Return of the Starchild (The Divine Inheritance Series Book 1)

by Catriona Murphy

  The main square had been transformed into a graveyard. Neatly, almost deliberately, was a mound of bodies piled in its centre. Slack and lifeless, with the onset greyness of death already in its early stages of decay that wafted out from it like heat from an oven, a host of crows had already descended, picking out the good parts and leaving the remainder for latecomers.

  Citizens were nowhere to be seen, and Seamus couldn’t blame them. Who would want to witness the Skinner’s latest perverse art project?

  Detective Wolfe was hunched over a body, extracting samples in deep concentration. Members of the Watch stood guard at all entrances to the main square, cornering off the crime scene.

  It broke before the Kingsguard. Seamus’s breath puffed the air as he swooped down from his horse, his grief of Cecile’s demise forgotten briefly in the face of such grisly work.

  As he entered the square with Jamel on his close left, the sound of beating hoofs reverberating off the cobblestones made him turn.

  Florin with a small entourage of agents tore down the high street to stop where Seamus halted. His face pale with fear and was prognostic. If it was any other time, Seamus may have teased him over it.

  He leapt from his horse with agility unexpected from a clean-shaven man who doesn’t personally operate in the field. Florin strode up to Seamus, but his eyes were nailed to the carnage that rose behind him like a hill of butchery.

  ‘The Skinner,’ he pronounced detachedly.

  ‘It would seem,’ Seamus responded, trying to read him.

  They proceeded to enter the main square delicately, avoiding areas where precious evidence may be tampered by their footing. The pile was surrounded by a large pool of blood that some of the crows took the liberty of bathing themselves in.

  Seamus put a cloth to his mouth.

  Constable Wolfe looked up, her mismatched eyes met Seamus and he read her anger and frustration in her expression. Cecile’s death had distracted him lately, and his regular meetings with the constable had become infrequent, his attention diverted from the Skinner. He sometimes wondered if his mind would not split into fragments from the many affairs and problems he had to juggle with on a daily basis.

  She bagged an item and handed it to a ranger. Pulling off her gloves, she said, ‘Welcome your highness, to the Skinner’s freak show. Tickets as you can see sold out like crazy.’

  He ignored the sarcasm, but he knew he was to blame for this.

  ‘When and how could one person assemble this? The Skinner is obviously being helped. Any witnesses come forward?’

  ‘Discovered.’ She threw her gloves into the blood splattered ground. ‘Barely half an hour ago. None saw anything, but unofficially the area was pushed out by protesters, even the rangers on duty couldn’t fight them all off and kept everyone out while the bodies were dragged in. Once the crowds got a sniff of that they were gone.’

  Seamus rubbed his face, his stubble itched his fingers. He had recently neglected shaving.

  ‘Witnesses? Constable Wolfe?’

  ‘No witnesses will come forward for this, your highness. They have been bribed, threatened or are being served to the crows high up there somewhere.’

  His eyes cast up the pile that nearly blotted out the sun.

  ‘Quick work,’ he muttered sourly.

  ‘Indeed. May I have a private word with your highness?’

  ‘You may,’ Seamus responded, gulping down acid reflux after glimpsing a few eyeballs missing in sockets. Being royal did not mean having a strong stomach.

  They stepped into a side alleyway, Jamel stood guard at the mouth.

  ‘I’ve been working on a theory,’ she started cautiously, looking down both entrances. ‘Beyond the Skinner and the protests, I think there is someone who—’

  Shouts and exclamations came from the square. They turned to look and Seamus entered a realm of Déjà vu.

  Some of the bodies began to jerk uncontrollably.

  ‘No.’ Seamus breathed.

  The great pile slowly, but then more quickly, began to collapse in on itself. Arms began grasping the stones and black eyes shone like obsidian marbles, bottomless pits of hunger. Moans and groans drifted up from nearly two hundred bodies that clawed and writhed like tortured souls imprisoned in the ninth circle of Hell. Gasping toothless mouths gulped on the cold air like they were searching for solace, some of them were sewn shut. Snow began to ebb down as though on cue and the dead clamoured and stood like puppets hung limply on strings. The stench of their withered flesh wafted powerfully from them, and Seamus gagged and nearly vomited.

