Hatred Day

by T S Pettibone

  “Thirteen.”

  “No response,” the voice announced. “Redirecting call to Moscow residence, Russia.”

  There was a click. Snofrid’s eyes flew open in astonishment.

  “You reach Mr. Bancroft’s private house,” a woman said very slowly in a Russian accent. “This is Irina, Mr. Bancroft’s maid speaking. How I help you?”

  “My name is Snofrid Yagami,” she burst out. “I’m a friend of Mr. Bancroft’s. Can you please transfer me to him?”

  “I express regret,” Irina replied, her tone dreary. “Mr. Bancroft not here since March. I not talk to him since then.”

  “Do you have a number I can reach him on?”

  “I express more regret. Mr. Bancroft only call me. I not call him.”

  Snofrid racked her mind. “I’ve been quarantined in Hollowstone City and I need his help. If there’s any way you can get a message to him for me, it would be incredibly helpful.”

  “Ah, I see this on news.” The sound of clicking heels signaled that she was walking. “But surely this is not why you call?”

  “No,” Snofrid assured, not wanting to give the wrong impression. The human she was pretending to be had no reason to fear the quarantine. “It’s a personal matter.”

  “I still express regret,” Irina told her. “I not able to contact Mr. Bancroft.”

  “Do you know anyone who can?”

  “I only one of the staff in this house,” Irina explained. “We just clean and leave. But I have second call coming. I take my leave now. Udachi, Miss Yagami.”

  Snofrid shot from her chair, batting away the desolation that swooped in around her. Before she could ask to be transferred to the next residence the line went dead. Her heart sank.

  “There is camouflage armor in the back,” Coyote said, gesturing to a row of lockers through the shelves. “Go put one on.”

  “I still have three minutes,” she pointed out. “Please let me make one more call.”

  Coyote snapped the laptop shut. “Commander Gravebane specified that you only make two. You made the two, now go suit up.”

  Snofrid measured the severity in his tone. He wasn’t going to budge. But securing Atlas’s help was essential, even though Lycidius, Desya and Jazara were hidden in the Alley. When the Sky-Legion flew in, they still had to travel to the Hollowstone Underground in order to board a gunship; by air would be the soundest way to flee the city unharmed. Except, knowing Lucian, he’d have Swangunners posted around the city, searching for them. This was too much of a risk. Lucian’s vendetta against her needed to be put to rest.

  A beeping sound reeled her gaze to the door. It swung open and Rhode skidded inside, his face bright red; rainbow-colored vomit stained the collar of his catsuit.

  Hadrian slammed his fist on the table. “There better be a good reason you’re here, Vortigern. If not, think about what happened to Pollux when he disobeyed me and then beg for mercy before I do the same to you.”

  “I didn’t disobey,” Rhode panted, skittering back. “I have intel.”

  “Intel you should’ve delivered through the bug dials. Spit it out.”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy stood up pencil-straight and scanned the interested faces of the other soldiers with smug satisfaction. “There’s going to be a major hit against the humans,” he announced. “Inborn militia from the Alley-out-of-the-Way are planning to detonate RP’s under the city square.”

  Hadrian traded an irritated look with Coyote. “What is the blast radius?”

  “One mile.”

  “Kuzmic. Narwood.” Hadrian beckoned two Dracuslayers. “Deal with it. Do whatever is necessary to make sure those RP’s don’t go off.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Snofrid couldn’t fathom why Hadrian was acting so composed. RP’s were radial plasma bombs—explosives so hot, they melted the buildings that they leveled. She now understood why there had been a council at the Alley. Yet, with the Sky-Legion arriving in just a few days, this retaliation could cause more harm than good. Digging her hand into her pocket, she hastily typed a coded message to Desya. The Alley was outside the blast radius, but just barely. The debris would decorate the Red Oxygen Bar.

  Doubling back, she hastened towards Hadrian. Her entire body pulsed with urgency, but encouragement came at the thought that Lycidius and Desya couldn’t be in on this plan. They knew as well as she did that Reznik would call in even more reinforcements in the event of a strike back. “Commander…”

  “You won’t go with them,” he decided, before she could finish. “The Alley is outside the blast radius. Send your family a message if you need reassurance, but you’re coming to the hunt site. That’s nonnegotiable.”

