Humanity 02 - Raven Flames
Humanity 02 - Raven Flames
Midpoint
Humanity – Interval 2: Raven Flames
By: Corrine Shroud
ISBN: 978-1-877546-77-8
All rights reserved
Copyright © Apr 2010, Corrine Shroud
Cover Art Copyright © Apr 2010, Brightling Spur
Bluewood Publishing Ltd
Christchurch, 8441, New Zealand
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Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
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Interval Two of HUMANITY
Raven Flames
Michael Parlinn drummed a tuneless beat against his steering wheel as his father drew a sharp intake of breath.
“This quickly?”
“She was amazingly simple. Much less difficult than her father was.” His voice was perfectly blank, no inflections. Empty.
“How many?”
“As many as we can. She may have been easily led, but she’s powerful.”
“Every one?” Michael could hear the frown in his father’s voice. “We didn’t bring everyone for Gauthier.”
Michael cleared his voice. “Mirage is…different. I dunno what it is, but she’s unsettling. I’d feel safer if everyone came.”
“Her father was powerful as well, but they all die the same.” The vicious tone twisted in his voice almost made Michael shiver. “I’ll trust your judgment. I’ll call Taylur and he’ll get a hold of the others.”
Michael hung up without a response. He shut the phone and threw it into the seat beside him. He sighed and returned his attention to the road. It had begun to spurt rain, promising the storm that the weatherman had predicted for the night. The storm would help cover them as they surrounded the home; it would affect Mirage’s sensing abilities. It would be too late by the time she realized his deception.
Michael continued on his drive home. His father would contact everyone he needed to; there was no more need of him until tonight. Until then, he’d go home and take a shower. Maybe that would get rid of this odd feeling that had settled over his shoulders. It was a weight, something he didn’t understand. Was it that different essence he’d told his father about? Was Mirage really that unusual?
He just couldn’t shake that feeling he had. Something big was going to happen tonight. He gave himself a small mental shake as he turned the windshield wipers on. Get a grip, he commanded quietly.
Michael couldn’t get Mirage’s midnight eyes out of his head.
“She’s a Dark Child!” His anger-filled voice echoed through his truck, and that helped steady his shaking hands that gripped the steering wheel. God, what was wrong with him? Mirage wouldn’t be the first he’d helped HUMANITY kill, and she would most certainly not be the last. If it came to him being the one to kill her, he wouldn’t hesitate.
His father was the Monarch, the leader of the Humanitarians, and he was being conditioned to follow in his footsteps. The thought made Michael grimace. Though his ancestor was Nathanial Parlinn, he’d never had the taste for murder. Damn if he wasn’t good at it, but it still wasn’t something he enjoyed. Still, it didn’t particularly bother him. The abominations were God’s one mistake and it was the humans’ job to eradicate them. His father had pounded the knowledge into him since before he could walk. Everything about them was beastly and alien, and Mirage was no different. Even with that knowledge, he knew this particular Dark Child would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life. He cringed at what she was…and yet, he couldn’t stop that small seed of guilt that settled into the pit of his stomach. Mirage had trusted him, and she was nice—risking everything to help him. She would have made a good human.
But she’s not human, Michael thought a little bitterly. She was a Dark Child, a banished Dark Child at that. There would be no one to miss her, even in her own tribe, when she was killed tonight. He kept telling himself that as he drove home, and he almost managed to convince himself. Almost. There was still the nagging feeling in the back of his mind, an unsung thought from his subconscious that he couldn’t shake.
Michael shrugged to himself as he thought about his assignment tonight. He tried to be an honest person to himself; if he had to lie to everyone then the only one he could be honest with was himself. It was a small comfort that he was allowed. He at least had one person to trust...
The Altruistics were seeking to disband HUMANITY, citing the violent ‘hate’ crimes his group was responsible for. Did it matter that deep down he agreed? Hell, no it didn’t. He was condemned by his blood into this life, and he would live the way HUMANITY needed him to. There was no one else to keep the Paramortals at bay. If he wanted the group to continue, he would keep silent about who he really was. Sure, he would be sorry, but that didn’t change his convictions. He was the only defense humans had against their greatest enemy—sentient beings who had no right to share the earth that God had ensured for the creations made in His image.
His ancestor, Nathanial Parlinn, had chosen his path, and his family had followed; it was all Michael knew. It was a necessary evil to protect the humans, and it made him wish she was human. Still, he couldn’t fight what he was, or what she was, and he tried not to question the very nature of what his father taught him.
That wasn’t his place.
They all die the same.
* * * *
Mirage paced the length of her room, unsure of what was making her anxious. She kept looking out her window, an odd, itching sort of tingle between her shoulder blades, almost like she was being watched.
