Magic Cries

by Miriam Greystone

  Bea stiffened. This was the man who'd tried to kill her angel. She took a step back toward the cavern and peered back into the cave.

  “They'll be back soon, and the only way we can stand up to them is if we can do everything that they can.” He stood, towering over the woman. He didn't need to threaten her—he was a threat, his whole body a punch just pulled, a hammer waiting to fall on anyone who came within its reach. He bristled with power like a rabid dog on a short leash.

  “Where is it, Molly? Tell me.”

  Molly smiled up at him.

  “Make me,” she said.

  Howling with sudden rage, he flew at her.

  Bea turned and began to run.

  Behind her, she could hear blows, the sound of flesh pounding against flesh. The kind-eyed woman screamed, and Bea ran faster.

  Soon she saw that the darkness was fading to a cheerless gray, and then the sunlight called to her from the entrance of the passageway. She sped past the watchman, who made no comment as she fled. She ran, full-out, down the mountainside. The ocean seemed so far away, but soon, faster than she would have thought possible, she felt wet sand under her bare feet, felt the water lap against her toes.

  There was no time to think, and Bea did not want to.

  She did not stop, or look around. She held the cup up, staring down at the strange red liquid that filled it to the brim, fascinated and repulsed by the way it glowed in the sunshine. Then she brought it to her lips and drank.

  The cup was alive.

  Bea hadn't realized it till it touched her lips, not until she felt it melt into her skin. The liquid should have been gone. She had choked and sputtered; she had drunk and drunk and drunk . . . but still it poured down her throat, burning her insides, pouring acid into her gut. The cup would not let go. It wanted to make her powerful . . . it would not stop until it felt her ability surge. It clutched at her.

  But there was nothing in her for the goblet's power to latch onto. Bea felt her insides melting. She clawed at it with her fingernails, trying desperately to pry the thing off her face.

  It hurt.

  Hurt, hurt, hurt.

  She wrestled with it, head thrown back, sunlight streaming down on her, till she felt like she would tear the skin of her face . . . anything.

  And then it was over.

  The goblet shuddered and cracked. Its pieces fell into the water and floated away, drained of all its power, drained of life. It had poured everything into Bea, and Bea stood motionless, knee deep in the water, eyes screwed shut.

  For one split second, she felt nothing at all.

  Then the pain came, and the blood boiled as it poured from her lips, steaming when it hit the water. Blood streamed from her nose, leaked like tears from her eyes. It was agony, agony, beyond agony. After just a few seconds, she had forgotten who she was. She had no name, no past. She knew nothing and was nothing, but a pulsation of pain that writhed in the water.

  “I hate you,” she screamed in her mind, though the pain and the blood silenced her. “God. I hate you. You asked this of me, and I did it. But don't think that I forgive you.”

  Then a wave, tall and green, rose up and smashed itself against the shore. Bea felt it hit her, felt its fingers wrap around her wrist. She did not kick or pull away this time. She let herself fall forward, let the tide pull her out to sea.

  Molly

  His voice did not have much effect on her. Molly was pleased by that, despite the pain. She had become powerful enough, at least, that when Troy yelled at her to choke, screamed at her to fall face down on the floor, the words rolled off her effortlessly.

  It still wasn't enough. Her commands did next to nothing to him. There was no way that she could make him stop hitting her, nothing she could do about the force of his body, all taut muscle and practiced fists, as he fell on top of her. She fought back, glad when her knee found his groin, and she felt the ripple of pain run through him, happy when her fist connected with something deep and hollow in his stomach. But she was tired; and when he finally managed to knock her to the floor, she fell and lay stunned, feeling with calm certainty that she was about to die.

  Until Jake ran in.

  It was impossible. A dream. A hallucination brought on by hurt and worry, and the closeness of death. Except that a dream could not have punched Troy so powerfully from behind, in the side of the head. A hallucination could not have caused that shower of red to come spraying from Troy's nose, as he spun to meet his attacker.

