by Elise Kova
“You mean…?”
“To harvest,” Finnyr clarified weakly.
Once more, Petra affirmed what Yveun knew to be a fundamental truth about women: they did not hesitate. They waited for none to spoon them their desires. They took what they deemed theirs gratefully, forcefully, unapologetically, gracefully, or viciously. It didn’t matter so long as it rested with them when the day was done.
He admired them for it. Not a dawn rose that he didn’t envision how he could be more like his wife in that respect.
“Why?” Yveun asked himself as much as he asked the Dragon before him. Finnyr had magic in his hands, but so did many other Dragons. Many, no doubt, under Petra’s direct supervision. She didn’t need to call back her brother simply to harvest a pair of hands.
“Because it’s Petra and she delights in my displeasure?”
Yveun was loath to admit that he and the Xin’Oji had anything in common, so he let the remark fade. “That’s not enough for Petra. She called you from under my care… She wanted your hands.”
“Cvareh told me nothing else quite matched their specific ends.” Finnyr scowled at the mere mention of Cvareh’s name.
Yveun had no doubt the careful phrasing was chosen by Petra herself, so he turned it over again and again in his mind, trying to make sense of it. Matched. That was the odd word out. “Did you smell a Chimera on him?”
“On Cvareh?” Finnyr clearly couldn’t fathom why Yveun would even ask. “I doubt my younger brother knows even the first thing about Chimera.”
They were getting nowhere. While Yveun wasted time trying to turn Finnyr into something he wasn’t, Petra was clearly unfurling more banners to lay claim upon the edges of Yveun’s control. He had stalled enough.
“No more half measures,” Yveun muttered to himself.
“Dono?”
“How long has it been since the last Crimson Court?”
Finnyr blinked at the sudden shift in conversation, but recovered quickly. “Perhaps four years? No more than six…”
“I think it is time I summon my nobility together.” Yveun grinned with malicious glee, a new plan unfolding before him. There was one way Petra could not keep Finnyr out, or him, or half the noble Dragons upon Nova. “Contact your sister. Be thrilled that you will be the first to tell her that I am holding a Crimson Court.”
“When should I tell her this will take place?”
“A fortnight.” Yveun wanted to waste no time. He started for the door to return to the Hall of Whispers; there were preparations to be made. “But you did not ask the most important question, Finnyr. It is not when it will take place. It is where.”
Finnyr was slow on the uptake, but his eyes widened as he suddenly understood the source of the King’s mirth.
“Tell her that she has the delight of hosting the Crimson Court on the Isle of Ruana. And I expect every man, woman, and child under House Xin’s care to be in attendance, regardless if they are usual Court members or not.”
He would root out the truth himself. He would see the blood of every member of House Xin stain the ground if that was what it took. He was Yveun Rok’Oji Dono, and he did not operate in half measures.
16. Florence
The endwig crawled over the precipice. They nearly floated down around the face of the waterfall like wraiths in the darkness. Florence’s eyes were locked on them, their glowing white orbs staring back at her.
They would consume her soul, and her sanity, before they started on her flesh.
The monsters continued their approach, humming in their dark and mind-numbing way. Florence’s fingers rested on the hilt of her revolver, though the world around her seemed to be moving under water. The weapon was a steely reminder of the truth: she was about to die. Her brain would be sucked out through her nose and the endwig would fill her mind with its black poison. It would control her. It would use her as a lifeless puppet to draw them back to her friends. To get close enough that their whispering siren song could fatten their stomachs further.
Florence gripped the gun. The noise grew to a crescendo as the creatures fought against her will. They uttered their dirge of self-preservation while Florence’s hand shook, struggling to draw the weapon from its holster. The weapon fell to her side like a block of lead, her arm useless.
Sweat dotted her brow despite the chill air. Florence tilted her wrist. The creatures stalked through the water, but all she heard was the incessant humming. She would grin if she could, but it took every ounce of concentration she possessed to squeeze the trigger.
The gunshot was like lightning between her eyelids. Its crack broke the deadly repetition of the endwig, and the searing pain that followed it scared away the thick shadows that had been clouding the edges of her vision. Florence saw the monsters with horrific clarity, her senses her own once more. Twice the size of a Fenthri, hunched over and pale as electric light, they growled at her through dagger-like teeth.
With a roar, the first endwig charged forward. Florence moved to run but skidded to a stop along the river rocks. Her hands moved for her belt, knowing one canister from the next on pure memory. She plucked an explosive round and had it in the revolver in one fluid movement.
By the time the muzzle of her gun was aimed at the endwig still scaling the waterfall, the alchemical runes along the barrel were alight in the darkness. Florence didn’t hesitate, taking her shot. Derek said all she had been good for was exploding the forest around the Alchemists’ guild; if she survived this, she would make sure he appreciated the irony of the situation as the rocky bluff collapsed, taking the endwig with it.
Florence didn’t waste time. Two endwig had already alighted on the ground when she took her shot. They were on her tail and she sincerely doubted that a five-peca fall would kill the rest.