  Hadrian moved through a lane of gun racks and stomped on the floor. The grates slid open, revealing a hidden elevator. “Everyone except Vortigern follow me,” he ordered.

  Rhode kicked a shell casing at the wall. “What am I supposed to do here?”

  Hadrian gestured to a box of rags under the table. “Your punishment. Polish the guns on these racks until I can see my teeth in the carbon fiber. Then sleep on the floor. I don’t want to deal with you again until morning.”

  The Alchemy Sphere

  Snofrid could barely match the pace of the Dracuslayer unit. Purpose fueled their steps through the forest and reluctance weakened hers. Outfitted in a Concealing Spell, she was guided by the occasional push and pull of Coyote’s hand. The journey from the warehouse to the hunt site required a perilous trek through high snowdrifts, thickets, and yawning ravines; only a short stretch was paved by a path.

  All her combined efforts couldn’t soothe her apprehension. Talk of detonating RP’s cluttered the bounds of her focus, steadily creeping inward, until the bombs were all she could think about. Twice, she told herself she was stressing for no reason. Hadrian had sent Dracuslayers to deal with the plotters, and they pulled rank on Inborn militia. Within the hour, the plotters would be subdued and the idea would be forgotten.

  Bone-cold, she trudged up a ravine slope with sluggish steps. At the top, a feathery sensation cut across her skull, as if someone was lightly squeezing her temples. She winced and rubbed her head until a chuckling voice rippled through it with the force of a current and pooled at the root of her mind.

  “You know, the Coyote bet ten gems that you’ll wet your dress during the hunt,” it taunted.

  She halted midstride. “Rhode?”

  “Address me as Dracuslayer Vortigern.”

  Feeling violated, she spared no regard for his rank. “How did you get in my mind?”

  “Cause I’m the god of bug dials. There’s no way you can kick me out, girl. The wall around your mind is as thin as tissue paper. It was child’s play.”

  She suddenly saw the boy. Or rather, she saw his dirty feet. He was sitting on the vault floor, dissembled guns piled about his legs, with his phone in hand, playing the same violent video game. Somehow, she was able to see through his eyes even as he could see through hers. The vision wafted before her, almost a ghost image, more annoying than impairing to her sight.

  “The Coyote might act tough here, but back in the Empyrean City, he’s whipped,” Rhode went on. “His courtesan pedals him like a bike. Everyone knows it except him. It’s hilarious.”

  Snofrid felt Coyote’s hand yank her back on track. Roots caught her feet, making her stagger, but she braced herself on the branch of a pine tree. “So, what? You’re just going to dish out dirt on your friends to annoy me?”

  “I’m going to give you some particulars to let you know who you’re dealing with.”

  “Why?”

  He reached to one side, and when he brought his hand back; it was fit to burst with gummy worms. “So you’ll hate them all.”

  Snofrid gritted her teeth. “Get out of my head.”

  “I think I’ll stay.”

  “Get out or I’ll rat you out,” she warned.

  “Empty threat. I’ll just pull out and you’ll have no proof.”

  Sh
e continued up the ravine, undaunted. “I have a strong feeling that my word will be worth more than yours.”

  “Go on, then,” Rhode urged. “Go tell Commander Gravebane that I’m bothering you. I’m sure he’ll force me out, give you his fur, and then and ask how else he can accommodate you.”

  Snofrid hesitated. “I’m sure he’d love to know how you’re shirking.”

  “Not likely. As long as I get these guns clean, he doesn’t care what I do.” Rhode cracked his toes, one by one, and continued, “The Coyote said some interesting things about you…want to know what they were?”

  “You’re going to tell me either way, so why not?”

  “The Coyote said: she probably keeps her face hidden because she’s an ugly moose.”

  Snofrid grabbed onto a boulder to steady her climb. “Maybe I am.”

  “Could be. But I think there’s more to the mask than the Commander wants us to know.” Rhode shoved a gummy worm down the chamber of a gun. “I think you’re hiding something. And I think I’ll find out what it is and ruin you with it.”

  “You know, after three days, we’ll never see each other again. Why waste the effort?”

