by C. L. Roman
“And you should have known that your mental presence could make a noise that she would hear,” Volot said. “You were supposed to know that a new born infant would, within hours, have attained the growth of a three-year-old child, who spoke like an adult?”
Confused by what felt like an attack, Danae sat up. “No, but I…”
“You’ve encountered living beings, both angel and human, in other seeings, haven’t you?” he interrupted. At her uncertain nod, he continued, “And they couldn’t see you or hear you?”
“Certainly,” she agreed, “but…”
“None of us have ever dealt with a situation like this, where one of the Fallen had possession of an angel’s heart, in a pendant, no less. We didn’t know why he took it, let alone what it might be used for, but apparently you think you should have.” He gave her a quizzical look. “Tell me, Danae, are you omniscient that you should have known all this, when no one else had a clue?”
“That’s enough, Volot,” tension showed in Fomor’s quiet statement and Volot smiled crookedly at his captain.
“No, I don’t think it is. It takes a great deal of arrogance to think you should know everything, be able to control every situation. Who knows that better than I?”
He jerked to his feet, waving away Danae’s incoherent murmur of protest with an impatient hand. “Tell me Danae,” he asked, “do you really feel yourself to be so much above the rest of us?”
Danae buried her face in her hands and wept.
“Volot,” Fomor snapped. “I said that’s enough.”
Volot’s face softened and he shook his head. “You aren’t protecting her from the real danger here, you know. She can’t carry this. None of us could, but especially not her.” He looked down at Danae’s bent head with a wistful half smile and left the fire abruptly, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as if he wanted to hit something but lacked an opponent.
Fomor looked at his wife helplessly, warring needs plain on his face. Comfort her, or follow Volot’s clumsy attempt to cut out the cancer of guilt cleanly? Which will serve her best? Her sobs mingled with the crackle of the dying fire while the night birds held their breath and he sent up a silent prayer for wisdom. Finally, he sat down beside her and pulled her close. She gave no resistance and her sobbing settled into hiccupping sniffles.
“Danae, let me ask you this,” he murmured in a voice like ripples on a pond, “if it were anyone else, if it had happened the same way to any of the rest of us, would you blame us the way you are blaming yourself?”
She didn’t answer but buried her face in his neck and after a moment, he continued.
“False guilt can be seductive. It gives us the illusion that we have control of an uncontrollable situation. And not having control is much more frightening than simply accepting that there was truly nothing we could have done, because, if we can convince ourselves that there was something we could have done, then it gives us hope that in the next crisis, we can do better, do more, win, in our own strength, on our own terms.”
“Volot thinks I’m arrogant,” she whispered hoarsely.
Fomor snorted. “Well, no one ever accused Volot of being delicate in his approach to anything.” He tilted her head back and looked into her wet, moss colored eyes. “Perhaps you aren’t arrogant, love, so much as you are desperate to be able to change what cannot be changed.” She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek to his chest.
“One thing is certain,” he said at last, “guilt will destroy you from the inside out. Let that happen, and the monster wins. You can’t change the past, but you do have control over your own heart.” He tipped her face up again and kissed her mouth with gentle lips. “Forgive yourself Danae. You are the only one who hasn’t found you innocent in this.”
Fomor hugged her tight one more time before standing and extending his arms in an elaborate stretch. He held out a hand to her, “I’m going to bed. Are you coming?”
She put her hand in his and squeezed briefly before letting go. “In a few minutes,” the smile she gave him trembled briefly and then firmed, begging him to understand, to give her the time she needed now.
He returned the smile and left, entering their home a few steps away. She sat facing the fire, her back to her own front door. The moon rose and the stars cast a benevolent light, pairing their protective gaze with the one that watched, patiently, from the darkened window. He knew this was a peace she had to make within herself, but he would feel himself as damned as one of the Fallen if he let her do it alone.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The smoke of their arrival had barely begun to clear before Molek barked out his first order. “Peg the captives to a tree or something and guard them while I carve out a suitable space.”
