Hatred Day

by T S Pettibone

  “I might.” He shoved a dragon fruit into his mouth, grinning widely. “I might not.” Rhode angled his head lazily at Nethers. “What do you say, Nethers? Do you think you’re feeling a little dry in admiration from the girl?”

  Nethers said nothing.

  “Silence is consent.” Rhode set his hands on his hips with an air of authority. “It looks to be unanimous. We want you to take off the mask and entertain us.”

  “What did I tell you about standing on the table, Vortigern?” Coyote called, striding back into the room. “Nethers. Give him a charley horse.”

  Nethers wrenched his scarf down and spewed rays of burning blue magic from his mouth; they speared through Rhode’s calf. Knees buckling, he burst into shrieks and landed on his backside with a thump. Snarling, he clutched his leg to relieve the cramp. “Take it off!”

  Nethers shut his mouth, cutting off the flow of magic.

  “You’ll regret this, Bourkan,” Rhode wheezed.

  Coyote was unmoved. “Not as much as you’re going to regret whining. The Commander chose you as the fall guy for the skunk.”

  “Dragonshit!” Rhode aimed a foot at Snofrid. “It was the girl who did it!”

  “No witness, no proof.” Coyote jerked his thumb at the wash room. “Now go put on your apron and start scrubbing.”

  Gritting his teeth, Rhode slammed a foot on the table. “I’ve been working ALL DAY.”

  “What did the Commander say?” Snofrid interrupted. At Coyote’s sudden mistrustful stare, she tensed up, wondering if Rhode had tricked her with the pitch.

  “He said yes,” Coyote finally answered.

  Snofrid looked at the spiral staircase with hope. Murmurs of suspicion fluttered around her, but she ignored them. “I can go up right now?”

  “Yes.” Coyote sat down and scooped up his gems. “The Commander’s study is the third door on the left.”

  Bull’s-Eyes

  The long corridor above the spiral staircase was lightless. Snofrid moved carefully, groping the walls to guide her steps. In the darkness, her senses were more acute and picked up scents of purple heather and blue anemone. The blend reminded her of a wild forest; she wondered if Hadrian kept an herb stash.

  Rhode’s phone was stored safely in her pocket; it still emitted the pitch in what was silence to her ears. A hunch that the boy might be deceiving her hung in her mind. All his spiteful games seemed rooted in the childish pleasure he got from causing trouble. One glance at Hadrian would likely confirm the boy’s true motives.

  The third door on the left led to a spiral staircase. She made the ascent and found another door on the top landing, crafted from mahogany wood and silver filigree. She mentally went through her plan. There was no room for mistakes. This time, if it was possible, she had to be slyer than Hadrian.

  Before entering, she removed her gasmask and pulled back her wet hair.

  “Stop grooming yourself,” Hadrian called. “Come in and shut the door after you.”

  She dropped her hands, briefly embarrassed. After closing the door, she padded into a room that idolized two things: order and plant life. Certain details reminded her of Lycidius’s style, predominantly the bed. All the pillows and furs had been stripped off, leaving a barren mattress; but the medley of ferns, fringed pink flowers and sneezewort was as vibrant as a greenhouse. All the plants were native to Norway. Around her, the wall stonework was seized by the lichen-caked roots of the black tree growing above them, so that the room looked overrun and abandoned.

  Hadrian was nowhere.

  “Where are you?” she said.

  “On the other side of the arch.”

  Snofrid followed the sound of crackling flames. Soon, she found herself in an alcove where two armchairs basked in the light of a stone fireplace.

  Hadrian sat before a high wooden desk, flipping through a Demented Book called Ridley’s Secret. Though his face was in shadow, she swore it held traces of enjoyment. The red single-shoulder pauldron he wore bared his right arm, which was flexing proudly over a finely patterned breastplate with the insignia of a black upside-down tree. On the desk was a ceramic oil burner, from which the forest scents wafted. In all, he looked the same, except that he tapped his boot against the floor, as if he heard music somewhere off and was keeping time with the beat.

  “How did Vortigern get you to release the skunk?” he asked. A silver barbell flickered inside his mouth.