Inky blood dotted the ground behind her as she ran. It diminished with every step, her magic healing the gunshot wound she’d used to break free of the endwig’s song. Florence sprinted along the bank, hearing the scraping of stone and the bestial snarl of the creatures behind her. They were gaining, and fast.
She cut into the trees.
“Derek!” Florence screamed into the darkness. His Dragon ears should pick her up clear back to the train. “Derek!”
“Flor?” A familiar male voice echoed back to her.
Relief flooded her chest. He was safe, which was more than could be said for her at the moment.
The swipe of a long, clawed hand whizzed over her head. It sunk into the bark of the tree, narrowly missing its mark. Florence rolled along the forest floor, seeking purchase on the dead brush and leaves.
The second endwig materialized out of nowhere. Its long fingers wrapping around her shoulder, drawing both blood and a scream. Florence dropped two canisters into her weapon and pressed the muzzle of the gun into its neck as it leaned forward to bite off her face in one crunch of its gaping jowls.
Blood exploded the moment she pulled the trigger. Florence didn’t know much about the endwig, but she had learned all she needed to from the Revolver at the Alchemists’ Guild Hall. She knew the one thing she would care about: how to kill the bastards.
The endwig were tough creatures with bones of near literal steel. Their rib cages protected their hearts by forming an impenetrable barrier not unlike a Dragon’s. But at the base of the neck was a soft spot. With the gun angled just the right way, one could fire in through the top of the ribs.
Florence didn’t expect she would have the opportunity to make a clean shot that exploited their seemingly one weakness very often.
As she pushed off the creature’s corpse with a grunt, the other endwig was on her like a dog lunging for a discarded bone. Florence didn’t have a chance to even take aim. The canister singed her flesh as it exploded against the endwig’s face in close proximity, stunning it.
Scrambling to her feet, Florence began sprinting once more. Her shoulder oozed l
ifeblood onto her shirt and vest, her face streaked with flesh-curling burns from the proximity explosion. But the magic that Cvareh had given her by virtue of his blood held true. It healed her wounds and poured energy into her fatiguing muscles. It met the demands she placed on her body and then some.
“Flor!” Another cry rose up through the night, a woman’s this time. “Flor, get your Revo ass over here!”
She wished it took something more than an endwig assault to inspire the use of her chosen guild.
The flickering light of Nora’s campfire streamed through the trees in shifting beams. Florence’s ears picked up the chaotic charge of the other endwig tearing through the forest behind her. Ahead was the small train, already hissing with steam.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Nora screamed as Florence broke through the tree line that was almost on top of the tracks themselves. She held out her hand. “That type of explosion is sure to draw out the endwig.”
“What do you think I used ‘that type of explosion’ on?” Florence screamed back. There wasn’t any need to speak so loudly or violently; Nora’s face was less than half a peca away from hers as the other woman hoisted her into the train car. But it certainly felt good to do.
“Are you all right?” Derek asked.
Florence was relieved to see her split-second judgment call of not heading back to where she’d last seen him along the river proved sound. The man was too smart to wait for her and it blossomed a newfound appreciation for him in a hot flush against her chest. The feeling was equally a product of the near-death situation and her adrenaline, but she knew she’d truly been ruined by Arianna when cold pragmatism was suddenly the sexiest thing in the world to her.
“We’re not going fast enough.” Florence reached for the leather strap of canisters and explosives wrapped around her body, her mind whirring with all the ways to fend off the endwig. “They’ll be on us.” She handed them each disk bombs. “Press, throw, push magic in to make heat.”
There wasn’t time to explain the mechanics of using magic to heat molten gold and start a carefully calculated chemical reaction. She just needed them to do as they were told. Florence had sat back long enough. Life or death: this was the line she was meant to walk.
The first endwig launched itself from between the trees, springing off them and leaving dark grooves in the bark. From the vantage of the train car, Florence had just enough height to stare down the barrel of her gun at the monster’s outstretched neck. It was sent tumbling on the ground, all momentum lost, as she killed it with a pull of the trigger.
“Good shot.” Nora’s praise was lost.
“Derek, bomb!” Florence barked, pointing to where she wanted the explosion. He followed her order as two other endwig lunged from the darkness. The moment his hands were free, she passed him the rifle. “Load it with canisters from the green box.”
“Which green box?” he called back.
“The one on the left.” Florence fired another shot from her revolver.
“They’re coming from the front!” Nora screamed over the crescendo of the engine gaining speed. On cue, the train lurched as an endwig was splattered to a bloody mess on the point of the engine’s pilot.
“Bloody cogs,” Florence cursed. The Vicar Alchemist had sent her to protect the mission as the Revolver, but one of her wasn’t going to be enough. “I’m going to the engine.”
“What are we going to do?” The usually self-sure Nora had the face of a cornered hare.
“You’re going to fight.” Florence passed her a weapon.
“I’ve never shot a gun before.”
“Now is a great time to learn.”
“I’m an Alchemist!”
Seriously, Florence was a breath away from shooting the woman herself. “You’re dead if you don’t adapt! There’s three more bombs exactly like the ones you just used, right there. Just fend them off until the train gets up to speed. But don’t use any other disks.”
