The Vine Eater (The Magic Eaters Trilogy Book 2)

by Carol Beth Anderson

  Krey turned on his flight magic and jumped into the air.

  He hadn’t anticipated what it would feel like to incorporate the backpack into his magic. He sensed every element of the tiny, dark-blue brains. If he wanted to, he could count their layers. They swathed him in desire that dulled his other senses, warmed him in the cool air, teased him with sweet whispers.

  Focus. Eat some feathers. Think about what’s next.

  He did eat feathers, but his mind didn’t want to travel into the future. Instead, it slithered into his past.

  He was eight years old. He’d recently quit his magical training classes, convincing his parents he could learn better by reading books at home. His reading was nothing short of voracious in those days. Aunt Min and Aunt Evie, who lived down the street, let him browse and borrow their tomes on magic.

  Tucked between larger books on a bottom shelf, young Krey found a rare, handwritten book, dated just three decades after The Day. It had the most intriguing title a young boy could imagine: Secrets of the Stone. Krey’s aunts didn’t want him to take the valuable book. For weeks, he plied them with constant arguments about its educational benefits.

  He convinced them, probably through annoying persistence, rather than his negotiating skills. Neither Aunt Min nor Aunt Evie had read the book. They sent him home with it and told him to report back after finishing it.

  The handwriting inside was atrocious. Krey almost gave up on it. Then he found the passage on brain eating. His little jaw dropped as he read the author’s story of how a magic eater had discovered that when he ate brain matter from Anyarian animals, he could influence others’ minds.

  That was the coolest thing Krey had ever heard. He’d immediately run to the home of a friend whose parents were hunters. His friend’s dad was behind the house, cleaning the game he’d caught that day. Krey offered to burn the unwanted parts of the small animals. The man laughed. “Doubt your parents would want you doing that alone, but you can help me.”

  When Krey came across a brain, which the hunter had already removed from the skull, he slipped it in his pocket. A few minutes later, he snagged another. Claiming to remember an unfinished chore, he ran home.

  Like most young kids, Krey thought himself invincible. Sure, he knew Anyarian brain matter was poisonous. But the book had convinced him magic eaters were immune. He hadn’t read the rest of the passage in the book—the part where the author disclosed the darkness behind brain eating. Most magic eaters who ate brain matter died, just like any other human would. Those who didn’t die grew addicted and eventually went mad. The author said he’d considered hiding the discovery but had decided future generations deserved a warning.

  The next day, when Krey deciphered all those scrawled words, he realized how lucky he was. He was one of the few who could eat brain matter and survive it. By then, he’d already used his new gift on his parents.

  He’d started small. Instinct had told him to touch his mother. He’d felt the connection with her mind immediately. It was like he was staring at an open door, but he couldn’t see what was inside. Brain eating allowed him to influence minds, not read them.

  Krey had convinced his mother to make a cake. He’d kept the link to her mind open until the cake went in the oven. Soon after, his fuel ran out. His mother shook her head and said, “I must really love you, Krey. I certainly didn’t have time to make that cake today!”

  In the coming days, Krey kept stealing fuel and experimenting. Unfortunately, the gig was up pretty quickly. A week after Krey first ate brain matter, his mother brought home a bowlbird for dinner. She left the room. When she returned, she found Krey plucking the bird’s brain out of its skull and lifting the little organ to his mouth.

  “Stop!” she cried, rushing to him.

  He grinned and ate it.

  The entire kitchen shook with Krey’s mother’s screams. She grabbed him, weeping, insisting they go to a healer to get the poison out of his system. He planted his feet. He had to shout, “I’ve been eating brains for a week!” for two minutes straight before his mother heard him.

  The rest of the truth came out: the cake, the delayed bedtimes, all the other little indulgences Krey had convinced his parents to give him over the previous week. He didn’t think to tell his mother about the addiction and possible madness. His young mind was convinced he was stronger than that. When his mother read the book for herself, her tears started again.