  “I figured you’d accuse me.” He’d given her critical glances all throughout dinner. “I needed something from him. The skunk was the only thing he’d trade.”

  “That’s unlikely.” Hadrian snapped the book shut. “Vortigern used you, just as I did. When you know the desires of the person you’re trading with, you control the exchange. Compliment Vortigern’s intelligence and he’ll lick your toes.”

  Remarkably, Snofrid suspected this advice would work.

  Hadrian slid the Demented Book into a bookcase. When he’d returned to his chair, he looked her over and said, “You’d tell my Dracuslayers that you’re a halfbreed before apologizing to me for anything. What is it you’re really here for?”

  “Actually, that part was true.” She laid the sketch on his desk. “Sorry, I couldn’t draw a perfect one. This is the best I can do.”

  He regarded the skewwhiff sketch with discontent. “That’s worse than the last one. I still don’t buy it. You have the look women make when they want something. Tell me what you’re trying to con out of me.”

  He made women sound like leeches. “I’m not here to con you out of anything,” she assured. “I’m here to make a trade. It seems to be the only way one can do anything around here.”

  “This is about the phone,” he realized. “What is your strategy to get it, aside from asking for it?”

  She reminded herself of Lucian’s words about deals: Let the deal be spoken first and then manipulate it to your advantage. “What are you willing to trade?”

  “On a normal day, I’d tell you to leave the way you came. You were informed that your family is alive. No further contact is necessary.” He yanked a knife from his boot and hurled the tip into a dartboard above the fireplace, hitting the double bull’s-eye. “But since I’m in a good mood, we’ll play a game of Shanghai. The victor wins a favor.”

  She eyed the dartboard—its frame was wreathed in beast teeth—and confidence blew away all of her worry. This was a trade she could win. “All right,” she agreed, her voice now jaunty. “But we’ll play without the Shanghai rule. We have to go all the way around, hitting the sectors in numerical order—one throw each turn. Then we’ll end with a double bulls-eye.”

  “You’re worried I’ll win in my first throw?” he guessed.

  “Not at all. I want it to be challenging. That means no shortcuts.”

  His mouth twitched in amusement. Scooting back his chair, he retrieved the game pieces from a breakfront across the room.

  Snofrid traced her finger across the phone in her pocket, now convinced that the pitch method was real. Hadrian had never been this accommodating where Lycidius wasn’t concerned. In fact, for the first time, she detected a genuine attentiveness in his expression.

  Upon returning, he handed her three darts whittled from bone. The tips were honed to points and the flights were crafted from bat wings. “Find something to record your score,” he said.

  “I won’t bother. I’m sure your eidetic memory can handle it.”

  “You either have an interest in Dracuslayer life, or you’ve been talking to Vortigern.”

  “Both, actually.”

  Hadrian backed away from the dartboard, pinching the creases from his flights. “You should think before you believe everything he says. He’s trained to manipulate and deceive.”

  She was deftly aware. “From living with Lycidius, I learned what to expect from a Dracuslayer. I never thought I’d meet someone more manipulative than him, but your training is truly terrifying.”

  “I was never trained,” Hadrian correct
ed. “I’ve been manipulating the outcome of scenarios since I could speak. It’s a natural skill.”

  She believed this as soon as the words bounced off his tongue. And his superiority about it was foreseeable, though his bragging air was new. “You strong-armed your mother into which brand of diapers you wanted?”

  Hadrian smirked. “My mother never cared for me a day in her life. Soldiers are raised by their fathers.” He snuffed the flame in the oil burner and then went on. “Essentially, I destroyed the belief systems of other child soldiers.”

  She noted the way he said this with a disturbed feeling, as if he’d murdered something. “Why would anyone want to do that?”

  “To control them. To own them. By cutting down a person’s confidence and condescending their moral codes, they question their own principles. This made the child soldiers feel foolish for thinking freely—for trusting in their ability to make logical decisions. Eventually, they didn’t have enough self-confidence to think anything unless it was approved by me.” He leaned against the desk, aligning his shoulders with hers. “Within two months, the children had formed a completely new consensus of beliefs, which, in effect, changed their identities.”

