by M.C. O'Neill
Mother’s Little Monster
There was little time before the curfew would commence when On’dinn dragged Quen’die onto the Corosa City Loop Liner, which served as the city’s main tram system. Already, sorties of flitcycles were barking their reminders of the martial order over their PA’s from high above the downtown streets. With each buzzing announcement, Quen’die let out a small reactive shriek as she was certain it was a bull revealing her location from overhead.
The tram was suspended from an overhanging track dotted with manaballs which circuited the neighborhoods and On’dinn’s secret “safehouse” was only a couple of stops from Nanna’s. As far as Quen’die was concerned, it may as well have been on the moon. She felt so sick knowing that she would be taking an unknown respite from society, while On’dinn somehow seemed be having a vicarious thrill.
“Okay, it’s just one more stop!” He poked his head out the window of the speeding carriage as the downtown lights whipped past in a swirl of color and night.
“You sound a little too chuffed about this, On’dinn.” Quen’die was sitting low in her booth just in the horrible event that one of the cyclejocks flew next to her window and identified her.
“What? On no, that’s not it, I just...,” the lad frowned. “Look, you should seriously stop slouching and act normal or someone might get suspicious.”
“On’dinn, I’m not exactly inconspicuous,” she informed him as she adjusted her sedge hat over her eyes. “My hair is unnaturally red and that’s a dead giveaway around here. If we lived in a Thuless’in province, I think we could get away with it more easily.”
“Yeah,” he groaned. “We probably should have dyed it before setting out.”
The maiden’s eyes bulged with fright and anger at the notion. “No way! My hair goes all the way down my back! It would take hours to do that! And I’m not cutting it off like you did! Maidens never cut their hair that short; even five hundred years ago!”
The lad slunk back at that. “Er, Sorry. I was just saying…”
Minutes later, the tram’s PA announced their stop with its musical crackle, “Next stop, Sixth and Bonn’fyr. Next stop, Sixth and Bonn’fyr. Please remember to check your personal belongings and watch your step when alighting. Have a pleasant evening. Thank you.”
The elf took her hand and her emergency baggage. Quen’die thought he looked like a malnourished pack mule and that made her laugh inside for a second. “Oh, On’dinn, such the kind lord.”
“I aim to please,” he said in his typical wry manner. “Just act naturally. We need to keep cool about this. We’re so close that we’re pretty much home-free already.”
Perhaps it was safe, but it was not much of a house. The dismal area that On’dinn had been assigned to back when he was “infiltrating” the Black Hood was a disused service station for an old manaspring. How long it had been defunct was anyone’s guess, and Quen’die wondered if even Nanna was alive when it was last in operation. It was secured with a rusty lock and On’dinn had the key.
“Here we are! Your new home!” the lad boomed, imitating a posh estate warden.
“Droll,” Quen’die moaned as she looked around her new confines. It was better than a cramped dungeon cell, it was decided, but not by much. The area was somewhat large and could accommodate the four designated Black Hoods with ease had the need arose. There was even a small manahearth and refrigerator in a tiny office adjoined to the gutted station. Of course, nothing worked, including the overhead lights as the space was no longer in the powerflow.
“Um, On’dinn,” she skewed her brows in consternation much like her mother often would. “How exactly am I going to see in this place? I don’t possess low-light vision, you know.”
“Travius said there are some lanterns in the lockers in the office,” the lad pointed to another adjacent room. “Those are powered by dumb mana, so they don’t need to be in the flow. Look, I know this sucks, but I’ll be back every day to check on you and this won’t be for long. I know you didn’t do any of this, and by the time the bulls find the true culprit, they’ll let you off the hook.”
The ominous gloom of the safehouse was so heavy and it became all the more terrible as her eyes adjusted to its dimensions. This was just not what she was ready for when she awoke earlier that day. Unlike her male partner, she wasn’t a trained activist or terrorist or anything of the sort. “On’dinn, I don’t like this. I can’t do this. No way.”
