this casino probably kills twice as many through suicides every year! I just wanted a little adrenaline in my supper." "Is that so?" "''Is that so?''" Henri mimics his voice. "Well, okay, Captain Boy Scout, how do you feed?" "Consent." Morris finishes his drink. ¡°I find mortals I can trust, mortals that can share a secret. You''d be surprised how many are honestly willing to help." "Oh my God." Henri''s face falls. "You just hate having fun." Morris looks at him. "Fun?" "Yes. Can you imagine? I''m a five-hundred-year-old monster, and sometimes, I don''t want to be brooding and miserable. Sometimes, I want to have fun!" Henri tilts his head. "And it was an expansion of my palette. I''ve never tried somebody from Albania!" "Albania? What, are you collecting them?" "Yes. Like you collect your little ships in fucking bottles." Somehow, Morris still doesn''t seem to get it. "Are you actually having fun, Henri?" "Pardon?" "When you take glee in all the suffering? Treat everything like a game? Or is it more like the man playing slots in your casino? Who''s already lost hope, already lost more than he could ever regain, but he keeps playing and playing because it''s all he has left?" "I actually don''t spend much time thinking about them, Morris." "Neither does he?" "Well, I''m not at risk of going broke." Henri flashes that Cheshire Cat smile. But inside, the shadows are trickling in. Bits of aether, and moments lost. There are so many voices now, swirling in that faceless mass. Screaming for mercy. For their children. Morris frowns as he turns away. "Aren''t you?" The Captain climbs onto a stool and lowers his head. Henri watches with mild curiosity. Morris looks... old. Granted, he always did, even when Henri fished him out as a bloated half-corpse from Portsmouth. But now it''s... marked. "I apologise, Ombras. Might not be the company you would seek on this night." ¡°Why? Long night at the Magistrates?¡± ¡°Longer than most.¡± Morris sighs again. Henri moves behind the bar, unlocking a cupboard. ¡°Let me guess. Did Caedmon slam his axe into a Kept, or did Davison got on all fours and start barking at the stars?¡± ¡°Worse. We got a visit.¡± Morris pours a much larger glass of champagne ¡°From High Inquisitor von Lamberg.¡± Henri pauses. Sometimes, in complete honesty, Morris¡¯ position as Magister of the Shadow-Walkers takes a bit of his piss. For five-hundred years he¡¯s served the Court, and for five-hundred years, he¡¯s been nothing but a rubber stamp, approving whichever twelve Kepts the Court thinks most deserve him. Sure, Morris would say that Magisters should demonstrate ¡®an inclination towards good governance,¡¯ but he doesn¡¯t even hunt people, so what does he know? It¡¯s enough to make Herni feel almost humanly angry. Until he remembers that Margarete von Lamberg, High Inquisitor of the Veneficii, walks this Earth. If giving up top to Morris means he doesn''t have to share a room with her, the Magistrate is all his. "What did Margarete want this time?" ¡°I¡¯d need a stronger drink than this.¡± Slam! Morris watches a black tentacle lower Henri''s best gin onto the bar. Tonic water and a box of Cuban cigars quickly follow. Morris plucks one out, offering a slight grin. "You know, the young ones make fun of us for doing this." He offers no resistance. ¡°Caedmon was first, worried about the protests of the war. Just the protests, mind. I''m sure he''d be bombing Iraq to pieces, too, if he could find the place on a map.¡± ¡°What was he asking for? More security?" ¡°That¡¯s a word for it.¡± ¡°Ah.¡± Henri pours his own glass. ¡°Best stop breathing on the streets, then.¡± ¡°Hawthorne¡¯s next, regarding Oathsworn. Seems he¡¯s having trouble rearing Kepts from the political aides, wants to skip straight to MPs.¡± ¡°Keeping MPs?¡± Henri rolls his eyes. ¡°Has Hawthorne considered that he might be struggling because his politics were unpopular in 1825?¡± ¡°Somehow, I don¡¯t think the thought has occurred to him. I resisted, of course, and Reeve Wynters was even harsher. He reminded everyone of the security risks, how we need to lay low, how Blair¡¯s government already doesn¡¯t trust us and how the war''s so dramatically increasing surveillance. The diplomat he is, Hawthorne made a... poorly-worded joke about the Reeve''s stature." ¡°Oh.¡±'' ¡°Oh.¡± Morris repeats. ¡°The Reeve only stopped stabbing him when the New Sun commanded it." Henri sighs. "One has to wonder why she tolerates all this tomfoolery.¡± ¡°Wynter¡¯s, or the council¡¯s?¡± ¡°Both.¡± ¡°Because Davison is her maniac,¡± Morris shrugs. ¡°And the tomfoolery suits her." Henri frowns. Politics. So often it felt no different from the talk of fishwives. But he supposed such was inevitable. The Court might have several thousand Kepts, but its Sovereigns barely numbered two-hundred. Imagine that. Two-hundred faces, amidst a sea of names that will all die before you can even remember them. A Sovereign will only see those faces, every night, for the tens-of-thousands of nights he''s forced to live. Who wouldn''t be at each other''s throats? ¡°Doesn¡¯t seem quite like our High Inquisitor to just watch this all with a stiff upper lip.¡± ¡°Oh, she wasn¡¯t there. Only burst through the door when I started my speech.¡± ¡°You say that like she was just waiting outside for the chance to interrupt you.¡± Morris gives him a look. Henri looks back. "What did she say?" ¡°Aisha Lakhani. Anastasov¡¯s Poiosned One, maybe sixty years old. They''ve lost another, Henri. She¡¯s gone striga.¡± Striga. Henri¡¯s face twitches, and he casts his eyes to the side. By the Court¡¯s reckoning, a striga was the most dangerous sort of renegade one could come across. And Henri was actually old enough to remember why. But that¡¯s not what¡¯s causing his heart to stop, his gut to turn. He¡¯s dealt with striga before, but¡­ ¡°Henri¡­¡± Morris notices. ¡°Did you know her?¡± Henri looks away. ¡°... We were acquinted.¡± He can feel Morris'' expression grow dark. ¡°Edward, please. I can¡¯t control who stumbles into my office hours.¡± ¡°You never thought it strange that a veneficii would seek you out?¡± ¡°She wanted to know what the Middle Ages were like! Who else was she going to turn to, fucking Caedmon?¡± Morris'' hand rolls over his tightened face. ¡°If Lamberg finds out about this-¡± ¡°How could she?¡± ¡°- aiding a rogue Kept is treason. A rogue Veneficii¡­¡± ¡°We¡¯re Sovereigns! The Court would never stop us from ruling as we please.¡± ¡°As long as that rule pleases them!" Henri looks up. "But we don¡¯t, Ombras. Do you have any idea how deeply our bill has put me in hot water?¡± ¡°Our Bill? It was yours! And a half-arsed, futile, limp-wristed attempt at that! A Bill of Rights? For Kepts!? How did you think that was going to go? What''s next! Are we saving all the little children in Africa?¡± ¡°The Kepts need protections. Legal, economic, physical. That isn¡¯t an opinion, it''s necessity. These escapes will only cease when we actually address-¡± ¡°You''re preaching to the wrong crowd, Captain.¡± ¡°So why am I lacking your support?" Henri throws up his arms. ¡°What support can I give? Look around! A striga¡¯s out, a Reeve¡¯s shot on his own street! And sure, Keaton''s calmed down, but the other Freeholders snap at their leashes. The New Sun''s preparing for war, Edward!" ¡°All the more reason to shore up our relations with-¡± ¡°It will never pass! It has nothing to do with its value! You could strap the damn thing on the back of Sunwalker himself! It doesn''t matter. At a time like this, they won''t sign anything penned by a Shadow-Walker." Henri frowns, and plucks a cigar with his tendrils before adding. ¡°You¡¯ve helped make sure of that.¡± The Captain downs his gin straight, grimacing at the taste. He doesn¡¯t make eye contact with Henri. ¡°You helped, too.¡± They¡¯re speaking of a false fact. A thing that never occurred. Saying otherwise would be treasonous. And yet the nothing is well-remembered. Everyone knows that 1848 sparked the ¡°Seventh Revolt," with Freeholders like Keaton exploding onto the scene. Caedmon wasn¡¯t Seneschal then, he was Potentate, head honcho, officially given the position when his superior, Sunwalker, formalized his decades-long absence to his sole-surviving get in a dream. Everyone knows that Caedmon rose to the occasion, like he always has; Sunwalker could never choose wrong. The Unbound were fought back with bravery and valiance and most of all, restraint. It wasn¡¯t at all a bloodbath, protestors shot, nobles hung, cavalry tearing through the streets. A group of ''vampire hunters'' didn¡¯t swell with the disillusioned, didn¡¯t revel in the new chaos. The Court was never at risk, never lost ground. Everyone knows that. When Caedmon stepped down, it wasn¡¯t after the Order of the Confessor killed sixty Sovereigns and three Magisters in a single night. Those numbers are just hearsay, Unbound propaganda, to hide the fact that even if it occurred, hypothetically, the Unbound surely lost more. Caedmon took the vote of no confidence wisely, nobly, realising that his age had become the Court¡¯s only weak link in an otherwise perfect chain. The Seneschal, Joan Byron - and by Joan Byron, he means the New Sun, who has always been the New Sun and never once gone by another name - was crowned in his place, and gave Caedmon her old title. It was only natural. He was the perfect ruler, and she was his perfect Kept. But she still took it with hesitance, see, and only at the desperate Council''s demand. As the perfect Kept, she understood better than anyone how stringent Sunwalker¡¯s laws were against female rule. Thankfully, Sunwalker¡¯s aether ran in her veins, and it was discovered - in another dream - that this imbued her with the masculine energies needed to rule. And in such an emergency as this, was it really worth fretting about ancient laws of gender? No, said the New Sun, very wisely. In fact, she replaced every lost position with a woman who seemed perfect for the role. Almost like it was planned. But it wasn''t, of course. That would be treason. And the New Sun had been perfectly loyal to Caedmon before. She was his perfect Kept. There was one exception, of course. Edward Morris, elevated after only twelve years of unlife to become the (then) youngest-ever Sovereign, along with the New Sun''s promise that those Sc¨¢thshi¨²l¨®ir purges that maybe possibly occurred would never happen again. His domain, incidentally, would be the old grounds of the Order of the Confessor, who had mysteriously vanished just as quickly as they didn¡¯t actually bring the Court to its knees. That¡¯s what really happened. It would be treason to say the New Sun went to the Sc¨¢thshi¨²l¨®ir. It would be treason to say the Shadow-Walkers wanted that genocidal maniac Caedmon gone. It would be treason to say the hunters killed only and all of Caedmon¡¯s Court allies. It would be treason to say that women were only promoted for the debt they¡¯d feel, that Caedmon only stayed because he was too expensive to remove, and it would definitely be treason to say that Morris and Ombras personally dealt with the vampire hunters they anonymously tipped. It would be. And still, despite everyone knowing these events were false, it seems like nobody really trusts them. Henri pours himself a drink. ¡°Every century, there is a crisis. Every crisis, the knives come out. Every knife finds itself pointed at the Sc¨¢thshi¨²l¨®ir. You know that, Edward. Your honour, your popularity, everything and anything about you will not change that.¡± Morris doesn¡¯t reply, staring instead into his empty glass. ¡°We were once above them, you know," Henri continues. "They say our kind were the closest to the Predecessors, and the last to resist. That¡¯s the¡­ root of it all." ¡°The veneficii were close to the Predecessors too. They kept their power.¡± Henri lifts an eyebrow. ¡°Did they?¡± Morris finally turns to meet his eyes. ¡°Because they scorn us, we must act. Because they will kill us, we must kill first. And we work with Kepts because maybe, possibly, they won''t hate us like their forefathers! But moving too fast on any of them bolsters our enemies'' words, vindicates their thoughts, and in the end dooms us all. On the Night of Screams, I gave you that request, Morris. Not Joan, not Wynters, not any of its ringleaders, me. Because I knew what kind of man you were. You act. But I needed to make sure you knew when to act¡­¡± He clutches his former Kept¡¯s arm. ¡°... and when to wait.¡± Morris keeps the stare for a moment, before shoving free of Henri¡¯s grip. With those ever-stiff muscles, he reaches for his belt, pulling out a fine leather scabbard and placing it on the bar. Henri gives him a look. ¡°You know, I usually ask for more in my bribes..." ¡°Hold the sword, Henri.¡± Morris stands, waiting, until Henri slowly slithers up, placing his hand upon the hilt. His thumb rubs across a familiar texture. The handle''s ivory. Fluidly, Henri unsheathes it. From long lost days, he knows how to feel the weights, how to properly stand. His slash whistles in the air. He pulls it close, inspects the metal. Clean blade, gold plating, Latin engravings along the guard. It¡¯s an old weapon, a beautiful weapon, one he knows that Morris got before he became immortal, and one that even his noble family could never hope to afford. ¡°The Lord Mayor gave me this sword," Morris starts. "For Trafalgar. For Navarino. It was the gift my country, the greatest in all the world, offered for all the glory I had won her. I had never felt more honoured. I should have felt proud. But... when that pommel was given to me with the blacksmith''s bowed head, I almost couldn''t hold it." ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Because I had hid in Trafalgar. Up in the crow¡¯s nest, a boy of fourteen, watching bodies crash into the waves like they were leaping off the cliffs of my youth." He manages a shaky smile. "Because in Navarino I watched men get split in half by cannons, or fireships melt their skin. They called me a hero, Ombras, but I''m not one. In every battle, every war, I saw more deserving men die, and get no reward but a burial at sea, and the fear of their families starving. They are the ones who deserve that sword. They are the ones who preserved the institutions our Court wants to strangle." Henri pales at that, and purses his lips. ¡°Careful, Edward. We might be alone, but we aren¡¯t unheard.¡± ¡°And perhaps they¡¯ll listen. I came from a democracy, Ombras, as did every Kept, every Oathsworn. Can we expect our young to follow us, when they are born free and brought into chains? Can we expect to steward a nation that values rule of law above al, when we do not even follow the-" ¡°You sound like you''re Unbound." ¡°I am not." Morris huffs. "Every time they bomb a building, or shoot a bureaucrat, they attack the same idea. The same people I¡¯ve sworn to defend, on the graves of my comrades, at the feet of a dozen kings and queens." Morris approaches, taking the sword from Henri¡¯s hand. With a flourish, he sheathes it, moving more fluidly than Henri has seen in years. ¡°Someone must defend Britain. What its people are. What it¡¯s chosen to be. The New Sun won¡¯t, the Unbound won¡¯t, and so I must. The Kepts are British, Ombras. They deserve the protections their countrymen have earned. As do you.¡± He taps on Henri¡¯s shoulder with the sword. ¡°Even if you were born in Calais.¡± Henri watches him with unblinking, void-like eyes. Britain. There was no ¡®Britain¡¯ when he entered the world. No flags, no democracy - hell, even the rulers spoke French. He wants to tell Morris that it¡¯s just an illusion, an illusion he had seen be constructed. Britain was no different than the lights he puts on the Respite¡¯s signs, or the lies he tells his food. The men who fight and die for it fight and die as fools. But telling Morris would change nothing. Morris is too old to not know that already. Immortality is a game. Not for the strongest, or the smartest, and definitely not the best. Those who last only do so by holding onto some piece of their old selves, some miniscule slice of living they can never afford to lose. It could be as banal as holding a woman¡¯s hair, or as twisted as hanging innocents by their guts. It doesn¡¯t matter. It just needs to keep you breathing. Britain is Morris¡¯ tether. If it were to vanish tomorrow, he would vanish too. As would the New Sun without her power games, Lamberg without her duty, or Caedmon without¡­ whatever that bag of ancient bones holds onto. It should probably worry Henri that he can¡¯t remember his own. But it doesn¡¯t. The Wilds are calling him. Calling him back to whatever plane of existence he stole his unlife from. At first, it only spoke in his dreams, in the very pit of the death-sleep. But now, it follows him, wherever he goes. Whispering of fourth drinks. And Albania. Chapter 12: The Springfield, Part III 1866 Summertime ¡°Impressive, isn¡¯t it?¡± Silas Berkeley beams. ¡°They don¡¯t have anything this large in Europe.¡± Harriet stares at the trussed-up brown rug, all that remains of a grizzly bear. Its mouth hangs open, and its eyes are glazed. In the wild, they were always too busy eating to notice her, and she, in turn, ignored them. They always felt so¡­ big. Not now. But then again, she¡¯s not feeling big, either. Silas slides an arm over her shoulder, pulling her close and launching her stomach into a new twisting mess. ¡°I shot it myself, ya know. And¡¯ll shoot more, once I¡¯m back in British Columbia.¡± The whiskey¡¯s gone, replaced by a splitting migraine. She¡¯s woozy, struggling to stand. Every sensation rattles her spine, makes the windchimes that much louder. But dammit, Harriet can¡¯t show herself like this. She needs to look tough. She needs to show she¡¯s not scared. They like it when she¡¯s scared. Like when¡­ She forces a scowl. ¡°The tanner messed up, Mr. Berkeley.¡± ¡°Pardon?¡± She taps the bear¡¯s face with her shoe. ¡°It¡¯s eye. Ya can see, wedged in there, a piece a¡¯ obsidian. Injuns, I¡¯m guessin¡¯.¡± Silas seems shocked as she forces herself from his grip. ¡°No gunshot killed yer bear.¡± She enters what she presumes to be a luxuruious hall. They¡¯re somewhere at the edge of town, a real big house with colourful walls and clumps of dirt she imagines will someday turn into a garden. There¡¯s lots of gas lights and carved wood and an odd green paper coating the walls. It¡¯s empty, save her, Silas, and the silent armed guard. Yet it didn¡¯t feel empty, mostly because every shelf and table and free bit of space the house was filled with china sets and watches and doilies and porcelain dolls. Stuff. More than Harriet could ever want, and certainly more than Silas Berkeley would ever need. The mine owner flusters as she plucks a dusty toy soldier off a shelf. ¡°Uh, miss¡­¡± ¡°My Pa was a soldier,¡± she murmurs back, studying the dozens of similar figurines arrayed in formation. ¡°Veracruz, Veracruz, he always talked ¡®bout Veracruz. Ya know where that is? That¡¯s where the army gave him ¡®is-¡± She gasps. Silas has grabbed her arm. His teeth are too white. ¡°Upstairs,¡± he smiles. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°That¡¯s where the silver is.¡± She gives him a look. ¡°Ya wan¡¯ me ta shoot yer silver?¡± Silas laughs. She watches him slowly lower his hand, until it¡¯s rubbing hers. ¡°No reason¡­¡± he entangles their fingers. ¡°... ta get so clever.¡± The windchimes are screaming. Briefly, she panics, pleading for Rowe, for Eddards, for anyone. Would they¡¯d let him take her? Why¡¯d they leave her behind? Menowin. That little bastard. She should¡¯ve known he¡¯d turn them against her. His offer was a front. He¡¯s fucking with her head. Suddenly, she¡¯s shaken, and brought back to the reality where her cheek is being nuzzled by this sharply dressed man. Harriet recoils, struggling to see through the fluffy white fog. She knows she¡¯s being led up stairs, that someone¡¯s loading a gun, but her mind is shrinking. Eventually, he lets go, and Harriet regains herself in an ornate office. There¡¯s a desk, and a fireplace and plump chairs and bookshelves and a fancy grandfather clock. A big portrait of the dead President looks somberly over the flames, and images all over his desk in glass frames. Photographs. They show Silas shaking hands. Holding guns. She¡¯s never seen a photo before. The guard sticks by the entrance, weapon in hand. Silas pulls the portrait back, fiddling with something set in the wall. Harriet walks up to the desk, taking the largest frame in her hands. A gaunt woman, with a parasol, a poofy dress. ¡°So. Redheads.¡± Silas starts placing paper bills on the desk. ¡°Imagine y¡¯all go a lil¡¯ extra-¡± ¡°Who¡¯s she?¡± Silas turns. Harriet flips the frame, shows him. ¡°Oh.¡± He laughs, shaking his head as he swipes back the frame. ¡°Nobody important.¡± She watches him set it face down. Suddenly, there¡¯s a force pulling at her back. Harriet swivels, wrestling with the guard who¡¯s taking her gun. ¡°STOP!¡± Silas takes out an ivory pipe. ¡°We won¡¯t be usin¡¯ it, girl.¡± "I need it!¡± ¡°Stand down!¡± A blur. Blackness, and stars. The guard¡¯s hit her, slamming the butt of his gun right into her chest. Harriet falls into the desk, then springs up, hands in the air, putting as much as distance as she can between them. Her gun¡¯s on the floor, the guard¡¯s aimed at her. Silas is struggling to light the pipe, only half-interested in the scene. ¡°M-Mister¡­¡± Harriet shrivels as she touches the wall. ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯ know what yer-¡± ¡°Don¡¯t play dumb, girl. Ya¡¯ve done this before. I can tell.¡± Harriet pales. Her eyes twitch as she turns to him, desperate, wild. ¡°But ya can¡¯t wife me.¡± That catches Silas off-guard. He stops working with the matches, furrowing his brow. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± ¡°Wife. Ya wanna wife me. But ya can¡¯t.¡± She nods her head to the downturned portrait. ¡°Y-Ya already got one.¡± Silence. It takes Silas a minute to realise what she¡¯s saying. Then he laughs. Roaring, boisterous, and louder than the windchimes. Louder than anything she¡¯s ever heard. He gestures to the guard. ¡°Take off those rags.¡± ¡°NO!¡± ¡°Frontier girls¡­¡± Silas stands up, unbuttoning his shirt. ¡°I swear, the Injuns or trappers must get inta ya. Ain¡¯t met a bitch this side a¡¯ the Mississippi that didn¡¯t act hysterial-¡± He¡¯s cut off by a crash. Harriet flails into the guard, biting his wrist, scratching and scratching until something draws blood. His gun barely misses, churning through paper and wood. She¡¯s thrown off, slams her head in the fighting. She sees her gun, feet away. Crawls for it, reaches for it¡­ ¡°Urgh!¡± Something heavy slams into her head. She feels her body flipped around, hears the breath of the guard. Her eyes widen as his boot presses on her neck. Hard. ¡°K¡­ kh-kh¡± She flops around, struggling for air. ¡°Ya like that!?¡± The man wipes blood from his face. ¡°Ya like that, ya lil¡¯ BITCH!?¡± ¡°Kh-kh¡­ khhhh-¡± The boot¡¯s gone. She feels a rush of air, wind on her face. And a pool of warm blood spilling over her. ¡°Argh!¡± The guard screams in the distance, crashing into the balcony door. ¡°The fuck is that!?¡± Harriet blinks, red all over her face, her hair, her clothes. Another figure leaps over her, bells chirring, curved swords drawn. She twists onto her belly, eyes on the Springfield, wriggling. Beyond her, she can hear shouts, screams, blades tearing flesh. But she doesn¡¯t care. She doesn¡¯t see. The Springfield¡¯s on the floor. When she grabs it, she squeezes it, embracing, kissing, crying. She lets the metal cool her cheek, before it warms through her tears. Model 1835. ¡°GET THE HELL BACK!¡± .69 calibre. .65 buckshot. ¡°MOVE!¡± Forty-two inch barrel. Someone slams Silas into the wall. Loaded weight ten pounds. The Lincoln portraits flies off with a crash. Harriet can hear sparks, whirring, but doesn¡¯t look, huddling over her gun. Her gun her gun her- ¡°FIRESIDE!¡± She looks up just as Gawen Rowe embraces her. He pulls her close, hand over her hair, and she moves in sobbing. ¡°Thank God.¡± She blinks back her tears. ¡°Rowe¡­¡± ¡°It¡¯s okay. It¡¯s okay. I¡¯m here. You¡¯re safe.¡± ¡°ROWE!¡± He follows her eyes to the office behind him. It¡¯s a ruin. Menowin stands over an uncovered safe, hand glowing, a terrified Silas cowering behind the desk. But Harriet¡¯s focused on the two massive men fighting over the remnants of a bookshelf. One looks like a slab of meat. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. The other is cutting through him with six inch long claws. Rowe¡¯s face collapses. ¡°Don¡¯t look!¡± ¡°I-is that Red!?¡± ¡°No.¡± Rowe pulls her away, taking her face in his hands. ¡°Harriet, look at me.¡± The guard screams. She tries to look back, but Rowe¡¯s grip is tight. ¡°Look at me.¡± Harriet trembles. ¡°Wh-wh-what¡¯re they-¡± ¡°Look at me. It¡¯s just a dream. Just a bad dream. Look at me.¡± He cups her eyes, hiding her view. ¡°What do we do when we don¡¯t want bad dreams?¡± Harriet can¡¯t answer him. She can¡¯t look away. ¡°Stories.¡± He smiles. ¡°All we have to do is tell each other stories. Do you remember mine?¡± She listens to the bleeding man gurgle. Harriet quickly nods. Rowe starts. ¡°Bedwyr was so skilled because¡­¡± ¡°He could fight with one hand,¡± she replies. ¡°And God let Galeas drink the Holy Grail because¡­¡± ¡°Galeas was pure.¡± ¡°And what about Llenleawc, Fireside?¡± The Black Prince¡¯s eyes spark. ¡°What made him more special than all of Arthur¡¯s other knights?¡± ¡°B-Brave?¡± ¡°That¡¯s right.¡± He hugs her, concealing her face. ¡°Llenleawc killed a dozen dragons. He was very very brave.