  “Trash!” Troy yelled, as though the insult of a Bloodbound challenging him was worse than the pain. “You think you can touch me, dog? GET DOWN!”

  It should have been over.

  Just those two words, spoken with such force and derision that even Molly felt herself shudder. Jake should have been on his knees. But he did not even slow. He threw himself at Troy, and Molly heard a bone crunch as Jake's fist connected with his face.

  It was impossible.

  Molly pushed herself up as well as she was able, watching, unbelieving, as Jake pounded into Troy, over and over.

  “Stop!” Troy yelled, his face red with shock and blood, as Jake knocked him to the floor and fell on top of him. “Get off me!” He wasn't even trying to use his fists. The apparent uselessness of his voice scared Troy in a way that nothing else could, and that fear destroyed him. He fought only with his voice, and his voice did absolutely no good. Molly winced at the wet sound of fist against flesh that should have been firm but wasn't. Again and again Jake hit him, not stopping till Troy lay, motionless and stained with his own blood, on the ground.

  “Jake!” Molly cried. He hurried to her, crouching down beside her and embracing her tightly.

  “How . . . What are you doing here?” Molly asked in wonder.

  Jake pulled away and looked at her. “I had to come after you,” he said. “Denise told me where.”

  “I can't believe it,” Molly said, reaching up and touching his cheek. “You saved my life. But you shouldn't have come . . . Are you alright?”

  Jake didn't answer.

  “Are you alright?” Molly asked again and felt a ripple of worry. Something was wrong.

  Jake shook his head, and half-smiled.

  “I can't hear you.” He gestured to his ears. “I can't hear anything at all.”

  Molly stared at him in shock. She reached up and touched the side of his face. Her fingers came away covered in blood.

  “What did you do to yourself?” she gasped.

  “It's okay, Molly,” he whispered. “It doesn't matter.”

  “It does!” Molly protested, and even though he couldn't hear her, he understood.

  He shook his head, and he took her hand in his. “It was worth it,” he said gently. “To me, you're worth everything. I had to come. You were right, Molly. Right about me. I can fight, after all.” He smiled ruefully. “But I need you with me. You're my reason for fighting.”

  Molly smiled up at him, and Jake leaned down to take her in his arms.

  A shot exploded, shaking the walls, making the air around them vibrate. Molly felt pain pierce her arm, looked down and saw red spilling from her shoulder.

  “You're hurt!” Jake grunted. His voice sounded strangled.

  “No, it's okay. It just grazed me.”

  Molly looked up. It was only then that she saw the small round hole in his chest.

  It wept blood.

  Such a small thing. Such a small, red circle. Just big enough to rip all the hope and joy from Molly's world.

  Jake was looking down at it, too, and when their eyes met, he lifted up his hands. There was no shock on his face. Not even pain. Just a look of tiredness, and exasperation.

  “I tried,” his eyes said to her. “I did everything I could.”

  Even before his eyes had closed, Molly saw the darkness wash over him. She only just managed to catch him as he fell face forward toward the floor.

  Molly had never known fear until that moment. Never known sorrow, or grief. All the emotio
ns she had experienced up until now had been shadows, reflections a thousand times distilled.

  Weightless.

  They meant nothing, were worth nothing. Now was the first time she had ever felt the full weight of sorrow, and her heart burst open at the seams as it stretched its arms wide, and tried to hold it.

  “Jake!” she screamed, and in her voice, at that moment, every ounce of power that she had ever felt, every moment of pain, of joy . . . every song she'd ever sung, came boiling to the surface, and her voice rang, beautiful and terrible in the same instant.

  “Don't!” she screamed. “Don't leave me!”

  Troy had pushed himself up from the ground unnoticed, and now limped toward her, his gun pointing at her. He leered at her, as though he could frighten her. As though the gun gave him some kind of power . . . he didn't understand that he could do nothing worse to her now. Molly was hardly aware of his presence. For her, the whole universe had shrunk down to the hand she held to Jake's throat, trying to tell if his heart was still beating.