  She found this far more horrifying than he made it sound. He wasn’t just manipulative; he was borderline sadistic. “How?” she asked.

  “Stress. Discord. Peer pressure. The children were conditioned and didn’t even realize it.”

  “You’re a tyrant,” she accused.

  “Yes. To survive in my position, it is what one needs to become.”

  Snofrid was faced with a new, uglier conception of his destructive mania. His strategy could give a person outright oppressive power without much effort at all. The manipulator simply had to rely on the natural self-doubt everyone possessed; on how people, especially children, want to belong—like she used to—and might sacrifice themselves to do so.

  “Is that how you tricked Hessia into wearing her collar?” she wondered.

  He launched a dart at the dartboard, striking the 1 double-ring. “Hessia is a skilled liar—better than Vortigern. It wasn’t necessary to dominate her mind because she offered her services. In her head, if she served the Gravebane House, it would make her honored.”

  “From how she’s treated now, it seems like it did the opposite. You treat her worse than humans treat their dogs.”

  “Hessia is treated no different than she always was. All Seers are viewed as filth and it will never change.” He picked up a glass of dragon-ale from the table; instead of a cobra, a scorpion was steeping inside. “They’re like gluttonous eaters, except what they crave is powerful magic. The deterioration of their bodies illustrates that fully.”

  Snofrid held off throwing, amazed at his nerve. “That’s painfully hypocritical. Your need to dominate and doctor people’s beliefs for power is just as greedy.”

  “Some greed is good; some isn’t.” He paused and reflected on his response while fingering the silver Commander ring on his hand. “Power is like poison. I’m out for long term authority, so I don’t drink the full bottle, but take small doses incrementally. My father chose to drink himself to death; Hessia is doing the same right now. It’s why my father lost his control and it’s why Hessia is steadily losing hers.”

  Snofrid threw a dart, hitting the 1 triple-ring clean. “Power should be given to decent people who can’t be bought, not paid for by ones who want to use it to control their people.”

  Hadrian flicked his eyes at the ceiling in deprecation. “A decent person in power is rarer than a woman without an agenda. It’s why the Hematic Lord is the only honest ruler in the entire Inborn governing office. But Lord Wolfgang will repair nothing long-term, only slow the rot. Or more likely, he’ll be assassinated. He has twice as many enemies as I do, and infinitely more death threats.”

  “Do you want him dead?”

  “Lord Wolfgang and I stay out of each other’s way. If he crossed my path, my opinion of the situation could change. But for now, I care little for what he does.”

  As Hadrian took his turn, hitting the 2 triple-ring, Snofrid studied his posture. His shoulders were loose and open; his chin was held high and his stance was lofty, poised as usual; and his eyes were as bright as sunshine on the ocean. The pitch seemed to have the same effect as alcohol had on humans. If so, he might have a loose tongue—if she played along, that is.

  “What did you do to make so many people want to assassinate you?” she asked.

  He seemed pleased at the choice of topic. “I have a few enemies, but my popularity is greater than my unpopularity. Everyone who is worthwhile has a mob of torch-wavers at their back door.”

  “You still didn’t answer my question,” she pointed out.

  “I don’t play Governor Games. They want puppets at their fingertips, not sharp teeth.” He gulped the dragon-ale, then shot green flames out his nostrils. “But mostly, because of Governor Ariaxa’s inability to handle rejection.”

  Snofrid recognized the name. Ariaxa was the Necromancer Governor of Court III in the Empyrean City. “You messed up her agenda?” Snofrid gathered.

  “No. I crushed her brother’s agenda. When she eventually offered to ally our Houses through a marriage, I explained to her that I’d sooner marry her decrepit, bloodsucking mother.”

  “It seems you would’ve had more power if you just married her.”

  Hadrian frowned, as if she’d just said something insulting. “I won’t marry. I have too much self-respect to be a slave.”

  “You talk exactly like Lycidius used to,” she said, getting a potent sense of déjà vu. For years, he’d also asserted that he’d never be pinned down by a woman. “I wonder if that has anything to do with brainwashing.”