¡± For a long time, they stay like that. Until her heartbeat calms, and they can only hear Silas¡¯ whimpers. ¡°Rowe.¡± Harriet blinks, looks up, and sees Menowin standing before them. ¡°It¡¯s there.¡± ¡°All of it?¡± Rowe asks. Menowin tilts his head to the safe. ¡°If some part is missing, I really can¡¯t tell.¡± He briefly notices Harriet¡¯s presence. To her surprise, he offers a smile. Rowe¡¯s face sharpens. He climbs to his feet with a scowl. ¡°Bring it.¡± As he starts to march, Red opens a balcony door. She can faintly hear the commotion of the folk outside. ¡°I need to speak to the crowd.¡± Silas springs up when he realises the Black Prince is coming for him. But his protests are worthless. A hand on his collar, Rowe drags him out. Harriet slowly gets up, her eyes never leaving Red. He¡¯s drenched in blood, boots clomping through a glowing pool. He never turns her way. Keeps his hat pulled over his eyes. She gasps as she¡¯s slapped on the back. ¡°Good work, rakli.¡± Menowin¡¯s rings dig into her skin. ¡°Good performance, good shooting. Still a liability, needing the rescue and all, but-¡± ¡°Ya left me,¡± she says through grit teeth. ¡°Ya left me alone with him.¡± Menowin purses his lips. ¡°True. But how many times do I have to say? In this group, you play the part you¡¯re given. I appreciate that you played good bait.¡± Harriet looks at contents of the safe. He wasn¡¯t lying about the silver. It sits there in a glittering heap, some jewellery, some silverware, others just big bars. ¡°So we¡¯re stealin¡¯ this, ain¡¯t we?¡± Menowin folds his arms. ¡°We can dream.¡± She gives him a puzzled look before the crowd outside reaches a crescendo. Harriet scoops up her rifle, keeping it close as she approaches. Neither Menowin or Red try to stop her. ¡°BANDITS!¡± Someone shouts. ¡°CRIMINALS!¡± ¡°This is our town!¡± The Black Prince throws Silas to the floor, forcing him onto his knees. Harriet can hear the townspeople¡¯s anger, see the orange from their torch flames. Her eyes widen when Rowe pulls a Bible from one pocket. And a revolver from the other. ¡°People of Berkeley!¡± He tries to shout over the crowd. ¡°Countrymen! Children of God!¡± ¡°Let go of him!¡± The Black Prince only barely misses the clay brick lobbed his way. Other folk start screaming. ¡°- DID NOTHING WRONG-¡± ¡°PAYS THE BILLS!¡± ¡°HE FOUNDED-¡± ¡°ARE YOU FREE!?¡± The crowd stops. Harriet approaches slowly, still aghast. Rowe¡¯s eyes have grown bolder, his presence larger. Something about his voice terrifies. Like it follows her from every angle. And yet¡­ there¡¯s a¡­ a pull in those words. Keeping her from looking away. He lifts the Bible. ¡°When your fathers came to this country, they were promised wealth! Liberty! Life under God! But where is that life, my friends!? Where is that liberty!? WHERE IS THE WEALTH!?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t listen to him!¡± Silas angrily shouts. ¡°He¡¯s a vagrant! A thief! He¡¯ll slit your-¡± A massive rattling turns all heads. Menowin comes slowly onto the balcony, a smirk on his face, dragging a massive, heavy, patchwork sack. Instantly, Silas pales. ¡°There was a time when all was common,¡± Rowe¡¯s voice grows sombre. ¡°When there were no rents, no wars! Your children would eat if there was food, the churches served you if you were sick, the law knew you were like you were their kin. WE HAD IT ALL!¡± Menowin thrusts the bag onto the railing, churning the pieces within. ¡°And it was taken!¡± Rowe shouts. ¡°Taken by those who employ! Taken by those who protect! TAKEN BY THE MEN WHO SAID WE¡¯D BE FREE!¡± ¡°Someone shoot this guy!¡± ¡°He¡¯s fuckin¡¯ crazy!¡± ¡°Please,¡± Silas looks up at him, clutches his leg. ¡°Please, don¡¯t do this! You haven¡¯t seen-¡± He goes quiet when Rowe presses the revolver to his forehead. The crowd starts to scream. ¡°If you don¡¯t believe my words¡­ believe your eyes.¡± Menowin unfurls the bag. Angles it towards the ground. And release. Gasps. In a great cacophony, cascading like a waterfall, comes a rush of necklaces, snuff boxes, hand mirrors, soup spoons. Silver. It clatters across the dust to an awestruck crowd. Pandemonium. The crowd charges into each other, scrambling for the scraps. Harriet sees punches thrown, curses given. Women stuff bars down their shirts. Someone is being strangled with a silver necklace. The Black Prince and Menowin watch, not interrupting. Silas looks aghast. ¡°People of Berkeley¡­¡± Rowe continues. ¡°Could this money save your lives?¡± They¡¯re all too focused on gathering it to respond. ¡°I see.¡± The Black Prince smiles. ¡°Silas never lets you see the hauls.¡± From the mass of writhing, Harriet hears a gun fire. ¡°YOU ARE FIGHTING OVER SILVER YOUR MINE MAKES IN A WEEK!¡± Half the crowd in their tracks. A few look up, and the Black Prince points his gun at Silas. ¡°But how much does this man pay?¡± The owner scampers back from the railing, trying to dodge the crowd¡¯s venomous glares. Rowe smiles, and lifts his Scripture. Harriet only just realises the extent to which his skin glows. ¡°PEOPLE! There is an enemy! Not the Negro of our cities, or the poor farmers of our South! Our serpent lies in the East, with jaws of brick, a heart of greed, a spine of steel! It will tear you from your farms, dismember your children, STEAL YOUR GOD! It will uproot you from your family, your church, your streets, YOURSELVES UNTIL WE ARE ALL ALONE! Even the Earth they destroy! ALL THAT IS GREEN AND GOOD AND PURE!¡± He lifts a gun, and fires a shot to the sky. ¡°Silas Berkeley is the first. But more will come! Richer, crueller, with ever more tools to crush us! They will see you as numbers. THEY WILL BEAT YOU LIKE DOGS! They will churn you in machines until you¡¯re the coin they¡¯ll stuff their faces. How many have you already lost? To breakers? To debtors!? TO THE WARS THE RICH MEN START!?¡± There¡¯s a wall of noise. People screaming names, so many, and so piercing, that the mass is incomprehensible. Rowe listens to them all, his lip quivering, his brows set. Menowin watches, too, with more interest than she¡¯s ever seen. But Harriet can only think. Think, and remember. No monster came to her town. With big teeth. With scary eyes. But she remembers the railroad. But she remembers the railroad, how frightening it was, the first time it blared through. It brought workers, and drunkards, and bankers, and army men, and plague. She remembers the bodies, frail, yellow, buried together in stacks. She remembers the booze they brought in, the debt, the guns, the food. So much food, too much food. Everything to buy, nothing to sell, and when the bankers came, they sent letters and letters and letters Her eyes lose focus. Her grip on the gun grows tight. She watches Rowe, still waving, still screaming, strange-coloured tears streaming down his face. ¡°WE WILL MAKE A NEW TOWN!¡± She hasn¡¯t been listening. ¡°WE WILL MAKE A JUST TOWN!¡± His words are met with cheers. ¡°THIS IS YOUR MINE! THESE ARE YOUR TOOLS! THIS IS YOUR TOWN! WE WILL LIVE AS CHRIST INTENDED, BECAUSE THAT IS HOW THE MONSTER DIES! FOR OUR CHILDREN, OUR CHILDREN¡¯S CHILDREN, EVERY HUMAN THAT COMES AFTER US, WE MUST END ITS POISON NOW!¡± The crowd is berserk. Calling for justice, fairness, shootings and hangings and prayer. Harriet is silent, her face frozen. Rowe stands there, clutching his book, tears in his eyes. ¡°Silas Berkeley.¡± The mine owner is rocking, face hidden in his arms. But when he¡¯s called, he looks up. Less of the monster Rowe has painted, Harriet thinks. More like a child. ¡°You are that Serpent¡¯s agent. A rapist, a thief, a killer. The Barrabas of this world that Christ was compared to, but these people will not free you. Your fate is inescapable.¡± Rowe frowns. ¡°You will join me in Hell.¡± Silas sputters and shakes, but can¡¯t form words. The Black Prince kneels down, speaks softly, puts his hand on the man¡¯s shoulder. ¡°But I am one to kill a man first. Our God is forgiving. Our God loves. If you repent your ways, the path to His Kingdom might still stay open to you. But if you keep the wealth that blinds you, you will die as the men on the cross did. Screaming. In pain. With crows feasting on your eyes! ¡°I repent!¡± Silas manages. ¡°I-I¡¯ll give up the money, the house, everythin¡¯, anythin¡¯! I¡¯ll do whatcha want, jes¡¯ don¡¯t kill-¡± ¡°Shhhh.¡± The Black Prince lifts his hand, and the owner falls silent. He turns to Harriet with an outstretched arm. ¡°Your gun.¡± Harriet hesitates. Her eyes flicking from Rowe to Silas to Menowin. But the Black Prince gestures again, and she runs. Letting Pa¡¯s Springfield fall into his calloused hands. The Black Prince rubs his palm over the chamber, until his fingers turn pitch black. Then he lifts them to Silas, pushing onto his forehead. Slowly, carefully, he draws out the shape of a cross. ¡°Silas Berkeley,¡± he says. ¡°Today, you will join the workers in the mines. You no longer own. You are.¡± The man who once owned sobs. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As the wagon trundles slowly, and she bobs in the saddle, Harriet turns around. The town that was once Berkeley has changed. The open street is now barricaded. She can imagine the new world they¡¯ve made - the saloon turned soup kitchen, the jail full of guarded silver, the mine men working in shifts - but she cannot see it. The men drink in the open now, their cheers echoing through the valley, along with the breaking glass. Only through the inferno blazing across Silas¡¯ former mansion could one even make out the town. ¡°This isn¡¯t over for them,¡± Rowe says above her, his arms looped around hers. ¡°Silas wasn¡¯t the only owner of the mine. His investors in the East will want their share.¡± ¡°So why we leavin¡¯?¡± Harriet asks. ¡°We should fight ¡®em.¡± Gawen Rowe bites his lip. ¡°There are other towns.¡± He reaches down, so that his hands lie upon hers, cold against warm. She blushes. She knows it means as little as the altar boy offering bread, but she¡¯s still stunned by his speech, his voice, all these days later. That that sort of man would touch her¡­ ¡°Won¡¯t the army come?¡± Rowe breathes. ¡°When they realise the threat. But that¡¯s why we must move, Harriet. Fast enough, and far enough, so they won¡¯t smell the smoke until the fire¡¯s ablaze.¡± She blinks a few times, then looks back around. The smoke is billowing now, rising so high that it smothers the moon. It makes an outline of Red Eddard¡¯s form, and Menowin¡¯s, his many bells ringing along with him. She still doesn¡¯t know what they are¡­ but¡­ She squeezes Rowe¡¯s hand. ¡°Rowe?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve seen it.¡± He blinks, and looks down at her. ¡°The monster. I¡­ In the East, I saw it. I know what it can do. An¡¯... I wanna help ya end it.¡± ¡°The train killed my home.¡± She grips the reins as tightly as she can. ¡°The banks killed my father.¡± ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 2004 The room is dark. The sheets are soft. Harriet rises, and opens unrestful eyes. Sleeping is different for the Nocturni. The act feels instant, and dreams are very rare. Falling into death-slumber should be simple. She can only barely remember the last time she tossed and turned, in the foggy days of childhood. The plaid sheets are heavy, but she cannot sweat. No matter what she touches, the mattress is cold. Harriet looks around. She can hear the course of the little stream, see the blinks of the door¡¯s red light. She¡¯s been locked in here for a couple hours, in a thin white dress she supposes is her nightgown. The things he brought her are cast to the side. The banjo. The dime novels. That obnoxious little visor. It should be all the evidence she needs to not do what she''s about to do. She knows how much he''ll like it. Knows the position it will put her in. If it were anything else in the world, she would sacrifice it in an instant. ... but... She can feel her throat clench up, her lungs compress, her heart furtively beat. She''s shaking, rattling the bedframe. Her hand keeps reaching for something that isn''t there. The thought simply can''t leave her mind. Slowly, she pulls the blankets back, lets her soles pad onto the floor. She walks through the room casually, already knowing her way into the ornate bathroom. She can see an orange bead of light by her feet when she passes the shower. She pauses for a moment, then knocks on the other door. Silence. Harriet bites her lip, unsure if she should knock twice, or regret her choice, or start beating the door down. When she lifts her fist again, the lock clicks back, and the door opens. Revealing boxer briefs. Dishevelled hair. Muscles over a white shirt. ¡°Fireside?¡± The perfections in Soteris¡¯ are gone. She can see that Nocturnal grey skin, the creases under his eyes. ¡°I told you to sleep.¡± ¡°I¡­¡± Harriet stops, recoils. She shouldn¡¯t have done this. She shouldn¡¯t be asking for this. She should¡­ ¡°... I need a gun.¡± The words hang in the air. She lowers her head, fiddles her hands. ¡°Fer sleepin¡¯.¡± Soteris leans on the doorframe, his eyebrows bent, his mouth frozen. Slowly, he twists his jaw, and the tone in his voice rattles her. ¡°Harriet¡­¡± ¡°I-I¡¯ve always slept with one! Since I was a girl. An¡¯ without it, I-I-I-I¡¯m jes¡¯ feelin¡¯-¡± ¡°So you want me to go to the store and grab you a toy?¡± ¡°No! No. S-Soteris,¡± She swallows, tries to sound firm. ¡°I-It¡¯s gotta be real.¡± ¡°Are you serious!?¡± And the firmness is gone. She skirts back, hugging herself. ¡°Do you realise how insane this sounds?¡± Soteris raises his voice. ¡°I give you a weapon? You, who broke Astrid¡¯s arm. You who shot at me only yesterday!?¡± ¡°No, nonono. Soteris, p-please¡­¡± ¡°We should transition away from guns. That was the old Fireside, the bad Fireside. The Fireside I-¡± ¡°They make me feel safe!¡± He stops. She manages to look up at him. Breath heavy in her lungs, heart frozen in her chest. Her nails are dug into her hair. Her eyes are wild. Like an animal. ¡°WhywouldI¡­ whywouldI¡­¡± she breathes in a sob. ¡°Why else would I be askin'' you?¡± Silence. She starts to shake. The way he''s looking at her, pitying her, it makes her want to tear the room into shreds. But she just stands there. Soteris reaches out, grabs her wrist, brings it down. Her entire body seems to tremble. ¡°Fireside... If what you need is company¡­¡± The windchimes start screaming. ¡°... I can sleep with you.¡± SLAM! She closes the door, fiddles with the lock, and sprints back into her room. WEAPONS. She¡¯s breathing hard. She could slam his face in with the chair. Spray hair mixture in his eyes. But she can¡¯t she can¡¯t SHE CAN¡¯T. She can already feel the magic, keeping her arms back, her thoughts pure. But she needs to she needs to so she switches to herself, clawing at her skull. Get it out get it out ¡°GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT! God God God God help me help me help me¡± Pancakes. Pancakes pancakes. He made her pancakes but he doesn¡¯t care none of them care THEY¡¯RE FUCKING LIARS. She¡¯s hyperventilating. Fangs out, hair over her eyes. Her hunger¡¯s sated, but the Wilds still call. Ten more days ten more days. But what if it¡¯s twenty? Thirty? Two-hundred? What if Aisling and Red never come AND THEY THINK SHE¡¯S CRAZY AND SHE¡¯S IN MAKEUP AND DRESSES FOREVER AND EVER AND EVER The scream erupts from her lips half-stifled. A painful, piercing wail. Suddenly, there¡¯s a knock. She stops, tears falling. The light turns from red to green. No. She won¡¯t get it. No. She has to. No. ¡°Fireside.¡± She hears his voice, and her stomach sinks. ¡°Open the door, please.¡± Her eye twitches. She remains in place. It wasn¡¯t a command. ¡°I know you aren¡¯t sleeping.¡± Soteris is how he was. Dishevelled, unclean. That little golden fire has dulled in his eyes. But there¡¯s something heavy in his hands, held at the centre by a tight, closed fist. She looks down at it. Long and dark and instantly known, but still incomprehensible to her mind. She knows of Holland & Holland. An anachronism. Craftsmen of a dead craft. Since before she was born, their guns were hand-made, custom-built, pricier than a modern sports car. She had never fired one, and would never want to. But she knows why others would, and knows that she¡¯s staring at one of the greatest shotguns in the world. Soteris silently holds it out for her. Harriet approaches with quiet steps. Lets it fall into her arms, the weight pressing on her hands. It¡¯s beautiful. Polished wood, with inlaid silver. Along the grip stands an ornate engraving, of wolves and lions and bears and bulls, all kneeling, before a shadowed man. Her fingers glide across it, the trigger, the lock, every corner and curve. She can tell that the chamber is empty, but her mind doesn¡¯t care. 12-bore. Nitro proof. Thirty inch barrel. Sidelock ejector. It weighs just under eight pounds. Soteris doesn¡¯t let go, even when she pulls at it. He watches her face, searching, waiting. She blinks, and whispers, ¡°I got it.¡± Only then is it left to her. They pause for a few seconds, both waiting, until Soteris gives the first. ¡°For sleeping.¡± She quickly nods. He lingers by the door, staring at her and the gun. She¡¯ll wait until he¡¯s gone. Until she hears the lock. Then she¡¯ll fall to her knees, squeeze it, cradle it, and let a nightmare¡¯s worth of tears fall. But not now. Now is only them. After a minute, he curls his face, and turns away. He only stops when she shouts, ¡°Soteris!¡± He looks back, but she¡¯s silent. Too stunned by what she was about to say. He doesn¡¯t smile, or even express. He just acknowledges her with a ¡°goodnight,¡± before closing the door. Leaving his treasure behind him. Chapter 13: Ensei, Part I I was told I could only reach him by helicopter, in his snow-filled fortress in the mountains of Nagano, Asama-Yousai. He has made a converted monastery his home, with no fancy cars, no pretty girls, barely a Bloomberg terminal. What the house does have in spades are bookshelves; Hajime, who stands at two metres, sixty-five years, and twenty stone, told me he reads at least one book a day. ¡°Too many are seen and stupid,¡± he explained after his morning meditation. ¡°I prefer to be wise, and invisible.¡± Yet those in the field would hardly characterise Hajime as such. I was nervous to speak to the world¡¯s ¡®Earphone King.¡¯ Infamous for his temper, Hajime has become a legend on the trading floor for the abuse he levels at employees, so much so that Tokyo police are actively investigating his role in several suicides. But the man I met was surprisingly calm, quiet, offering to make me tea and speaking only after much thought. A radio salesman by trade, Hajime made his first billion by investing the entirety of his wealth into one company, Sony, whose founder Akio Morita had just started developing the ¡®Walkman.¡¯ At the time, he told a bewildered press that he thought Mr. Morita¡¯s invention would ¡°change forever the way humans understand music.¡± As the head of Asia¡¯s largest venture capitalist firm, he has become famous for losing billions in hundreds of risky start-ups, before recouping and exceeding his losses with a few highly profitable ¡®unicorns.¡¯ These include Singapore¡¯s leading e-commerce brand, Sea Group, the Indian IT giant Infosys, and, most recently, the Chinese ¡®everything site,¡¯ Alibaba. This high-risk trading strategy isn¡¯t his only eccentric behaviour. When I mentioned the 1997 crisis, I was surprised by Mr. Hajime¡¯s laughter. He confirmed the tabloid stories that, unlike every other harried investor, he refused to return to the markets. In fact, the collapse of dozens of his investments left him feeling relieved. ¡°Let the markets come. Let them sweep through like a divine wind. Crush the weak with the pressure of a million stones, and the real champions - my champions - will still stand tall. They will come out as diamonds. My fund does not exist for the petty profits of the riskless. It exists to change the world.¡± Mr. Hajime alleged that his Sony investment was made only after a conversation with Mr. Morita; that he had not, in fact, even seen the product his money would be developing. ¡°In all times, our world has been moved by great men. Once, they wore crowns; now, they wear suits. But no matter their size, no matter their start, they will conquer. Their minds cannot be quenched, and will drown all lesser wills. Such was Mr. Morita. He wanted the world to always know music. And so the world knew.¡± I asked Mr. Hajime where these men of ambition are found. When he was unable to give an answer, I posited that, if such a man emerged in my own native Britain, would Mr. Hajime break his own personal code against investing in the West? ¡°They would move the world regardless,¡± Mr. Hajime replied. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t need to.¡± Excerpt from ¡®In the Hall of the Earphone King: My Time with Japan¡¯s Most Mysterious Venture Capitalist,¡¯ by Forbes contributor Jeremy Lyson, March 24th, 2001. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 1647 Cornwall He was young. The creases still unseen on his face, and the scars yet to grow on his flesh. His horse bobs along the dirt path, its hooves tearing through the grass, it¡¯s gilded armour glowing in the sunlight. His hand lingers by his sword as he gazes at the village that shouldn¡¯t be. There might be a few dozen houses, built from the reeds and stones and bricks made of mud. He can smell the pestilence that¡¯s rolled through here, hear it in the coughs and sobs caught by the wind. Stalks of wheat and corn whistle as he rides. Like in every village now, he sees few men. In their place, women and children huddle by their doors, or hide behind the walls. They watch him and his horse and the black banner that sweeps from his side. He knows that he¡¯s the first noble many of them have ever seen, and he knows he was right to not bring a guard. These people can¡¯t kill him. He can tell from their hungry, desperate eyes. He dismounts in the village centre, the only spot of the hamley that¡¯s clean. An old man sits on a tree stump to greet him, haggard, hunchbacked, huddling over his cane. He doesn¡¯t look up to see his guest, his voice rough as gravel. ¡°What lord are you?¡± ¡°Am I spotted so easily?¡± The noble replies. He lifts his brows. It¡¯s clear the old man is blind. ¡°You nobles, clink and chatter. I heard your horse from a mile past. Now, again, which lord are you?¡± ¡°Gawen Rowe.¡± He hesitates, before adding. ¡°An du pennsevik." That brings out a laugh. ¡°So you know my father''s tongue. Good. But why ''Black Prince?" ¡°When my mother gave us sweets from the market, I always handed mine to the servants. I liked to watch them, play with them, enough so to become unseemly. People complained, but my father, he said, ¡®a flock has its black sheep, and our family has its black prince.¡¯¡± ¡°Why''d you do it?" "Do what?" "Give up sweets?" ¡°They always taste better the first time. I had already tried them all." Silence. The old man looks up with those grey, lifeless. ¡°Are you going to kill me today, Gawen Rowe?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± ¡°The other nobles want you to.¡± ¡°They do. But, as I just said¡­¡± the Black Prince shrugs. ¡°... I¡¯m not great at fitting in.¡± He purses his lip, looking about the village. ¡°Three months ago, your people tore down the enclosure marks, refused Lord Ashton¡¯s service, and squatted here citing some... unknown ancestral right. We¡¯ve sent seneschals, bishops, bailiffs to correct your error. I¡¯m told you instructed your fellow villagers to throw rocks." He only gets laughter in reply to that. The Black Prince turns serious. "Why?" ¡°The land here¡¯s better.¡± ¡°But it¡¯s owned by Lord-¡± Another laugh. ¡°It¡¯s not his land, boy. He doesn¡¯t work it. He isn¡¯t here.¡± ¡°But he owns it all the same. By divine right-¡± ¡°Divine right!?¡± The old man scowls. ¡°Which right, boy? Where in the Bible does it say I can¡¯t live here? Where!? Where!? You¡¯re the one who can read! Tell me the verse!¡± Silence. The Black Prince frowns. ¡°Divine right, peh,¡± the old man spits. ¡°Go join back with the King, if you want to yap on about ¡®divine right¡¯!¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think you fully understand your situation.¡± ¡°Mmm?¡± ¡°I came here because no one else would. Because I wanted to believe that you people could see reason, that we wouldn¡¯t need to fight. That an old man and his gaggle of women and children would never so flagrantly break our laws! And yet here you are, admitting to it. Taunting me with it!" ¡°Is going hungry a crime?¡± The Black Prince gives him a look. ¡°No.¡± ¡°Is growing food a crime?¡± ¡°No. But when you live on a lord¡¯s land, and don¡¯t give him due service-¡± ¡°DUE SERVICE!?¡± The Black Prince steps back. The older man is climbing up the stump, waving his cane. ¡°I was born here! I¡¯ve always worked here! And until his men kicked us out, this spot was MY HOME.¡± ¡°If he moved the enclosure, he would have offered enfeoffment, or compensation. It¡¯s the law.¡± A final laugh. Longer than all the others. ¡°You really don''t fit in." With difficulty, the old man walks down from the stump. The Black Prince is looking away. Considering what he''s heard. It makes sense. Taxes are declining. People are dying. There''s hardly any creditors for debt. Nobles need the wealth, and they need it now. But... so short-sighted. So much pain. He doesn''t want to believe they''d do this. But that doesn''t make it not true. ¡°Perhaps you¡¯ve been wronged.