  But even through the fog of that panic, something reached Molly. And Troy, too. He looked up, away from her. Suddenly frightened. In a single instant, all the screaming and wailing in the outer cavern ceased.

  Silence filled the cave.

  Evie

  She opened her eyes, and everything felt unfamiliar.

  The bed she was lying on felt strangely lumpy. Her hair lay in a tangled mass over her eyes. For a moment, she remembered absolutely nothing.

  “Evie,” she whispered to herself after a moment. That was her name. Or had been? Or would be? Everything seemed so fuzzy.

  It was coming back, but for some reason, her memories were playing slowly, jerkily, like outdated black and white films. Evie pushed herself up to sitting and immediately pitched face forward, barely catching herself before she fell face forward off the bed. There was a lot of weight behind her that she wasn't used to maneuvering. Without thinking, Evie put her hand behind her.

  Her fingers touched leather, smooth and warm.

  “Oh!” Memory rushed back to her, and Evie stood up, staring around her in confusion. Her wings rose up behind her, spreading out of their own accord. It was only then that she noticed the small form sprawled on a pile of blankets by her bedside. The child with long black hair and night-black wings sat up and rubbed her eyes wearily.

  “You have awakened,” she commented, smiling, though her voice not quite managing to be cheerful. “It is early.”

  Evie stared at the girl wordlessly.

  “I am Nomi,” the girl explained. “My father sent me to keep you company till you woke.”

  “Your voice is so beautiful!” Evie said wonderingly.

  Nomi smiled more earnestly and tucked her hair behind her ears. “Thank you,” she said. “My father has always said so.”

  “Am I . . .” Evie looked around her, confused. She was trying so hard to remember. It had all seemed so clear before . . .

  “You are not hurt,” Nomi said firmly, taking her hand and gently pushing her back to sit on the bed. “Remember? You are one of our own people, now. You don't have to be frightened of my voice . . . it cannot harm you.”

  “Not at all?” Evie asked softly, embarrassed to sound so much like a child, but Nomi didn't seem to notice.

  “Not at all,” she said firmly. “Only the King's voice is powerful enough to impose his will on another of our kind. Now,” she said, looking at Evie in a very businesslike way, “How are you faring? The transformation took all the energy out of you, and you have slept for three days. I'm sure that it is confusing.”

  “Three days?” Evie shook her head. “All I remember is coming out of the water and . . . and I . . .” She looked at Nomi with dawning wonder on her face. “I flew!”

  “Yes,” Nomi said, her voice a little clipped. “Even when we tried to call you back. You ignored us. We were all so afraid that you would fall!”

  “But I didn't?” Evie said, trying to make her words sound like a statement, rather than a question, though in truth she didn't remember coming down at all.

  “No,” Nomi admitted it grudgingly. “Father would have called to you, but then you would have fallen for certain.”

  “Really?”

  “Ummhmm.” Nomi looked a little smug as she nodded; after all, the King was her father. “It isn't just for show that everybody falls on their faces in front of him. His voice is . . . powerful. Anyway, I need to get you some food. You are hungry, are you not?”

  Evie's hands fell to her stomach. It felt hollow and, now that she thought of it, aching.

  Nomi nodded wisely. “Always the same with you Newbies. You always wake up starving after the change.”

  “Do you do this often?” Evie asked, her voice climbing several octaves.

  “In the last century, counting you, we have done this exactly twice. Twice in the last year, actually. I think Father's getting a little soft-hearted. You stay here, and I'll bring you something.”

  A few moments later Nomi bustled back into the room, baring a small round platter heaped with food. Evie took it and ate from it, and for a moment they sat together in companionable silence.

  “What is that?” Nomi said, rising from where she had been sitting against the wall and moving to peer out the window. “I can't imagine why they are making so much noise . . .”

  Then Evie saw her whole body tense, and her wings spread out defensively behind her.

  “Oh, no!” she cried. “It's Father!” She was gone in an instant, streaking out the door and down the hallway. Evie hurried to follow.

