by C. L. Roman
When the coffin was finished he worked quickly along the sides, carving with his fingertips interlacing ribbons without beginning or end. Blood streaked the furrows and was absorbed into the glass, turning it a clear, rosy gold along each deeply etched edge.
On the top, over her torso, he carved a great tree, its branches laden with fruit, with a lion resting to one side of its trunk beside a sleeping lamb. He stood back then, hands streaming, the bones smoking black through tattered flesh, and looked at her through the glass he and his fellows had made, and the singing stopped. Silence stretched and thinned the air around them as the unit stood sentinel for what seemed like hours to Danae.
She did not recognize the sound at first, though it grated across her nerves like slabs of rock sliding against each other, or an enormous piece of metal being ripped in half. She turned towards the dissonance and saw Gant, his chest heaving and tears streaming down his cheeks, giving full vent to his grief at last. Closing his ravaged hand into a fist, he brought it down hard on the thick glass directly over the place where her heart should have been. Tiny fissures sprang outward from the bloody fist, racing across the top of the casket like drunken spiders on a rampage. His friends sprang forward as one and each placed a hand on the glass. A brief glow sprang from hand to hand, then inward, chasing the spiders back along their paths, leaving perfection in their wake.
Phaella gently lifted her brother’s fist from the casket and he sank to his knees, cradling both hands against his chest.
Danae sprang forward. “How bad…” she tried to tug one hand free to examine it, but Phaella pushed her gently away.
“There is nothing you can do for him. His hands will heal,” she murmured.
“Nothing – I saw charred bones, Phaella, even angels can’t…”
Phaella just smiled, her mouth quirking up in a fashion that somehow indicated both humor and exhaustion. “He sleeps, see? And already, the bones turn white again.”
Danae looked and swallowed back nausea. But Phaella was right. Though grotesque to look at, the bones she could still see through the rapidly healing flesh were a proper hue; white, laced with the yellower tones of tendon and fat. Threadlike blood vessels raced along the injury while muscle followed, struggling to keep up.
The human woman looked up at the angelic one and asked, “Didn’t it,” she hesitated, pointing at the casket and groping for the right words, “making this…wasn’t it painful?”
Another smile, this one full of sorrow, touched Phaella’s lips. “Not nearly so much as seeing her lying there is.”
Chapter Twenty
Benat could feel the smile tugging at his lips. It couldn’t be helped, despite certain annoyances. The screams were too delectable. And the fire! Oh it was lovely to see an entire village burn. He held one clawed hand out in front of him, noting with satisfaction that after the feedings tonight he wouldn’t need to work so hard to maintain a decent appearance. He touched the small leather bag hanging around his neck. And who knows what this treasure will do for Benat, he thought.
He toyed with the bag while casually, almost gently, reaching out to grasp the arm of a woman running past him. Fighting his hold, she wailed in horror. He snatched her off her feet, into his lap and held her there while he stroked her hair and forced her gaze to meet his. Her struggles, though entertainingly strong at first, relaxed slowly as he looked into her eyes. He marveled again at the ease with which he could bend a human, especially one distraught or fearful, to his will.
“There now,” he whispered, “No need to fear Benat, no need for screaming and running.” Molek is cruel, but he has taught Benat much, the demon mused as he caressed the woman into quiescence. He had never known there could be such pleasure in eliciting trust only to betray it suddenly, in the most satisfying of ways. The luring and killing is fun, but looking into their eyes while they let you eat them – that is perfect.
Toying with a lock of her hair, he murmured soothingly, “All will be well, dear one. Benat will take the best care of you. And you, you will love Benat, won’t you?”
Mesmerized, the woman nodded, smiling in the fashion of a dreamer caught between sleeping and waking in a familiar bed. Around them men shouted, children wailed and women screamed as Nephel’s village burned, but the woman appeared to hear nothing, see nothing, except the beautiful disguise of the demon.
Absently running his hands over the female’s body, Benat noticed dark shapes flitting amongst the bright shadows. Molek has called in additional guests, Benat reflected. One, two, three – at least four shadows moved out there, spreading carnage through the burning village. A malicious smirk pushed at his lips as he noted that every time a shape stopped a human screamed and fell, bleeding, to the ground. He glanced back down at his captive. Catastrophe danced among the flames, but, caught in the heat of Benat’s stare, the woman did not notice.
Leaning down, Benat touched his lips gently to hers and she kissed him back, tentatively at first and then with increasing passion. He slid his hands over her and she arched in pleasure, moaning against his lips. He pulled back slightly and she protested. His talons slid delicately over her breast and she licked her lips in anticipation.
“A pity Benat does not have time to play with you first. But you understand, Benat is hungry,” he whispered against her ear. A lascivious shudder passed through her as he bent to kiss her neck. It was only when his fangs sank deep into her flesh, ripping out the still pumping artery, with her own life blood spraying her face that she came back to herself. But by then it was too late even to scream.