¡± He swallows. ¡°Perhaps your grievances are fair. But that is not a decision for you alone to make. Regardless of what you''d like, the courts have to determine who''s land-" ¡°No one owns the land!¡± The old man shouts. ¡°Just like no one owns the sky, these words, the air you breathe. It is all of ours."Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. His eyes grow wide. "That''s blasphemy." "It''s not. You can write laws against that, you can raise armies and castles to stop that, but the land will always remain the same." The old man spits, then slams his staff into the dirt. Rubbing it in, until two clear holes are dug. ¡°You have a choice, Gawen Rowe. Your nobles want to get rich; my village will not starve. Somebody isn¡¯t getting what they want, and there is no King or court or Parliament left that can make it easy and tell you who. If you will listen to us, like you keep saying you want to, then listen. If you want to kill us all and be done with it, draw your sword. But I want to make one thing clear, before you start yapping again about laws and rights and all your other fancy words." He taps the ground by the holes he dug, and bids the Black Prince to look. ¡°Your armies and castles make you big, but from where God can see us, there is no difference between any of us.¡± He blinks his dying eyes. ¡°We¡¯re all the same height.¡± ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 1866 Summertime She looks past the fire, and sees his outline in the flames. Gawen Rowe stands on the cliff¡¯s edge, his eyes on the stars. His lips move, but make no sounds. His hands are folded over his heart, but that heart doesn¡¯t beat when he sleeps. Harriet¡¯s checked. Blood only flows through the Black Prince¡¯s body when the Black Prince wants it to. They¡¯re alone. Red and Menowin are hunting for deer - or maybe people, she realises, but they would never let her know. It¡¯s been two weeks since Berkeley, two weeks since Rowe captured a hundred with his voice, two weeks since Red tore a human being to shreds. The events replay in her dreams, stirring her like fire, chilling her like cold. No one has mentioned it, and she''s scared to even ask. The only one she¡¯s broached the subject with was - of all people - Menowin. Perhaps it¡¯s because he already hates her. Perhaps it¡¯s because he clearly doesn¡¯t care. But she made a passing remark, a tiny reveal, then watched to see his reply. He had smiled, walked up to her, and traced out the shape of the Evil Eye on her forehead. She knows that she should be frightened of them. Knows that they are frightening. These are monsters from a story, something other than human. And yet¡­ in all her life, Harriet has never been less afraid. And that courage is because of them. She squeezes her fists. It¡¯s just a matter of force. If she says it quickly, confidently, he¡¯ll- The same hesitation hits her. What if he says no? But then her face hardens, and Harriet stands. The fire¡¯s warmth tickles her legs. She walks over the log seats, the packs, the pots and pans. All her focus on him. Soon her boots are scraping on sand and rock. She¡¯s left the gun behind her. ¡°Fireside." He says it just before she can speak. The Black Prince turns and looks at her. ¡°Have you ever counted the stars?¡± Harriet squints. The Black Prince¡¯s skin is pale, his expression distant. He speaks like he¡¯s not entirely there. Eyes dull. She clutches her still-short hair. ¡°Have you?¡± Rowe smiles. ¡°Genesis 26, verse 4: ¡®And I will make thy seed to multiply as the stars in heaven, and in thy seed shall the nations of the Earth be blessed.¡¯ You can''t count the stars, Fireside, God made it so that there are too many. At best¡­¡± He draws with his finger, an invisible square in front of his face. ¡°... you can only cut out a facet. Like shapes on a diamond.¡± She watches his hand as he lifts it over Polaris. The pale moon. ¡°You. Me. Josiah and Menowin. Everyone else God promised to Abraham, branches in a tree as large as the sky. That is the Kingdom God promised us. And that¡¯s why I¡¯m afraid. Every time I count, the stars are fewer and fewer." The catches her attention. "What?" ¡°Smog.¡± He waves his hand, as if to illustrate it. ¡°In the factories, smoke always rises, the refuse of so many tonnes of coal. It has smothered the cities already. Filling them with ash, so that the sky cannot be seen.¡± Harriet looks again at the clouds. The Milky Way, the Big Dipper. Could something so bright really just... go away? ¡°In a century, maybe two, the sky will grow completely dark,¡± Rowe adds. ¡°What will the Kingdom look like then?" ¡°Rowe¡­¡± Harriet closes her eyes, breathes. ¡°There¡¯s¡­ sorry, but there¡¯s somethin¡¯ I gotta say.¡± She hesitates, her whole body trembling. She can feel those eyes on her, but can''t bear to meet them. "I..." She forces it through grit teeth. ¡°I know what ya are. An¡¯ I wanna join ya.¡± Harriet dares to look at his face. Clearly, this wasn''t what he was expecting. "What?" ¡°Ya know what.¡± She tries to stand tall. ¡°Yer strong, Rowe. All y¡¯all are, stronger than ya should be, an¡¯ I¡­ I wanna be strong, too.¡± Silence. For a moment, there¡¯s only wind on the branches. Rowe turns fully, facing her, and lifts his hands. ¡°Alright, then. What am I?¡± She grips the sides of her trousers. ¡°An¡¯...¡± She swallows. Blinks many times. ¡°... An angel.¡± Rowe''s body melts. Laughter. His laughter roars over the cliffside, light and buzzing, forcing Harriet to step back. ¡°Am I¡­ heheh¡­ You¡­ heheheheheh, y-you thought I¡­ hahahahahah!¡± ¡°Well¡­ well yeah!¡± Harriet¡¯s turned red with embarrassment. "Wh-what else would ya be?" That makes his laughter even louder. Rowe''s hands are on his knees, his entire body bucked over. Slowly, the laughter twists, takes an edge, until it sounds more like he¡¯s wheezing. ¡°Sorry¡­ sorry, I¡­ heheheh¡­ I-I shouldn¡¯t be - hahahahaha!¡± ¡°I¡­¡± Harriet holds herself, watching him finally regain himself. ¡°I am not an angel, Fireside,¡± he says, taking a deep breath. ¡°And even if I was... I wouldn''t make you one." She rears at that. "Why not!?" ¡°There is another world. A world the Scriptures do not speak of. It is the world of hidden words, binding spells, all that is dark and sinister and best left forgotten beneath the bogs. It''s not a world to-" ¡°So what?¡± Harriet snaps. ¡°Okay, magic¡¯s real! But so are demons an¡¯ ghosts an¡¯ miracles! Why should that stop ya?¡± ¡°Because even knowing this information can put you in danger-¡± ¡°I¡¯m already in danger!¡± She starts to shout. ¡°Ya left me with that man!¡± ¡°A mistake. One of the worst I¡¯ve ever made. One I won¡¯t make-¡± ¡°IT WOULDN¡¯T BE A MISTAKE IF I COULD DO WHAT RED DID TA HIM!¡± ¡°You would be dead!¡± Harriet leaps back. Rowe¡¯s skin has started to glow, his eyes forming strange patterns, his voice doubled over. The entire presence sparking fear. Harriet feels her muscles tense, her nerves scream. She can¡¯t not listen. Can¡¯t look away. ¡°... to change you, I must kill you.¡± As quickly as it came, the feeling passes. Rowe returns to a normal, exhausted look. ¡°And I will never, ever do that.¡± Harriet looks at him warily. ¡°If yer not an angel, what are ya?¡± ¡°A ghost. A Lazarus. A shepherd who has lost his flock, and must wander until he finds it again. Scripture is full of such stories. Moses, Jonah, Joseph, Job. Sometimes, to learn, we must suffer, and this body is the vessel-¡± ¡°This body? Not yer body?" "Yes." He looks at her, shadow cast in the moon. "Harriet... for two centuries, the Black Prince has been dead." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 1649 From the tower he so often climbed, he sees it all. The docks and the shipyards. The fields and the mines. The town. That lovely castle town. The stables, the smithy, the chapel where he and his siblings once liked to hide as children. Gone. All of it screams to him. All of it sears in flames. He can see the banners, clear in the orange light. Grafted onto pikes, or sported on soldier¡¯s armour. White lion on blue, a roaring maw, a crown on its head. It joins the noises far below, the barking orders, the kicked-down doors, girls¡¯ screams and rending flesh. He trembles. The other lords would come, the old man had warned him of that. But he didn¡¯t expect him. Parliament''s dog. The killer of the King. Britain''s new ¡®Lord Protector.¡¯ For a while, Cornwall had succeeded. There was no tragedy, no horror, no bloodshed. The markers were destroyed, the lands made free, and to his own shock, the people seemed to prosper. Their smiles were wider, their bellies more full. For the first time in a long time, he heard music on the cliffs, and laughter like when he was the boy passing out sweets. If only he could hear it now. He throws open the hatch and rushes inside. Already their weapons are close, already he hears soldiers bark and mastiffs snarl. His breaths are heavy. He had taken wounds in the battle, arrows to the shoulder and gut. It made moving harder than it should. Soon, his coughs fill the castle. Smoke starts to rise. The door opens. He sprints into a bedroom, sparse and simple like all his things. There¡¯s a bed. A dresser. A portrait of Christ, and the Good Book, in the tongue of his ancestors, the only of its kind the world ever knew. He runs to the dresser, pulls open its top drawer. There¡¯s a dagger there, large and shining in the lantern¡¯s light. He looks at the hilt, jewelled and gold. The blade is six inches long. He seizes it. They will come to kill him. They will come, and he will fight. He will slaughter as many as they have slaughtered. They will not take him prisoner. They can¡¯t. No special treatment, no noble name. He will die like all the others. He stands at the door. The dagger shakes in his hands. The footsteps grow closer, the screams are so loud, and suddenly, the blade is thrown. It doesn¡¯t even reach Christ, its target. ¡°DAMN YOU!¡± He sprints into it, pounding with his fists, eyes red with tears. ¡°KHA DHE-VES! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO SAVE US!¡± The portrait watches on, silent as ever. ¡°Why?¡± He slides onto the stone floor, head in his hands. ¡°Why why WHY!?" He starts to sob. The shouts and sounds of death. He knows their voices. Morwen, the baker¡¯s wife. Jory, the youngest stableboy. He made such an effort to remember their names.... ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°And I failed them.¡± Gawen Rowe doesn¡¯t blink. Only moves lethargically. As if in slow motion, Harriet watches him pull back his sleeve. Her breath hitches at the inch-deep gash in his wrist. ¡°I failed them.¡± After far too long, the Black Prince pulls the sleeve back down. Hiding the wounds that never healed. ¡°I awoke cursed. Warmth does not warm me, food cannot sustain me. I would burn to dust before you if you placed me in front of the Sun. I should be dead, Fireside. I should not be walking.¡± She blinks. "Who did it ta ya?" ¡°A woman. With pale skin, hair white from the ruins and ash. She looked at me with my blood on her lips. I could feel the marks on her neck where she bit.¡± ¡°Why? What did she want?¡± ¡°War. She said my people weren¡¯t the first, and only we, the Unbound, can save them.¡± ¡°Save who?¡± Harriet asks. ¡°Everyone,¡± he answers, slowly. ¡°Everyone, while there are still stars in the sky.¡± He exhales, lowers his shoulders, looking back out over the wilderness. Harriet stands next to him, her voice stern. ¡°Rowe¡­ ya turned Red, didn''t ya?" "I did." "I want the same. That beast ya¡¯ve described, it¡¯s come to my country. It¡¯s come ta my town!" "And Red had just lost his. He knew the risks, Fireside, in ways you can''t." "I wanna be strong." ¡°You¡¯re already strong enough-¡± ¡°BULLSHIT! I''M WEAK! YOU FUCKERS ALWAYS THINK THAT!¡± Her scream echoes off the cliff, heard and reheard a dozen times more. The Black Prince looks at her, shocked, and instantly, she fills with regret and pain. ¡°... Yer scared.¡± She says quietly. ¡°Scared ya¡¯d take somethin¡¯ from me. But Rowe, I have nothin''. Nothin'' but the dream. An'' I-" ¡°You are the dream.¡± She stops, bewildered. ¡°What happens when we¡¯re done fighting?¡± Rowe looks at her, voice soft. ¡°What happens when you no longer need to carry that gun?¡± ¡°I-I-¡± ¡°My dream is a farm. My dream is a smile. My dream is that you, all of you, can live like the humans you are. And if I Light¡­¡± His lip quivers, and he hardens. ¡°If I make you... Nocturni... you''ll never be..." ¡°No.¡± Harriet points at herself. ¡°No, that¡¯s my choice. An¡¯ I ain¡¯t findin¡¯ another farm. I wanna stay with ya. I wanna fight with ya." ¡°There won¡¯t be.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°Gawen Rowe.¡± He closes his eyes. ¡°There won¡¯t be.¡± She shivers. Fear shooting down her spine. Suddenly, the weight of all his words collapses upon her shoulders. Curses and mistakes and failures and should be¡¯s. ¡°No.¡± Her voice shakes. ¡°No.¡± ¡°I exist to save your kind. I kill to save your kind. But that comes at a cost. That can¡¯t be forgiven.¡± ¡°Rowe, shut up,¡± she forces through. ¡°Ya can¡¯t-¡± ¡°I must.¡± He interrupts her. ¡°I told you, Harriet, Gawen Rowe is a ghost. When the monster dies-" She hugs him. Squeezes him more tightly than she has ever squeezed anyone, and cries. ¡°I will go to the land of his people.¡± He pulls her in, feeling her tears. "And stare at the Sun no Nocturni can ever see.¡± ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 2004 She doesn¡¯t expect her covers to grow warm. Or brightness to fall over her eyes. Harriet stirs, with difficulty. Her mind is a swirl, the thoughts unsteady, every movement a struggle against stiff bones. Something in her heart freezes, a panic, a sense of wrongness that feels primal. But still, her first solution is just to¡­ shimmy deeper into bed. Reaching for her gun and pulling it close. It makes her eyes spark open. She can feel the metal¡¯s searing heat. The room is different. Structurally the same, but the colours¡­ pop. She can see the subtleties in the burgundy paint, the wood floor. Her evening outfit shines green, rather than bathing in the usual fluorescent yellow tones. Harriet blinks at it, deeply confused, searching for answers on the wall, the floor, the ceiling. The lights are off. So where¡­ It finally hits her. And she dives into the bedsheets for cover. Breathe. In, out, in, out. She makes herself small, covering every part of her body. How!? She¡¯s never woken early, not once, in all her centuries of deathsleep. Instantly, she starts drawing plans. She can shimmy on the floor, hide in the wash, stand in the toilet. It¡¯s the last thing she wants Soteris to see, but it¡¯s better than turning into- Her thoughts are interrupted by sharp, airy laughter. Harriet hears jewellery shimmer with the movements. ¡°A-Astrid?¡± ¡°Holy shit.¡± The girl wheezes. ¡°The look on your fahkin¡¯ face!¡± Harriet pales. ¡°How¡­ how are ya-¡± Suddenly, the rustle of fabric, blinding light. Fwoomp! Before Harriet can scramble for cover, Astrid leans inches away from her. ¡°SURPRIIIIIISE!¡± Harriet¡¯s fangs are out, her instincts nearly taking over. But she has enough control to not run, or tear Astrid¡¯s throat out. Instead, the seconds pass, her eyes glued to the light shining on the young vampire¡¯s face. Astrid¡¯s fine. They both are. Slowly, Harriet climbs up. Bare feet press on the tiles. Astrid steps back, watching her with caution, as she approaches the window with an outstretched hand. In the light, her hundreds of freckles are visible. Her fingers touch plastic. A screen. She creases her brows, starts reaching back¡­ ¡°Ah! ¡®ARRIET, WAI-¡± ¡°YARGH!¡± She leaps back, and the plastic shield rattles. Harriet looks at her hand, now sizzling, her eyes searching for answers. Suddenly, she can see them - the projectors, the UV heaters, all of it reflecting this near-perfect image like polished glass. The gentle clouds, the flapping birds. The buildings and black cabs and aeroplanes moving by. Somehow, the River looks cleaner, with so many new bridges, so many ships. Towering above it all is a sphere of yellow light. Her eyes blink when she first looks at it. But look at it she does. "What''d I say, ''Arriet?" Astrid folds her arms. "He''s a clever man." She sees what no Nocturni should ever see. What one-hundred-and-thirty-five years have long denied her. Chapter 13: Ensei, Part II The hair straightener is less frightening now, its heat completely dwarfed by the enormity of this morning. Astrid works as diligently as she did yesterday, mumbling about this nothing or that. Harriet isn¡¯t listening. Can¡¯t take her eyes off the mirror. Today¡¯s outfit is already on. A green vest over a white blouse, more short skirts and tights. It¡¯s less inconspicuous, and by that, she means she can¡¯t see her underwear. But even if she did, it would feel like a moot point. It¡¯s not the clothes she¡¯s actually looking at. The Sun has just left the peaks of the skyscrapers. Lurching back into view. She''s stunned, stunned, silent, like some mediaeval peasant who¡¯s just seen the face of God. It¡¯s the fundamental law of all Nocturni. The part of the curse one can never forget. And Soteris broke it. Cheating, perhaps, but¡­ It doesn¡¯t feel like cheating. It feels far too real. ¡°You know, whateva shampoo you¡¯se usin¡¯, I-I get that you¡¯re tryna impress me an¡¯ all, really, it¡¯s kind.¡± Astrid awkwardly laughs. Today Addana¡¯s nowhere to be seen. ¡°B-b-but you don¡¯t ¡®ave to use as much as-" Harriet recoils. She can feel something wet and cold on her fingers, and fangs out, she twists to look. Astrid is kneeling over Harriet¡¯s hand, blinking at her in confusion. ¡°Wh-whoa there, cowgirl.¡± Astrid smiles and holds up a small vial. ¡°Just paintin¡¯ your nails.¡± ¡°O-...oh.¡± Harriet shifts back. ¡°So, uh¡­ that¡¯s how it¡¯s done?¡± ¡°How else would it be done." "Right." Harriet looks back at the mirror, blinking. Her nose curls at the foreign scent, the odd texture. ¡°Um¡­ we haven¡¯t really had a chance ta chat, have we?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve been chattin¡¯ just fine.¡± "Pffft." Harriet considers. She¡¯d ask after the arm, but¡­ ¡°Uh¡­ how was the Orphean?¡± ¡°Oh,¡± Astrid¡¯s eyes flare. ¡°You know.¡± It¡¯s the shortest response Astrid¡¯s ever given. Which immediately raises an alarm. ¡°Actually, uh, I don¡¯t know." ¡°What?¡± Astrid puffs up. ¡°Unbound never told you?¡± ¡°Wh-why would the Unbound tell me?¡± ¡°Because it¡¯s London¡¯s fahkin'' most hippity-hoppity spot!¡± ¡°Thought that was the Respite.¡± ¡°Ohhhhh.¡± Astrid gives a surprisingly vicious laugh. ¡°''At''s controversial. Though I guess you would be all friendly wiff ''em Shadow-Walk-" ¡°No.¡± Astrid freezes. Harriet stares at her. Her tone is so forceful, so rigid, that there isn¡¯t any way to manoeuvre around it. ¡°... okay,¡± Astrid¡¯s smile keeps flipping off and on. ¡°We don''t ''ave to unpack... uh... um, while I was there, I got a pretty good snack.¡± "Oh?" The tension quickly fades. "Were they cute or somethin¡¯?¡± ¡°Ahhhhh¡­¡± Astrid tilts her head from side to side. ¡°I guess? Not really me brand. But maybe he was cute in ¡®at overweight, seventy-year-old-¡± ¡°Seventy!?¡± ¡°What¡¯s the fuss? He ¡®ad Viagra!¡± Harriet turns to make sure Astrid can see that she''s completely dumbfounded. "Ya... ya did... with yer..." Harriet¡¯s hands jerk about as she tries to find the gesture. Astrid lights up when she realises. "Yeah! So? An¡¯ you haven¡¯t?¡± "No!" Harriet''s aghast. "We''re corpses!" "That never stopped anyone!" Astrid puts her hands on her chest. "There''s a long line of mortals that can vouch for me. I am still very fun." ¡°I-I-I don¡¯t think I¡¯d have fun playin¡¯ mumble-peg with the elderly.¡± ¡°But it wasn''t just any elderly!¡± Astrid skirts closer. ¡°It¡¯s Ettore fahkin¡¯ Carvagna!¡± ¡°Who?¡± Astrid tilts her head back. ¡°See, if you didn¡¯t live in the woods, you would fahkin'' know ¡®is! He¡¯s like¡­ right there between Guccio and Vuitton. The fashion king of Rome! An¡¯ you know ¡®at shite gets in the fahkin¡¯ blood! Wallahi, I bite out a sliver of ¡®at man¡¯s talent, the Magistress gonna-¡± ¡°What Magistress?¡± ¡°Oh my God.¡± Astrid springs back to Harriet¡¯s nails, shaking her head. ¡°Magistress Dunstan?¡± ¡°Regina Dunstan?¡± "Oh, so you do know someone?" ¡°Yeah. Ain¡¯t she some debutante fer the New Sun?¡± ¡°Debutante?¡± Astrid laughs. ¡°Yeah, maybe like, five fahkin¡¯ centuries ago.¡± Harriet deflates. Guess she''s back to... not knowing anyone... ¡°Dunstan is like the¡­ dhoaine ros¨ªn¡¯s clan mother. Art, music, theatre, blood, dru- experiences.¡± Astrid gestures like she¡¯s wiping sweat from her brow. ¡°Orphean¡¯s where we keep the best. Store it in our mental vaults. ¡®At¡¯s what dhoaine ros¨ªn are s¡¯posed to do, innit? Curate shit?¡± Harriet frowns. From what Janet¡¯s told her, that¡¯s not untrue. In the Unbound, the clans are a forgotten thing, a relic from before her time. But in the Court, a few still serve some purpose, the Curators of the dhoaine ros¨ªn among them. The premise is simple: who better than immortals to know the histories of this land? It¡¯s art, it¡¯s language, it¡¯s culture? Give the Curators an ear, and they can keep Britain''s most ancient secrets preserved forever. Except Janet didn¡¯t believe them. Nobody in the Unbound did. It was an excuse, they would tell Harriet, a¡­ what did Aisling call it, a Weezer dog? It wasn¡¯t about art or history to people like Regina Dunstan, so much as¡­ ¡°Aren¡¯t the dhoaine ros¨ªn a buncha snarlin¡¯ racists?¡± ¡°No!¡± Astrid shouts. Far too quickly. Then, she retreats a little. ¡°... some. A couple are.¡± ¡°I thought their whole slogan was ¡®Preservin¡¯ White Britain.¡¯¡± ¡°Yeah, okay, but that was before we started Keepin¡¯ the folks from PR! I mean¡­¡± Astrid waves her hand across Harriet¡¯s face. ¡°... look at me! Not exactly Snow White, am I? If the dhoaine ros¨ªn were as racist as everyone says, would ¡®ey have really Kept me?¡± ¡°Yeah?¡± In fact, that¡¯s exactly what Janet accused them of. Astrid looks at her, pouting. ¡°Well, ¡®ey aren¡¯t. And don¡¯t be finkin¡¯ ¡®at I¡¯m blowin¡¯ off the PR, ¡®kay? I¡¯m tight wiff everyone in the Orphean. Lotsa contacts, lotsa high places, so if youse ever lookin¡¯ to go¡­¡± ¡°Astrid?¡± The girl perks up. Harriet hesitates, biting her lip. ¡°I¡­ I wanna ask ya a serious question.¡± ¡°Do I gotta give a serious answer?¡± ¡°I¡­ I know yer tryna be nice, an¡¯ I, erm, appreciate it, I guess, but¡­¡± Harriet exhales. ¡°Do ya like this?¡± ¡°Like what?¡± Fuck. Harriet closes her eyes. ¡°Bein¡¯ Kept?¡± ¡°Oh.¡± For a moment, Astrid stops painting. She squints at the aquamarine colour of Harriet¡¯s nails, deep in thought¡­ then... ¡°It¡¯s fine.¡± ¡°Fine!?¡± Harriet springs up. ¡°Yeah,¡± Astrid shrugs, going back to the polish. ¡°Not really sure what else I¡¯d say.¡± ¡°That it¡¯s slavery!" ¡°Oh, now you¡¯re being dramatic.¡± ¡°How?¡± ¡°¡®The Keeping is not similar to slavery, indentured servitude, or any ovver human concept. It is a distinct institution tied to the unique cultural characteristics of the Nocturnal people.¡¯ Cah¡¯mon, ¡®Arriet. Shit¡¯s right there in the manual.¡± If Harriet''s brain cells could cry, they¡¯d be sobbing. ¡°So yer totally fine with never gettin¡¯ ta leave?¡± ¡°Why would I leave?¡± Astrid grins. ¡°Soteris pays me rents. Court law. You get yourself a theatre degree and find a better gig ¡®an ¡®at.¡± ¡°But ya don¡¯t get ta stop. An¡¯ if yer Keeper hurts you-¡± ¡°But Soteris don¡¯t be hurtin¡¯ me.¡± Astrid looks serious. ¡°Inn¡¯e?¡± Harriet¡¯s expression falls. She¡¯s met scabs, of course, but this¡­ there are stories. Stories of Kepts who couldn¡¯t go home, who were worked like dogs, beaten, killed, worse. They have no power; their Keepers have no consequence. It¡¯s inevitable. While Astrid is blithely oblivious about many things, there¡¯s no way she hasn¡¯t heard those stories. They spread like ash. ¡°¡®Arriet, look.¡¯¡± The designer has moved to Harriet¡¯s other hand. ¡°If Keepin¡¯s are as bad as you say, I don''t fink Soteris would let us bitch about ''em." Until he thinks it''s a threat. ¡°I get ¡®at youse and I¡¯s might be a little different. I¡¯m an allod, an'' you ain¡¯t.¡± She pauses, looking on the scrunchie on her wrist. ¡°But¡­ I mean¡­¡± Harriet tunes her out. Addana was one thing, but Astrid¡¯s a natural ally. If Harriet can¡¯t fall back on her¡­ Suddenly, the keypad to her bedroom door beeps open, and soft loafers walk through. Randall Avery keeps his head down, eyes buried in packets and folders. He barely gives the girls a glance. ¡°Fireside. Static across lavender strings. Orange spots. You¡¯re surprisingly activated for¡­ oh.¡± His voice dims, and his brows furrow. ¡°Traynor.¡± Astrid rears back, an awkward smile on her lips. ¡°Randall! ¡®Eyyyy! How¡¯s it goin¡¯, champ?¡± ¡°I was told you would be finished five minutes ago.¡± His face is completely expressionless, but his tone seems somewhat annoyed. ¡°Fi-...¡± Astrid blinks, looks at the clock, and Harriet can see her face fall. ¡°Shit. I am so sorry.¡± ¡°You realise how little time we have, yes?¡± ¡®A-¡¯Arriet needed the coat of nails, right? So I thought-¡± ¡°I could report you.¡± Astrid pales, but keeps her lips tightly closed. Harriet just watches, stunned. Randall turns around. ¡°Fifteen minutes. Not a second longer. This conference is risky enough, I will not have it compromised by delays.¡± As he reopens the door, Astrid shouts. ¡°Randall, wait! The nails aren¡¯t dry. It takes time to settle-¡± ¡°Dry them quickly.¡± The door slams shut. The lock reapplied. Harriet cringes at the space he left behind. ¡°Jeez. What¡¯s that guy¡¯s problem?