There’s nothing out there; don’t be silly, she scolded herself. That did nothing to allay her irritating, pressing unease.
Lightning crackled through the air; there was a storm coming. She could feel it. She imagined the Children of the Breeze playing in the rising winds, their incorporeal bodies fading with the rising gusts. The image was almost enough to make her smile. Almost.
God, she didn’t know if she could stand living in such a humid climate. Her Promised Lands, settled comfortably in Ohio, were nothing like this warm Florida weather. Even though rain pressed against her skin, it was little relief. The trickle that had started about an hour before had quit, although the clouds hung low with their burden. It wouldn’t be long until they shook the weight from them, but it wouldn’t do anything for the sticky heat that clung to Mirage’s skin. How did the humans cope with it constantly? Better question; how was she going to survive it?
There was no stopping the fact that she was going to have to adapt. This was the only place she could live now that she’d been exiled. Another flash of bitterness tried to rise, but she squashed it brutally. She wasn’t about to feel sorry for herself. No matter how unfairly she’d been treated by Umbra.
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Mira
ge muttered despite herself as she leaned her head on the windowsill. She watched the sun’s colors steal the sky, imbuing the blue with pinks and purples. The colors streaked through the palm trees’ broad leaves, etching lines across her rune-covered skin. The clouds were bathed in a purple-red hue, ominous. She could almost see faces of the angry gods that shook the water from within them. She sighed, turning from the sky and thoughts of fictional malevolent beings and stared straight ahead of her. The storm dampened her powers, constraining them to her body. There was no movement in the air, nothing she could listen to so she could calm her mind. Perhaps that was the reason she was upset. Of course, it had nothing to do with how betrayed she felt. Nah, that definitely wasn’t the reason.
Mirage laughed sadly at her stupidity. Above her, the gods quivered in their anger, echoing a ghostly rumble.
* * * *
The thunder echoed, cracking in an angry, almost-scream. Sweat beaded at the nape of Michael’s neck and trickled down his back before soaking into his white shirt. The humidity was nearly unbearable. It was made worse by the rain that was thick in the air. A calm before the storm, the small rain shower he’d sat through had done nothing to cool him down. After living so long in Florida, he should be used to it. The thick moisture hung heavy in the air, and swelled in the turbulent clouds above him. The wind had picked up, whipping the palm leaves rhythmically. It was only a matter of time before God released his fury through rain, thunder and lightning.
“What is she doing?” Derrick asked. Michael jumped, dropping his binoculars.
“Damn it, Derrick.”
His cousin grinned. “Jumpy lately, Monarch?”
Michael scowled. “Don’t call me that.”
Derrick ignored him, giving him a playful punch to his shoulder. “Hey, sorry I had to give you such a beating in school today. I wanted to make it look real, ya know?”
“Yeah.” Michael avoided looking him in the eye.
Derrick leaned forward. “You don’t look too beat up.”
Michael shrugged and muttered something unintelligible, hoping his cousin would catch the hint and shut the hell up.
“She used powers on you, didn’t she?”
Michael sighed. No such luck.
“I didn’t know she was part Day Spawn until it was too late,” Michael growled. He made sure his voice was a full throated growl, fierce enough that it made Derrick recoil. Though Derrick was nearly twice his shoulder span and a football player, there was something about him that his cousin feared. Sometimes it bemused Michael, other times it amused him.
“Damn, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“And you’re not going to say anything about it to my father, either, not if you don’t want all of the Humanitarians to know a Dark Child got the best of you.”
Derrick raised his hands in retreat. “Fine. Fine. You bitch more than a girl.”
Michael ignored him as he picked the binoculars up and resettled into his place just at the edge of the boulder in the sand-like soil. She hadn’t moved from her place at the window, staring straight across the small yard her rather worn-looking home claimed. She looked so sad…
“What’s the Dark Child doing?”
Michael grimaced, not sure of why hearing Derrick’s tone upset him. “She’s just looking out the window.”
“Boring, aren’t they?”
He cleared his voice. “Yeah, boring.”
“Did you have to give back her Incantation book? I would have liked to have it for a souvenir. I call dibs on it if we leave anything left of her house.”
“Have you spoken to the Monarch?” Michael asked to interrupt his gloating.
“Actually, that’s why I came. I know you’re doing that cool stakeout thing you always do, but your Dad wants you there to greet the Humanitarians. He needs you perfectly groomed and trained for the Coronation.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Michael muttered. He would get the title of Monarch when he turned eighteen in less than a year. It was something that he didn’t look forward to. He had no choice, though, and he wouldn’t dispute his right. There was no one else to follow Nathanial’s doctrine. He would sacrifice his own happiness to help humanity retake its place as the sole ruler of the Earth. That included being rid of Mirage.