Without waiting for a reply he was gone again, the air tainted by his passage. Benat dropped his pack and glared at his surroundings. The clearing was a mere gap in the forest that skirted the feet of a group of low hills like a tattered blanket. Trees bent overhead, their branches hung with moss, until they looked like a group of old greybeards grumbling together over an unwanted visitor. Scrub and brush filled the spaces in between, encompassing the tiny glade as effectively as a wicker fence.
Opening one of the bags, he dumped the captives onto the ground with rough impatience. Kefir and the others fell out of the sack, gasping and groaning. There was a dry, snapping sound as an older boy landed on the leg of the youngest child who screamed in pain. Kefir scuttled closer and pulled the sobbing boy into his arms. He looked around the clearing, relaxing slightly as he spotted Ziva. The rest of the children were too sick and weary to make much noise.
“Papa said to tie them up.” Astarte sat, ankles crossed, hands folded in her lap, on a convenient outcropping of rock.
“Papa,” Benat cursed as he struggled with the knot on the other bag, “says a lot of things. They’re fine. Where are they going to go?”
The girl rolled her eyes and shrugged her tiny shoulders. “I don’t know. But Papa usually has a good reason for telling you to do something. And,” a malicious gleam appeared in her dark eyes, “he tends to be very good at making you pay when you are disobedient.”
Dropping to one knee, Benat kept his resentful gaze trained on the bag. It would take only one cry from the nasty little infant-child to bring Molek tearing back. A distraction was needed.
Unnoticed, Kefir gently pushed the injured boy into another’s arms and began inching toward Ziva, all the while looking from Benat to Astarte and back again.
Benat forced a smile, “Would the little goddess like to play a game?”
“What kind of game?” Eyebrows raised, the child hopped off the rock.
“Tag, I think they call it. One person is “it” and the others run from her. The one she tags is “it” in turn.”
The interest in her eyes began to cool. “Papa says I never have to run from anybody. And your legs are much longer than mine. It wouldn’t be fair. Besides, who would want to touch you?” A snort of disgust accompanied the last remark and Astarte turned back towards her seat.
Stifling the irritation her words sparked, Benat casually studied his nails. “Very well. Your choice, of course. But Benat wasn’t suggesting you play with his humble self, no.”
She snorted again. “Who then? The food?” But she turned around and was looking at the four children curiously.
He stifled a yawn. “No, Benat supposes you’re right. Though Benat must say, when Benat watched them playing before the attack they did seem to enjoy the game. Benat thinks it is much like hunting – then again…”
The baby-child clapped her hands in glee. “Papa won’t take me hunting yet. He says I’m too small. Yes, yes! I want to play.”
Benat pasted a worried look over his grin and shook his head doubtfully. “Oh no, Benat didn’t know your father had forbidden it. We must obey him in all things. We can’t—”
“Coward,” she sneered. “Moments ago you were so brave, leaving them untied against his express ord
ers. He hasn’t forbidden playing, only hunting.” She pointed an accusing finger at him. “You said this was a game.”
“Well,” he hesitated and she resorted to sweetness and light.
“Please Uncle Benat. Papa won’t mind. You know he lets me do whatever I want.”
“Benat is not sure.”
“Please, please? I’ll let you play too,” her glance turned sly. “You can even eat the first one you catch.”
Given this temptation what could he do but give in? He smiled at her and set about kicking the children to their feet. It took only a moment more to have four “prey” running around the glade in terror, pursued by Astarte.
“I’m never going to stop being “it” though,” she cried. Despite being less than half their size, Astarte had little trouble catching, and biting her first victim. Their starved, terrified condition, combined with her unnatural strength, made the contest unequal, cruel from the start. In her excitement she barely fed before racing off after another of the children. Her first “catch” lay moaning, bleeding into the grass.