Florence had no more time to waste as the train lurched again. They just had to survive until the train reached full speed. For all the endwig were, they certainly couldn’t keep up with a locomotive.
She hoped.
The wind whipped her hair around her face as she stuck her head from the train car. Florence reached out for the ladder to the right of the door, scaling up before another endwig could emerge. She swung up just in time as an explosion nearly blew her foot clean off.
“By the five guilds, you two only had three bombs!” she screamed over the wind, not knowing if they could hear. “Ration them a bit!”
Standing, Florence looked in horror at the tracks ahead. Dozens of endwig lined the path, running eagerly to meet the train. She loaded six canisters at once.
Jumping to the tender, Florence lost her footing atop the moving train car. A nail snapped clean off as she sought a grip that would prevent her from being thrown to certain death. If she fell now, she would never get back on the vessel. She’d be torn limb from limb.
Gritting her teeth, Florence rose to her knees, shooting two endwig in the process. She wedged herself between two grooves on the top of the tender. Blood pooled around her shins as she dug them into the metal for a grip where there was none, but she was stable enough to take aim, and that meant she could open fire.
Five shots down, and Florence reloaded her gun. Endwig came relentlessly like a never-ending nightmare. But the train didn’t gain any more speed. She repeated the process, waiting for the vessel to be like her bullets, whizzing through the night at deadly speeds.
“Anders, now would be a great time to open her up!” she screamed.
There was no reply.
“Anders, Rotus, we need speed, get us out of here faster!”
Five long claws curled around the door of the engine in answer. Florence watched in horror as the white silhouette of an endwig, dotted in the black blood of a Chimera, pulled itself from the engine room. Florence swallowed hard.
They were without Rivet and Raven, stumbling through the darkness, enemies at all sides. She raised her gun slowly, looking fearlessly at the face of death itself. Her revolver was steady over the rocking of the train.
“You think I’m not used to this?” Her mouth curled into a mad grin. “I’ve been fighting my way out of the darkness my whole life. And you’re not going to stop me now.”
Gunshots echoed through the forest.
17. Petra
She’d kill the bastard herself.
Petra rolled, a tumbleweed of claws and teeth. The man atop her responded with delightful viciousness. Fine-twitch muscle fibers spasmed as she dodged his attack; a claw caught on her neck. Petra raised a leg, propping it against his stomach, and twisted with enough force to send him skidding off to the side.
She found her feet, panting, sweating, stinking of her blood and the blood of a handful of others who had already been subdued beneath her. Yveun Dono did not fight; it was beneath him as the King of all Dragons. Wylder Tam’Oji To did not fight his lessers either, not unless challenged, following Yveun’s lead.
Petra was a young Oji with boiling blood that screamed to be set free in a pit. She was met with upstarts on every front, challengers twice her age who continually questioned her merit as Oji. Petra bared her teeth and lunged forward, freeing the man’s skin from his bones.
Only the Oji could sanction duels within Houses, save one exception: the Court. Called the Crimson Court due to House Rok’s current power, it was the time when all grievances in upper Dragon society were aired. Petra had no doubt that a Court on Ruana proper would hold a countless many challenges for her title as Oji.
Her claws pressed into the man’s chest beneath her; fangs raked against the soft flesh of his throat as she mounted him. In one bite she could gouge out his jugular and carve his heart from his ribs.
Petra’s claws retracted, her palm resting lightl
y on his chest. She carefully withdrew her teeth, avoiding puncturing the skin. If she tasted his blood, she would be forced to kill him. There was no other option when one imbibed from the living.
“I need you twice as fast before the Court.” Petra stood, her legs on either side of the man’s waist in a position of dominance. “If you can’t manage that, then dive into the Gods’ Line before the first blood.”
She stepped away, letting him find his feet. Petra ignored the cerulean man as he scampered off into some hole with his proverbial tail between his legs. Once an order had been given, she didn’t engage further; doing otherwise merely invited questioning from her lowers.
“Cain.” She caught the eyes of the tall man at the edge of the observation ring, leaning against the wall underneath a sunshade that was nearly the same color as his skin.
“Oji.” He bowed and held it, saying nothing more, offering her his complete submission.
Slaves stepped forward from the woodwork, stripping off her soiled clothing. They toweled her with damp, perfumed cloths, wiping away the remnants of combat. A clean robe was draped over her arms and cinched at the waist. She wore it mostly open, the scars that crossed over her chest and stomach from failed attempts on her life on display as a warning to all.
“Walk with me.”
He did so in silence, waiting for her to have the first word. Petra led him into the manor, straying past the main thoroughfares and onto the more private halls. Heavy tapestries draped the walls, overbearing and cluttered, one on top of the next. They splashed bright patterns between careful needlework that depicted the famous temples and landscapes across the floating isles of Nova.
It was Petra’s favorite form of artwork: carefully built with the patience of thousands of single stitches. Delicate in that all it took was one tear to ruin. And surprisingly functional when it came to muffling conversations.
“You have heard?”
“Of the Crimson Court to be held on Ruana?” She nodded in affirmation. “I have.”