The sooner the better, Michael thought bitterly. He didn’t know why this Dark Child bothered him. He’d been responsible for the deaths of over a dozen Paramortals, over half of them by his own hand. He’d killed at least one from each tribe, and that included her own. It was through his information that her father had been cornered—it made no difference that it had been his father that had dealt the deathblow. The Humanitarians attributed his death to him. It was one of the reasons that they all looked to his Coronation so eagerly. They saw HUMANITY going places beneath him. He had to live up to their expectations.
“Try to sound a little more enthused for your father,” Derrick muttered as he stood up. “Unless you want a black eye that the Dark Child won’t be able to heal.”
“Sometimes you’re a little too observant.”
“Hey, I’m more than an awesome stud that has kick-ass assassin skills.” Derrick preened in front of him, flexing. Michael fought the urge to gag as he followed him to the vehicles parked behind an expanse of cultivated bushes. It helped that some faction supporters—not actually Humanitarians, but they were still useful—lived beside the Paramortal’s home. That was where Michael had staked the home out. He’d never spoken to the home owners, but they asked no questions about the vehicles parked outside their home, and they didn’t say anything as they walked out of their back yard. In fact, the woman that was out tending the garden ignored them completely. If she saw nothing, that made her innocent, right? Would she even care?
Those were questions that Michael always asked. He never denied what he did was murder. Despite his hatred for Mirage’s kind, he’d never disregarded the fact that they were sentient. They shared pains, pleasures, thoughts, but….they weren’t human and that made all the difference. He didn’t share that sick pleasure that most Humanitarians experienced when they extinguished another parasite, but he did feel an odd sort of relief. There was one less of the species that took from the resources that belonged only to his race.
Michael got into his truck, starting it up, following Derrick as he pulled out in his white, beat up Oldsmobile. It still struck him as funny to see his cousin driving such an old car, but he was fiercely defensive about it, so Michael only brought it up when he wanted to make him mad.
His home actually wasn’t that far from where Mirage had moved. She lived at the edge of the slums, barely ten minutes from where the broken part of Paradise opened up on the reason the city had been given its name. The homes in the suburbs were large and full of grandeur, edged by sweeping, perfectly manicured lawns. The flat land had palm trees sheltering the front yard, some of the homes claiming beautifully immaculate gardens. There were a few that had playgrounds situated off to the side.
It was a perfect American setting; the air heavy with the smell of grill outs, the men hurriedly trying to finish their meat before the rain decided to ruin the food.
This is a bigger illusion than something I believe even Mirage could produce, Michael thought vaguely as he pulled up to his home. The garage door was already open, waiting for him. He parked and turned the engine off with a sigh. Derrick had driven on; he would park at his own home and wait for his call.
“Is that you, son?”
Wayne Parlinn’s voice was sure, the question more a statement.
“Yeah,” he answered. “Any reason why you took me off stake out? You know I like to get information first.”
“You’ve done enough watching on her,” his father dismissed. Michael got out of his truck, walking toward where Wayne leaned against the doorway that led into the house. “She’s a young Dark Child, and her being a hybrid means she’s probably not even through the Transition. I need you here. The Nobles are coming.”
“You mea
n Mr. Taylur, Mrs. Wanderson, and the others?” Michael shrugged. “I don’t care. I see them everyday at school.”
Wayne frowned. “Show more enthusiasm when you walk through this door, boy.” His voice held that edge of a threat, barely containing the monster that he knew his father could be. Wayne wasn’t only violent against the Paramortals.
Michael felt himself begin to shut down against his father’s tone of voice. There was nothing he could do; Wayne had complete control over his life. “Of course, father,” Michael said, forcing a smile on his face. It was more of a simple flash of teeth, his voice an empty echo of the calm he forced himself to feel whenever he was near the Monarch. No matter what, he didn’t want Wayne mad. He wasn’t sure he could handle another beating without breaking.
Michael took a deep breath and made his way past his father, walking through the doorway that gave way to his mansion-like house. House was all it was; it had never been his home. He’d never had a home.
Stop with the self-pity, he thought viciously. He pushed away thoughts, allowing his mind to be perfectly blank. The mask that HUMANITY needed from him.
“Greetings, Monarch-to-be,” Mrs. Wanderson said. She gave him a coy smile and he returned her flirt with a mental eye roll. She thought herself beautiful. She was a young teacher, about twenty-five. Her tight blond curls bounced about her face, but her expressions were always pained—thin and drawn out. “You were a good actor in class today. I almost thought you cared for her.”
“That’s what will make him a good Monarch,” Mr. Taylur said. “He sat in my office drawing a picture of the hideous Dark Child. He’s a devious person. Though, I must admit, the drawing was spectacular.”
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