  The undead amassed and tottered to stand like gawking silent spectres, shifting and struggled to position themselves from broken limbs or missing ones. Their tattered clothing was soiled from blood, urine and faeces. They were the faces of Erp Surrels’ citizens, the ones Seamus had failed.

  And the undead were men, women and some children with the same macabre symbols carved into them as the man in the warehouse.

  Jamel shoved him and Wolfe from the alleyway and his guard crunched around him like packed earth condensing into a planet.

  But the dead did not move, only stared. Stared through the forest of spears and armoured men to Seamus. Their blank black stares filled with apathy that lanced to his heart.

  Distant whines and cries could be heard. Screeching and scraping came from two of the leading streets into the square.

  A troop of undead lurched their way towards the main square like a mob in their hundreds. Symbols scarred grisly into their faces as though the carver was getting tired; the faces of fallen citizens. Some still held work tools and wore stained overalls, mothers held children's hands and prostitutes with their breasts marked with the wicked sigil. They all held the same fixed expression of detachment. The line of rangers shook once and then broke as they approached.

  ‘Soon the dead shall rise.’ Their voices chanted, though it was like they choked the words out, their former control over the chords of their voice boxes eroded or gone.

  Jamel grasped Seamus’s arm. ‘I’m not the type to say, ‘I told you so’, but your highness…’

  ‘I know,’ he replied. A part of him that had been running like a hamster in a wheel, trying to prevent an apocalyptic wave, felt defeated.

  His eyes fixed on the horde possessed, taking in exposed bones, torn flesh and sewn eye sockets. So many dead because of him, and he turned away in shame. He could no longer call himself king.

  He allowed the guard to rush him through the square. He heard Wolfe and Florin shouting, but they were drowned out like fireflies in a sea of chanting darkness.

  The heads of the undead in the square turned to follow him in frightening unison, as he was pushed up onto his horse.

  He snapped the reins. ‘What of the rangers? We need to signal for backup here!’ he shouted, his horse circled in his hesitation.

  Florin locked eyes with him. ‘Go!’ he roared. He’d never heard the man raise his voice but there was an all-powerful tone behind the hit, a note that made Seamus feel compelled to move. Without realising, he had snapped his reins on his horse and was taken from the blood red square in seconds.

  The streets had been completely abandoned and he sighted mauling hands protruding monstrously in a tiny graveyard halfway up the tiers, twitching with unnatural life.

  Seamus barked an order when he reached the palace gate. ‘No time for a blasted cabinet meeting, we’re shutting the entire city down - now!’

  The head of crown defense would enact on this crucial order, without even consulting the Minister for Defence.

  What Seamus didn’t realise however, was that the trap had been sprung, and he had been too blind and foolish to notice that the walls of his palace had been tumbling long before he ever saw the cracks. The fissures in his system had fractured into a full blown out cascade, and all would be swept in its tempest.

  ‘You’re going to tell me everything, right now, or I leave this blood
y headquarters place and don’t come back.’

  Iliana folded her arms, deliberately exuding a defensive, hostile energy as she glared at Terrence.

  Iliana told him the full story of what happened when they split at Sleepers Hill, he knew everything except how she came to be with Clio. When she told him of what happened to Zelda, his face had sagged and he looked 20 years older, he tried offering words of comfort to Iliana, speaking of Zelda and the ‘great work’ she did.

  Iliana wanted to spit at him. Zelda had died horrifically serving the goddamn temple, and a few awkward words was all he could muster.

  He diverted his eyes quickly at the mention of Zoe, and Iliana thought she saw genuine fear flash across his face.

  ‘Iliana, you wouldn’t like your origins.’ Terrence warned. He equally stood at the other end of a long table in small room set high above the courtyard, where the distant shouts and cries of orders could be heard below, as drills continued on into the sunny afternoon.