“Dee, it is what it is and you are just going to have to deal with it for a little bit,” he plopped their bags down on a ratted chair. “I’ve had to hide out before after protests and all kinds of happenings with Travius. I assure you, it’s never for long.”
“Things were different back then!” she protested. “We’re under martial law now and there are these things flying around from another dimen, er, planet! I’m sure Lith set me up; I know it! But if I just turn myself in, the bulls will put me under biomana and I’ll be in the clear! I want to do that instead.”
“Quen’die,” On’dinn put his arm around her shoulders. “If Lith is behind all of this, and you may be right about that, I don’t think a mere biomana scanner is going to clean your ticket. The best way to your freedom is to sit this out until an actual investigation confirms you aren’t involved. Bulls may be bulls, but they are also good at what they do, I am somewhat reluctant to admit.”
“Gods! Why can’t this be easy! Why can’t I just go back to work tomorrow!” her echo wailed through the dull air of the abandonment around them.
“Shh!” On’dinn crouched as if a bolt of red mana was a hair’s-width away from blowing his head off. “Not so loud! We’re right next to population! You’re totally going to need to keep your noise level down to a minimum while you’re here.”
Quen’die groaned with a dejected slunk of her shoulders. The lad was right, she figured. If she turned herself in, Venn’lith would supervise the whole scan, to be sure, and cook the reports to frame her. Bombing the docks to sabotage the exodus effort had to be a capital offense; of this the maiden was certain.
On’dinn was rummaging through her satchel and feeling around in its bulk. “There they are!” he announced.
“Hey! What are you doing in my stuff?” Quen’die shrieked, ignoring the lad’s advice about keeping quiet. “Don’t you know you should never go through a lady’s satchel?”
“I know this!” the lad rang, disobeying his own advice as well. “But I need your phone and your tablet. I told you they were tracking devices. I’m going to have to take them so you don’t get tempted to use them. More than likely, you would just get a government announcement informing you that you’ve been busted.”
The young elf was right. Quen’die wanted more than anything to get on the horn and begin calling everyone the very moment he left her alone in that dark place. The feeling was almost like a hardwired response coursing through her nervous system. It was as if she were compelled without any mind to summon up Mavriel or her father to tell them all about what had happened. She wished beyond all wishes that she could even call her mother, but that lady was one of the “bad guys.” A sick feeling in the maiden’s gut told her that Mother might somehow be enjoying this just because that awful report would aid in confirming Venn’lith’s lies about her character. To Mother, Quen’die Reyliss was a bully, a professional, and a terrorist to boot.
Mavriel. He would know what to do, and there was no way that he could not have known about this terrible accusation by then. It was all over the newsscrolls and screens across the kingdom, perhaps even the world. There would be little wait before the deva would come swooping down on silver wings to her rescue and with all hope, salvation.
“On’dinn!” Quen’die all but knocked the lad over in desperation. “Find my friend Mavriel! You remember him from the party at Sig’ryn’s, right? You have to tell him where to find me!”
“Oh, yeah, he was pretty capital,” On’dinn changed his tone in an instant. “No! We can’t let anyone know about where yo
u are until this blows over! This safehouse has to remain totally secret. As far as we’re concerned, only you and I know about this place.”
“But it isn’t like that!” the maiden threw up her arms. “He’s helping me out and…,” she bit her bottom lip as she lied. “And he’s my novion!”
To that, On’dinn halted. “You and Mavriel? When did that happen?”
“Eh, a little while ago,” she blurted. She didn’t feel like going into idle school gossip regarding novions and noviennes. “He got me that job. Kind of.”
On’dinn’s eyes lit up with the paranoia of a thousand directions. “In that case, he could be in on all of this! Who knows what that guy is all about! No way! As far as I’m concerned, that lad is nothing but one of my prime suspects into all of this! He may even be working for Lith and you are not the wiser!”