  “It’s called good judgment.”

  Snofrid faced the dartboard, turned off by his smug countenance. “You won’t be a slave to children too, then.”

  A prideful undertone animated his features. He scooped the detoxified scorpion from his glass and fitted it whole into his mouth. Snofrid got a reminiscent feeling as he chewed the crunchy arachnid. Lycidius had often drunk his vodka in the same way, claiming that the scorpion curbed the acrid taste.

  “To children, I wouldn’t be a slave,” Hadrian said after he’d swallowed. “Before I’m thirty, I’ll have five sons, but all from different mothers.”

  “Because you couldn’t possibly be monogamous.”

  “Men weren’t made to be monogamous, but there is always the risk of attachment. Having five lovers will remove the risk of attachment to one.” He glanced at the board, pursing his lips with displeasure. “You play this game often?”

  Snofrid was too nettled to admire her triple scores. Hadrian had a penchant for sucking the joy out of everything. “I used to. When I lived in Gehenna, the Swangunners would let me play at their club.”

  His features animated. Stepping back, he hurled a dart with so much force, it rattled the board; he struck the double bull’s-eye. “Make that shot,” he ordered. “If you do, you win. If not, I do.”

  Snofrid suddenly felt put on the spot. She back pedaled into position and told herself to breathe. She’d made similar shots hundreds of times before. This was simple. She threw, missed by a hair, and struck the bull’s-eye. Defeat washed over her, draining the feeling in her face. “Stone me.”

  “You lose,” he announced. “Now hear my deal.”

  It was foolish not to have expected this. He’d probably had an ulterior motive prepared before she’d walked in. “What is it?”

  “I’ll give you the phone if you release Lycidius from being your Shadow.”

  She gaped. “That’s the worst deal I’ve ever heard.”

  “I wasn’t finished,” he snapped, suddenly losing his poise. He pointed his glass at her. “I’ll also give you credit for the hunt, to absolve you of your halfbreed shame. Instead of being scorned by Inborns, you’ll be worshipped by them.”

  Snofrid trembled. Yes, he knew what she wanted most and wasn’t abo
ve using it against her. “No. I won’t do it.”

  “That’s a selfish choice,” he growled. His nostrils flared as he grew fiercely impassioned. “Lycidius is a soldier. He was made to fight for his Lord, not to protect a civilian. You’d be doing him a service by releasing him.”

  Snofrid strongly suspected that this was what Hadrian had wanted all along. He’d stripped her of all recognition from the hunt only to dangle it in front of her for a greater price. “You’ve hated me since we met,” she said. “It’s because of Lycidius, isn’t it? You think I took him away from you.”

  Hadrian faced her squarely, his posture threatening. Snofrid went stiff with shock as she met his gaze. Pain. The emotion was fleeting, but she’d seen it. Pain meant that Hadrian could feel. It meant that, despite claiming to uphold Grieva’s code, he’d allowed himself to love.

  “My brother was destined for better,” Hadrian asserted. “Serving as a Shadow to a halfbreed is an insult to his potential.”

  “That’s for him to decide, not you.”

  “Being that my brother is bound to you by a Covenant, it is for me to decide.”

  The moment Snofrid started to consider his words, she felt like a tidal wave was descending upon her, crushing her into a hard bed of sand. Driving a hand into her pocket, she rolled the rock shard she’d taken from Oubliette around in her palm. She could hardly remember a time when Lycidius wasn’t in her life. If she freed him, he’d be deployed. He’d fight and perhaps die in the war like millions of others. But for a moment, she tried to study the positive side; there were some factors she couldn’t ignore. Since they were young, Lycidius had longed to rejoin his Dracuslayer unit. Being a soldier was what had made him feel valuable. He hadn’t spoken of his old life in years, though deep down, past her own desires, she knew that reenlisting was what he wanted. Additionally, since Lycidius would no longer be her Shadow, there would be no Law to forbid them from dating. Even more, she’d be absolved of her halfbreed title, which meant she could be with him without shaming him.