  A shiver ran through her at his words, but it backfired. ‘You won’t even help me rescue Zelda-’

  ‘-Cecile-’

  ‘From the bitch below the lake.’ Iliana tapped her foot. ‘I thought as soon as I told you what happened to her, you would rally some agents and go release her.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

  ‘She was your agent for years! And my best friend, and if you won’t help me I’ll find someone who will.’

  ‘A soul has never escaped the Lake,’ Terrence pressed, ‘it is well known that anyone who is embraced by the Lady never leaves her underworld.’

  Because none has ever bothered trying to take her down.

  ‘What are you Terrence? Who are the Temple of Stars? Why am I here?’

  Terrence cleared his throat, scraped back a chair and sat down. Iliana stubbornly stayed standing, keenly aware of Clio. Right now, he was soaring somewhere a few miles north looking for prey, honing in on a loping wolf, she sensed his manoeuvres like a GPS ticking away in the back of her head.

  ‘You haven’t explained to me about the Roarax. Those things were supposed to be extinct, then you show up on the back of one, and exterminate the Xinger and the conjured sprites like it was nothing but a parlour trick.’

  Iliana knew he trying to buy time.

  ‘You’re changing the topic,’ she hissed. She was done with Terrence and his bullshit, done with the temple, done with the Otherworld.

  ‘Tell me where my family are.’

  Terrence drummed his fingers into the table top meditatively. It made Iliana want to grind her teeth.

  ‘We have a hearing with Titan, this can wait.’

  Outraged, Iliana shouted, ‘This cannot wait!’

  ‘It has to,’ he responded calmly, getting up and buttoning his long fur coat while staring her down. Iliana glared back at him.

  ‘Your protection is my priority, don’t forget that.’

  ‘Screw your protection, it did me no good.’

  Iliana stormed passed him, satisfied by the wince that flashed across his face.

  Iliana had stayed in one of the towers the night before, too exhausted to do much after exterminating the Xinger. She had said nothing to him when she had been led away by - Sires? - to Clio, who soared high above the courtyard with the faeries craning their necks below, silently watching her go. She recalls peering purple eyes, regarding her like she was a new species the faerie had never encountered before. Perhaps she was.

  I’m in a world filled with faeries, and apparently, I’m the strange one, she thought sardonically.

  She had slept on the roof, which was an open platform of no more than twenty feet in diameter, the brickwork underneath was crumbling with age and the edges showed a jagged line where additional floor space once stood. Collapsing onto the ground, she saw ivy frosting wove around the stones, engaged in the slow battle of strangling it.

  The location was Titan’s message to her that she wasn’t fit for a proper room, and desired her quarters to be as far away as possible from his barracks.

  She had slept there like an orphan, cast off from any real connection from anyone, anyone that is but Clio. He had sheltered her with his wing, and his mane served as a warm blanket to wrap her arms around. He had even brought her breakfast - fresh trout that Iliana was able to cook (courtesy of Zoe showing her how to start a fire, even when surrounded by a sheet of ice).

  The following morning saw her reconvene with Terrence, and as they swapped stories, Iliana learned that the Xinger had been roving the countryside for her. Causing havoc in its wake in its tireless search.

  Terrence had told her, ‘It looks that when you crossed into the Steppes, it lost your scent.’

  Iliana had wanted to ask him what his business had been in Cherbourne, that caused them to split in the first place, but she was too pissed to turn back as she descended the winding tower stairs.

  After a few minutes of storming through the tower and her thoughts, she encountered Sires on the steps.

  He was practically hopping on the spot with excitement, as though on fire. Iliana thought there was a theme of eccentricity in faeries, some attribute that made them act offbeat at times.

  ‘Iliana! What did you do last night?’

  Iliana cracked a smile, what had she done last night?

  ‘I don’t know.’

  His violet eyes were concerned, and they roved around in a paranoid way. ‘That explosion that happened, it...well…’

  She watched him curiously. ‘What?’

  He sighed. ‘You should come down and see for yourself.’