¡± ¡°Nuffin¡¯.¡± Astrid hovers back over her hands. ¡°Just stressed. Always been a bituvvah stickler.¡± ¡°Okay, but he¡¯s never talked ta me like-¡± Harriet stops herself, blinking at the sudden rush that¡¯s fallen over her hands. ¡°What¡¯re ya¡­¡± She looks at Astrid. The girl¡¯s teeth are grit, and there¡¯s a faint amount of aether-sweat on her brow. The designer has each hand on Harriet¡¯s wrists, glowing and warm, shaking them so quickly that all motion has become a blur. She¡¯s using her powers. ¡°Nails gotta be dry.¡± She hisses. Harriet squints. ¡°What happens if yer reported?¡± No answer. She frowns. Maybe it¡¯s not that Astrid¡¯s too stupid to turn her back on Soteris. Maybe it¡¯s that she¡¯s too smart. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Tok tok tok tok She¡¯s getting more used to the heels. But she can''t get used to that sound. Harriet takes back all she said about her outfit not being as horrid as the last. She¡¯s in four-inch heels today, not three, padlocks rattling with each step. Tights veil all but her thighs. Today¡¯s green vest shares a v-neck with the last, proudly displaying her collar. And worst of all, her hands are still cuffed. She keeps them by her skirt, in a futile effort to hide the way her hips sway in this get-up. Since she was a kid, she¡¯s been all bone. How does she even have this many curves to bend? Randall sits on a barstool, reading papers, drumming his fingers along a steaming mug. His guard dog is still unseen. He¡¯s fazed even less by the Sunlight than Astrid. But Harriet can¡¯t help but note the way that light shines over his facial scars. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. With difficulty, she takes a seat by his side. Only when Randall hears her grunts and the rattling chains does he bother to lift his head. Five seconds pass. Then he frowns. ¡°Do you have to wear those handcuffs?¡± Harriet grits her teeth, and playfully shakes her wrists. ¡°Ya tell me.¡± Another six seconds of silence, before Randall pushes the mug into her hands. ¡°Drink. Soteris is at Ensei, meeting executives. I will be handling his responsibilities during that time.¡± She grins. ¡°Babysitter, right?¡± It wasn¡¯t a very good joke, but it would¡¯ve been nice if he smiled. Or blinked. Really, anything but deadpan stare at her. Harriet tries to shove away the awkwardness. ¡°How¡¯s the conference goin¡¯, anyway?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve been instructed to not tell you.¡± Oh. Cool. ¡°Is there a problem with the coffee?¡± Coffee? She peers into the mug. Sure enough, it looks no different than the cups Red used to pour for her. ¡°You need to drink it.¡± Randall says. ¡°Why?¡± Twelve seconds of silence. Then Randall finally remembers to blink. ¡°Fine, fine! Don¡¯t jump outta yer seat on my-¡± The moment the liquid touches her lips, Harriet wants to spit it back out. That¡¯s not coffee. It tastes chalky. Metallic. Charged. ¡°What the-¡± Her eyes widen as she sets it down. Sees the way her skin now glows. ¡°Since you asked,¡± Randall starts. ¡°Dyscrasias are aether extracts taken when certain areas of the subject¡¯s brain experience heightened nervous activity. Fear, joy, grief, anger. Dyscrasias, in turn, can strengthen Nocturnal abilities where they best mimic the aether¡¯s Aristotlean humours.¡± "Okay." Harriet squints. "But why-" ¡°The Paradox, for example, is a Water-aligned invocation. Creative, transparent, flowing out and through other realms. It is triggered by phlegmatic humours, and the emotions of stress, passivity, dissociation. Creating an extract of it therefore requires-¡± ¡°Randall.¡± Harriet interrupts. ¡°Why is it in coffee?¡± ¡°... Habit.¡± Randall says, after a pause. ¡°I always conceal the blood. It¡¯s taste, I find it quite disgusting.¡± "An'' I¡¯m drinkin¡¯ this dis-grace-ee-ah ¡®cause¡­?¡± ¡°Soteris never relinquished the command that limits the amount of aether you¡¯re allowed to expend. But I have an immediate need for your powers. The drink improves your blood¡¯s potency.¡± She squints. ¡°Then what¡¯s stoppin¡¯ me from usin¡¯ it ta escape?¡± ¡°The icicle I¡¯ll send flying through your throat.¡± He says it with the nonchalance of someone who clearly has. Harriet snatches the folder he offers her, looks over its contents. ¡°What are these?¡± ¡°Contracts. Publicly-sourced. I need new ones written between ourselves and each firm on this list." He taps a yellow notepad. ¡°An¡¯ is there a reason they¡¯re in Chinese?¡± Calmly, Randall takes the packet back from her, scans it, then drops it back in her hands. ¡°Korean.¡± Harriet gives him a look. ¡°Paradox replicated our biometric codes, I can¡¯t imagine language would be any significant barrier." "An'' I''m doin'' this because...?" "I was instructed to tell you that is privileged information." "Great." Harriet rolls her eyes as she strains to flip through them all. "Jesus. There¡¯s gotta be dozens.¡± ¡°Yes. And from diverse countries, as well. Counterproductively, I think. Japanese executives rarely work with South Koreans; only the suicidal Chinese would dare partner with a company from Taiwan. Putting them all in a conference room seems like a recipe for conflict. But Soteris-" ¡°Y¡¯know¡­¡± Harriet interrupts, growlin¡¯. ¡°Hate ta make a bad impression on my first lil¡¯ day an'' all, but this could take hours. A printer¡¯s faster.¡± Randall peers over at her mug, takes it, tries a small sip. ¡°Not authentically.¡± That makes Harriet¡¯s eyes grow wide. She looks back at the dozens of names on his list. ¡°D-¡­ ya have signed contracts with these people, right?¡± "Again, that is classified-" "Tell me or I stop." "Not yet." ¡°Not¡­¡± Her mouth hangs open. ¡°So yer committin'' fraud?" ¡°Perhaps. But since they haven¡¯t yet entered the record books, the risk of exposure is¡­¡± Randall cuts himself short. She¡¯s taken the papers and shoved them towards his turtleneck. He searches her face. ¡°... Red splotches on a violet hue. Black clouds strangling the yellow sky. I have offended you. Why?¡± ¡°Why do ya think I¡¯m offended, magic man?¡± ¡°To an Unbound, office tasks must seem quite menial.¡± "Oh, go ta Hell." Harriet scowls. "This is robbery. Yer robbers.¡± ¡°Robbers?¡± His face curls, like it¡¯s the first time he¡¯s heard the word. ¡°And you consider this an immoral act?¡± ¡°Pretty up there, yeah.¡± ¡°A moment.¡± Randall lifts his finger, then leans down to grab a bookbag. Harriet watches him shuffle through a mass of files, before pulling and opening a single, thin manila folder. ¡°In the years following the American Civil War, Harriet McClintock resurfaced in the Western United States as an accomplice to the outlaw group known as the Black Banners.¡± ¡°How do ya-¡± ¡°At the organisation¡¯s apex, private detective agencies alleged that the Banners were involved in the destruction of some two-hundred properties, as well as bank heists, carriage hijackings, kidnappings, and the murders of multiple law officers, businessman-¡± ¡°It¡¯s not the same as-¡± ¡°-and, in one case¡­¡± Randall sets the file on the table ¡°... the shooting of a twelve-year-old child.¡± Harriet trembles as Randall looks at her. Her fangs are out, her eye twitching. He calmly folds his hands. ¡°I find it quite strange that you¡¯re so hostile to our actions. Forgive me if I sound crass, but in comparison to your network, I believe our pursuits are quite noble." She stares angrily at him for a long time. ¡°We didn¡¯t steal ta make rich men richer. We were tryna make a better world.¡± ¡°Conveniently, Soteris and I want the same thing.¡± ¡°Is that so?¡± ¡°Follow your orders and we will show you.¡± Harriet doesn¡¯t move. After a while, Randall shrugs. ¡°You do realise that you have no choice in this matter, yes? If you continue to resist, I will simply summon Ms. Chiagozie to restrain you until your Keeper can offer a more suitable punishment.¡± ¡°Maybe I jes¡¯ wanna provoke ya.¡± ¡°Provoke away,¡± Randall replies. ¡°But remember that the stakes for this project are much higher for yourself than our own. If Polyphron fails, you will still be here, trapped, alone, in chains. You will have lost only our argument that the Court authorities shouldn¡¯t put a stake in your heart and leave you to burn in the Sunlight.¡± ¡°A lotta Unbound would prefer that,¡± she hisses. "Many would. Not you.¡± His eyes glow. A blue aura surrounds Harriet¡¯s mug, nudging itself closer. ¡°Drink your coffee.¡± Seconds pass. They can hear a clock tick. Then, slowly, Harriet scoops back up the contracts, squinting at the text. ¡°I¡¯m gonna need a couple hours.¡± ¡°That I can offer.¡± ¡°An¡¯ jes¡¯ so we¡¯re clear, I¡¯m still hopin¡¯ ya jerks fail.¡± ¡°I will find some way to solace myself.¡± ¡°Grand.¡± She lifts a brow. ¡°Are ya jes¡¯ gonna watch me or¡­¡± ¡°One more thing.¡± Randall¡¯s returned to the deadpan. ¡°I want to make certain that you¡¯re aware of the mortal employees that attend this building. The Law of Secrecy prevails.¡± ¡°Yeah, we got that in the Unbound, too. Don¡¯t worry, I ain¡¯t gonna show my fangs.¡± ¡°You misunderstand my point. I¡¯m trying to say that your fellow employees will not help you.¡± A pause. The air takes a chill. ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯re aware, many within the Court don¡¯t take the laws seriously. I do. And so I will say now that asking for their aid, even talking to them, could put them in peril.¡± He delivers the threat calmly, robotically, until he reaches out and holds her wrists. ¡°They have families, Fireside. Don¡¯t make me do what I must.¡± There''s something genuine in his voice. The vaguest hint of despair. Harriet looks up. Tries to keep the scowl. Randall¡¯s skin is ice cold. But, eventually... ¡°... Yeah. Fine. I won''t." "Thank you." He smiles, and lets her go. She quickly skirts back. ¡°But yer a real monster fer usin¡¯ ¡®em like that, ya know?¡± ¡°I won''t deny it," Randall returns to his own files. "But let''s not throw those accusations around wildly, shall we? We live in glass houses, and I''ve never murdered a child." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Harriet sighs. Hands sinking into her head. The past two hours and fifteen minutes have been exhausting. The ¡®coffee¡¯ is gone, along with a second and third batch. Surrounding her is a pile of packets, now towering up to her eyes. With a pen, she strikes off Jai-Pyo Jeonja, the final name on the list, and then crashes into the countertop. Randall is as he¡¯s always been; quiet, studious, always watching. She had realised quickly that his eyes were less often trained on his work, then they were trained on hers. ¡°There are more efficient to expend your bloodstream,¡± he announces, ignoring her groans. ¡°Oh, now ya tell me?¡± ¡°I merely express that we may wish to consider training for optimization of-¡± The sounds of a beeping door cut them both off. She listens to the lurch of metal, two shoes walking in. Though she can smell his cologne, Harriet¡¯s decided that with Soteris, she¡¯s never going to meet his eyes until she¡¯s spoken to. Not that it would ever take long. ¡°Fireside.¡± The outfit is splendid. You look quite tame.¡± Grimacing, she turns to look at him. Wouldn¡¯t you know, he¡¯s wearing a green vest to match hers! But¡­it¡¯s hard to explain. His collar¡¯s fully buttoned, his sleeves unironed, his hair - normally gelled - now a raggedy, boyish mess. He¡¯s also wearing large, black glasses. Weird. One would think, if he needed them, he¡¯d have brought them out while he was reading. "Sleep well?" He asks, clearly reveling in the chance. She isn''t ordered to reply. ¡°And it looks like the documents have arrived! Fantastic! Now, of course, I had contingencies if you two failed-¡± ¡°How are the investors?¡± Randall rises, interrupting. Soteris smiles back. ¡°Jet-lagged, hungover, struggling to remember their English. Exactly how we want them. But that also makes them crabby." He snaps his fingers "Come along! The Kept can carry the paperwork.¡± ¡°I-¡± Harriet sputters, but the men are already halfway out of the room. She slides onto the floor, wobbling for a moment, before scooping up the packets as best as her cuffed hands will allow her. She bristles, of course, but quietly, knowing he¡¯d enjoy that, too. Bastard. Why the fuck did she even ask... The moment she leaves the door, Harriet¡¯s greeted by a wall of sound. The sight of dozens of people. They crowd around rows of desks, hammocks, bean bags, conference rooms with glass walls. Young, sharp, flush and colourful. Harriet watches them all as she hobbles past. Most are too busy working or talking or joking to notice, but some meet her with curiosity, occasional pity. A couple just stare at her ass. She opts to hold the papers over her cleavage. One good thing. "Do you like it?" Soteris almost makes her jump with how suddenly he''s wrapped an arm around her side. "It still awes me every morning." He tilts his head to the glass. Harriet spies it, for another moment. That yellow blaze that blinds her when she tries to look. It¡¯s only in daylight that she can truly see how enormous this city has gotten. She smirks. ¡°Am I s¡¯posed to be impressed?¡± They reach the lift in short order, cleaned of the mess her battle with Randall had left. She turns around, struggling to hold all the papers, when she feels cold metal fall over her face. ¡°HEY!¡± ¡°Don¡¯t squirm,¡± Soteris whispers, last night''s visor in his hands. The equipment clips on. Gears spin to life, and the machine expands, shrouding her eyes in darkness. ¡°Don¡¯t want you to know where we¡¯re going,¡± he explains. ¡°Why? Scared?¡± Harriet growls, until she feels his hand on her bare skin, and it turns into more of a yelp. "You know..." She can feel his smirk. "This makes you quite accessible...." "We are in an elevator," Randall says, slightly annoyed. Soteris'' chuckle is dismissive. He turns to Harriet. ¡°I grant you permission to Paradox. I imagine you¡¯ll have a hard time copying things when you can¡¯t see them.¡± ¡°Pretty easy ta imagine an anvil fallin¡¯ on yer head," she says curtly. ¡°Cute.¡± Soteris¡¯ voice turns stern. ¡°Avery, any more clues as to how this power works?¡± ¡°Only hypotheses,¡± the Poisoned One replies. ¡°Most likely, the aether is withdrawing particles through microscopic conduits with Gwyllion that match the desired property. But without further testing, I-¡± ¡°Can she create something alive?¡± Silence. When Harriet realises that Randall won¡¯t speak, she answers herself. ¡°He said particles. Not people.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t give you permission.¡± ¡°Ya want my powers or not?¡± Another pause. He grips her just a little bit tighter. ¡°Waves, then. If you could project an image-¡± ¡°Project what, Chrysanthou?¡± Randall asks. ¡°The plan¡¯s second phase.¡± Ding. Harriet is pushed forward as the lift doors slide open. Thankfully, the papers are taken from her straining hands as she listens to the echo of her footsteps. They¡¯re in a garage. She can sniff out the petrol and leather of a car. She hears a door open. ¡°In.¡± ¡°I¡¯m goin¡¯!¡± His intensity is off the charts. Nerves, maybe, but it puts her on edge. Not great when he has this much power... ¡°And, what, pray tell,¡± Randall says when he''s reached his seat. ¡°Is phase two?¡± Soteris waits for the car to move. Harriet jostles, blinking as she hears metal gates slide apart. They must have protection from the Sun. Her eyelashes bump against the visor''s glass. ¡°It¡¯s actually quite simple.¡± She feels Soteris pull her in by the shoulder. ¡°Fireside Paradoxes me five miles away, and I announce Project Hestia to the world in two places at the same time." The driver is turning far too frequently. Probably to throw her off. Harriet has time to meditate on these things, since they¡¯re all stunned into silence. Randall goes first. ¡°Are you mad!?¡± ¡°You were right, Avery! The venue wasn¡¯t large enough to house all our guests. It¡¯s a good thing I intended that." ¡°Intended that?¡± For the first time she can recall, Harriet hears Randall laugh. ¡°Do you intend to throw a rubbish bin over their heads, too!?¡± ¡°This is my market, Randall, not yours. Remember that before you-¡± ¡°Five million quid!¡± Randall shouts. ¡°That is how much this little stunt has cost us already.¡± ¡°Seven million,¡± Soteris corrects. ¡°Now that there¡¯s a second venue.¡± ¡°And you¡¯re hedging seven million on someone you didn¡¯t know you¡¯d have, with a power that might not even work.¡± ¡°But we have her,¡± Soteris replies, rubbing her arm. ¡°And she¡¯ll make it work.¡± Harriet gasps. He starts squeezing. Far too much. ¡°She has to.¡± ¡°W-Wait!¡± Harriet sputters, trying frantically to look around. ¡°Even if I can, which¡­¡± She tries to gesture, but gets stuck on the cuffs. ¡°Aren¡¯t these people at each other¡¯s throats!?" "Where did you learn that?" Soteris hisses. "Addana," Randall answers. "She''s been reporting fights all morning.¡± A pause. The grip loosens. Harriet exhales, even though she''s lost the instincts that would instruct her to. ¡°Ya... ya know what¡¯s gonna happen when ya split them inta red an¡¯ blue, right?¡± Soteris laughs. A light, patronising, infuriating laugh. ¡°You think I¡¯m not aware of their little squabbles?" She starts when he digs a finger through her choker, forces her closer to his voice. "As the industry says, that¡¯s not a bug¡­¡± ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°... it¡¯s a feature.¡± Han Sung-Gyu sips his champagne delicately, his million-won suit sharp and expertly pressed. The lobby is crowded, stuffed with bigger, sweatier men, and an army of waitstuff armed with smiles and trays. They¡¯re at the BAFTA 195, a gorgeous space of dark colours, velvet carpets, Roman arches. He takes a halloumi stick without looking, ignoring the attendants all. Focusing on the real names. Wei Shihong stands across from him, drunk, lecherous, making passes at any girl who can''t swerve in time. His telecom company makes him one of the richest men in Beijing. It was built off the bones of his rival, GTG, whose last executive, Zhao Meilin, now in radio, is also in the room. They watch each other like hawks, the hatred burning clean through any entrepreneur who dares pass. It¡¯s so intense, in fact, that they miss the glare of their Cantonese friend, Chuck Lam, who¡¯s hoping to expand his Hong Kong empire to the mainland by eating both of them. Features. Sung smiles, remembering his time at UST, or sweating away at Samsung. How sweet and easy the life of an executive seemed to him then. Then they started drawing zeroes on his check. His colleagues vanished, the gold diggers came, and he found himself ankle-deep in this constant nest of vipers. Suddenly, he¡¯s rattled. A heavy shoulder spills his drink, pushes him hard onto a table¡¯s white cloth. He springs up, insulted, only to baulk at a sneering Japanese man. ¡°Inu wa taberu hito,¡± the man smirks. ¡°Ochitsui te kudasai!¡± Two men following him laugh. Whatever they were saying, it was clearly not kind. Sung frowns, ready to snarl back at them. But they¡¯re already walking past. Lost in a sea of hundreds just like them. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°These men didn¡¯t become titans through kindness.¡± Soteris continues. ¡°They got here by selling envy. Anger. Fear. And because they sell so well, they think they¡¯re immune to it.¡± Harriet can feel Soteris¡¯ arm slide over her chest. Offering even less release. ¡°I''m going to prove them wrong.¡± +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°Good morning, gentlemen,¡± a chirpy English voice interrupts Sung¡¯s thoughts. He turns to see a woman in a green vest, short skirt, and long, quite incorrect, bow. ¡°Welcome to Ensei.¡± At her flanks, translators, similarly dressed, bow with their words. ¡°Ohayo gozai masu!¡± ¡°Hu¨¡ny¨ªng l¨¢id¨¤o-!¡± ¡° - ch¨¤o m?ng b?n ??n-¡± ¡°Selamat datang ke Ensei!¡± ¡°We are sorry to inform you that the venue has unexpectedly reached capacity. Therefore, some guests will not be able to attend-" The rest is last in an uproar. A tsunami of curses and swears. ¡°-all please look at your complimentary pagers-¡± ¡°H¨²shu¨­b¨¡d¨¤o!¡± One mogul shouts. ¡°Sung.¡± His firm''s other representative, Pak Tae-Hyun, the software engineer, rushes to him. ¡°She can¡¯t be serious?¡± Sung-Gyu feels a vibration along his leg and slides the grey shape from his pocket. It beeps red, and hangul letters fly past his screen. ¡°An dwaeyo!¡± He scowls. He''s getting kicked out, for the first event? And they want to work with his products? It¡¯s in Leonardo, a four-star brand, halfway across the city. ¡°Eori sugeun!¡± ¡°Leonardo. Sung-gyu, why would Chrysanthou do this? He must know-" ¡°He knows." Sung nods. "He just thinks we''re second class!" The hall has erupted into dozens of similar conversations, clenched fists, growing anger. ¡°A second location has been selected." As the translators try their best to relay to the furious crowd, the waitstaff start pulling doors open. ¡° Jika anda mahu sila cari jalan anda ke pintu¡­¡± ¡°Ko ay ang kotse ko!¡± One of the Filipino salesmen throws his pager into the air. ¡°Fuck this!¡± ¡°Sung¡­¡± Tae-Hyun looks around. ¡°What do we do?¡± ¡°We leave!¡± Sung-Gyu puffs up. ¡°Whatever Whiz Kid the Greek claims to be, he-¡± ¡°He made the Ares Gate!¡± Tae-Hyun replies. ¡°Do you know the value of that knowledge? Not even Hwang Woo-suk could work blood like...¡± Sung growls through grit teeth. The bastard. Tae-hyun is right. ¡°Ghapsida,¡± he whispers, and the two men walk for the doors. Most of the room follows. Deeply insulted, and yet not insulted enough. On his way out, Sun sees the same pack of Japanese radio men. Eyes glued to their pagers, beeping green. He scoffs. Of course they came first. The jjokbari always do. He¡¯s too angry to truly see those men¡¯s faces. Matsuzawa. Haruhiko. Iesada Jomei. Each of their expressions is wrapped in different levels of shock, grief, disgust. When they see Sung pass, the emotions double. ¡°They let him go!?¡± ¡°Ky¨­kida!¡± ¡°Goukaku shi ta!?¡± Jomei points. ¡°For him!?¡± Matsuzawa can¡¯t believe it. Struggling to control his breath. He owns more radio signals than any man in Asia. Practically royalty. He should be getting drip-fed oysters, not left in the cold! Excluded from that exclusive conference when the fucking Koreans get to go! It''s an outrage! At least¡­ That¡¯s what his pager is telling him. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°Slice them apart. Pit the halves against themselves. And they¡¯ll race to the bottom, just to win first.¡± Soteris pauses, letting his words hang. ¡°The product won¡¯t even matter." Harriet stares at the darkness that she thinks is in his direction, shaking her head. She¡¯s seen some real slimeballs before, but him? ¡°An¡¯ if ya fail?¡± She asks. Soteris chuckles. ¡°I don¡¯t.¡± ¡°Well I hope ya do. I¡¯ll be crossin¡¯ my fingers. This is sick.¡± She doesn''t hear a reply. ¡°Risky, at the very least,¡± the Veneficii adds. ¡°Everyone in the Court is scared of risk. Look where it¡¯s gotten you.¡± She lurches back. The car has stopped. She can hear doors open, feel cool air. She starts to climb out, before the grip tightens around her. Harriet hears Soteris¡¯ whispers, lips grazing along her skin. ¡°Copies. Can you do it?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know." ¡°What¡¯s stopping you?¡± Where¡¯s this intensity coming from? He made her pancakes yesterday, but all morning, he''s been... ¡°Copies have ta be flawless. Any interruption will throw it off. If somebody stops ya- ah!" He puts his hand around her neck. Not pulling, not squeezing, just¡­ letting it hang. ¡°Improvise.¡± He growls. With a thrust, he yanks off the headset and leaves her blinking at garage lights. ¡°Randall, make sure she doesn¡¯t do anything clever.¡± She¡¯s trembling. On her knees. Looking past her legs at the limousine that carried her. More hands take her arms. Lighter, softer. She¡¯s brought to her feet with difficulty, staring into the scowl of a woman a head shorter than her. ¡°What are you bloody dazed at? Cah¡¯mon!¡± It¡¯s not Astrid. These hands are warm. Harriet¡¯s being pulled through the garage, into poorly-lit halls. She can hear the din of conversation just beyond the wall. ¡°Uh¡­. d-do ya-¡± ¡°Yeah, yeah, Connolly, I know.¡± So the woman knows her code-name. Maybe an event planner? ¡°Hurry up! We¡¯re already-¡± The woman yanks, then stops. They both hear the rattle of Harriet¡¯s chains. Harriet pales. She can remember Randall¡¯s threat, imagine exactly what will happen if she¡­ ¡°L-look!¡± She raises her arms in defense. ¡°I-i-i-it I-I-I-¡± ¡°Again!?¡± Harriet quirks. With a snarl, the smaller woman digs a hand through her pocket, withdrawing a keychain. She harshly grabs Harriet¡¯s wrists, unlocking the cuffs. ¡°That fucker¡­" She hisses as she moves. "Every fucking-¡± ¡°D-Does he always do this?¡± The other woman gives her a look. ¡°Word of advice? Stuff the accent. These pigs didn¡¯t come here for a Playboy mansion.¡± ¡°I-¡± But Harriet¡¯s being dragged along before she can reply, thrust through large double doors. There¡¯s dozens of blurs, dozens of faces. She sees platters with sugar treats, caviar, little hot dogs, shrimps in¡­ glasses? She¡¯s pushed into the mass, clutching a table for balance. All the men in the room wear suits, some large, some small, speaking languages she can¡¯t begin to comprehend. ¡°Xi¨¨xi¨¨-¡± ¡°-keiretsu wa s¨­ wa kangaenai darou-¡± "Um... e-excuse..." Someone practically shoves her aside. It¡¯s overwhelming. White clouds forming in her sight. She blinks a few times, looking for exits. But there are no windows, no clear front doors. And even if she could leave, it¡¯s daylight. ¡°Look at their R+D,¡± one of the businessmen say in English as she waltzes past. ¡°Toshiba, Sony, Fujitsu, they aren¡¯t building the swiftest hoover anymore, the coldest fridge. No, it¡¯s all about computers now. So why would Chrysanthou-¡± She doesn¡¯t see the hand slide out. Grab her ass. ¡°Eeeek!