  The next six months of Krey’s life were hell. His parents didn’t let him out of their sight. He slept in their bed, between them. His mother withdrew him from school and taught him herself. When he needed the outhouse, she walked there and stood outside while he used it. Worse yet, when she had to use it, she brought him in with her.

  For the first day, Krey thought the new rules were pointless. He promised he’d stop eating brain matter. Then the cravings started. When he’d gone thirty hours without his new fuel, all he could think about was how to get more.

  He attempted to sneak out of the house in the middle of the night. His parents caught him as he opened the front door. They installed padlocks. That didn’t stop Krey from trying to sneak out windows when his parents turned their backs. They were too vigilant for him to succeed.

  Nausea kept Krey from eating. He thrashed all night. He was full of energy one moment, exhausted the next, anxious always. The worst of the detox symptoms lasted a week. Then his body recovered, but his mind still fixated on one thing: I need my fuel. Not feathers, not ice. He didn’t care about those talents now. He needed brain matter. Salivated every time he thought of it. Twisted his mind in knots trying to plan an escape attempt.

  He was eight. His sense of strategy sucked. Every attempt to leave the house was stopped by his firm, loving, tired parents.

  The cravings began abating after the first couple of weeks. But it was a slow decrease. Krey had been recovering for five months when he woke one day and said, in all honesty, “I don’t want to see another animal brain in my whole life.” It wasn’t that he didn’t desire them. He missed the texture, flavor, taste. He missed the mental power most of all.

  But at last, he could see it had cost him the small amount of freedom he’d had at that age. And he was finally convinced he’d go mad if he returned to his addiction. He was nine by then; maybe he’d grown up a bit.

  His parents kept him home for another month. Gradually, they reinstated his privileges. He stayed in the house while his mother visited the outhouse. He played with a friend outside. In the last week, he slept in his own bed. After half a year of recovery, Krey went back to school. To his parents’ relief—and his own—he never tried to steal animal brain matter again.

  His parents kept the incident secret. They told the school some story about an illness he’d battled. Life returned to normal. Until a little over a year later, when Krey’s parents died of orange plague.

  Krey moved in with Min and Evie. He learned that during his mother’s dying days, she’d disclosed his addiction to his aunts. During Krey’s months of deepest grief, he was tempted to kill an animal with his own hands, crack open its skull, and indulge. He confessed the urges to Min and Evie. They helped him stay strong.

  Years later, Krey and Zeisha became more than friends. In a rush of passionate trust, he told her the truth. She vowed to never tell a soul. She’d kept that promise.

  But he’d made a promise too. He’d told her he’d never eat the brain of an animal again, never even touch one.

  And here he was. Flying over the black wilderness between Deroga and Cellerin City. Mentally caressing the tiny brains in his backpack, like the depraved human being he knew he was. I’m breaking my oath.

  He made it to Cellerin City, only stopping twice on the way to rest. Somehow, he kept the front pocket of his backpack closed during those stops.

  Krey alighted in the street before a pub that had a very specific reputation. He’d never been there, but during his short stint living in the capital, a few of his fellow apprentices had gone
there every weekend. Krey knew the place would have the item he was seeking.

  The front and back doors were locked. Krey flew to the second floor and let out a relieved breath when he found a pair of open shutters on a bedroom window. Ten minutes later, he’d stolen what he needed from the pub below, and he was back in the air.

  After another short flight, Krey dropped to the ground, allowing the trees of the woods outside the palace grounds to swallow him up. He opened his backpack. Fingers shaking, he unbuckled the front pocket too.

  Water first, a few good gulps. Then—oh, by the sky, when his fingers brushed against the smooth little spheres in the pocket, when they felt the tiny ripple where one layer of brain matter overlapped another, it was all he wanted.

  He lifted his hand. Opened his mouth.

  His tongue got its first taste. His teeth bit in, and he groaned. In delight. In despair.