  Iliana had avoided the courtyard for most of the day, not wanting to endure any stares. She sighed and followed the faerie down the stairwell.

  When she went outside, the Baltic air bit at her face as she descended the gothic wide steps leading to the broken tower.

  She tried to cross the courtyard confidently, and oblivious to the appraising stares she received from the soldiers who were rehearsing drills in tune to the screams of lieutenants, and even they gave her an odd glance. Faeries weren’t known either for their subtlety. Some even stopped walking just to gawk at her.

  Iliana took a deep breath and ducked her head. Sires led her over to the far side, on the benches were guards sitting down shining their armour or sharpening their blades, others sparring each other under strict supervision.

  The courtyard was marked by several impressive towers that reached towards the sky like outstretched talons. Their dark, glassy facade was something Iliana had missed during the excitement of the night before, and through the translucent surface, one could see smoke swirling like the interior of an opium den. Her tower was the only one that looked of stone, indicating that it was out of order and not in use by the faeries.

  She began to think of HQ as a living beast that breathed, and the towers alive as they shone in the weak sunlight. She quickly shook the thought away.

  The portcullis was up and the drawbridge repairs were underway, with faerie craftsmen hammering and nailing using an assortment of tools hanging from their belts.

  ‘See here?’ Sires pointed to the wall. ‘The walls all around the courtyard are blazing white now. We had a local wizard examine them this morning and he said they’re teeming with odd magick, it’s going to take him probably an age to drain the walls and get them back to normal.’

  Iliana blinked. ‘Back to normal?’

  ‘And you should see some of our folk as well. Not just whoever was standing closest to you, but everyone was alight, as if they had caught fire.’

  Iliana’s head snapped at Sires, alarmed. Her imagination delighted her with images of burning faeries.

  I can’t deal with any more death.

  Sires held up a reassuring hand. ‘No, none was harmed. Don’t you worry. It’s just, they’ve been jumping about the place like rabbits. In fact, none has slept since last night I think, but you. It’s leaving our bodies, whatever it is, bu
t it’s taking a while. We’re assuming we’ll start to sleep again by the end of the week, either that or we take that wizard, kill ‘em and get our money back.’

  He laughed, smacking his knee while Iliana gawked at him, horror-struck.

  Sires settled down quickly, realising she didn’t share his morbid taste in humour.

  ‘There’s something else’, he said, glancing around, ‘the wizard that came by this morning was stressed by what we showed him. He kept demanding to know who had conjured the magick but we wouldn’t tell him, knowing that you had more than likely saved us all. Us faeries can be unpredictable sometimes, but we’re loyal to the end once we make that choice.’ He thumped his chest in pride and a few soldiers nearby copied. ‘Might be best for you to keep a low profile for now.’

  Iliana didn’t need to be told twice, it’s what she had been trying to do.

  The sound of hurried scraping made her look up. A giant lizard scrambled, nails digging up dirt as it scurried past them. A sentry sat atop it in a saddle.

  Iliana took a few judicious steps back.

  The lieutenant yanked on the reins and the lizard curbed to the side abruptly, sending up bits of debris at them. Its cat’s eye noted both of them.

  He began shouting orders at a platoon of soldiers.

  ‘Where’s Galfen?’ Iliana asked.

  Sires face darkened. ‘He was sent as a messenger to King Seamus in the north, to report on the Xinger and one of the gates collapsing.’

  Iliana nodded. King Seamus was someone she had heard a couple of times being mentioned, the ruler of the Otherworld. She wondered, given his relationship with Zelda, how he would feel if he knew she had passed.

  Later, while she sat on one of the benches that ringed the large courtyard, she told Sires her story of what happened after she and Zelda were kidnapped by the slavers.

  ‘We went searching for you both when we found a patrol’, Sires explained. ‘Bastards were good at covering up their tracks though, even in the snow. Some of our best trackers tried to find you, but they know how to stay off the radar.’

  Iliana eyed Terrence as he walked towards her. ‘At least you made the effort,’ she replied, before he stopped before them, arms folded.