¡± While she blanches, the three businessmen laugh. She skirts around, indignant. The best-dressed takes a few steps towards her. ¡°That¡¯s a good squeal, ''hot stuff.''¡± He smiles to himself, saying the last like he''s imitating something. ¡°How about, after your shift, we go to my hotel and-¡± ¡°Hajime!¡± A door opens, and the businessman steps back. Harriet follows his eyes to find the largest man she¡¯s ever seen. His belly barely stuffs into his suit, his waistline several orders of magnitude larger than his attendant¡¯s. Thin, beady eyes search a room full of men that stare at him. All of them alert, frozen, like gophers. ¡°Hajime¡­¡± ¡°The investor?¡± ¡°Mereka mengatakan ..¡± ¡°- Earphone King-¡± Half the room immediately bows. All the women in green. A number of businessmen, too. Unsure what to do, Harriet joins them. Her newest creeper, however, rushes to the large man¡¯s side. ¡°Hajime-san!¡± He seems flustered. ¡°What are you¡­?¡± ¡°I am here to watch the Greek,¡± Hajime replies, in perfect English. ¡°They call him a man of boldness.¡± ¡°But¡­ y-you never go to Europe.¡± ¡°That¡¯s how I know. He was bold enough to invite me.¡± Doors open for Hajime as he crosses the hall, right into what seems like a theatre and stage. Other businessmen follow. Harriet keeps to her position, but shrivels, hisses, when that same bastard squeezes her bottom again. He smiles. ¡°Later.¡± She closes her eyes. Exhales. But just as the windchimes start to fade, her breath fills with the scent of cigarette smoke. ¡°Quickly,¡± Randall helps her up. ¡°Who was that?¡± He guides her through a side door. ¡°Someone who shouldn¡¯t be here.¡± They¡¯re quickly in a backstage area. She sees wires and pipes and curtains and ropes. ¡°Seems like the others look up ta him.¡± ¡°He¡¯s made half their market.¡± ¡°Well, that¡¯s what ya want, right? Big investors?¡± ¡°No.¡± Randall scowls, those pale eyes glowing. ¡°Too big is dangerous.¡± Soteris is right in front of them, fiddling over two screens, and to his right, the stage. She¡¯s confused by the sight: it looks like a cut-out kitchen, replete with a telly, walls, a door. In the centre sits a black, plastic table with wheels. The shape on top of it is covered by a cloth. Hestia. ¡°The stage needs copying too.¡± Soteris turns around, holds out his arms. ¡°How do I look?¡± ¡°Like a dork,¡± she replies, squinting at the glasses. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Let¡¯s just say¡­¡± Soteris steps away, letting her see the second screen. ¡°I know my audience.¡± It¡¯s a stage just like theirs, but empty. Suddenly, something pulses against her neck. Needly, sharp. She glances to her side and sees Randall¡¯s arm extended towards her. Icicles rising from his fingers. Seeing her terror, he tilts his head. "Nothing clever." ¡°You. Me. The stage." Soteris turns harsh. "Copies, now.¡± ¡°Chill out! Gonna be a bit hard ta focus when-¡± ¡°Randall?¡± "Jeezus!" The needle stabs just a hair¡¯s width deeper. Soteris leans back into her ear. ¡°You want my respect? Earn it now. You want that gun taken away¡­¡± Her face clenches at that. To his knowing, venomous smirk. "Ya wouldn''t," she whispers. "You have no idea." Harriet looks at the screens. Imagines the air, the noise, the floorboards of the other room. Aether starts pummelling through her skin. She can feel the sparks. Steady... She clenches her fists, as bright as the spotlights. Steady... Her eyes open. The world is strange. In her left eye, she sees the screens, the Poisoned One, but in the right¡­ it¡¯s... uncomfortable. Hard to describe. She sees the other stage. Both places, at once. And Soteris is in each of them. ¡°Oh my God." Randall watches the screen, which indeed shows two stages. Soteris unstraightens his tie. ¡°Good start.¡± It makes her bristle. But before Harriet can bark, Soteris slides off his shoes. Stretches his soles as the curtains fall back. She watches take a deep breath. Eyes lighting up to the sight of two crowds. ¡°Showtime.¡± Chapter 13: Ensei, Part III ¡°I hope ya fail.¡± She whispers those words as he walks towards two stages, each uncomfortably visible in either of her eyes. Harriet keeps her arms out, magic pulsing through as the world goes quiet. She swallows, feels the icicle that Randall still keeps levied on her throat. It¡¯s an easy reminder of a much larger fear than a pierced neck. She¡¯ll follow orders. Play her part. As perfectly as she needs to. Soteris will find that when his little plan falls to ashes around him, there will be nobody to blame but himself. But even then... would it matter? +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°Friends.¡± Soteris'' voice rings out through the Leonardo''s theatre, a dozen translators joining it. ¡°B?n.¡± ¡°Chingu.¡± ¡°P¨¦ngy¨¯umen.¡± ¡°I apologise for all the inconvenience brought about by our overbooking. I fear my excitement over what Polyphron has discovered has¡­ heh... prompted me to share with too many.¡± Soteris chuckles again, nerves clear as he pulls his collar. ¡°E-Excuse me.¡± Figures. Han Sung-gyu watches the executive stutter from a middle row seat, surrounded by gilded armrests and red velvet cushions. Businessmen whispers around him, or cough into thousand-pound sleeves, or shuffle away for emergency calls. The stench of cigarettes is thick; hell, Sung''s smoking a pack of duty-free from Heathrow right now. But none of it distracts him from the inelegance on display. Westerners. No business sense, just goejja fresh from their mother¡¯s basements and forced onto trading floors. His clothes, too. Wrinkled. Unbuttoned. No wonder this conference has been one blunder after the next. The businessmen were ushered in five minutes early. No warning, no message, barely a sorry face. A projector displays the Greek letter psi behind Soteris, but otherwise, it¡¯s a darkened stage. The boy fidgets with his sleeves. ¡°... We live in a changing world. A world of instant information. A world more connected than our ancestors could ever conceive. When I think of the knowledge this revolution has brought, the laughter it has spread, the¡­ erm... well, the money it has made us..." Soteris lifts his hands in mock defence. Gets a few laughs. ¡°This world was brought forward by men just like you. Markets like yours, factories like yours, minds like yours. You¡¯ve been a vanguard, and Asia, our most promising continent, has become a vanguard through you! There was a dream for our third millennia! And you, not Europe, have brought that dream!" Sung scoffs. Already, an appeal to their pride? But the others applaud, some not mutedly. One or two even stand. Lapping at the chance to have their egos stroked by a Westerner. Soteris lifts his hand, and the crowd goes quiet. "But I didn''t call you here to tell you what already know. Gentlemen..." Another chuckle. A reach for a water glass. "... Excuse me... to those who desire change, the vanguard inspires. But to the other man, the common man..." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°... that vanguard is terrifying." Harriet watches him from the twin screens, hears his voice from either side. Already, she trembles. The spell''s not at risk of breaking, but Paradox wasn''t made for such constant use. "Why''s he acting like that?" She looks at Randall. "All nervous? All sweaty?" "Royal purples. Desert browns. He wants to be underestimated." She frowns. Doesn''t have to guess why. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°Progress has always been twin to confusion and outrage, but this century, these changes¡­ they have sparked something greater. A panic that goes deep in our human minds. Crashing markets, survival bunkers, panic buying, wars on terror... fear has taken our world''s mind. And the vanguard..." He makes a sweeping motion with his hands. The translators follow. ¡°Senku-sha.¡± ¡°Xi¨¡nf¨¥ng." "... has ushered that fear." He crosses deeper into the stage, a spotlight following his form. ¡°The world does not trust us. We all know this is true We¡¯ve lost their capital, we¡¯ve risked their safety, and most of all, we¡¯ve stolen from them. Not like, heh, a taxman..." More laughter. ¡°... I mean the little things. Quietness. Calm. Eyes not blasted by screens, paper we can feel with our hands. We''ve lost control. A machine doesn¡¯t need a break. A machine doesn''t stop to relax. Computers were sold to us as a tool. A wunderwaffe to make life easy. But... really? Which gentlemen in the room is going to claim that?" Sung leans forward, hand resting on his chin. It''s prattle, really... more a media talk than an investor call, but at least the boy can speak. "Now, I¡¯m not a luddite. I¡¯m not saying people should smash their machines. A-after all, there''s a good chance you fine gentlemen built them!" More laughter this time. The crowd''s easing. ¡°I... and Polyphron... have spent long time thinking about how we can reverse this. How we take back rest. Seize some form of control. And while some will criticise that I try to solve this problem with another computer product¡­¡± ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Uh-huh," Harriet scowls. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°... well..." Soteris brings his hands together. "Perhaps it will be easier if I show you. Stage?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ From her side, Harriet watches the lights around her dim. She''s breathing heavily, her arms shaking. Now her glowing skin appears even more bright. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°You¡¯ve just come home.¡± Soteris speaks softly. ¡°Another too-long day at work. The sun has set, and your family - again - is eating out. You¡¯re alone. You open the door, and the loneliness greets you." Lights spring on. Sung sees a kitchen. Sleek. Modern. Stainless steels and polished tops. He sees familiar brands. His brands. ¡°But that was the old way.¡± They''ve been changed. Not a single one has a button or interface. ¡°This is the new.¡± Soteris walks around the kitchen, gesturing as he speaks. ¡°Imagine now, on such a night, the lights spark on as you walk in, dimmed exactly¡­¡± Suddenly, the room turns a shade darker. ¡°... as you want them to. Imagine your speakers playing your favourite song¡­¡± Unseen speakers burst to life, playing a calm melody. ¡°... just as you hang up your coat. Imagine if the telly switched on without input to show your favourite game¡­¡± His face is showered in light. "Imagine if the oven knew what recipe, if the dishwasher knew itself when it was full, if your shower would turn to exactly what- oh!" He skirts back, just as a small cadre of Roombas squeak across the ground. He gives the crowd a shy look. ¡°We¡¯re affiliated." That sparks a few cheers from the crowd. ¡°Your home doesn¡¯t need to be merely the place where you sit and sleep. Your appliances don''t have to be tools you contend. They can be tuned and tweaked and toggled to match exactly the person who uses them, who lives inside them¡­ they can flow as one. They can sense your anxieties¡­ your exhaustions¡­ your joys¡­¡± ¡°Good morning, Soteris!¡± A chirpy, feminine voice lifts from throughout the room. ¡°How are we feeling today?¡± ¡°... and understand them.¡± Soteris¡¯ smile grows, and he looks back. ¡°I¡¯m doing wonderful, Hestia. Yourself?" "A bit nervous with all the guests today!" "Me too, me too." He nods along. "Though, Hestia, I think we have an issue. Some of them aren¡¯t very familiar with English, but I want them to know you voice." "Me too, Soteris!" "Could you greet them for me?" "Of course." There¡¯s a pause, as if the machine is physically turning to look. But then... ¡°Annyeonghaseyo, Han Sung-gyu!¡± Sung gasps. He blinks, stunned by the words. And he hears similar reactions, as the voice repeats itself hundreds of times across the room. ¡°Ohaiyo, Iesada-san!¡± ¡°Magandang umaga-¡± ¡°Z¨£oshang h¨£o, w¨² xi¨¡nsh¨¥ng!¡± Men look at each, or look below their seats for a hidden device. Sung just squints at the table in the centre, covered by that black sheet. Hestia, has to be. But how... "Bloodstreams." Tae-hyun, the engineer, turns and looks at him. "The scanners. The Ares Gate." Sung''s expression falls. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Harriet watches the computer in silence. She might not be very smart. She might be a ¡®lumpy proletariat.¡¯ But she knows enough physics to know this shouldn¡¯t be possible. She careens her neck, avoiding the spike, and searches Randall''s face for answers. As usual, he¡¯s expressionless. ¡°Now, no doubt some of you have ¡®smart fridges¡¯ and ¡®smart TVs.¡¯ " Soteris rings on. "You¡¯re probably thinking, ¡®there¡¯s nothing new about this! I¡¯ve seen it a hundred times!¡¯¡± His voice is so smooth. Cresting and falling in a strange, intimate rhythm. He shouldn''t be able to talk this good. It pisses Harriet off. But the audience devouring his words? Pisses her off even more. ¡°But this isn¡¯t a smart TV, friends. It is a smart everything. All machines, linked to one interface! Not some ultra-rich luxury, but affordable, a few hundred pounds, so we can put it in every home!" She grits her teeth. They''re clucking like hens. ¡°And with our integrated software package, our biometric scanning technology... your console to recognise you.¡± Soteris raises his hand. ¡°Gentlemen, this is not some early development project. This machine exists today! This machine stands before you. This machine will come to market... in only half a year." And now they¡¯re crowing like roosters. Soteris nears the table. Grips the black cloth. Hundreds of men¡¯s eyes are glued to his hand. ¡°It is time to match progress with comfort! It is time to take back our homes! It is time to show the world..." The cloth is thrown off with a rush. ¡°... FIRESIDE!¡± She pales. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Soteris stands, smiling, the sheet still held high in his hand. Half of the guests stand to see the machine, Sung among them. There are two black boxes, each a bit larger than his boy¡¯s video game machine. One has knobs and buttons, the other a larger, sleeker screen. Both turn brightly on, flashing the same name. Fireside. Sung can hear the murmurs. For once, not of bitter rivals, or petty politics, but the feasibility of the Greek''s words. The legitimacy of his claims. The funds they''ll start requesting. Both Firesides have a stripe along their top. Glowing a deep blue light. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The same blue as Harriet¡¯s eyes. ¡°Keep focused,¡± Randall says. "Soteris is flickering on the second monitor." She rights herself, sapping yet another ounce of strength. But she can barely think. The word rattling in her head, over and over. Fireside. Fireside. ¡°Gentlemen, with your investment, your partnership, and your integrated machines, Fireside will be a global force!¡± Soteris points to the machines. ¡°We can change the home. We can change the world! And we can change-" ¡°It will not work.¡± It''s not Soteris. The murmurs from the theatres go silent. Harriet eyes over the monitors, looking for the source. Eventually, she spots it: a massive shape rising from the crowds. Hajime. ¡°M¡­ H-Hajime-san,¡± Soteris blinks a few times, clearly surprised. ¡°I hadn¡¯t realised you accepted my-" "I deal in revolution, Mr. Chrysanthou,¡± Hajime says in near perfect English. "Not pipe dreams." This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Her eyes widen. He''s... he''s nervous? Off-guard? Getting more than laughter and applause!? Holy shit it''s happening. She leans close to the screen, her grin wide. On the second monitor, whispers are rising. Yes. Finally, someone stands up. Finally, someone''s not a mark. Finally, they''re gonna make some fucking- Wait. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Sung lifts his brow. Hajime? Where? It¡¯s not like the Earphone King could be easily missed. Soteris seems to stare at the wall, listening intently to nothing. Some of the men are standing now. The volume rises when the boy starts to sweat. ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t believe¡­¡± ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Hajime''s on the first monitor. Shit. SHIT SHIT SHIT "Fireside..." Randall''s voice is harsh. ¡°I know!¡± ¡°If you don¡¯t-¡± ¡°I KNOW!¡± ¡°Stop it!¡± ¡°How!?¡± She looks back at the screen, Soteris, Hajime. A part in the back of her skull is still giddy, and the other is fucking terrified. What the FUCK does she do!? She told him- Wait wait wait wait wait wait WAIT! She stretches a hand towards the stage, feeling new heat, listening to new sparks. Her mind strains. Body immediately revolts. It was already reaching capacity, and now- Wait, shit, delay! She has to delay it. The second stage. They¡¯re in mid-conversation. She has to start from the top or- Light starts bursting from the pores in her skin. Muscles start to twist. Lightning from her eyes. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°-that I-¡± Soteris Chrysanthou freezes entirely. The commotion falls dead silent, then explodes again. Even the translators seem lost as to what¡¯s going on. Sung just watches, mouth agape. Soteris doesn''t move for ten seconds. Then suddenly, he snaps back. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Behind him, the machines start to hum. She sees it just as her spell releases. The blue stripes of the Firesides, glowing a little bluer. She squints. So exhausted she can barely think. That... they didn''t... did... "Let''s start with your fundamentals." Fuck it. She can ask questions later. To people she thinks will answer. She''s got bigger fish to fry. An illusion to pull off. If God forbid if she collapses before Soteris'' ass gets reamed. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°... ¡®A model in every home,¡¯ that is fools¡¯ play. You won¡¯t capture the market. You won¡¯t even capture a-" Sung blinks. A deep voice has filled the hall. Everyone starts looking around. But there he is. Hajime Kurokawa, the Earphone King, in the middle of the room. How did Sung miss him? He''s legendary! For a second, Hajime blinks, stuck on the words, looking around. "... a fraction. Do you know why?¡± Soteris watches him intensely, his breaths short. Hajime waits a moment, feeling all those eyes on him. Then three¡­ ¡­ two¡­ ¡­ gone. ¡°Home size. The average is a hundred square metres in Japan, two people a room, and around the world, every year, it shrinks more. You clearly know this. You¡¯ve made your console small. And thank God for that, or I would truly think you had no sense for business in your entire body!" The voice is so loud that men in the audience snap. Soteris says nothing. His mouth tight. ¡°What does an apartment man need a Fireside for? What does any man need a Fireside for? A market test could have taught you that! But what should I expect from a man who doesn''t tie his own tie. Expert analysis, no. Why not march boldly into the laughing stocks of this industry!?" ¡°Aiish¡­¡± Tae-hyun looks at Sung. ¡°He¡¯s tearing into this guy.¡± Sung shrugs. ¡°That¡¯s Hajime.¡± "And that price? Two-hundred?" He spits. ¡°You call yourselves cheap, like some vainglorious whore. Two hundred shows me nothing but faults. A production line so inefficient that it''s an insult to your adopted country. Though I suppose it would only matter if it could ever reach a sales floor." Soteris is trembling. Sung would be too, if Japan¡¯s most infamous drill sergeant came unannounced to his stage. Everyone''s heard the rumours. Knew they weren¡¯t really rumours. Tokyo police don¡¯t put nets on company roofs for nothing. ¡°Quickly. How does your Magic-8 ball integrate with other systems? Foundation code?¡± Soteris blinks. ¡°It¡­ we-¡± ¡°Quicker!¡± ¡°It does.¡± Hajime lifts his hands. ¡°So, if your stalker-bot - which, best of luck with regulations - wants to integrate with anything, a toaster, a ceiling fan, my grandkid¡¯s GameBoy¡­ that company will need to open their software up, buy yours, and shove it in. Yes?" Soteris takes a moment to compose himself. ¡°We would-¡± ¡°Yes or no!" ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°And will it be expensive?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Millions of pounds per product?¡± A slight pause, then: ¡°Yes.¡± The audience is silent. Hajime claps three times, slowly. ¡°And I¡¯m sure firms will leap to you with generosity." Soteris remains silent. ¡°I feel bad for him,¡± Tae whispers. Sung shrugs. ¡°You gonna invest." No response. ¡°If you were Japanese, I would call you sagashi,¡± Hajime frowns. ¡°I¡¯d say you know that Fireside won¡¯t sell, that you¡¯re just trying to fleece all of us!" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°He ain¡¯t wrong," Harriet whispers. Randall frowns. ¡°Keep focusing.¡± How Soteris hasn¡¯t burst into tears, Harriet doesn¡¯t know. Randall is just as unemotive. Staring at the screen. ¡°But I won¡¯t say that, I know you are young, and coddled, like every Westerner. That an easy life has blinded you, and what would normally be malice, we can write off as idiocy.¡± Soteris stands there, arms behind his back. His face is rigid, eyes shrouded in shadow. ¡°I thought the Ares Gate was something, Mr. Chrysanthou. The ability to scan blood like that... the patent is a mountain of gold. A shame that you spend on frivolous games. A shame that it''s held by a child." A part of her wonders where he got this skill. It''s not like his skin is thick, and he certainly doesn''t tolerate with her. But when she remembers that he must have had a Keeper, Harriet feels... weird. "You are a fool, Soteris Chrysanthou. And in a couple years, you''ll be a bankrupt one." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Hajime turns around, sauntering back towards the double doors. The whispers of the men around him suddenly erupt again. Their god has spoken. And not with favour. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ She should feel better about this. Soteris deserves far worse than a chewing out. But this wasn¡¯t a headshot, quick and easy. There¡¯s no thrill, no sensation. Just that cold cruelty she''s always attached to the monster. It''d be easier to watch if he fought. Or cursed. Or sobbed like an infant. But Soteris is silent as the grave. Staring at the ground, like a battered dog. She wants to tell herself it suits him. The spike by her neck disappears. Randall is reaching for his pack of cigarettes, a lighter touched with cold, delicate hands. She takes a long breath, the lights starting to fade around her, before the Poisoned One raises his hand. "Not yet." She smells the petrol from the lighter. "Randall. It¡¯s done.¡± Indeed, many men on the screens already gather their coats, standing, departing. But Randall bores into her with those pale blue eyes, his voice doubled over. ¡°Crimson streaks on velvet skin. Red ink, buried by grass and sky. It''s not over until Hajime walks out of the door." ¡°Hajime.¡± "And he won''t." In slow motion, Hajime turns. One screen, then the next. Soteris still looks at the ground, but his stance his changed. It¡¯s more aggressive. Predatorial. ¡°Samsung." He says. "Fujitsu." Hajime''s face changes, but Harriet just blinks. ¡°What?¡± ¡°Update the names.¡± Randall says quickly. ¡°Can¡¯t use Samsung on the other one, they have people in the room. Use-¡± ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°Matsushita. LG.¡± Sung and Tae look at each other. LG? Hajime takes a few steps back towards the stage. ¡°You¡¯re in talks with Panasonic?¡± ¡°I am.¡± Hajime laughs. A bellyful, cutting laugh. ¡°Since when?¡± ¡°Forty minutes ago.¡± +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Harriet watches it play out twice. The shocked expressions. The worried looks. She remembers what Soteris said, dividing them by their rivals, and- ¡°In fact, I have their contract right here.¡± Soteris looks back up. His face looks weird with the glasses, but his smirk is all the same. He lifts his hand. The attendants file into the theatre, shoes clicking on tiles. White binders in their hands. They line up one per row, all young, all beautiful. Passing them along. But with each one, the rooms'' volumes raise closer to a fever pitch. Shouting. Swearing. It cascades across the halls. And finally, Harriet realises what''s in those binders. Where they came from. ¡°Oh my God." ¡°You''ll see more than their names in the paperwork," Soteris smiles. "I made partnerships with every firm in the other room.¡± +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°Gae-sae-kki!¡± Sung clutches the binder. Five hundred such swears are being tossed about the Leonardo theatre. But right now, he only hears the one. They wouldn¡¯t. They couldn¡¯t. It¡¯s insanity. Fifty billion. Fifty fucking billion! That¡¯s how many won they¡¯re giving him. That¡¯s how much LG¡¯s lawyers, analysts, execs believe in this drivel. Fucking LG! They think it¡¯s legit. They think it will sell. ¡°Sung!?¡± Tae¡¯s voice can barely reach him in the tempest that¡¯s taken hold. ¡°It¡¯s not real, right? Legal couldn¡¯t possibly¡­¡± ¡°It¡¯s real,¡± Sung replies quietly. ¡°You can¡¯t fake the letterhead.