  Krey reached for another.

  Zeisha didn’t claim to understand God. Lately, she’d had a hard time even talking to him, after what she’d done during the militia battle.

  But she trusted him. And some knowledge, deeper than logic, told her he was with her, every moment.

  She woke in a dark room. Such middle-of-the-night wakings usually gave her flashbacks of her nights in the militia.

  This time was different. She didn’t wonder where she was. She wasn’t anxious or confused. A prodding urge overtook her: I need to check on Krey.

  After her emotional chat with Nora, Zeisha had pondered whether she should confront Krey about his plans. Late last night, she’d concluded he would want her to be honest. She had to talk to him. A sense of urgency had squeezed her gut, but Krey had already gone to bed. It could wait until morning, she decided.

  Now here she was, wide awake, certain she shouldn’t have waited.

  Minutes later, Zeisha stood at the door of the building where Krey slept. The room was probably locked, but she tried the knob anyway.

  It twisted.

  Something told Zeisha this was a bad thing.

  She stepped into the blackness and reached down, touching the beds on the right. One. Two. Three. This was Krey’s. She patted her hands along its length. Blankets. Sheets. Pillow. No Krey.

  Zeisha’s breaths quickened. She turned to the next bed. Her hand fell on a firm shoulder.

  “Ovrun!” She shook his shoulder. “Ovrun, wake up!”

  17

  I’ve never eaten meat. None of my friends have either.

  It’s been forty-one years since the global passage of the Lab-Created Meat Statute, the law criminalizing hunting, meat sales, and meat consumption. However, last month, a Derogan family of four died after eating meat they purchased from a poacher. The cause of the family’s death was announced today: ingestion of cervid brain matter.

  You know what doesn’t contain brain matter? Lab-created meat.

  You know what else doesn’t contain brain matter? The skull of someone who buys meat from a poacher.

  -“Brainless” by Genta Ril

  The Derogan Chronicle, dated Quari 27, 6293

  Six tiny brains sat in Krey’s belly, ready to be catalyzed.

  Most of the time, he went days, weeks even, without dwelling on his desire for brain matter. But tonight, the forbidden fuel had quenched a thirst that had lurked in his subconscious for nine long years.

  It felt amazing.

  And torturous.

  Krey swore to never look at another animal brain again. If I manage to escape the king tonight.

  That was a big if.

  Krey put on his backpack and returned to the air.

  He flew straight up, so high that no one would be likely to notice his body against the stars. Then he leveled off and flew over the palace grounds.

  Lights allowed him to see parts of the property. The difficult thing would be avoiding the attention of guard caynins. They knew his scent and voice—but before he got close enough for them to recognize him, they might sound the alarm.

  After a few minutes, Krey got a good sense of where all the caynins were. Some patrolled with guards; others roamed the property alone. If he timed it right, he could drop on a rooftop without being seen.

  Krey descended, slowly and smoothly, until another guard came into view—soaring through the air.

  Oh, hell. I thought the king had fired all his magic eaters. He must’ve hired this one recently. Krey adjusted his strategy, even as he ascended. This could work. It would all be about timing, but he could deal with another flyer. He could use another flyer.

  Krey watched the feather eater take the same route over the property twice. The predictability would make this even easier. Anticipation, ugly and thrilling, sent his heart pumping harder. It was time to use his terrible magic.

  Krey confirmed that the guards patrolling outside the property weren’t nearby. He dove, then pressed himself against the outside of the cold, stone fence, head even with the barbed wire at the top. The feather eater was flying his direction.

  As soon as the flyer passed, Krey shot into the air and silently approached, praying the guard caynins didn’t notice him. He had to make skin-to-skin contact with the feather eater. That would be tough, since the guard was bundled up—including gloves and a hat. Come on, it’s not that cold.

  Krey flew directly over the guard, whose gaze was on the ground. Not breathing, Krey descended. His hand came out. Cool fingers touched a warm neck.