  “It wouldn’t be a wasted effort,” he assured, a low chuckle in his throat. “It would be fun to watch you cry.”

  Snofrid fumed. She tried to expel Rhode’s presence. Muscles straining, she imagined that his voice was leaking away, spiraling down a drain, but it just hovered there. Trying to get him out felt like trying to move a wall.

  “That was feeble,” His tone was full of pity. “Your mind is too weak to defeat mine. I told you. I’m the god of bug dials.”

  “I’m a fast learner,” she assured.

  “Mastering bug dials is a five-year study, so good luck with that.”

  Ahead, the Dracuslayers shed their concealing spells in the tree line before a spacious glade; the area, once filled with forest, now filled with the trunks of men sporting white ballistic camouflage armor and armed with cables, wood axes, shovels, Grenade Spells and anti-materiel rifles—rifles so powerful they could demolish a tank.

  Hadrian broke formation as the Dracuslayers filed into the clearing. “Where is the bait?” he demanded.

  “I’m here,” Snofrid called, holding up her hand.

  “You’re still concealed,” he informed. “Shed the spell.”

  Snofrid stared at him blankly. Usually, she waited until her Concealing Spells wore off; if she’d known they could be shed, it might have saved her a lot of trouble in the past. “I don’t know how,” she admitted.

  A few of the Dracuslayers broke into tittering laughter.

  “I’ll show her how,” one of them offered.

  “No.” Hadrian strode toward her. He grabbed a fistful of her jacket and hoisted her upward; the spell slipped off, like a skin. “Next time, will it off,” he said.

  She landed on her feet with a gasp. “Next time, just tell me and I’ll do it myself.”

  “Hessia.” He flicked a claw, summoning the Seer. “Show the bait the Alchemy Sphere, then bring her back here.”

  “It will be done, master.” Hessia glided toward Snofrid, her fur hood slipping off her scalp. The only color to offset her pale getup was cast by her violet eyes, which glowed through the eye-slits in her smiling mask. “This is the last time we’ll meet before the hunt,” she told Snofrid, her tone strangely polite. “So listen carefully. Any errors you make will be your responsibility alone. Understood?”

  Snofrid clutched her pistol grip. “I understand.”

  They trekked down an icy trail, back the way they’d come. “The pitiful help from the Russian maid wasn’t surprising,” Hessia remarked. “Russians are the disease of humanity.”

  Snofrid disagreed. The gang Lycidius and Desya had worked for, Kapa, had been the most honorable in Gehenna. “I’m guessing the Inborn Army keeps Russian contacts.”

  “Unfortunately,” Hessia confirmed, skidding on a pile of rocks. Her eyes paused a moment on Snofrid’s Halo, as if trying to unlock its secrets. “The St. Petersburg Trojan Mortal base is among the largest in the world. Their agents do business with us, on the grounds that we meet certain provisions; but, despite contrary claims, size doesn’t necessarily improve the efficiency of a thing.” She fingered the iron collar around her neck; it probably chafed at her skin. “Constancy is what makes all things bear fruit. And sacrifice.”

  Snofrid noticed flowers of flaky, purple skin peeking from the lip of her mask. “You’re referring to how you sacrificed your body?” she assumed.

  “I sacrificed my body for the strength to raise Leaky Spells. So considering what I gained, it wasn’t much of a sacrifice.”

  Rhode barked a laugh in Snofrid’s mind, a high-pitched tittering sound. “That’s dragonshit, if I’ve ever smelled it. Hessia never wanted power—she wanted approval. The whole reason she started messing with the Leaky Spells in the first place was because she thought that mastering them would make her stand on equal ground with us warriors.” He sniggered, shooting through an army of fluffy white rabbits on his video game. “No one will marry her now, especially because of her gross, mutilated face.”

  Snofrid hardly heard him, for she’d had a sudden thought. If Hessia’s capabilities were truly so prodigious, it was incredible that she’d been overcome by Hadrian. “How did the Commander break you if you’re so powerful?” she tested.

  “By a cleverly laid trap,” Hessia replied simply, her eyes again darting greedily over Snofrid’s Halo. “Many others tried to subdue me before he did, but I always destroyed them before their collars touched my neck. Instead of using force like all the others, Commander Gravebane used seduction. He promised me a position, a title, and respect.” She sneered. “Obviously, he was a lying crust of filth. But at the time, I believed otherwise.”