Benat fed deep, draining the woman completely. As he dumped the body into the darkness at his feet, he caught a spark of light reflected from the burning village. Curious, Benat reached down and groped at the corpse. With a soft sound of pleasure, he plucked three gold bracelets from the woman’s arm. Certainly Benat can make something from these, he thought. Smiling, he wiped his streaming mouth with the back of his hand and tucked the bracelets into the pouch at his neck. With a sigh of satisfaction he relaxed back against a nearby tree, melting into the shadows once more. It really was a shame that Molek had ordered all the children to be saved for Astarte. Benat wants dessert and little girls, especially, are so sweet.
He sighed. Ah well, he’d have to content himself with the pretty little thing careening towards him now. Really, this is almost too easy, he thought as his hand snaked out to grasp the running girl’s wrist. Ooh, such a beauty, this one is! She might even be worth holding onto for a while. After all, Benat does not want to get fat.
He snatched her off her feet and into his lap, enjoying her screams of terror even as he smiled into her face and stroked her hair. “There now, no need for all of that.” Her struggles faded as he caressed her cheek. “All will be well dear one, Benat will take the best care of you. And you will love Benat, won’t you?”
Ziva blinked slowly and nodded, smiling back at him as she reached up to stroke his jaw.
***
Danae and Shahara were silent as they made their way along the path to the village, each lost in her own memories of the previous evening. None of what they had seen seemed possible, yet they had lived it, and so, must believe it happened. Shahara stopped, reached across the space between them to lay a warning hand on her sister’s arm.
“What?” Danae looked at the younger woman and then followed her gaze ahead and upward to the thin streaks of black smoke smudging the early morning sky, too much and too dark for the smoke of a cook-fire. For the first time Danae noticed the silence of the forest around them, and a strange smell on the air. Feeling a sudden, cold fist of dread clench inside her chest, Danae took a tighter grasp on the basket of fruit she carried and sprinted down the path with Shahara close behind her. The sight that met their eyes at the path’s end drove the young women to their knees, their baskets dropping unheeded to the ground.
Morning light streamed over the ruined village in a mockery of hope. Blood and bodies lay scattered across the square. Smoke d
rifted skyward from the charred remnants of ruined houses and silence sat over the wreckage, bleak and stolid as a carrion crow.
Fighting back shock and sorrow, the two moved through the village like living ghosts. Everywhere the stains of violence abounded. Here lay a woman with her clothes nothing more than shredded rags, her throat ripped open and her face a mask of horror. There – a child, fallen in a pale, bloody heap, limbs tangled and twisted like a broken doll. Danae collapsed by the tiny body, sobbing as she gently straightened his arms and legs, combed her fingers through the tangled curls so like Nephel’s.
Danae struggled to her feet. “Father,” she cried, running towards Nephel’s home.
“Danae!” Shahara’s anguished cry came from the village center and suddenly Danae did not want to turn around, did not want to see what her sister had found. Shahara’s sobs pulled at her, an irresistible force, and her feet obeyed the summons against her volition. The world slowed, moments ticked by in a sluggish haze. Shahara knelt next to a red and gray pile of rags and Danae felt a trickle of relief slide through her heart.
“What is it Shahara?” she asked, approaching to lay a hand of comfort on the other woman’s shoulder. Shahara pointed and Danae looked at the rags in dull obedience.
Recognition punched a hole in her lungs and she sank to the ground on knees that suddenly would not support her weight. The rags had once been a tunic she had made for her Father, the red blotches and streaks he had provided himself, defending their Mother. Nephel lay over Naomi’s body, as if protecting her even in death, his body crisscrossed with a mass of deep slashes. His fist was still clenched tight around the hilt of his sword, but even the addition of a dagger in his other hand had not been enough to save him.
His daughters pushed the two bodies apart; laid Nephel on his back and crossed his arms over his chest. As they straightened Naomi out, they saw that, unlike the others they had seen, the skin of her throat was pale and smooth, untouched by violence. Instead, blood drenched her chest around a simple eating knife, still embedded in her flesh. The blade was her own.
“I don’t understand,” Shahara choked out, tears streaming down her cheeks. “She was killed with her own knife?”
Danae shook her head. “She took her own life.”
Shahara stared at her sister, “That is impossible. Our mother would never do that.”
Closing shock deadened eyes against sights she could no longer stand to see, Danae shook her head again, “Neither would she allow herself to become food for demons.”
“But Father would have protected her.”
Danae’s eyes snapped open, “He died trying to protect her. Can you not see? He could not win against this enemy. By taking her own life, she thought to free him to flee.” Her voice quieted, but her smile was bitter as she continued, “She knew he would not, but she had to give him the chance.”
“You don’t know that! How can you know that?” Shahara sobbed.
Danae didn’t answer, but pondered to herself how much she would give in this case, not to have the knowledge that burdened her now. She had shared only the smallest part of the terrible events that had flashed before her mind’s eye when she touched Nephel’s body. She would not inflict this knowledge on others if she could help it. She had not even meant to open herself to it, but, with her father’s body in her arms, the images had flooded past her defenses. Even now the screams, the blood, the terror of what had passed reverberated through her mind, shrouding her spirit in a cobweb of horror.