Such a suggestion made the elfmaid even more ill. On’dinn was definite to be wrong about that, but there was no way that Quen’die figured she could destroy his conviction. She regretted with heart her adding the part about him getting her the docks job. “I don’t believe that, but you’re going to do what you’re going to do.”
“What I’m going to do,” the lad straightened himself up, “is I’m going to get on out of here before I get nabbed for curfew or you successfully change my mind about this plan. I’m being serious here. This is going to work out and what we’re doing is the right thing. I’ve been trained in the art of hiding out and this is the best bet you have. When I had to hide out after Travius tried to kill the king, I wasn’t lucky enough to make it here because some freak knocked me out and left me in a barn miles away, but still, I made it through. And let me tell you, that place stunk!”
Looking at the dank and barren station house, Quen’die felt herself relenting to the new digs. It was time to commence the operation and not be a little elfling about it. Listening closely, her large and sensitive ears picked up the ping of a squeak. Yes, she lamented, there were rats or at least mice in there. Sleep was certain not to happen that night and all she would be able to do is eat, wait, and worry. What a horrible development.
“Okay, On’dinn, do what you must, but come back tomorrow!” she said with pleading eyes that shone blue in the gloom. “I’m going to go crazy in here all by myself!”
“Don’t worry; I’ll be here right after I get off work. I’ll even have some goodies from the S and S.” He picked up her bag and satchel and plopped them down on the surface of a dusty old workbench. “I know this place isn’t the honeymoon suite of the Hyl’tenn, but you’ll be safe here. Why do you think they call it a safehouse anyway?”
At that, the maiden shook her crimson head. “Jak’sin, you’re a better roustabout than a comedian. Don’t quit your day job.”
“Touché,” he smiled as he crouched down like a special agent in a spy movie and shimmied out the side door without a sound into the night. Quen’die felt so alone in so many ways.
Every noise in that substation echoed like it was flowed through an amplifier. Outside, the crickets were singing in overtime and the number of squeaking sounds in the facility was ever increasing as the moon rose. Not relishing the idea of one of the little rodents crawling all over her, Quen’die situated herself on top of a workbench and began digging through her satchel. Again, by reflex and habit alone, the maiden felt the bare space in the bag’s depths and despaired to find no phone or tablet. It was like a double amputation as far as she was concerned.
As most teen maidens went, Quen’die was not as dependent upon the company of others as were some of her contemporaries. It was true, she was no pariah amongst her peers, but unlike many of them, she was able to entertain herself for longer periods of time. Looking around the dim confines of her “safehouse” with lower-lit eyes, she could see that there was not much available to do other than hunt for rats. Tomorrow, she decided, she would ask On’dinn to send her a deck of playing cards or something like that.
By the moment the sounds of the scurrying rodents became a standard and the lack of things to occupy her stay became apparent, idle thoughts flooded like a harsh torrent into the maiden’s mind. That was the worst; when there was nothing to do and everything to think about. Without a tablet or even paper and ink, these thoughts couldn’t be constructive, as in the form of a pro/con list. Without such aids, the imagination could wander and turn to worry, and soon that worry would become panic.
First, she considered that nothing could be accomplished wasting away in an abandoned hovel. If she was supposed to be “chosen” by Ui Himself, as Mavriel had claimed, burrowing in the dark like her murine neighbors was not going to stop anything, much less a demonic myriad. If she were indeed called upon by higher forces to act against this invasion, her time there would be short, of this she was sure. Whoever gooped-up the docks did benefit her plan in delaying the infernal process, but it was unfortunate that she was taking the blame. Either way, time and effort were not being utilized very well, despite On’dinn’s best intentions.
Another problem was the question of why she was accused of the incident and who could have snitched on her. After all, she knew she was innocent of the matter but, so it seemed, Quay’liss Dalian and the civil wardens didn’t share such an opinion. Because she was taking the blame, she considered that a factor into her grander role in all of this, and perhaps it would lead to a real call to action. Quen’die thought about that for a while. That was precisely what she needed more than anything: “a call to action.” Without an action, she couldn’t perform her chosen duties, whatever they were. It was almost as if she were being drawn out the door just so she could get everything set off. Looking at that grim portal of the substation for what seemed like hours, she knew that she would exit through it and soon.