Benat made a short pretense of joining in but quickly dropped out. He had places to be, his own victims to hunt and above all, a life he intended to keep living. Wrapping his talons around Ziva’s arm, he looked at the remaining bag, still closed, wriggling now as the children inside reacted to the screams of their friends. A quick glance at the mayhem he had created told him that it would be over in a few seconds more. Already Astarte had caught her second prize. Only two remained to run from her. Wait – two…
“What is going on here?” The enraged roar interrupted Benat’s thoughts. Snapping his head in the direction of the sound, he saw Molek with a cave entrance behind him where none had existed before. Desperate now, he renewed his grip on Ziva’s arm and lifted his foot to step into the Shift.
A short, brown flash of fists, anger and teeth cannoned into the lesser demon, knocking him to the ground. Suddenly finding herself free, Ziva scuttled backwards on hands and knees, stopping only when she reached the brush cluttered edge of the clearing.
“You let her go,” Kefir was a whirlwind – kicking, punching, biting, scratching – using every attack to put distance between Ziva and the enemy. He grabbed the chain Benat always wore around his neck and twisted. He would strangle the bloodsucking…
Benat cast the boy into the dirt easily, but his chance was lost. Molek watched, laughing.
“Leaving us, were you Benat? And without saying goodbye?” He shook his head, tsking in mock reproof. “Such rude behavior.” His sword slithered free of the scabbard, a gleaming, winking evil in the gloomy half-light of the forest.
Benat lurched to his feet, drew his sword and backed up – terror pressing him into motion that was nearly graceful in its haste. Ziva scrambled towards Kefir, throwing herself into his arms.
Astarte dropped the last child and wiped the stream of blood from her lips. “It was his idea, Father. He said it was a game.”
Molek looked at his daughter with distaste. “We don’t play with our food Astarte. It’s undignified.” Seeing her crestfallen look, he relented. “But you weren’t to know that darling. You’re only a child.”
She smiled at him brightly and, dragging the fourth child with her, went to watch the proceedings from her rock.
“You,” Molek pointed the tip of his sword at Benat, “should really know better though. You are a bad influence Benat. And we can’t have that, can we?”
Looking into his master’s eyes, Benat saw his own destruction written in blood. Knowing that if he hesitated he was doomed, Benat screamed his defiance, raised his own sword and charged the larger demon as if making a desperate frontal assault. Though unafraid, Molek was too experienced a warrior not to take a naked blade seriously. He planted his feet, brought his own weapon up and met – nothing.
Black smoke dirtied the air, but the lesser demon was gone. Molek stared from the black smudge to his daughter. With a sigh he realized he couldn’t leave her here to chase down the traitor. She was safe enough from the prey, but there was no doubt that Fomor was still looking for him, and her. No telling what they might do if they found her unprotected with three, no four, dead bodies at her feet.
A ripple of disgust crossed his features as he watched her consume the last of her snack. Blood dribbled down her chin; her tunic, torn and filthy now from her little game of tag, pinched at the arms and stretched taut over her belly. Her hair hung in limp tangles and she was barefoot, having lost her sandals along with her dignity in the chase.
“I told you not to eat so much. Look at you. You’re the size of a human five-year-old now.”
The sated smile she sent him curdled in the air, replaced by a sob. “You said it wasn’t my fault,” she wailed.
Rolling his eyes, Molek walked over and scooped her into his arms. “Of course it wasn’t sweet thing. But if you want to have a childhood of any length you have to stop eating all the time. You grow half a cubit every time you feed, you know you do.”
“But I get so hungry.” She sniffed and buried her sweaty face in his shoulder, clinging as he would have put her back on her rock.
“Let go, child. Let go.” He pushed her away and ignored the reproachful look she sent him.
As Molek taunted Benat, Kefir closed the flap of his poke over the gleam of metal inside and settled the small bag further back on his hip. Taking a deep breath, he slipped over to the pack the lesser demon had abandoned. No time, he thought, no time. They’ll only be distracted for a moment.