A flash of wings brought a momentary brightening of the air as Fomor and Volot dropped to the ground next to their wives. Fomor held his dagger ready in one hand and pulled Danae into the protective circle of his other arm. Volot held out his hand to Shahara and, after a moment’s hesitation, she collapsed, sobbing, against his chest. The angels were silent as they took in the scene. When they were certain no threat remained, they sheathed their weapons.
After several minutes, Volot said, “Molek.”
“Yes, but not just him,” Fomor responded.
“There were at least five, perhaps six,” Danae said, her words muffled against Fomor’s chest. He eased his hold and she turned in his arms to face the others. “Phaella wounded him badly. After suffering such an injury, he would have needed to feed.”
“This was not survival,” Volot said, “this was revenge.”
“And a way of gaining new followers.” Fomor was nearly vibrating with contained rage. “If he comes after us alone, he risks destruction. But offer them easy meat...”
“And they will follow him, at least long enough for this,” Volot concluded.
Danae laid a cold hand against her husband’s cheek, needing his warmth. “By coming after the village he gains revenge and binds others to his cause with blood – both without any risk to himself at all.”
“You think he’s abandoned Lucky?” Volot’s skepticism showed clearly in his tone.
“Not necessarily,” Fomor replied, “In truth, it makes no difference to us whether he is acting alone, or within Lucky’s orders.” He gestured to the carnage around them. “The results are the same.”
“We have to bury them,” Shahara broke in. “All of them, as soon as possible.”
Volot pulled her closer. “She is right. Already the crows have gathered. They wait only for our departure to take up their work.”
Fomor looked around the decimated village. The sullen squawks of impatient scavengers floated irritably on the breeze. Bodies lay in every direction. He closed his eyes for a moment. Even with angelic strength and speed they would need help for this task and the remaining siblings would have to be told. Opening his eyes, he looked at Volot.
“Go – tell the others,” he said, raising his hand to stop Volot’s instinctive protest. “Take Shahara with you. She will want to tell her brothers and sister this news in person. Danae and I will begin the preparation of the bodies.”
Volot’s protest died on his lips. Instead of speaking, he looked at Shahara. Her lips trembled and tears stood in her eyes, but she nodded. In a rush of feathers they were gone, leaving Danae and Fomor to begin the formidable task of gathering and identifying the bodies for burial.
Fomor moved about the ruined village, gathering the bodies of the dead. His face was set in a mask of control, but tears streaked down his cheeks as he carried each person to a shady clearing and laid them on the cool grass. He stood over the torn body of an old man and looked around the glade, remembering how short a time it had been since a wedding had been held in this same place. The irony tasted bitter in his mouth.
It felt wrong to look into the faces of the dead, as if he were staring into some unspeakably private moment. They could not protect themselves, even as they had been unable to protect their lives. It took little effort to concentrate on his footing, their clothing, the dignified arrangement of their limbs as he lay them down. It seemed such a small thing, to help preserve their dignity in death. He could give them that much at least.
Danae had just begun to ease the garments from her mother’s body and felt, rather than saw, Adahna land beside her.
“What can I do?” Her voice was quiet, grief filled but controlled.
Danae stopped. “We need privacy. Magnus and Zam should prepare the men’s bodies. Gwyneth, Shahara and I will care for the women. There may be some cloth, somewhere? We could make a…” she trailed off, unable to find the proper words.
Adahna understood. “I will find a way,” she said, and was gone. Moments later, she and Jotun were back with long leafy branches and vines. Together, moving at speeds only angels can manage, they put together two temporary shelters, open to the sky but screened on all sides, with a rough table in the center of each. Their task complete, the pair flew off in separate directions to get Magnus, Zam and Shahara. This was too big a job for one person to handle alone.
Phaella approached, her arms laden with a mass of soft, white cloth. Danae looked at her in surprise.
“Where – how…”
She couldn’t think of the right question to ask.
Phaella shook her head. “I made it,” she said simply. “I thought – Sena and Gant would have wanted a wedding canopy. This was to be my gift to them. Now…” she trailed off. After a small silence she continued, “It won’t be enough, but I will work on finding or making more.” She looked out over the clearing, now burdened with rows of the dead; each one placed gently, arms crossed over chests, eyes closed. Her gaze sharpened suddenly.
“Danae, where are the children?”
The woman stared at her, uncomprehending. “The children?” she repeated.
“How many lived in this village?”
Danae gathered herself, concentrated. “Sixty – seventy maybe... We never had reason to count our people,” she said finally, “but what—”
Phaella cut her off impatiently. “And of those, how many were children?”
“I – I don’t know. Twenty or so, I think. Why? Why is this important?”
Phaella took the human woman by the shoulders and turned her so that she had to look at the bodies laid out on the grass. “And how many do you see among the dead?”
Danae forced herself to look, to count. “Only five – and none of them babies. There were three babies born in the last year. Where are they?”
Ignoring the question, which she had no answer for in any case, Phaella looked again at the children who had died. All five were in the same age range, between eleven and thirteen years. “The ones who are missing are the younger ones, yes? The ones who were most helpless, least able to fight back.”
Danae considered the question for a moment, then replied, “Yes. I think so. There were three babies under a year and then ten or twelve between the ages of two and ten. Give me a few minutes and I think I can give you a complete count.”