As for Mavriel, what could he do? Yes, it was apparent he was a special messenger and, yes, he was not one of those infernals, but what more could he do? What special powers did he hold in these matters? Sure, he could fly unaided and he lived in another dimension, but other than that, what made him any more special than her? Could he read her mind, know her exact location and swoop down to her rescue before sunup? Could it be possible he knew that she was stowed away in this dark place as time wasted away? He was an angel, a deva. He wasn’t like Superelf or some other mind-reading hero from one of her little brother’s stupid cartoons. Was he, she wondered?
With that, her thoughts turned to Kaedish and her family. What was that kid doing? She cringed at the possibility that he was cohabitating with the foul Venn’lith. That maiden would have done nothing but abuse and torture him, she was sure. It was such a sad probability that Mother was apt to keep mum about the fiend’s idle wiles and allow the little lad to take it with nary a peep from her. The more and more Quen’die thought about it, she not only hated what Mother was doing, but she was beginning to just hate her. Not as much as she detested Venn’lith, but the resentments were riding at an all-time high.
The gods only knew what was happening to Nanna and Father at that moment. There was no doubt in Quen’die’s mind that bulls were trampling through Nanna’s lovely little flat right as she chewed on the worry. “Where is she!” “We know she lives here!” “We’re checking all the cabinets!” “Don’t move an inch, old lady or we’ll blast you!” As the echo of the last order reverberated through the empty room, Quen’die realized that she was imitating their angry municipal growls out loud. With that, the maiden clenched her teeth until her face turned as red as her hair.
Father was going through his own trials over her most-wanted status, she figured. As if he had not been through enough already by losing everything over the course of one day just last month. Like this travesty, Quen’die took that blame as well. Nothing was going to get done by reflecting on these notions and, much to her surprise, she wasn’t on the verge of wallowing in tears, but at the tipping point of rage. Chosen or not, she would have Venn’lith Mitlan’s head. Considering that the maiden was the Prime Warden of the Atlantean Youth Parliament, it w
as almost certain she was the culprit behind this new fiasco. Quen’die hoped for the sun elf’s sake that she was well guarded, because if she ever saw her, it would take millions to hold her claws back from the Xochian’s neck.
Quen’die closed her eyes so tight that it hurt her forehead. Stuffing this rage was the only way to remain in control. She had to keep herself together or she would fail this mission, whatever it was becoming. Any psychwarden throughout the kingdom worth their weight in gold brens would advise her to not stifle such intense emotions, but the maiden knew it was not the time to lose her head with a tantrum of any flavor.
Seeing that she had no way to tell the time, Quen’die could only assume what hour of the night it was. All the windows of the substation were boarded over and those were small slats to begin with. Whoever used to work here must have gone crazy with claustrophobia, unless they were the type who liked it this way. The only outside light was through some of the exposed slivers where the city had made sloppy work of the covering.
Outside, the civil wardens were busy as the maiden could hear by the usual wail of the sirens. A couple of times, the red and blue lights of a flitcycle’s gumballs burst in sprays through the cracked slats. Quen’die wondered if they belonged to Lauryl’la’s father. For a moment, the maiden wished she were her best friend instead, except she didn’t work as a shrieking baby bull.
Hours had to have elapsed since On’dinn had tucked her away, but it may have only been one. Without any real sense of her true environment, it was only a dull guess as to how long she had been stewing there when, by some strange phenomenon, the noises of all the animal nightlife suddenly stopped. Even the crickets. For a moment, Quen’die thought back to that odd night on the bluff when the same thing had happened. That evening seemed forever ago.
It was amazing as there was no sound. Even the low hiss of raw oxygen that anyone on Earth would take for granted seemed to cease right before the moment the side door to the substation tore open. Quen’die’s scream met the clamor of the burst.