¡± "Friends!" Soteris shouts. "Your fellows on the future''s continent did not have these reservations. Did not share these doubts. Fireside is here! Fireside is the future! And they embrace it with open arms!" The plastic starts to scrunch in Sung''s hands. "Fireside will integrate with their machines. Fireside will show up on their labels. And they offered me premiums if I let them retake our homes... exclusively." The entire room seems to freeze. "I''m holding the door open, gentlemen." Soteris gives a final bow. "But I can''t hold it for much longer." Barely a second of silence passes from his final word. And then, pandemonium. The room is hot. Stuffy with shouts and panicking and cigarette-clogged air. Men fling binders at the walls. Cry in their hands, rush to find a signal. Sung just stares at the wall, disbelieving. No. It can''t possibly. This is a step too far, even for him. But then he remembers those Japanese men. The ones who laughed, and got a special room. It finally clicks. Soteris Chrysanthou is an act. The nerves, the apologies, all of it. He''s insulting them, and doesn''t care. There isn''t a step too far. For anything. Tae¡¯s eyes nearly bulge from his head, when he sees Sung lift a mobile to his ear. ¡°Sung!?¡± ¡°I have to sign." No matter what the price is, no matter what the lawyers say. They don¡¯t have time to verify. Negotiate. Even read the damn thing. And they¡¯ll just have to bid higher. As high as they can fucking go. Why? Why would LG, or those Japanese fucks do this!? They¡¯ve seen one demo. Heard one speech with no substance. And scanning blood through airwaves? How the fuck does that even work!? But he won¡¯t question it. It doesn''t matter. Soteris has caught half the market now, and if Samsung pulls, that''s just a lost advantage. He has to walk out with a deal. A better deal. Or his job... Sung shakes as he listens to the receiver dial. There¡¯s nothing to listen to but the panic, the outrage. And it¡¯s taking. So. Damn. Long. Slowly, he cranes his head. He doesn¡¯t know what compels him to search for Hajime¡¯s face. It¡¯s not like he expects solace - the Earphone King has far too much money to ever care. But surely, he feels humiliated. Enraged. But Hajime Kurokawa does not express even that. He¡¯s still. Silent. Watching. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The power stops. The visions fade. Almost immediately, Harriet crashes onto the table. Gripping it for support. She¡¯s out of breath, muscles straining and dimming light. Randall does nothing to help her. His eyes are on the stage. Soteris stands a few feet away. Watching them - no, her - with some expression that¡¯s impossible to describe. ¡°Fireside.¡± She forces herself up, scowls at him, biting her lip, tasting her makeup. ¡°They''re gonna find out." She laughs, the defeat clear in her breath. "They''re gonna find out, an'' this little theatre trick gon'' explode in yer-" He moves faster than she expects. Not with a slap, or a chokehold. He pulls her into a hug. ¡°We did it." His voice shakes, and he buries his face in her shoulder. "You did it." She stares at the wall past him. Confused, paralysed. Arms trapped at her sides. "We showed them all." He¡¯s pulling her tighter, to the point that she has to stand on her toes. Harriet casts a desperate glance at Randall. But the Poisoned One has buried himself in the screens. Soteris eventually parts them, his hand staying on her shoulder. ¡°And, heh¡­ and you were so scared that you wouldn¡¯t be able to." ¡°I-¡± ¡°You don¡¯t have to worry, Fireside.¡± He smiles, genuinely. "I can worry for both of us." She watches him. Her brain short-circuiting whenever she tries to form words. This is the same Soteris, right? He isn''t... what does Aisling call it... schitzing out? He''s feeling her wrists when her eyes go wide. "Not wearing your-" "Soteris." Soteris follows her sight, until his own expression pales. Hajime Kurokawa towers by the curtains. His suit still crisp, not a bead of sweat on his brow. Immediately, Randall leaves his screens and bows, and Harriet tries to hide from sight. Soteris stands tall. Confrontational. ¡°Hajime.¡± His voice is immediately harsh. ¡°This area isn¡¯t-¡± ¡°Quiet, boy.¡± Hajime walks forward, the floorboards creaking with his steps. ¡°I did not become Hajime by going where others please.¡± Harriet hitches. Soteris has grabbed her wrist from behind his back. Tight. Painfully. ¡°I don¡¯t know how you did it,¡± Hajime scowls. ¡°Even if half my compatriots are nepotistists, and the others incompetent shits, you¡¯re trying to pull wool over the eyes of the eighty-five largest tech firms in Asia. The logistics, the forgeries, the sheer audacity." ¡°Do you have any proof to support these allegations Mr. Hajime.¡± Hajime laughs. ¡°Our continent¡¯s wealth is young. Our capitalism, even younger. We only got where we are through trust, through loyalty, and have you taken those values and stomped them into the dirt. It¡¯s criminal. It¡¯s unconsciable. And it¡¯ll probably net you a billion in licensing.¡± For the first time, Randall¡¯s reaction is instant. He floats back to the computer, rapidly typing, his face bathed in the white screen¡¯s light. Harriet can see numbers reflect on his cheeks. Matching the Veneficii¡¯s awe. ¡°One of the largest fundraisers in history,¡± Hajime continues. ¡°And it¡¯s not even mid-afternoon.¡± Soteris doesn''t turn back. He keeps holding Harriet in one hand, while boring Hajime down. ¡°What do you want?¡± ¡°Five hundred million.¡± Soteris lifts a brow. ¡°Kurokawa Hajime is bought with so little?¡± ¡°Pounds, not yen. It¡¯s the amount I¡¯m going to invest in you.¡± Silence. Even Soteris blinks Hajime sighs, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. ¡°Better to start small, I think, before I¡¯ve had a chance to see the product myself.¡± ¡°H-...Half a billion pounds?¡± ¡°Excluding arbitrage.¡± Soteris'' grip is colder now. Like he''s struggling to keep form. ¡°I don¡¯t invest in products, Chrysanthou, I invest in people. Put this into Hestia, Ares, your girl¡¯s asshole, I don¡¯t care. I just want 20% of whatever you touch, and when your value goes up, I match. Deal?¡± ¡°I¡­¡± Soteris stammers. She watches him look back at Randall, and for good reason. The Poisoned One looks surprisingly stern. ¡°I-I-I¡¯m not sure I-¡± ¡°You¡¯ll make it.¡± Soteris stops. ¡°I am Hajime. My contracts aren¡¯t forged. I have built seventeen titans from mud. The men back there would kiss my feet for a tenth of the money I''m offering. Is that clear?" ¡°Yes.¡± Hajime smiles, and offers his hand. A single instant of hesitation, before Soteris takes it, meeting the man¡¯s eyes. ¡°Now, be honest," Hajime says. "Do you believe even half of the bullshit you said on stage?¡± ¡°I believe it all.¡± ¡°Good.¡± Hajime grins. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter what it costs. It doesn¡¯t even matter if it works. I see in your eyes, Chrysanthou, what sort of man you are. Before you¡¯d let the world stop you, you would break the world. So the only thing I can offer is that..." He steps closer, whispering in the Sovereign¡¯s ear. ¡°You need to think bigger." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ She stands before the window, a glass of ¡®wine¡¯ in her hands, basking in the heat of Soteris¡¯ false Sun. Harriet had forgotten the feeling. It feels strange to say. How could she forget something that had stood with her every morning, every dusk, for nearly twenty years? But she had. She had forgotten what it was like to see the city beyond its lights. She had forgotten how quickly clouds could move across the wind. She had forgotten what it was like to feel warm. And where one memory rises, others follow. Once, her lungs moved like they were built to. She got hungry, and thirsty, and there was never a foreign voice that pulled at the back of her head. Once, she slept in the same bed each night. She could pass through a crowd without thinking of them as meat. Once, she hadn¡¯t killed. Once, the kills had meaning. She had collapsed ten minutes after her performance, but the last hours were calmer. Soteris has been in and out, constantly on call, but she''s too exhausted, and they''re too overstretched, to justify putting someone on guard. It''s given her the first moment she''s had to... ¡­ to breathe. Harriet reaches out, touching the plastic screen. Watches it shimmer like a desert mirage. Once, there was a farm. The whirr of the windchimes. Fields of gilded wheat. And- ¡°You¡¯re beautiful.¡± She¡¯s back. The approaching footsteps. The conceited voice. The clothes. The collar. The reapplied chains. He stands by her side. "Your looks like it''s catching fire in the Sunlight." He¡¯s changed again. No more glasses or wrinkles, and he¡¯s applied his usual hair gel. She can smell his cologne, darker than her citrusy shampoo. He puts a hand on her shoulder, and it feels strong. ¡°Do you remember that night in the Highlands? The dead deer? You had pointed your gun at me. I left my card on the ground.¡± "I remember." She scowls. ¡°Ya said somethin¡¯ ¡®bout savin¡¯ me. Not keepin¡¯ me in cuffs.¡± ¡°The offer still stands. I just know you¡¯d refuse.¡± She sucks in a breath. She doesn¡¯t make eye contact. Doesn¡¯t give Soteris Chrysanthou what he wants. What Soteris Chrysanthou always seems to get. ¡°In Scotland, I said you looked lost. Faded. Disconnected from a dying world. I want to know if that¡¯s still true. If all the¡­ excitement, the pageantry of these past few days hasn¡¯t sparked-¡± ¡°It¡¯s sparked anger.¡± She interrupts. ¡°Outrage.¡± He pauses. ¡°But the Wilds still Call?¡± She gives him a look. Of resistance. Of invasion. He turns to the windows. ¡°It speaks to me, too. Perhaps¡­ once a year. But I¡¯ve noticed that each song is more frequent, and always sings a little stronger. I¡¯m still young. I can only imagine how often it will Call me in a hundred years¡­¡± He reaches up. Pets her hair. ¡°How often it Calls you.¡± Harriet twitches, but holds her hands close. Keeps her focus on the window. It makes her squint. ¡°You''re quiet.¡± ¡°I¡¯m tryna figure ya out.¡± Soteris smiles. ¡°What part?¡± ¡°If yer jes¡¯ deluded, or if yer actually a fraud.¡± Soteris stands a bit taller. ¡°If you¡¯re concerned about the product¡¯s quality, I¡¯d remind you that Hajime and the others clearly-¡± ¡°No.¡± She shakes her head. ¡°They¡¯re bandits. Rich men. They don¡¯t know England, or workin¡¯ people. An¡¯ ya expected that. Ya counted on that. Or ya woulda cared.¡± He lifts his brow. ¡°I just spent seven million trying to woo them.¡± ¡°Randall spent seven million. He thought the project was on the line. But you don''t. Ya spent the whole conference pullin¡¯ carpets over heads." ¡°Heheh,¡± Soteris chuckles. ¡°Actually, I do need their money. And their contracts, even more. But I can¡¯t show that. You¡¯ve seen how weakness is perceived by men like Hajime. The Court is no different. Someday, you will have to hide your weaknesses too.¡± ¡°If he¡¯s so strong, why ya foolin¡¯ him?¡± ¡°Fooling him? Do you think I was lying? That I don¡¯t want to change lives?¡± Another scowl. ¡°Yer tech¡¯s built like people want a robot playin¡¯ in their house. F-ffff-frickin¡¯ with their systems.¡± Harriet stumbles on the word. ¡°But that takes trust. The sorta trust a vampire don¡¯t ever get, an¡¯ ya bloody sure don¡¯t have. So yer either pretendin¡¯ like ya do, which makes ya delusional, or yer lyin¡¯ ta everyone, which makes ya a fraud.¡± He¡¯s silent. Too silent. The kind of silence that makes Harriet prime herself for a slap he doesn¡¯t give, an order he doesn¡¯t say. ¡°I¡¯d call it pride,¡± she goes on. ¡°But these aren¡¯t some easy target, Court-bribed bureaucrats. Not in yer eyes. These are yer equals. Yer market geniuses. They¡¯re gonna find out. So ya could only ever wanna do it if ya need the cash now, if ya need the contracts now, but what in God¡¯s name could be so important about that little frickin'' computer that¡­¡± She stops. Finally, it hits her. The same message his growing smirk displays. ¡°Look at you.¡± Soteris pulls her by the shoulder. Ignoring the way it makes her tense. ¡°For someone who so despises the Court, it didn¡¯t take long for you to start thinking like them.¡± ¡°Fireside.¡± She frowns. ¡°What does it do? How am I involved?¡± ¡°How can you be so certain you are?¡± ¡°Ya named it after me.¡± ¡°This is privileged information, Fireside. Information I don¡¯t think-¡± She grabs his vest and drags into him. Hard and fast. He can¡¯t react. Their faces are close. She growls. ¡°I don¡¯t care.¡± Harriet can see his shock, his anger. His grin doesn¡¯t vanish, but she can see his eye twitch. They can smell the blood on each other¡¯s breath. ¡°It glowed when I used my powers.¡± She squeezes. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Because we alone could not fuel it. The Fireside is a powerful device, a revolutionary device, but the energy it uses is just too great. We needed a new source. We needed-¡± ¡°BULL!¡± Her lips curl back, showing fang. ¡°I know what I am ta ya. Ta the Court! This ain¡¯t jes¡¯ another fraud. Ya wouldn¡¯t do this-¡± She shakes her hands, rattling the chains. ¡°- fer a frickin¡¯ refridgerator!" A pause. Soteris reaches out, feels her fists with his smooth, clean hands. Never cut. Never worn. Then, suddenly, he¡¯s taken them. She inhales. He¡¯s pulling them down. ¡°... Do you know who founded the Court, Fireside? Who led you, and me, and all Nocturni forever from the Wilds¡¯ dark?¡± He swivels. Forcing her along. Until he¡¯s facing the window, and she can only see his silhouette. His glowing, gilded eyes. ¡°Lucis Lator. Bringer of Light. They say he cut the Voice. They say he killed their cities. That his power was infinite. Invincible. That he who ended the Predecessors was so strong¡­¡± He tilts his head, so that her eyes are blinded by that brilliant sphere. ¡°... that he could walk in Sunlight." Her breaths are short. She blinks, trying to shake herself from his grip. It makes him grip harder. ¡°Do you believe them? Do you believe one of us walked as we once walked? That a Nocturni could silence the Call?¡± Her teeth are grit. ¡°Do you?¡± ¡°That is what power is.¡± He turns, gesturing beyond the window. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter if I do.¡± She keeps her body locked on his. Stiff. Rigid. Waiting to strike. ¡°You¡¯re right. I have been lying. To the government, to the businessmen, to everyone I must. But I don¡¯t do it for short term profits or easy cash. I do it because I can only show them the facets of Fireside they¡¯ll accept. The words they¡¯ll want to hear. Power is image, and image is power. Tell every man that our work will make them rich, that our work will keep them strong, that our shares their dream, and they will worship it. They will worship you.¡± ¡°So what¡¯s the goal!?¡± She hisses. ¡°If ya didn¡¯t build it fer the army. If ya didn¡¯t build it fer them, then-" ¡°You.¡± Harriet blanks. ¡°I built Fireside for you." Time is slowing. Thoughts are ending. ¡°Every word I speak. Every screw I twist, line I write. Every drop of blood this curse has forced us to drink, has been done to save these hands¡­¡± He cups her cheek. ¡°This face.¡± His skin starts to glow. ¡°This soul.¡± Harriet¡¯s mouth hangs open. His touch is warmed by the aether, the heat lamps. Until it¡¯s hotter than a mortal''s. Something more. ¡°I see those dimming eyes, those pale lips, and know the same truth that will one day come for me. For all of us. That the clock is ticking. That the Wilds Call. That we are all doomed to be monsters, and lose ourselves, like you are doomed to lose you." ¡°What?¡± Her heart begins to beat. Her breath picks up. ¡°I¡­ wh-what do ya want?¡± ¡°I want what you need. Life.¡± She sharply inhales. He¡¯s taken her shoulders, squeezing them. ¡°Living.¡± He¡¯s moving close. They¡¯re only inches away. Eyes brighter and brighter. ¡°I want what Sunwalker had. What was promised to us, taken from us.¡± ¡°But what¡¯s-¡± He kisses her. It¡¯s quick, and forceful, and it makes her aether ignite. Harriet yelps into his breath, hot and full. His hands are on her back. Hers are on his chest. Pulling and pushing, in a room of old and new, blazing with the light of a Sun they can¡¯t see. ¡°I want laughter in the parks.¡± He speaks between kisses. ¡°Food in our stomachs.¡± Her cheeks start to glow. ¡°Air in our lungs.¡± She gasps. Her whole body is trembling. From shock and hatred and a hundred unspeakable things. Brain and heart and nerves and lungs. Ancient parts now move. Soteris holds her cheeks in his hands. ¡°No matter what I tell them. No matter what they believe¡­¡± Windchimes scream. White clouds swirl. Century-old tears form in her eyes. ¡°Fireside is for us,¡± he tells her. ¡°Fireside will make us human.¡± Chapter 14: The Striga, Part I ¡°The Veneficii had always been the Predecessor''s favourites. Their lieutenants. Their court magi. A few of the treefolk even pampered them like pets. Of all Nocturni, the veneficii alone were given the Full Keeping; in that society, a great honour. It was from this favouritism that Sunwalker rose. They made him their champion. Heaped upon his shoulders power after power. He used that power to slaughter them. Court records are unanimous on what happened next. With the Groves silent, and Sunwalker supreme, the surviving Veneficii, favourites no more, felt lost. Some revolted, plotting revenge or the return of their former masters. Others wandered off, to the Fenlands, to Snowdonia, ruling mortals like some evil, Draculistic force. The Court says Sunwalker had to act. Those who opposed him were called Striga, and the rest were given a choice: Keeping or death. Anything less would leave their magic unbidden. Allow the worst of the Predecessors to forever plague our world. There is always something immediately dubious in Sunwalker¡¯s claims. That¡¯s by design. Here, one is supposed to gravitate to the immediate political benefit on display. Of all the Nocturnal clans, only the Poisoned Ones and the Sc¨¢thshi¨²l¨®ir could oppose him. He would obviously suppress them. And so the rational reader throws the whole record, that entire piece of history, as conjecture and lies. But that¡¯s what the Court wants. It wants you to stop looking. Sunwalker was powerful. Sunwalker was nearly invincible. But he could never defeat the Predecessors on his own. They were too powerful, too many, and with too much to lose. Nor could it have been a popular revolt, for breaking a Keeping was nigh impossible in the pyramids of power the Nocturni slaved in. He needed the Keepers. An officer¡¯s coup. The very same people that would next become his target. I don¡¯t want to defend the Striga. I am a student of history, and that requires me to remove the rose-tinted glasses I would so love to see them through. But they, more than anyone, were the Wilds unchecked. Tyrants. Monsters. All I want is for you to consider why. These people risked their lives to throw down a crown. To free their people. Can we be surprised at how they reacted, when, even in the midst of their victory, their strongest put the crown back on? Offered again the chains? I am not. But my view is clouded. After all, as of four hours ago, I''ve joined them.¡± Excerpt from Frank Lysington¡¯s anthology The Collected Works of Aisha Lakhani (2036), original document unnamed, original date unknown, believed to be August 2004, shortly after she fled her Keeper. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Brixton April 11th, 1981 The pig whimpers. Heavy, laborious breaths that can still be heard over the rainfall. Drops patter onto rusted gutters. Holes in the roofs. Overflowing bins. The fires. So many fires. In churches and shops and London Metropolitan Police cars. Fires to consume them all. The wagon they pulled him from still sputters. Its circuits are melting, and so the siren bleats a disturbed, piercing wail. The smell of the petrol fills Jayden Belgrave¡¯s lungs. He doesn¡¯t have to smell, of course, not anymore, but Glenmore insists on it. Everyone, he says, best enjoy the evening roast. The pig is a pig. Fat, blindfolded, his Met helmet barely fitting onto his sobbing and slobbering head. His taser lay broken at his side. He¡¯s surrounded by eight men, and one boy. All thin. All in shades. Some wear Nike tracksuits, others jerseys, but they all sport headbands and berets of Red. Green. Black. The colours of Afrika. The colours of their people. They hold pistols. Batons. Cricket bats. AKs. They stare at the pig with contempt and fury and rightness. Jayden wears a patterned shirt. One of his best. Only one tear. The knife is heavy in his hands. Today, he turned seventeen. ¡°Please¡­¡± The pig stammers, searching through their shadowed faces. ¡°I-I¡¯m sorry, I-¡± A single man pushes through the rest. He wears a black leather jacket. His hands are covered in rings. Long dreadlocks sway with his steps, zebra stripes by his hip. He bares down on the pig with a gaunt face, painted white with patters. The paint of their homeland. A homeland that was stolen. A homeland they¡¯ve never seen. Glenmore Ujamaa kneels down. The blindfold is swiped from the officer¡¯s eyes. The pig blinks, disoriented, still murmuring a weak defense, until Glenmore shoves a Polaroid into his face. ¡°Look." His accent''s clear. Untouched by this country. "Look at de boy.¡± ¡°Th-this is a misunder-¡± ¡°LOOK!¡± The pig blinks. Cranes his head. It shows an eleven-year-old boy in a shirt that¡¯s too large for him. Brown eyes. Holding a football with a big, toothy smile. ¡°Know him?¡± Glenmore¡¯s lips tremble, until he grits his teeth. ¡°Do dem pigs know de names of any Black boys in dis town?!¡± ¡°Bailey.¡± The pig manages. ¡°Michael Bailey-¡± ¡°NO!" The cop looks away, whimpering. Behind Glenmore, men start lifting their guns. ¡°Dat''s de whip¡¯s name. De plantation name! De name you carried from one ship to de next! HE HAD NO NAME!¡± Jayden closes his eyes. The knife shakes. Rage burns through him like the marching of drums. But he can¡¯t act. Not yet. Glenmore once told him that an Afrikan does not sneak around, quiet. They are like Zulu. Before the fight, the enemy must hear their cry. ¡°Two days past,¡± Glenmore nods slowly. ¡°Dis boy am stabbed. Dia¡¯s blood on de street. He de cry. He de plead! But do our Police Metropolitan help? Do dey hunt down de stabbers? Do dey let dem doctors do dia work!? NO! DEY ARREST A BOY! PUDDIM IN CHAINS!¡± ¡°That¡¯s not true! He needed the hospital. WE DIDN¡¯T-¡± Glenmore smacks him. Hard. Rings crack on skin, leaving indents and blood. Jayden hollers. All the boys do. Biting and cursing and feeling the rhythm thrash in their hearts until Glenmore lifts his hand. He¡¯s breathing slowly. Looks at the bits of white flesh on his rings and tries to remain calm. ¡°Dat boy is dead. Because of you.¡± The pig¡¯s eyes flood with fear. ¡°We''re sick of de pigs. We''re sick of de lies! You¡¯se give us dem looks, you¡¯se storm our homes! You let fascists shoot us an¡¯ landlords loot us an¡¯ only stop to squeeze us dry!¡± More breathing. Glenmore blinks several times. ¡°We¡¯s march, an¡¯ you say riot.¡± ¡°Word,¡± the other men nod. ¡°We walk on de street, you call it sus!¡± ¡°WORD!¡± ¡°An¡¯ den you say dis boy¡¯s death mean not¡¯ing! Dat it¡¯s black-on-black. Violent culture!¡± He grips the cop¡¯s jaw. Pulling, squeezing, making the pig squeal. ¡°WHOSE CULTURE ISSIT!? Who showed us de guns? De whips!? De hangings!?¡± Thunder, and the ground shakes. Cheap windows rattling in their foundations. Jayden looks around. A new plume of smoke surges from one of the nearby blocks. A shop, from the rising alarms. It makes Glenmore smile. ¡°You don¡¯t have to do this,¡± the pig beneath him says. ¡°This won¡¯t make people listen. It only hurts your families. Your homes!¡± ¡°Now it¡¯s our homes?¡± Glenmore laughs. ¡°We can still walk away-¡± ¡°DERE IS NO WALK AWAY!¡± He gets in the pig¡¯s face, foreheads touching. ¡°Not anymore. Now, we smash. Now, we burn. We loot dis city like your father looted ours!¡± More hollers. More cheers. ¡°One day,¡± Glenmore falls quiet. ¡°When dis city is ours¡­ you will know. You will know what it¡¯s like to exist, an¡¯ be despised. You will know what it¡¯s like to see children wit¡¯ shame in dia DNA. Jayden!¡± Jayden blinks. Glenmore is rising, his intense eyes turned to him. He knows already what his brother will ask. ¡°Killem.¡± It still sends chills down his veins. ¡°Ujamaa,¡± Jayden walks forward, knife at his side. ¡°What if-¡± ¡°He¡¯s right?¡± Glenmore smiles. ¡°Can¡¯t be. Dey never listened, an¡¯ dey won¡¯t start now. Not wit¡¯out a message.¡± ¡°But won¡¯t more pigs come-¡± ¡°Jayden!¡± Jayden snaps and looks at the mud. ¡°S-Sorry-¡± ¡°No.¡± Glenmore saunters over, getting in the boy¡¯s face. ¡°Jayden, you are Afrikan. You look a man in de face.¡± Slowly, Jayden does. ¡°Do you pity ¡®im?¡± Silence. Jayden breathes. Glenmore lifts his arms. ¡°No shame in it. Dat is normal feeling. He looks nice. He human.¡± Jayden sniffles and struggles to keep eye contact. Quick nods. ¡°But you know dat nice people, smart people, dey die all de time.¡± Glenmore walks closer. ¡°X. Nkrumah. Your father.¡± A hitch. Jayden shakes, as Glenmore puts a hand on his shoulder. ¡°You didn¡¯t know ¡®im, Jayden. But I did. We did. ¡®E was a good man. ¡®E loved ¡®is people. ¡®E loved ¡®is town.¡± Glenmore¡¯s voice grows weighty. ¡°Why do you tink dose pale NF bastards butchered him?¡± This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Jayden half-listens, staring at the pig. ¡°Why do you tink de cops let dem?