  Snofrid felt no pity for her. But she did admit that they shared a common trait: resentment towards chains. “Is there a way to get the collar off?”

  “Of course. I can’t remove the collar, but another person could. She would just have to be merciful.”

  A sudden alarming sensation pulsed around Snofrid. She felt like she was looking at Lucian’s eyelash pit viper, with its gleaming eyes and shiny scales. Before it had bit her, it had slithered all over her body, garnering her trust. Then the moment she’d reached out to stroke it, it had sprung at her. “I’m sure you’ll find someone who believes your story someday,” Snofrid told Hessia. “But I don’t.”

  The Seer’s voice deteriorated into a guttural rasp. “Only good liars can recognize other good liars.”

  “Maybe. But some people lie because they’re forced to, not just for sport.”

  Snofrid held Hessia’s black stare calmly. She knew Hessia hated her because she was a halfbreed. But perhaps Hessia also hated her out of envy over her healing ability? The idea seemed sound. Hessia craved power above all things, even beauty. The ability to regenerate would give her superior power without having to watch her body fall into ruin. This idea would also explain why the Seer harbored a personal, almost bitter vendetta against her.

  Hessia broke eye-contact. “This way.”

  Snofrid, leaving her suspicions for the moment, slipped between two redwood trees after the Seer. Flipping back a drape of moss, Hessia stooped over roots matted with fungi and ferns. She dug through the snow and exposed a neat line of orange rock crystals packed into the soggy dirt.

  “This is an Alchemy Sphere,” she began, her voice now like a tiny, fluttering moth. All the anger she’d shown before was gone, as if it had evaporated from her. “Do you know what the spell does?”

  “No,” Snofrid inspected the line closely, still touching her pistol. “I haven’t studied magic.”

  “Then I’ll give you a short lesson.” Hessia stroked her black nail over the crystals. “An Alchemy Sphere is a vastly intricate spell only capable of being raised by Phasma Necromancers. This one runs along the perimeter of the site in a circle. It will imprison any living creature that crosse
s into it, apart from the spell-raiser and whomever she chooses to exclude from it—which is all of us. We’ll use the sphere to confine the welx.” She scraped the snow back across the orange streak. “This is the first line of attack.”

  “How long is the sphere’s diameter?” Snofrid asked.

  “Two-thousand feet.” Hessia stood, sweeping her cape off her boots. “Let’s go. There’s still much to see.”

  Snofrid got to her feet just as Rhode’s voice flitted across her mind again. “Ever seen a Seer’s face?” he asked.

  Disregarding him, she followed Hessia back to the glade.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” Rhode deduced. “Just imagine a head that got shoved into a bowl of acid. Then smash in the nose, rip out the teeth, and add gross, puss-filled blisters on the skin.”

  “How long are you going to drag this out?” Snofrid demanded.

  “As long as it takes to break you.”

  Once she returned to the Alley, she’d ask Lycidius to help her boot Rhode out. For now, she decided to take advantage of his desire to spill information. “Keep at it, then,” she invited. “I can be patient when I want to be.”

  Chuckling, he stretched out a gummy worm until it snapped. “All patience has a breaking point.”

  At the tree line, Snofrid crossed a beam bridge onto a triangular island, which stood in the center of a triangular trench. The trench was roughly six meters deep and had been dug along the edge of the glade. Hessia left her to canvass the layout. Before taking her leave, she said, “Report to my master when you’ve memorized what you see.”

  Snofrid released her pistol as the Seer drifted away. She glanced at Hadrian, who was issuing orders at the trench, and wondered if perhaps Hessia wasn’t as great a danger as she’d thought. Snofrid still didn’t trust Hadrian, but, over the past few hours, she’d felt more inclined to put faith in his protection. This was mainly due to Hadrian’s affection for Lycidius. Since Lycidius was her Shadow, he’d take the blame if she was seriously injured or killed by Hessia. Snofrid doubted Hadrian would permit this. From the lengths she’d seen him go for Lycidius thus far, it wouldn’t make sense if he let his brother lose face over the vendetta of his Seer.