An infernal flew through the upper story of the shack while still holding the door in both of his hands. By the gods, he was strong, as that door was bolted, cured oak. Filing in behind the demonic breach with the speed of a limmer entered a coterie of white armors of the civil wardens - special missions division. Only until seconds after the intrusion did the red and blue lights of their vehicles awake from somewhere outside.
Quen’die knew that she was busted. Despite the wash of cold terror from the shock of the burst and the knowledge that these bulls could very well shoot then begin with interrogations, sweat dripped down her sides as if she were trekking through a jungle in Kumari. This was an endgame, and events were revolting outside her control. Perhaps, she wondered, if this was the signature of her failure, as even Mavriel couldn’t get her out of this one.
“Get down! Get down on your belly now!” one of the faceless wardens crackled through the static of his visor. Just like most of the wardens as of late, these were bedecked in reinforced armors that made them look almost as bulky as golems.
Just to pack in the dire warning, another bull, a female, buzzed, “Move a muscle and we open fire! Get down!”
Obeying the orders by pure reflex, Quen’die looked around as the armors approached her with care; casters drawn. Above her, the infernal was still fluttering under the low ceiling with that door in his hands like an idiot.
“Be careful, she may have an explosive on her,” the female warned her partner.
To that, the male ordered with a filtered hiss, “Palms up, maiden! Palms up! Keep your head down!”
Quen’die did as the bull barked but not before observing the rest of his entourage. Amongst her throng of arresting wardens, two familiar faces arrived. The first was Lauryl’la Hay’cenn who was donning the usual red gear of the Atlantean Youth Parliament. Following her was a young lady in a dark summer gown with shocking blond hair. By the time Quen’die put her sharp nose to the ground, she realized that it was Minnie from the docks.
What on Earth was she doing here, the elfmaid vexed? Was she some sort of plant or undercover agent? The moment Quen’die had recognized her, the foul situation became all the more confusing.
“That’s her, guys,” Minn’dre pointed to the prone elfmaid. “Quen’die Reyliss. She set off the bomb!”
“You sure that’s her?” one of the other armors asked.
The blond was still pointing to her form. “It sure is. I’d know that red hair anywhere. Besides, she’s exactly where my friend On’dinn said she would be.”
On’dinn ratted me out, Quen’die almost uttered aloud as she chewed on the connections that this Minnie had claimed to have known him. It all was beginning to make sense, she surmised as she nearly bit her tongue. “Minnie” must have been one of the Black Hoods and this must have once been her assigned safehouse with On’dinn. Quen’die made a resolve to add the lad to her hit list whenever she got out of the dungeons where she was assured to get thrown into that night.
Before she could even assess what was happening, strong claws grabbed the back of her neck and both her ankles as another demon lifted her prone body with ease. “Ow! Stop it! No!”
“Shut your mouth, terrorist!” the demon oozed with a deep command. “You’ve nearly destroyed our plans for your people, you ungrateful cur!”
His voice was chilling and unearthly. Just the growling intonation of it made Quen’die’s stomach lurch from an alien, tonal illness. If Mavriel’s voice was golden music, this thing’s noise was profound disease. At its mere utterance, the elfmaid could feel her head swell with a slight fever.
“Rabix! Remember your strength!” a fellow warden ordered. “We need this one alive.”
As the shackles were secured on her body, Lauryl’la sauntered up to her old friend. Up and down she looked at the scuffed and dirty redhead with self-assured and gloating pleasure. “Quen’die Reyliss, I knew you were a loser, but this really is too much. I’ll see you at the station.”
One of the arresting armors fastened an ivory mouth guard over Quen’die’s jaws as the demon Rabix held her slender neck upright. It tasted acrid, as if many arrestees had been subjected to it before and the city had never bothered to wash it. Before she was pushed headfirst into the back of the warden’s coach, Quen’die peered up into the black sky searching for the silver glow of Mavriel’s form in mid-flight. To her dismay, she could find nothing but stars.
III.
QUEN’DIE’S SONG