¡± His hand shakes, but the grip tightens. ¡°Dis world is cruel,¡± Glenmore continues. ¡°It wasn¡¯t made for us. An¡¯ no matter what dem Panthers an'' fake Power people say, it won¡¯t be fixed wit¡¯ soup kitchens an¡¯ free schools. De enemy, dey only know blood. Will you give it, Jayden? Or are you¡¯se gonna stays dia subject?¡± He clutches the boy¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Are you¡¯se gonna stay dia bitch?¡± He showed Jayden Fanon. Showed him Nyerere. Showed him pride and duty and power. How can he say no? ¡°Take Afrika back.¡± Glenmore stands aside, leaving the path clear. ¡°Make your Da proud.¡± The pig shrivels as Jayden approaches. His face hardened. His muscles pulled back. ¡°Please.¡± The officer shakes his head, stammers. ¡°I¡¯m a father too.¡± Jayden closes his eyes. ¡°I have a family-¡± ¡°Stop!¡± Eyes open. Jayden breathes. The knife is a foot away from the pig¡¯s throat, halted mid-swing. Glenmore scowls. ¡°Blade won¡¯t cut it.¡± ¡°Den what¡­¡± Jayden turns around, stunned. ¡°It won¡¯t send de message.¡± Glenmore responds. ¡°Dey seen too many stabs.¡± Glenmore brings his hand to his forehead, rubs it down his eyes. Jayden understands, but still fears. The knife is so heavy. He just turned seventeen. Jayden digs the knife into his palm. Pulls. There¡¯s a wince, a swish, and he listens to the blood hiss and sizzle. It¡¯s red, mixed with yellow, the smell of acid quickly filling the air. The pig sees the hand, and sputters. It¡¯s bubbling like blood shouldn¡¯t. Burning the cobblestones where it lands. ¡°No.¡± The cop seizes as the hand nears him. ¡°No no NO!¡± ¡°Make ¡®im squeal, Jayden.¡± And Jayden makes sure he does. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ August, 2004 "Don¡¯t wanna be an American idiot, don¡¯t want a nation under the new media!¡± Aisling Finnerty thrashes to the song. Buds in her ears, hair bending every way. ¡°And can you hear the sounds of hysteria?" ¡°Ashlin¡¯,¡± someone calls. "The subliminal MINDFUCK-.¡± ¡°Ashlin¡¯!¡± Red grabs her arm, furious. ¡°Why are we in a swamp!?¡± They are in a swamp. The marshes of Walthamstow, to be precise. Acres of boardwalks and mud, herons and reeds. She squints at him. Her high just peaked, and so she sniffs the air, eye twitching. Green Day bashes so loud in her ear drums, she can¡¯t even feel the aether dripping down her nose. ¡°We¡¯re Shrekin¡¯!¡± She makes a wild gesture, then marches across the boardwalk. "Well maybe I''m the maggot, America! Not a part of a redneck agenda!" ¡°You know, Harav always said ¡®is getter lived in ¡®is fookin¡¯ swamp! Big fookin¡¯ beastie! Foot-long teefs. Tear out your eyes!¡± ¡°What a fittin¡¯ pair,¡± Red chides. ¡°Bet I can summon ¡®er!¡± Finnerty smiles, fidgeting. ¡°Bet I¡­¡± She stares at the floorboards. Still bobbing to the beat. ¡°Welcome to a new kinda tension, all across the alien nation¡­¡± ¡°Ashlin¡¯, wait-¡± She stomps. A big hop that rattles the boardwalk. ¡°Where everything isn¡¯t meant to be okayyyyy~¡± "You fookin'' DOLT!" Finnerty laughs, pointing at the startled Red. "I ''ad you! Fookin'' sniffin'' like a dog!" "I ain''t sniffin'' fer her," Red growls. "It''s the smell. Like-" "What''s the matter?" Finnerty lifts her arms, shaking her feathers. "Never wallowed in your own shit before!?" He gives her a look as she hops onto grass. There¡¯s a small metal shack in front of them, locked, with no windows. Finnerty remembers the first time she was brought here. The first- No. NO. Flashes. Red hair. Little dimples. Freckles. Eyes. Laugh- Finnerty slams her fist into the steel. Two times. Three times. Until the pain makes the memories stop. She didn¡¯t snort forty of miligrams of Adderall to focus on that. ¡°-everything isn¡¯t meant to be okayyyyyyy~¡± ¡°It¡¯s locked.¡± Red kneels down, studying the handle. ¡°Er¡­ quintuple-locked¡­¡± ¡°First one¡¯s 0-5-5-6,¡± Finnerty calls. The lock sinks into the grass. ¡°How ya know that?¡± ¡°Same way I know you¡¯se lost 500 quid bettin¡¯ on fookin¡¯ Oakland.¡± Red scowls at her. Finnerty shrugs. ¡°Me girls get bored!¡± ¡°So ya kept Ratcatcher¡¯s spy network?" ¡°No.¡± She scoffs as she pushes him aside. ¡°I kept me Floppy Disk Nest. I¡¯m digital! Much more efficient! Harav¡¯s shit was always word-of-fookin''-mouff." 7-0-6-2. 0-3-8-0. The locks bundle by her feet, the codes easier and easier. The only difference is the final one. It doesn¡¯t use a calibre. 1-8-7-0. A tick. A tug. The heavy door slides against the mud. Aisling Finnerty smiles. It¡¯s one of the largest armament hubs in Southeast England. Assault rifles, SMGs, hunting shotguns, a fucking Desert Eagle! Perfectly polished. Properly labelled. They¡¯re all placed on symmetrical racks, boxes and boxes of ammunition stuffed in the shelves below. Red steps in behind her, his expression collapsing. ¡°Holy shit.¡± ¡°I know,¡± Finnerty beams. ¡°She¡¯s prepared.¡± They come from across time, all over the world. Kalashnikovs, Great War rifles, Keaton gifts, smuggled shipments. But Finnerty passes all of them by, kicking aside a shoebox full of T.M.-62s to reach the true prize. An RPG-7. Hanging just beneath the flickering lights. Red hand stretches over the different silencers being kept in a glass display case. ¡°An¡¯ where exactly did my girl get the cash to fund this side project?¡± ¡°This side project?¡± Finnerty turns, grinning ear to ear. ¡°Red. Red, Red, Red. This ain''t the side project. It''s only Cache One." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Three seconds have passed since she rang Jayden¡¯s doorbell. And that¡¯s a problem. Three seconds is long enough to make Finnerty start thinking. Today¡¯s been difficult. She didn¡¯t sleep - a side effect of the snorted Adderall. Allegedly. But that¡¯s okay, she had important things to do! Like sit, curled up, in front of her monitor, watching the Polyphron Ltd. headquarters through the CCTV cameras she hacked a week ago. Good fun, great television. Except that nothing breaks the runes. Nothing. Not even the fucking wind. When she¡¯s hungry, her prey¡¯s asleep. When she starts flying, it turns to rain! And now Jayden has the fucking gall to make HER come to HIS fucking house all the way in FUCKING BRIXTON to talk about HIS problem, when he can¡¯t even answer the FUCKING DOOR in FIFTEEN FUCKING SECONDS! She shouldn¡¯t care. Why does she care? Harriet¡¯s stupid. Harriet¡¯s a loose cannon. Harriet was always going to get into a mess like this, so why should Finnerty even fucking bother!? ¡­ ¡­ twenty-five seconds. She¡¯s going to cry. But then the door opens, Jayden¡¯s face comes into view, and the maelstrom of her mind evaporates into a grin and finger guns. ¡°¡®Eyyyyyy. Wagwam, bruv!?¡± Finnerty ¡®fires¡¯ a few rounds. Jayden stares at her. He¡¯s in a Michael Jordan jersey. Gym shorts. Buzz cut covered by a black beanie. ¡°You¡¯re wet.¡± She looks around. ¡°Course I¡¯m wet, it¡¯s fookin¡¯ rainin¡¯.¡± ¡°No. You¡¯re wet, as in, ¡®you smell like wet dog.¡¯ When you last shower, bird? I can taste dose feathers like petrol on a stalled car.¡± ¡°Fook off.¡± She brushes him aside and stamps on the Welcome! mat. ¡°Don¡¯t be gettin¡¯ all fookin¡¯ lyrical.¡± They don¡¯t build houses like this anymore. Prefabs, all two-storey, lined up next to each other like ducks in a row. It¡¯s a shithole - overflowing bins, rundown bikes, obliterated sidewalks. But the homes¡¯ colours are cheery - reds and pinks and aquamarines. If she was stupid, and dumb, she¡¯d think that¡¯s why the Belgraves chose it. Sure, the sink barely works and the door¡¯s on its last hinge. But the colours reminded them of Barbados, or they just made them smile. But she''s not stupid. She knows why. City would never give migrants a fucking brick council house. Belgraves didn¡¯t choose shit. The interior isn¡¯t grand, either. Finnerty might not be mint, as the mandem says, but even she can tell it¡¯s all granny stuff. Embroidered couches, doilies, and why so many fucking ducks? Only difference is Jayden¡¯s room. The walls are layered in posters of Wiley or Dizzee Rascal. The corners filled with¡­ magazines. A boombox wobbles on a pile of clothes, constantly banging out some grime beat. Finnerty perks up. There¡¯s tapping on the window. Bap bap bap. Nancy flutters on a tree bench, cooing to get in. ¡°Ah!¡± Jayden calls the moment she reaches for the window. ¡°No.¡± ¡°Why not!?¡± ¡°¡®Cause dat bird¡¯s bait, Bird. A fahkin¡¯ menace!¡± ¡°Only to you!¡± Jayden folds his arms. ¡°I wanna get serious.¡± ¡°Oh?¡± Finnerty sits on his bed. ¡°''At way I don''t see you streetside recently?" ¡°You been wit¡¯ Keaton¡¯s little Texas Ranger,¡± Jayden sneers. ¡°¡®Ow can you tell?¡± She knows it from his voice. Edged. Angry. Hurt. She makes a face. ¡°You miffed at Red?¡± No response. ¡°Why? He pointed a gun in your face, yeah, but-¡± ¡°You fahkin¡¯ know why.¡± He¡¯s tense. Squeezing his arms. Eyes darting about. ¡°.... When I hooked wit¡¯ you, Bird, I knew dere¡¯d be changes. Shit I don¡¯t expect. Shit dat force me to swallow me pride.¡± ¡°So why you¡¯se still actin¡¯ like-¡± ¡°Will you shut up?¡± Finnerty¡¯s lips seal closed. ¡°Sometimes¡­¡± Jayden exhales. ¡°You don¡¯t make it easy. But I stay. I keep me mout'' shut. ¡®Cause I know how dis world works, Bird, before you''se say I don¡¯t! De Unbound don¡¯t care ¡®bout freedom. Not for people like me! An¡¯ t''ough youse ain¡¯t one of us, no matter ¡®ow much you prance around¡­¡± She smiles at that. ¡°... I trust you to know shit.¡± Jayden scowls. ¡°So ¡®ow you tink I be tinkin¡¯ when you¡¯se be cuddlin¡¯ up wit¡¯ dat princess Blackbird, or a man who kept my people in chains?¡± A flash. Jayden pulls something from his pocket - a crudely marked floppy disk. Finnerty immediately springs. ¡°You¡¯re not allowed to see-" ¡°Red. Hunted. Slaves!¡± ¡°Two-hundred years ago!¡± ¡°Don¡¯t matter when!¡± ¡°You weren¡¯t even alive!¡± ¡°It¡¯s in me fahkin¡¯ blood!¡± Jayden paces back and forth. ¡°Don¡¯t be goin¡¯ off ¡®bout how ¡®e¡¯s not like dat anymore, ¡®ow ¡®e¡¯s changed! Dey never fahkin¡¯ change! You know dat!¡± ¡°Whatchu wan¡¯ me to fookin¡¯ do, Jayden!?" ¡°What you did for de kikes!" He thrusts. "Cable Street his fahkin¡¯ arse!¡± ¡°Jayyyyyyyden!¡± A voice from downstairs startles them. It¡¯s followed by tapping on the floor, rap rap rap, with what must be a broom handle. ¡°You said you¡¯d take out de bins today!¡± ¡°¡®Low it, mum, I¡¯m busy!¡± Jayden huffs, brushing his shirt. ¡°Look, Bird, you¡¯re Irish.¡± "Fook does ''at mean!?" ¡°Means you wouldn¡¯t geddit. Means you don''t got experience-" "Experience!?" She stands up, gets in his face. "Wiff what? Bein'' dicked around!?" ¡°No folk put your folk in chains an¡¯ sailed dem ¡®round de world!¡± ¡°¡®Cause we was starvin¡¯, moron!¡± "But now you''se all cushy." "Tell ''at to Belfast-" "IT''S NOT DE-" "YOU FOOKIN''-" They continue like that. Screaming in each other''s faces. Until they can''t hear what the other is saying. Or even hear themselves. ¡°He¡¯s a Confederate, Bird!" Jayden finally reasserts control. "A real, full-blood, fahkin¡¯ Dixie! If you tink I¡¯m just gonna stand aside, ignore everyting I ever fahkin¡¯ stood for-¡± ¡°JAYDEN!¡± More knocks. Louder. Coming from the door. Ms. Belgrave doesn¡¯t wait for her son to open it. She storms in, her white hair in a bun, throwing a heap of plastic bags at his feet. ¡°Bins. Out. Now!¡± ¡°I fahkin¡¯ can¡¯t!¡± Ms. Belgrave loudly gasps. ¡°An¡¯ now you throwin¡¯ de swears at me!?¡± ¡°Mum!¡± ¡°Who owns de house, Jayden? Who cooks de food?¡± ¡°I cab¡¯t even eat it-¡± ¡°Because you hate your mumma!¡± ¡°NO!¡± ¡°Jayden, do you tink I brought a boy into dis world so dat he could disrespect!? Be cursin¡¯ his own flesh an¡¯ blood?¡± Jayden starts to open his mouth, then closes it, looking at his shoes. ¡°Dat¡¯s right.¡± She steps to the side. ¡°I brought him into dis world so ¡®e could take out de bloody trash!¡± Jayden grabs the bags and storms out, muttering to himself. His mother smiles, dramatically wiping her hands before she turns to their guest. ¡°ASHLEY! Come here!¡± ¡°No, ¡®at¡¯s arright, I-¡± But Finnerty¡¯s cut off. Even she cannot hold back Lisette Belgrave¡¯s monstrously large hugs. ¡°How are tings?¡± Ms. Belgrave squeezes. ¡°How are tings?¡± ¡°J-Just grand,¡± Finnerty manages out. Ms. Belgrave grins as she sets the girl down. She¡¯s wearing a vibrant, dusk-coloured dress. Her eyes are a rich hazel, her teeth white, and, as always, she¡¯s applied a generous amount of lip gloss. ¡°I hope me boy ain¡¯t givin¡¯ you de trouble. It¡¯s de music he plays. Always talk too much mouth ¡®bout de sex an¡¯ de drugs! Bad juju! Bad juju! But you would never do dose tings!¡± ¡°Not at all, ma¡¯am.¡± Finnerty sniffs. ¡°Ma¡¯am?¡± Ms. Belgrave giggles, slightly waving her hips. ¡°Oh, you too much, you too muuuch. Dat¡¯s what I like about you, Ashley! Youse de good influence.¡± Finnerty quickly nods. Footsteps up the stairs. Jayden storms back into the room, staring his mother down. ¡°Dat it?¡± His mother rubs his arm, then leans in for a big kiss. ¡°Dat¡¯s me boyyyyy.¡± ¡°Mmmmmuuuuummmmm.¡± Jayden¡¯s voice is low. Ms. Belgrave doesn¡¯t stop until she¡¯s given a big, sloppy peck. Finnerty doesn¡¯t watch, staring blankly at the wall. ¡°Right, you two. Be good!¡± The door closes. Jayden waits five more seconds. ¡°Where were we?¡± ¡°Somefin¡¯ ¡®bout Dixie?¡± ¡°Right.¡± He frowns. ¡°You ain¡¯t talkin¡¯ me outta dis, Bird. Dis not old-timer shit like Fireside. He is an en-e-my! You forget dat, you forget de ends. You forget my-" "Are you done?" Finnerty''s bristling. Jayden pauses, considering. ¡°Yeah. I¡¯m done.¡± ¡°Good.¡± She stands up. ¡°¡®Cause normally I would beat the shit outta you for half the fookin¡¯ shit you fookin¡¯ said.¡± Jayden curls back as she points a menacing finger at him. ¡°Do not say I¡¯ve forgotten me ends. Ever. Not when you¡¯se mad, not even when it''s a fookin¡¯ joke! Who protected you from Ujamaa, Jayden? Who kept the Reeves off you and your mum¡¯s skanky shorn little arse!¡± Jayden scowls. ¡°You.¡± ¡°Least you got ¡®at right.¡± She slaps the top of his head. ¡°But I¡¯m guessin¡¯, if youse bold enuff to say ¡®is to me face, half the Boys are whisperin¡¯ it behind me back?¡± ¡°More den half.¡± ¡°Tell ¡®em this.¡± Her face hardens. ¡°We¡¯re not joinin¡¯ Keaton. We¡¯re not goin¡¯ Unbound. ''Is my fookin¡¯ Freehold, and I ain¡¯t turnin¡¯ it into a washout¡¯s parade ground. But we¡¯d be kvetches if we do ¡®is wiffout help, innit?¡± ¡°But we don¡¯t ¡®ave to do dis. Fireside-¡± ¡°Thin ice,¡± she hisses. He gets quiet at that. ¡°Now, troof be told, I never been a fan of Red, eivver. You won¡¯t believe me, but the crew ¡®e an¡¯ Harriet were in? Chock-full of Born-Agains an¡¯ self-righteous cunts." ¡°Actually, dat tracks.¡± ¡°But we need ¡®im. We need ¡®is experience. We need ¡®is contacts. We need access to ¡®at fookin¡¯ fookload of Southern guns Dixies buy when ¡®ey dream ¡®bout killin¡¯ you.¡± She kneels down, meeting his eyes. ¡°Don¡¯t gotta be friendly. Don¡¯t ¡®ave to play nice. Not the first time we¡¯ve ¡®ad ''at sort in our ranks. ¡®At would be you.¡± Jayden¡¯s look turns absolutely venomous. "What?" ¡°Tell me I¡¯m wrong.¡± He doesn¡¯t need to. He stands up, face right in hers. Aether steams as it travels through his skin. Searing hot. Ready to melt. "I... have never-" ¡°I knew a lotta girls in the Rookery ¡®fore you and Glenmore Ujamaa stormed it, Jayden." Her look is harsh. "Harav kept dozens." He frowns. ¡°An'' dey were treated so well." ¡°I never saw ¡®em again. Not one." She moves closer. Letting him see her fangs. "Any idea where ''ey went?" Jayden''s breathing has slowed. His eyes dart about. Fangs biting his lip. "Bird. Look. Glenmore said we needed de money-" "Don''t." "Dey were killin'' our men. Slittin'' throats! We couldn''t-" "So you sold ''em!?" She scowls. "Glenmore sold dem! Not me!" "Ohhhhh. I guess it''s fine, ''en! It''s not like ''ey''d ''ave experience, wiff ''eir pale-ass fookin'' skins!" "He changed." Jayden''s voice shifts. "He stopped fightin'' for freedom. He stopped fightin'' for me. Why do you tink I left? After Camden, he-" Finnerty gives him a look. Too soon. Way too soon. He steps back. "Bird..." "I know. I know ''ow people work. You didn''t stop. You didn''t fink. Not until it was too late. You just took the money and looked away. Like everyone does. Like Red did." He scowls at her. "Jayden, I don''t care. It''s whatever. History. But if you don''t let it stay history, if you keep kvetching ''bout slavery and slaves? I''m gonna start caring. Real fookin'' fast." Finnerty stands, heading for the door. Jayden looks at the spot she left, deflated. ¡°Tomorrow.¡± She says like an order. ¡°I meet ''at Arab bitch in Soho. I made Andrzej pull his weight, so he''s on shift at Maccies. You''re comin'' instead. Wiff Red." He starts to pipe up. "''At''s an order!" A second¡¯s silence. Slowly, Jayden lowers his hand. ¡°... Why Soho? Ain''t dat Court Town?¡± ¡°Simple as.¡± ¡°An'' she''s goin'' dia?" Jayden tilts his head. ¡°You sure we can trust her? She is Veneficii.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t." Finnerty turns, and opens the door. ¡°Why the fook you fink I¡¯m bringin¡¯ you?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The house is dark. Dead silent. Until she wakes. Her breathing is heavy. That doesn¡¯t make sense. Finnerty doesn¡¯t breathe. A clawed hand falls over her chest, trying to hold back a biting, unknown pain. She blinks, taking in her surroundings, the bathing white light that shoots from her computer screen. Always footage of Polyphron. Never footage of her. She grits her teeth. Climbs back into her seat. It¡¯s coming again. That pit, that emptiness, but it can always be stalled by busywork. Storing all her secrets. Whispering to her kids. ¡°Why still do it?¡± Red asked her. How could she not? She needs action. She needs change. Adderall instead of sleep. Stolen blood bags instead of food. Watch. Watch. Watch. Plan. Whisper. Kill. That¡¯s what she does best. She¡¯ll sit for hours, if she needs to. Except that it¡¯s Hour One Hundred and Seventy Nine. And her feathers keep going slack. Her thoughts keep slowing down. Her eyes¡­ Finnerty slides up. Throws on her trackie, checks the clock. 2AM. Early enough. She¡¯s still wearing shoes, so she just plods to the porch, where Nancy and Pumblechook wait for her. Ketamine. Ket will do it. She marches into the rain, a bird on each shoulder. Eyes bloodshot and searching. People tell her she can¡¯t solve problems with drugs. She tells them that they¡¯re fucking cunts. She just wants to sleep. Wants to think. Wants those happy little tingles that tell her she¡¯s done enough. That she¡¯s still Harav¡¯s best. His perfect little girl. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Fireside, Chapter 14: The Striga, Part II Red never repaired his Isuzu. A few of the dents busted back into place, but it¡¯s hard to ignore missing windows. At least the glass has been swept away. Tires crawl over the pavement, and the cowboy steps outside. He¡¯s in a suit and tie, girth hidden beneath a black jacket, the rawhide replaced with longish, neatly combed hair. Finnerty and Jayden wait on the porch to greet him; the latter in dress blacks and a red button-down, the former, well¡­ She¡¯s in a brown tracksuit. With stains. Red looks at Finnerty for a single moment, before shaking his head. ¡°No.¡± ¡°Whatcha mean, ¡®no?¡¯¡± ¡°This ain¡¯t jes'' any club, Ashlin¡¯. They won¡¯t letcha in.¡± ¡°Well ¡®ey¡¯re a fookin¡¯ bitch! No one tells me-¡± ¡°There¡¯s a first time fer everythin¡¯.¡± Red climbs onto the porch, looking down at her. ¡°It¡¯s fer one night.¡± Finnerty looks away, muttering, drumming her fingers along her arm. Jayden just stares at Red. One hand never leaving his hip. ¡°What?¡± Red throws up his arms. ¡°Ya gotta have somethin¡¯.¡± +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The clothing pile - or ¡®Garm Nest¡¯, as it¡¯s affectionately known - is smelled before it is seen. It¡¯s in her bedroom, halfway down the first storey hall, next to a much more organised cabinet of floppy disks and external drives. It reaches its owner''s waistline, or enough to match Red¡¯s knees, everything wrinkled, rankled, and often coated with mysterious, fluffy specks. ¡°You wanna find somefin¡¯ neat?¡± Finnerty gestures to it, a massive smirk on her face. ¡°Be my fookin¡¯ guest.¡± Red squints at it. Sniffs. ¡°When ya run outta clothes, do ya jes¡¯... buy more, or¡­?¡± He¡¯s cut off by a slurping sound. Finnerty¡¯s returned to her true form, shoving her mouth with her arm''s feathers. Biting, licking. The sound gets even louder as she works her way up. ¡°What?¡± She makes a face. ¡°I¡¯m fookin¡¯ preenin¡¯.¡± Jayden, from experience, is already well outside the room. Red sighs, kneels down, and starts working his way through the clothes. ¡°Surprised my girl would let ya do this.¡± ¡°Oh, she whined! But ¡®is ain¡¯t some fookin¡¯ laundry, Red. It¡¯s art. Nest like ¡®is takes years to build.¡± ¡°Ya know they say Dhaoine Cr¨ªmini get more animalistic as the Wilds take hold of ¡®em.¡± ¡°Ain¡¯t heard Her in years,¡± she smiles back. ¡°Why? Am I actin¡¯ a little too¡­¡± She kneels down, her eyes sparking. ¡°... feral?¡± ¡°No.¡± Red replies as he throws another baseball cap onto the floor. ¡°Ya¡¯ve always been a connivin'' lil¡¯ shit.¡± She puffs up at that. ¡°Prolly already know this, but I wouldn¡¯t tell Ms. Lakhani what¡¯s goin¡¯ on.¡± ¡°Not fond of evil undead wizards, Red?¡± ¡°No. But that¡¯s not why. It¡¯s¡­¡± He pauses. ¡°Have yer ravens heard anythin¡¯ about Fireside? From anyone outside us?¡± ¡°Naw.¡± ¡°Mine neither. Means this Soteris boy is keepin¡¯ it close ta his chest.¡± She squints. ¡°So why don¡¯t we say somefin¡¯?¡± ¡°¡®Cause there are worse fuckers we can be dealin¡¯ with,¡± Red replies. ¡°And Soteris is smart ta keep them from away from his kill.¡± She bites her lip. ¡°Can we trust Striga? Generally?¡± ¡°What do you think?¡± ¡°You and Harriet ran wiff one.¡± ¡°Yeah, we did.¡± Red chuckles. ¡°An¡¯ Menowin was a beacon a¡¯ trust.¡± ¡°If it¡¯s true, she¡¯ll be desperate. Nuffin to lose. We can use ¡®at-¡± ¡°Or,¡± Red tilts his head. ¡°It makes her even more unstable.¡± Finnerty frowns, standing up. ¡°Well, I¡¯ll leave you to it, cowboy, but you won¡¯t find shit in ''at pile. Not some Office Kept or double-bitch, I¡¯m a movverfookin¡¯ Freeholder. Bitches wear ''eir Sunday best for fookin¡¯ me, not the ovver-¡± ¡°Found it.¡± Before she can respond, a yellow golf shirt sails onto her head. Finnerty swipes at it, then reads the logo. Walton Heath - the fuck is that!? ¡°This looks like piss,¡± she whines. ¡°I know.¡± Red throws a pair of jeans at her feet. ¡°It suits ya.¡± She bristles as the cowboy gets up, slaps her shoulder. ¡°A¡¯ight, get dressed, an¡¯ make sure ta hide a couple blades.¡± ¡°What, we¡¯s not gettin¡¯ searched?¡± ¡°Oh, we will.¡± Red grunts as a crack resounds from his lower hip. He rests his hand on it. ¡°But ya gotta keep the guards sharp. Jes'' bein'' courteous." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ¡°Soho.¡± Finnerty doesn¡¯t make eye contact, instead squinting at the window, the tunnel speeding by. ¡°You know what ¡®at¡¯s close to, right?¡± She doesn¡¯t get an answer. They¡¯re on a half-empty Tube car, churning through the Circle Line. There¡¯s an awkward space between them, Jayden - who still hasn¡¯t spoken - and a gang of drunkard¡¯s swaying in other rows. Finnerty, however, has perched right next to Red, ignoring all the open, nearby spots, so that she has to crane her neck to see the book he¡¯s holding. It¡¯s some Marxist shit. Four Essays on blah, blah, BORING! She didn¡¯t get a uni degree to read. There¡¯s a hand over her heart. Since they left the house, she¡¯s been trembling. Finnerty perks up, swaying around to the train. ¡°I looked! Only two blocks away. What wuzzit called? Resting? Re-spun? No, Respite! Ain¡¯t it a fookin¡¯ kick ¡®at a Shadow-Walker owns it now?¡± Red still doesn¡¯t respond. Slowly turns the page. ¡°I like Ombras. Real freak, but least ¡®e¡¯s a funny guy!" Finnerty grins. "Not too late to cancel, innit? Or ask Aisha to change spots? Just don¡¯t want you feelin¡¯ uncomfortable. I mean, you even mention Soho to Harriet an¡¯ she¡¯s liable to-¡± ¡°Ashlin¡¯.¡± Red slams the book shut. Leans down. Arm on a handle, so that Finnerty is boxed in. She makes a point to not alter her posture. ¡°Yeah?¡± ¡°Are ya tryna piss me off?¡± ¡°Just find it a bit odd ¡®at you¡¯re so quiet when we¡¯s goin¡¯ to the place where-¡± ¡°I know where we¡¯re goin¡¯.¡± His voice is harsh. Needly. Clearly pained. Red swallows. ¡°Security-wise, the location¡¯s safe. Ombras don¡¯t like when the Reeves get too close, but this place is still too small fer¡­¡± His face sours. ¡°Greedy lil¡¯ worms.¡± ¡°But if Ombras is about, Morris could¡­¡± She goes quiet when Red growls. As he returns to his book, Finnerty sighs, leaning back, listening to that chirpy voice list off Moorgate Station. Her heart won¡¯t stop beating. Everything moves so slowly, and she can¡¯t stop¡­ ¡­ stop¡­ ¡°I-I¡¯m just sayin¡¯,¡± she chimes back in. ¡°They¡¯re prolly gonna kick us out, right? It¡¯s, heh, it¡¯s a really fancy place. T-Too fancy for-¡± ¡°Are ya tryna run?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Are ya tryna get me ta run so that ya aren¡¯t runnin¡¯ first?¡± ¡°No!¡± ¡°Ashlin¡¯. If ya can¡¯t handle it, I¡¯ll do this on my own.¡± ¡°I¡¯m here, innit? Here in me fookin¡¯...¡± She grabs her shirt. ¡°Piss yellows! But we¡¯re only a hop away from the Shadow-Walkers. An¡¯ I know ¡®ey did fooked wiff Harriet¡¯s head. So-¡± ¡°If I have ta relive the Respite a thousand times ta see my girl again¡­ I will.¡± Red frowns. ¡°Ain¡¯t gonna be a distraction.¡± ¡°Good.