  The flyer jerked, crying out with a voice that sounded female. Her body started dropping, concentration clearly compromised.

  Her fall broke their physical connection, but Krey had established a mental connection. Unlike the king, he could only control someone if he was touching them or keeping them in sight. There was enough light for Krey to see the flyer. “You’re safe,” he called softly. “You can fly.”

  It worked. The feather eater stopped falling. Krey swooped down to her, scanning for caynins the whole way. “Follow me.”

  She looked up with wide eyes. “Okay.”

  He zoomed higher. The woman followed.

  Curses exited Nora’s mouth, long strings of words she rarely gave herself permission to say. Ovrun took it in stride, but Zeisha’s mouth hung open like someone had broken the hinge of her jaw. She’d probably never expected to hear a princess talk that way.

  Deep breath. No time to be mad. Nora looked between Zeisha and Ovrun. The three of them were huddled around a lantern near the women’s bunkhouse door. “I need to make sure I’ve got this right,” Nora said, her voice hushed yet intense. “Krey’s a brain lyster, and he’s gone to confront my father?”

  “Yes,” Zeisha said. “I was going to talk to him and tell him he shouldn’t go. I should’ve done it last night, but—”

  “Okay, Zeisha, okay,” Nora snapped. She took another deep breath. Yes, she was angry. Quite frankly, she couldn’t believe Zeisha hadn’t come straight to them when Krey had first disclosed his plans. But the last thing Zeisha needed was for someone to blame her for this. It’s not her fault. It’s the fault of that massive ass who is at this moment on his way to get himself arrested or killed. Or turned into the next Faylie. The thought sent painful cramps into Nora’s stomach.

  “We have to go there,” Ovrun said. “Nora, can you call the dragons?”

  Thank the sky one of them was thinking straight. Nora reached her thoughts out to the mountains south of Deroga. Osmius! Are you awake? Osmius?

  No answer.

  Taima? Osmius? Please! It’s urgent!

  Damn it, why did magical creatures have to sleep at all? Over and over, Nora pushed her telepathic messages through the air. She was almost ready to give up when Osmius’s low voice reached her mind.

  What do you need, Nora-human?

  Osmius! Oh, thank the stone. We need your help.

  Krey had never stopped craving the manipulative power of his magic. He’d known he’d take awful joy in controlling someone again.

  Something in him, however, had changed over the last
nine years. Touching this woman’s mind, guiding her to agree with everything he said . . . yes, it filled him with an unnatural bliss. But it also felt wrong. Sick.

  He pushed his emotional battle into the background. No time to deal with the psychological ramifications of brain eating tonight. That would all come later.

  He and the woman were sitting in the dirt in the same wooded area where he’d stopped on his way in. He couldn’t see her face in the dark, but he’d gotten a brief glimpse of it in the light of lanterns over the palace grounds. She was probably in her forties, with small features and bits of short hair sticking out from under a knitted cap.

  Krey squeezed the woman’s hands, which were no longer covered with gloves. In the dark, touching her was the only way to keep their connection active. “What’s your name?”

  “Brea.”

  “Brea. It’s good to meet you. I need to reach the king. You’re going to help me.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll tell you my plan. At the palace, you’ll follow my lead, but you’ll also take any steps that will help me complete my mission.”

  “Okay.”

  Krey explained his strategy. He and Brea refueled with additional feathers, then returned to the air.

  They flew high and stopped directly over the administrative wing of the palace. “Drop to the roof,” Krey said.

  As they’d planned, Brea kept her body parallel to the ground. Krey hovered above her, using her as a visual shield in case anyone looked up. They began a smooth descent.

  A caynin who’d been in the shadows came into view.

  “It’s me!” Brea called.

  The animal kept running, ignoring them.

  The two flyers alighted on the roof near the rear entrance Krey had used when he’d worked at the library.