A full scabbard hung from a loop on the side, but he pushed it out of the way to get at the item he sought. In seconds a dagger was in his hand. He crabbed sideways, carefully watching his captors all the while, and began working the knife under the bag’s cord. A whimper came from inside and he sent an agonized glance at Molek’s back, but Benat’s scream of challenge covered the sound, and the elder demon didn’t turn.
“Sssh,” Kefir hissed, “it’s me.” Seconds later he dropped the cut cord and opened the sack. The children inside stared up at him as he raised a finger to his lips and shot a warning look at the enemy. Thankful that Molek appeared too involved with his daughter to pay any attention to his food supply, Kefir motioned the children out of the sack. Ziva slipped up beside him, clasped the hand of the nearest captive and eased her free. With help, the others followed, slipping one by one into the scrub at the edge of the clearing.
Urging Ziva ahead of him, he made for the forest himself, then hesitated, looking back at the sword he had pushed aside so impatiently. Gant’s words whispered in his mind.
“Once you’ve held it, it knows you. Knows your intentions and your heart. Wield it for the right reasons, and it will always be your friend.”
The boy remembered the heft and weight of the weapon, how it had sung when he slashed through the air, pretending to be a great warrior. It had felt like a friend then. You didn’t leave friends behind.
A quick look verified Molek’s attention remained on his daughter. Shaking off Ziva’s restraining hand he ran back and grabbed the sword, nearly dropping it when the blade seemed to leap in his hand. In the space of three heartbeats he had slung the scabbard across his back and rejoined the girl. The two joined hands and slipped into the forest after their friends.
The seven had not gone twenty cubits before a howl of fury shook the forest.
“Run,” Kefir shouted, grabbing Ziva’s hand in his.
They ran.
Behind them in the clearing Molek stood, shaking with wrath, facing another of the Master’s sniveling underlings.
“I have to go after him, Loku.” Molek spread his hands wide. “He has something the Master will want.”
“Benat will be dealt with in due time.” Slender, red skinned and fine boned, Loku was made for speed. Even now he stood with wings extended, the fine strands of straight black hair lifting on the breeze as if already in flight. He smiled and looked down at Astarte. “Right now, you have something the Master wants.”
Molek stole a glance at his daughter. “She’s only a child.”
Loku only shrugged in reply and Molek knew he had no choice. He lifted his sword, angling it as if to put it back in the sheath. He allowed his hand to shake as if in anger or fear and sent a resentful glance at Loku. Idiot. Bringing his other hand up, supposedly to steady the first, he closed his fingers firmly about the hilt. The muscles of his shoulders tensed as his stance shifted, braced.
Loku had only an instant to divine Molek’s true intent, and by then it was too late. The blade flashed, cutting through muscle, tendon and bone. The head spun, blood sizzled and sprayed. In a heartbeat there was nothing left of Loku but a pile of dust. Molek stared a moment into the forest, but dared waste no time searching for the missing children. The Master was not a patient entity; he would expect Loku back soon. The demon, now twice a renegade, grabbed Astarte’s hand and the clearing was empty but for the last smudges of black smoke on the evening air.
Near the mouth of the cave Molek had created, a shower of sparks filled the air as Gant stepped out of the Shift, sword in hand, battle ready. Staring around the now empty glade he realized that he had, once again, missed his quarry. Seeing the broken bodies of the children he crossed to them and knelt. Sobs rose in his throat as he felt for each pulse, and found none. Finding the last of the four draped carelessly over a boulder, Gant knew himself defeated on every count.
Four more children dead and Sena still in a glass box. It was too much to be borne. On his knees, Astarte’s latest victim cradled in his arms, Gant threw his head back and howled.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Morning sunlight streamed through the window and hammered on the door post. Fomor couldn’t help but smile at Danae’s grumble of irritation. It had taken her a long time to come in from the moonlit dark. He didn’t blame her for pulling the pillow over her head and pleading for “five more minutes” before she must face reality again.