¡± She nods, more to herself than the cowboy. ¡°And I¡­¡± Her eyelids are heavy. Sleepless, and still can¡¯t sleep. ¡°... wish you¡¯d let me take a fookin'' hit.¡± The train comes to a slow halt. Doors open, and mortals file through. As usual, they don¡¯t heed her, and she doesn¡¯t heed them. There¡¯s some text on the station wall. Graffiti. She reads it slowly. ¡®THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT BE TELEVISED¡¯ A true statement, probably. But as the train screeches away, Finnerty can¡¯t help but think it¡¯s in a bad place. A bad time. She remembers the last revolution. It made for bloody great theatre. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Contrary to popular belief - popular belief, in this instance, meaning whatever Finnerty imagines others think about her - she has been in a lot of rich buildings. There were all those chimneys she swept before Ratcatcher, though the hosts usually hit her with a broom if she started walking around. The real prizes came after. The Kensingtons, the Chelseas, that she¡¯d always take dibs on for¡­ ¡­ you know. Jewellery boxes don¡¯t grow on trees! All this to say that the allure of the Edgware Hotel and Casino; its gilded halls, its elaborate sculptures, the big glass thingy that sparkles overhead¡­ they don¡¯t distract her the way they were designed to. For one, it¡¯s Art Moderne, which¡­ ew. But really, there¡¯s two objects more deserving of her attention. The bathroom, with a black marble finish that¡¯s just begging to snort crack off it. And the two slot machines in the corner. With their flashing lights. Spinning fruits. And sh¡­ shiny- ¡°No.¡± Red grabs her by the shoulder, halting her advance. ¡°You¡¯re not my dad!¡± she barks. ¡°I¡¯m lookin¡¯ to play substitute.¡± He makes a gesture at an attendant. ¡°We¡¯re good.¡± A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Finnerty seethes as a guard starts pawing her sides. She¡¯d win. She¡¯d win so fucking much. But no. She has to roll her eyes and let the guards ask her for fucking IDs. ¡°You look a little young to-¡± She slides a hand down her shirt. Shoves the Glock she pulls out into his chest. Sounds of shock from the long queue of asshats standing behind her. ¡°Do better.¡± She skirts past him and walks ahead, giving the next bouncer a harsh enough glare that he opens the door for them. It unveils a bland, concrete passageway with a single flickering light. There''s a heavy beat bleeding through the walls that throbs in her still-anxious chest. Finnerty listens, hopping a bit to the music as she bounces down the tunnel. It has to be an unhealthy loud. ¡°Least the Striga got brains!¡± She shouts, wandering further. ¡°Even me girls can¡¯t hear through ¡®is sound.¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± Red grimaces. ¡°Me neither.¡± There¡¯s more bouncers in the passage. She can see that they¡¯re carrying billy clubs. Pistols so poorly hidden even Florida wouldn¡¯t call it ¡®concealed carry.¡¯ The deeper they go, the darker it gets. More damp. The walls are short, to the point that Red has to stoop. Jayden looks back, clearly on edge. ¡°We¡¯s gotta a fahkin¡¯ plan if tings go south?¡± He asks. ¡°Yeah,¡± Red nods. ¡°Grab the witch an¡¯ run.¡± ¡°Dere''s only one exit.¡± He points. ¡°Which is why we really fookin¡¯ run.¡± Finnerty adds. Pipes rattle. The foundation shakes. The music is so rattling that bits of plaster crumple into her hair. Finnerty looks up, squinting. ¡°Why ¡®is remind me of-¡± A siren blares, even more piercing. The crowd beyond the concrete cheers. Finnerty pales, her skin stiff, eyes going wide. ¡°They built a club in a Blitz bunker,¡± Red says, walking past her. ¡°What¡¯d ya expect?¡± As the siren fades, she blinks, clearly irritated. ¡°Ain¡¯t exactly memories I wanna relive!" ¡°It¡¯s been sixty years. The mortals have moved on. Anyone comin¡¯ here is a few generations - ARGH!¡± Red yelps as his head collides with a light fixture. ¡°God-dammit!¡± Finnerty¡¯s about to laugh at him, before her eyes alight. The tunnel ends. The club begins. To call it ¡®high-end¡¯ would be an understatement. They¡¯re in Soho after all. But there''s light-up floor tiles, the sharp-dressed guests, the smell of intoxicants, a DJ that¡¯s actually fairly good. The ceiling is higher than a normal bomb shelter, allowing for spotlights, a constellation of catwalks. The whole place trembles with music. A series of neon streams tear across the room, adding colour to the pale walls. "It''s not ''at call," she huffs. Jayden smirks. "You''se just vexed you''se dressed like Charlie Brown." Finnerty punches him in the arm. Something steals her sight. Or, someone. Alone, at one of the distant tables, with a glass of what appears to be juice at her side. The woman wears a red hijab, and a matching dress that sparkles when the inset gems are hit by the roaming stagelights. She appears younger than Finnerty expected, maybe mid-twenties, and her face is soft, even doughy. But nothing hides the age of Aisha Lakhani¡¯s stare. The intensity in those rich, orange eyes. Finnerty stares back, her feathers - though invisible - shooting straight up at the ends. Red trundles up to her, squints at the same table. Her heart starts to race. ¡°Alright. I¡¯ll make the introductions. Ya-¡± ¡°Bar.¡± She says it quickly. Bobs away. Before anyone can stop her. Invisibility rocks. Definitely one of her better powers. Aether doesn¡¯t make her invisible, so much as it lets her¡­ blend in. Unseen. Unheard. Mortals will swerve to get out of her way, and never question why they¡¯re swerving. But right now, it''s helping her swipe bottles while she leans over the bar''s finish. Not fair unless she gets to swerve, too. By the time Red and Jayden find her, she''s a quarter-way through her gin bottle. ¡°Bird?¡± Jayden squints. ¡°Youse arright?¡± Alright. Of course she¡¯s alright! She¡¯s just about to talk to the super witch that can KILL HER INSTANTLY. Red blinks as Finnerty chugs her spirit directly. ¡°Er¡­ I¡¯m not sure our new Moslem friend¡¯s gonna appreciate it if yer-¡± ¡°Moslem?¡± She skirts back, speech slurred. ¡°Fook off, Bush Jr. Gonna call her a Saracen next?¡± The drink¡¯s working. Which is good. The world might spin, and her stomach is¡­ not grand¡­ but her brain feels focused. Her heart¡¯s relaxed. Red gives her a look. ¡°She¡¯s clearly devout. I don¡¯t wanna-¡± ¡°Here¡¯s an idea.¡± She shoves the bottle in his hand. Half-finished now. ¡°¡®Ow ¡®bout we don¡¯t greet her wiff the guy who looks like he¡¯d stop ¡®er at an airport, an¡¯ leave ¡®is to the fookin¡¯ expert!" ¡°You?" He scoffs. "Yer an expert on Ayrabs?¡± ¡°I¡¯m halal as shit. A fookin¡¯ akhi!¡± She bobs her head, stepping back, but only manages to drunkenly careen into a pillar. ¡°Bird!¡± ¡°I¡¯m good! I¡¯m good!¡± She hops back to her feet, stumbling about. ¡°Lissen, Bird, Red¡¯s gotta point. I tink-¡± ¡°I don¡¯t pay you to fookin¡¯ fink!¡± She exhales, turning to the Poisoned One. ¡°Just gotta¡­¡± She plods along. Fully aware that if she doesn¡¯t go first, she might be not be there when Red looks behind him. The music bounces in her skull. She keeps falling into people. Her eyes always on the table. Bad idea. Bad idea. Should never have come. Should never- ¡°Um¡­¡± Aisha blinks a few times as Finnerty slides into a seat. ¡°Excuse me?" ¡°Asalaamu alaikum," Finnerty smiles. ¡°Uh, sorry, the music¡¯s a bit-¡± ¡°ASALAAMU A FOOKIN¡¯ LAIKUM!¡± Finnerty juts her hand out. Aisha stares at it. Then stares at her. ¡°Alaikum a-salaam?¡± ¡°Aisling. Finnerty. I¡¯m Aisling Finnerty.¡± She hiccups. ¡°You nearly blew up me house wiff your fookin¡¯ al-Qaeda letter.¡± Aisha pales. Finnerty slides her arm back, leaning against her seat. The drink... hittin'' a bit too hard, now. The music is hurting her skull. ¡°You couldn¡¯t ¡®ave found a fookin¡¯ quieter-¡± There¡¯s a crack. Orange flares all around them. Aisha¡¯s hand is raised, wrist bent at an uncomfortable angle, but the music has suddenly dimmed. Every sound has dimmed. Finnerty blinks, looking around the table. The passers-by look smeared, like tinted glass. ¡°Shit.¡± Anxiety''s back again. Aisha throws her sleeve back over her hand. ¡°One of the last Freeholders of East London. Hm. I was expecting someone-¡± ¡°Taller?¡± Finnerty offers. Aisha squints. ¡°More composed.¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± Red says as he approaches, Jayden behind him. There¡¯s a brief pause as he adjusts to Aisha¡¯s magic. ¡°... We all were.¡± He blinks, then takes a seat, his girth stuffed between chair and table. ¡°Howdy. Josiah.¡± ¡°Red Eddards?¡± Aisha¡¯s English is surprisingly clear. Unaccented. Practiced. She turns to Finnerty. ¡°I thought you two split after the Miners¡¯ Strike.¡± ¡°We¡¯re not working together.¡± They say in unison. She turns to Jayden. ¡°What about him?¡± ¡°Cacabel.¡± He doesn¡¯t smile. ¡°Dat¡¯s all you''se gettin''." ¡°Don¡¯t mind ¡®im.¡± Finnerty smiles. ¡°¡®E¡¯s just a bit pissy ¡®bout Darfur.¡± She gets multiple looks for that. ¡°I think we could all use some drinks.¡± Aisha pulls out a purse from behind her seat. ¡°Even if, for some of us, it¡¯ll be water.¡± Finnerty doesn¡¯t hear the barb. She¡¯s too focused on the handbag. It¡¯s bright pink, with sparkles and¡­ the Powerpuff Girls? Aisha slides out a bill and brings it near Jayden. Fifty quid. He¡¯s immediately off-guard. ¡°Uh¡­¡± "Enough, right?" He meets her warm eyes. Aisha''s smiling. ¡°... Oh¡­ kay.¡± He nods, snatching the cash and dusting his shirt. ¡°Right, yeah, more, uh, cranberry juice, comin¡¯ up.¡± ¡°An¡¯ whiskey,¡± Red calls after him before scowling at Aisha. ¡°Bribery won¡¯t getcha too far with the Unbound, Ms. Lakhani.¡± ¡°That wasn¡¯t a bribe. Just a gift." Finnerty¡¯s silent. Trying to get a read on this woman. She¡¯s clean. Sits straight. Her expressions are far calmer than they should be for the Court''s top fugitive. ¡°Not very often a Poisoned One sends me fan mail.¡± ¡°Nor is it common for a Poisoned One to get a reply.¡± ¡°We¡¯ve had incidents.¡± Red scowls. ¡°With the Veneficii as they are, I¡¯m unsurprised,¡± Aisha nods. ¡°But I came in here expecting to bargain. I¡¯m more than willing to prove my resolve.¡± ¡°By ¡®avin¡¯ us meet in fookin¡¯ Court Town?¡± ¡°Not Court Town. Ombras¡¯ town,¡± Aisha replies. ¡°And I consider Ombras a friend.¡± They both look at her. ¡°Well¡­" Aisha blinks. "A-as much as one can be friends with a five-hundred-year-old being.¡± ¡°Does he know we¡¯re here?¡± Red asks. ¡°No. I made sure.¡± ¡°You fuckin¡¯ better be sure-" ¡°Ombras has no more loyalty to the Court than you to the government.¡± Aisha keeps her gaze on Finnery. ¡°He won¡¯t be surprised by my escape, nor will he act to stop it. I¡¯d bet my life on that.¡± ¡°You are.¡± Finnerty scowls. ¡°Now..." ¡°Wait.¡± Aisha¡¯s leaning over the seat again, ruffling through what sounds like paper. ¡°Sorry, I just¡­¡± Finnerty, still scowling, tilts her head to see under the table. It¡¯s a backpack full of loose leaf and white binders. Pink. Just like the handbag. So is the small case Aisha pulls out. All of it''s themed Hello Kitty. And why does it smell like strawberries? ¡°Apologies.¡± Aisha springs back right-side, adjusting the large glasses on her face. ¡°I wanted to see you both clearly.¡± Finnerty slides back up, deep in thought. Something¡¯s off. Really off. ¡°I¡¯m sure you have questions.¡± Aisha¡¯s calmly folds her hands. ¡°Ask-¡± ¡°Do you know Magic Missile?¡± Finnerty asks. Aisha blinks. ¡°Pardon?¡± ¡°Magic Missile?" She points at the air. "Spell ¡®at shoots ¡®em little darts around.¡± ¡°Why would I know how to do that?¡± ¡°¡®Cause you¡¯se a fookin¡¯ wizard, dumbarse.¡± Aisha¡¯s eyes dart to Red. The cowboy clears his throat, then leans into Finnerty. ¡°Ashlin¡¯, I¡¯m sure this is all very excitin¡¯-¡± ¡°No, no, no. She knows it.¡± ¡°Veneficii don¡¯t have ¡®spells.¡¯¡± Aisha explains. ¡°Our powers are linked to the unique humouric properties of the base aether we had as mortals, mixed with-¡± ¡°So you don¡¯t know Plant Growth?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°True Strike?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Fireball?¡± A slight hesitation. ¡°No.¡± Red sighs. ¡°Ashlin¡¯, sorry, what the Hell are ya talkin¡¯ about?¡± ¡°She knows Magic Missile!¡± ¡°I do not know Magic Missile!¡± ¡°But it¡¯s a fookin¡¯ cantrip!¡± ¡°It¡¯s Level One, you-¡± ¡°IIIIIIII KNEW IT!¡± Finnerty slams into the table, pointing an accusatory finger at Aisha. ¡°You¡¯re a fookin¡¯ nerd.¡± ¡°Am not!¡± ¡°Am so! You play D&D!¡± ¡°I¡­¡± Aisha straightens herself, inhaling through her nose. ¡°I might have a passing interest in-¡± ¡°Bet you got a party wiff the ovver Poisoned Ones.¡± Aisha glares at her. ¡°Bet you all pick Wizards.¡± Finnerty leans in, grinning. ¡°Bet you all play as yourselves!¡± Aisha¡¯s eyes flare with orange light. ¡°Enough!¡± ¡°Ashlin¡¯, sorry, but I don''t think her hobbies are all that important ta-" ¡°She''s young." Aisha pales. ¡°Young enuff ¡®at it¡¯s a problem. Young enuff ''at she don''t wanna tell. No experience. No contacts." "And you know all this from the class I play in D&D?" "No." Finnerty tilts her head towards the pink case. "I know it ''cause you robbed a fookin'' primary schooler." Aisha¡¯s less calm now. She takes deep breaths, clutching the dress. ¡°Raven-" ¡°¡®Ow old are you, Aisha?¡± A pause. ¡°Thirty-one.¡± ¡°And vamp years?¡± Longer pause. ¡°Three.¡± Finnerty frowns. ¡°I¡¯m guessin¡¯ three ain¡¯t enuff to make you a full wizard?¡± ¡°Not technically.¡± ¡°Not technically.¡± Finnerty licks her lips, leaning forward. ¡°Aisha. Lemme level wiff you. I don¡¯t deal wiff liars. Red? Even less.¡± He growls in support. ¡°So everyfin¡¯ you¡¯se say next best be honest, innit? Good, bad, doesn¡¯t matter. ¡®Cause if it¡¯s not, you¡¯ll be wishin¡¯ you fookin¡¯ stayed in your Kept dorm playin¡¯ Three-Point-Five. Arright?¡± ¡°Alright.¡± ¡°Good." Finnerty folds her arms. "Introduce yourself. Properly.¡± The Poisoned One bites her lip. The fear Finnerty expected is more evident now. Desperate. Overwhelming. ¡°... My name is Aisha. I came here from Bursa when I was eighteen. I like cooking¡­ and anthropology... and¡­.¡± She puts a hand on her heart. Breathing, rapidly. Red moves to help, but she waves him off. ¡°I¡¯m trying to do the right thing." She looks at Finnerty. ¡°But if I do it alone, I¡¯m going to die. Help me.¡± Finnerty slowly nods. ¡°I¡¯m still confused how you even got the fook out." ¡°I am¡­ was¡­ an inquisitor for the Office of Court Heraldry. Its nominal head, Yuri Anastasov, is an oafish buffoon who does not deserve his position. It was easy to fool him.¡± ¡°But he¡¯s still your Keeper?" ¡°He wasn¡¯t. When I left.¡± Aisha blinks a few times. ¡°I performed a rite that¡­ removed his hold.¡± Red and Finnerty both stare at her. ¡°It¡¯s a hard ritual. A taxing ritual. On the body, the ingredients-¡± ¡°Ya have a way ta break Keepin¡¯s?¡± ¡°Yes. No. Temporarily.¡± She lifts her hands, struggling to explain. ¡°It doesn¡¯t¡­ remove the Keeping so much as it transfers ownership. For about thirty minutes.¡± ¡°Who the fook wants to switch Keepers for thirty minutes?¡± ¡°It has its uses.¡± Aisha pushes up her glasses. ¡°The woman who made it, Symphonia-¡± ¡°Symphonia?" Red asks. "As in Symphonia Stockton?¡± ¡°Yes. You know her?¡± For a moment, there¡¯s no reply. Red and Finnerty look at each other, and start to snicker. ¡°Heheheheheheheh-¡± ¡°-hahahahahahahah-¡± ¡°Why are you¡­?¡± Aisha searches their faces. ¡°Is something funny?" They both turn to her. Dead silent. Even the music stops. But then the tension in the air dissipates. And they both roar with laughter. ¡°Aisha. Aisha!¡± ¡°If¡­¡± Red takes slow breaths. ¡°If¡­ if ya had any idea¡­¡± ¡°You wanna know what she was usin¡¯ ¡®at fookin¡¯ spell for!?¡± ¡°To escape.¡± Aisha squints. ¡°Obviously.¡± They start to wheeze. Red, slamming the table with his fists. ¡°Ms. Lakhani¡­¡± Red tries to quiet down, squeezing his arm. ¡°As ya might know, some Nocturni have¡­ peculiar tastes¡­¡± ¡°She was a fookin¡¯ Keep Freak!¡± Finnerty shout. ¡°A what?¡± ¡°An order-lover. A gimp! ¡®At spell¡¯s not for breakin¡¯ Keepings, dumbarse! She was gettin¡¯ off!¡± Red howls. Aisha¡¯s eyes go wide. ¡°Imagine it!¡± Finnerty gestures, her tone dramatic. ¡°You¡¯re at the height of the Empire. Surrounded by fookin'' prudes! Dreaming of nuffin¡¯ more but to be stripped down an¡¯-¡± ¡°No.¡± Aisha shakes her head. ¡°Symphonia was respected. Th-these rumours-" ¡°Rumours!?¡± Finnerty pipes up. ¡°¡®Ese ain¡¯t fookin¡¯ rumours! I kidnapped her in ¡®70! Ratcatcher wanted a fookin¡¯ ransom, but I kicked her off the wagon when I started hearin¡¯ moans!" Red looks at her. ¡°No.¡± ¡°She did!¡± "Well that''s nothin''..." Red smiles mischievously. Aisha pipes up. ¡°We are really off task-¡± ¡°Harriet ever tell ya ''bout the time she asked out Morris?" "You''re fookin'' dead!" "Naw, naw. She kept askin¡¯ ¡®bout his time in the Navy,¡± Red snickers. Can barely keep it in. ¡°Wanted to know if they¡­. If they taught him ¡®bout ropes!¡± They both cackle. Aisha''s face is stone cold while the others gasp for air. ¡°An¡¯, an''... hahahahah when she learned that he had ta whip bad sailors¡­¡± Finnerty falls out of her chair. ¡°Hi. Sorry.¡± Aisha¡¯s standing up. ¡°Can we get back to my imminent execution!?¡± ¡°Roight!¡± Finnerty slides back into her seat, still grinning. She blinks. "Why do ''ey care?" ¡°What?¡± ¡°The Court? The Reeves? One of ¡®em got shot few weeks past. Why care ''bout you?¡± ¡°Beyond my powers?¡± Aisha lifts a brow. ¡°You don¡¯t even know Magic Missile.¡± Aisha chuckles at that, briefly. It''s followed by silence. An awkward silence. But Finnerty catches it. A hint of movement. Towards the floor. It happens quickly. Finnerty flings herself under the table. Eyes on the backpack. But Aisha grabs it before she can see. ¡°No!¡± ¡°Bitch!¡± ¡°You can¡¯t! It''s-" Something flies out. A white binder. Laminated pages, thick and bulky. Finnerty¡¯s eyes grow wide as she scans the title. It¡¯s not a language she understands. But she knows those fucking runes. Fwoosh. Finnerty skirts back. Between her face and the binder, Aisha¡¯s hand. It glows with a bright orange light. A small flame dancing in it''s palm. ¡°Please.¡± The voice is soft. Mousy. There¡¯s a surge of aether, and the flame grows. ¡°I don¡¯t want to hurt you.¡± Finnerty crawls backwards, until her back''s against the chair. ¡°You know, most woulda fookin'' started by sayin'' ''ey know Fireball." The flame flickers. "Most would." Finnerty her brows. ¡°I need to know what¡¯s in ¡®at binder.¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Aisha¡­¡± ¡°Court Inquisitors have access to research. Important research. And the Court might think this research is the most important of all. It offers them a solution." ¡°Ta what?¡± Red asks. ¡°Themselves.¡± The flame dies. Finnerty clambers back to her seat in time to see Aisha''s eyes. "The fook you mean?" ¡°The Court is in crisis. Losing control. Eating itself alive.¡± Seconds pass. For the first time since she¡¯s entered, Finnerty can only hear music. ¡°No,¡± Red shakes his head. ¡°That''s... mighty wishful. But they¡¯ve got ten-thousand Kepts. Agents in every city. Fingers in each political honeypot since the Duke a¡¯ goddamn Wellington.¡± ¡°Lip service, and no more. Blair listens, but does not obey. He makes more police. More surveillance. More wars. All of it, against the Court¡¯s approval.¡± ¡°They don¡¯t approve?¡± Red growls. ¡°If ¡®ey¡¯re sniffin¡¯ out terrorists.¡± Finnerty replies, scowling. ¡°¡®Ey¡¯re gonna smell the fookin¡¯ rats.¡± ¡°Since its inception, the Court has had an edge on humans in money, information, power.¡± Aisha¡¯s voice turns serious. ¡°Now, none are true. They have bombs, scanners, drones. A new ultra-rich that demolishes markets quicker than an Elder can wake. In every direction, the Court''s influence wanes. And they can¡¯t just spawn more Kepts, summon more Oathsworn. The Reeves have forced limits for years¡­¡± ¡°Limits?¡± Finnerty asks. ¡°The Court doesn¡¯t live in a world where it can hide its secrets. A photo can travel the world in an hour. Make it to global news in half a day. The Law of Secrecy hangs by threads. And if those snap¡­¡± ¡°Boom,¡± Red replies. Aisha frowns. ¡°We saw what happened when the Towers fell.¡± ¡°So when the people a¡¯ Britain find out there¡¯s an actual, real cabal of immortal monsters stealin¡¯ their wealth an¡¯ drinkin¡¯ their blood¡­¡± ¡°... we¡¯re dead. Very dead. And it¡¯s probably deserved.¡± Aisha reaches for her backpack. ¡°But I¡¯d like to think that God went through all this trouble to make us for more than that." She throws a map onto the table. Clearly hand-drawn. ¡°Keep me and my research safe, and you will be rich. Keep me and my research safe, and the Court dies.¡± She taps the page. ¡°As proof: Yuri Anastasov¡¯s estate.¡± ¡°Thought you just left the bitch,¡± Finnerty folds her arms. ¡°I did. Which is why I know he has millions in antiques. Tens of millions in artwork. I know every secret, every entrance, half the guard¡¯s names. You want money?¡± Aisha taps the page. ¡°There for the taking." Finnerty looks at it. Sneers. ¡°It¡¯s good. But I want more.¡± ¡°Anything,¡± Aisha nods. ¡°Need your help wiff somefin¡¯ else,¡± Finnerty keeps voice low. ¡°Somefin¡¯ much bigger than Yuri fookin¡¯ Anastasov.¡± ¡°Ashlin¡¯...¡± Red warns. ¡°We need to know if she can do it.¡± She hisses back. ¡°Do what?¡± Red and Finnerty both turn. ¡°You ever ¡®ear of Randall Avery?¡± Fear. For a split second, Aisha¡¯s entire body recoils. Finnerty¡¯s stomach twists. Not a good sign. ¡°I¡¯ve... heard rumours.¡± ¡°Go on.¡± ¡°Staunch loyalist. High Inquisitor type. If he had his way, the veneficii system would apply to the entire Court. All of them, permanent Kepts." ¡°Oh,¡± Red scoffs. "Lovely." ¡°He¡¯s built some runes,¡± Finnerty continues. ¡°I need ¡®em gone.¡± ¡°Why?" Finnerty glowers at her. "Fine. Then how many?" ¡°¡®Nuff to cover a fookin¡¯ skyscraper.¡± For the first time Finnerty can recall, Aisha looks away from both of them. Hand on her chin. Clearly deep in thought. ¡°Aisha.¡± Finnerty gets close. ¡°I need a simple answer. Can you do it? Yes or no.¡± Aisha exhales. Slowly. ¡°I..." Her expression falls. Finnerty''s, too. A viscous black fluid drains onto the table from somewhere high above them. Pooling until it drips off the edge as fog. Finnerty¡¯s breath steams, her feathers bolt up. It¡¯s cold. She stands, looks around. The music has stopped, the conversations gone quiet. Guests rapidly queue at the entrance, leaving behind drinks, shirts, wallets. All of them filing out in a straight line without a single word. Red sees it too. His face shifting as realisation comes. ¡°Ashlin¡¯...¡± ¡°Agh!¡± Finnerty yelps. Flings her foot in the air. Something crawled over it. Something thick and bulbous and slimy. More black fluid falls from one, two, five different places. Slowly covering the floors. Red starts backing away, pulling Finnerty with him. ¡°We need ta go! Now!¡± "The fook is-¡± ¡°Spare change.¡± Everyone turns. The black pool still spreads on the table. A face has formed out of it; voidlike and featureless. It whispers from a petulant mouth. Its muscles pulled back, as if constantly screaming. ¡°She¡¯ll take me back¡­. Take me back¡­¡± ¡°FUCK you, man!¡± ¡°Come on come on come on!¡± A black arm stretches from the mass, reaching for Aisha, clutching her dress. She watches it, pale, paralysed. Finnerty¡¯s about to leap and pull it back, when she hears footsteps on concrete. Jayden calling. ¡°Bird!¡± He doesn¡¯t see the rifle until it¡¯s butted into his cheek. ¡°Bir-krk!¡± ¡°JAYDEN!¡± Three men pull him down. Three guns trained on his face. Black suits. Black glasses. Oathsworn. She¡¯s running. Sprinting. Ignoring the slime, the cold, the grabbing. It¡¯s only when the pull is too strong, when she can¡¯t move her legs at all, that she realises what they¡¯re dealing with. Who. She¡¯s thrust up. A dozen tendrils, playing with her limbs like a marionette¡¯s strings. Red swears. Aisha screams. There¡¯s no grace to it. Finnerty slams into the catwalks, face-first, ears ringing. The tendrils surge where they need to. Ankles. Waist. Neck. Pulling pulling pulling. Until she¡¯s tight against the catwalk grate. Can¡¯t move. Can¡¯t think. The sensation is repulsive. Terrifying. A cold grip on her wrists. ¡°You know, I don''t actually own this one." He approaches upside down. His feet waltzing across the metal grating. He¡¯s sharply dressed: a green suit with a matching bowtie. Finnerty watches his hat, his coat, his umbrella get plucked away by tendrils surging from beneath his skin. ¡°I was worried what the lack of competition would do to me.¡± ¡°Ombras!¡± Red shouts. Behind him, Aisha sobs. Henri Ombras puts a finger on his chin, his eyes a constant black, his face a Cheshire Cat smile. ¡°But I don''t need to own a business to hear their secrets." He lunges towards Finnerty, kneeling down. Rather than tilt his face to meet her eyes, his head rotates, flipping on the neck by 180 degrees. ¡°It¡¯s just a matter of pressure.¡± He grasps her chin, forcing her to look. ¡°And the weight you give your threats." Something inside her twists. ¡°Shadow-Walker." ¡°Three fish, bagged with one net.¡± He tuts, shadows still spooling from his shirt. ¡°I expect better, Raven. Your standards are getting soft.¡± ¡°St¡­¡± She curses, quietly. Hating how weak she sounds. ¡°We¡­ we can talk about this.¡± ¡°No.¡± His voice hardens. ¡°You¡¯re helping a striga. C¡¯est simple.¡± Aisha shouts from behind. ¡°NO!" ¡°There¡¯s not much more to say.¡± ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++