  By the time she got outside, a crowd had gathered. Evie hung back, watching as Nomi pushed through the crowd toward her father, who was being supported by everyone who could get a hand close enough to hold him. His face was pained, and his white feathers were stained with red. Nomi stood, pressing her father's hand to her forehead while tears coursed down her cheeks.

  “Who has dared to wound you, Father?” she asked, the formal words doing nothing to diminish the emotion in her voice. “Tell me who they are, so that I may lay them at your feet, to serve you forever in payment for their crime!”

  “We will go and seek them, daughter. Do not worry. But first I must heal. The wound tears when I try to fly and Malachai has had to support me.” It was only then that Evie noticed that they were standing at the side of the same pool, shaped like a teardrop, that she had found healing in just nights before.

  “Simon! Oriel! I have need of you,” the King called, and two of the Watchers separated from the crowd and presented themselves to the King. “You must stand guard, while I am in the waters,” the King said, his voice rough with pain. “You must ensure that Malachai does not stir from this spot.”

  “My King!” Malachai cried, but the King ignored him. “Restrain him physically, if my command is not enough.” The two nodded, and though they shot confused glances at each other, they did not question the King.

  “Please, my Lord!” Malachai protested, and the King turned to him.

  “I have given my word,” he said wearily. “You will stay at my side until I am sure the danger has passed.”

  Malachai bowed his head and did not speak again as the King went and lowered himself into the pool. Evie saw that, just as it had for her, the surface of the pool immediately crusted over, sealing the King inside its healing waters. Nomi knelt by its side, leaning close so that she could glimpse her father's form through the cloudy shell. Malachai stood with a guard on either side of him, shoulders slumped. A moment later Evie noticed silent tears running down his face.

  Not knowing why, she found herself inching closer to him. There was something strangely familiar about his face, his shoulder-length blonde hair. . .

  “It's you!” she cried, shock running through her. “You’re Roman's brother!”

  Malachai looked up at her, and at first, his eyes did not focus. Then he saw her and stood up a little straighter.

  “The girl from class?” he said, c
onfused. “And you are one of us now?” His face clouded with confusion, and just at that moment, there was a great cracking sound.

  She turned to see the King pushing himself out of the shell that covered the surface of the water.

  “Gather every member of my personal guard to me!” he roared as he stepped, dripping, from the pool. “Now! We go NOW!” Evie shrank back from him, moving so that she was concealed behind a pillar. The sound of his fury made her tremble. “Evie, you too must accompany us.”

  “Evie has only just awakened, Father!” Nomi protested. “She will barely have the strength to fly!”

  “That girl is stronger than you know, daughter.” The King's voice softened as he looked down at Nomi. “And for her own sake, she must come.”

  Before Evie knew what was happening, she was flying through the air, surrounded by furiously beating wings. The thirty members of the King's personal guard were arrayed around him in the air, muscular men with fury in their eyes, and a few wiry women with weapons strapped to their sides. Malachai flew just a little behind them, his two guards still flanking him. As they flew, the King shouted to them, giving them instructions, explaining what they might find and what they must do. Evie tried to understand, tried to process all the information he called over to her, but her mind still felt halting and confused.

  And then there were caves, and stone walls, and the sounds of hundreds of people wailing and flailing on the ground. The King led the way into the chamber, and for a second all of them stood, frozen in horror, looking at what had been done to their servants. The wriggling figures on the floor all turned, crying out, craning their heads to look up at the King.

  “Shhhhhhhh,” he whispered to them gently, and immediately they were all perfectly still. Their faces slackened, and peace filled their eyes. “Come,” the King said, his voice barely audible, motioning to his guards. As he had commanded, Evie fell to the back, where she had been ordered to stay hidden in shadow.

  The room that they entered seemed to be filled with wax figures, the four forms that they found there held motionless by the sight that suddenly burst in on them. Evie pulled up short, stopping just inside the entrance of the cave, feeling her whole body tremble.