by A. M. Manay
“I told him he shouldn’t bring her here,” the fairy whispered to Philemon, who was leaning against the wall. “All we need is for her to lose her damn mind. But, no, he wants to show her off, and ‘acclimate her to our ways.’”
“Your concern is touching,” November murmured. Willow looked relieved and helped the seer to her feet. November looked around, a bit disoriented and dreading the scene on the other side of the doors.
“I need to put these on you,” Willow said almost kindly, holding out two pairs of golden shackles. November shrank from her, retreating until her back was against the wall. “It’s okay. See, they’re loose, and the chains are long. They won’t hurt. It’s just for show: this is his triumph, and you’re his war trophy. You know, like in Roman times.” November just looked at her. “I don’t want to hurt you,” Willow beseeched her, “and I don’t want him to put you back in the hole again. Just hold out your wrists. There’s no way around it.” So November held out her arms, and Willow avoided her gaze as she chained her wrists and ankles.
“Come on, girl, he’s waiting,” Philemon said, holding the door open. November shook off Willow’s help and entered under her own power, which she considered a victory. The chain on her ankles was long enough to permit her to walk almost normally, though running would have been impossible.
Her eyes now took in what her mind had already seen. She stood on a wide landing at the top of a set of bleachers. To her left was a tasteful sitting area where Luka was enjoying the party with his most senior people. The bleachers were packed with the rest of his employees, the ones who were not milling about on the floor below obtaining refreshments. Said refreshments were dipped from three galvanized tubs full of blood which sat underneath three tightly-bound human beings who had been suspended upside-down before having their throats slit. Two of them were dead when she walked in, and the third stopped breathing as she watched. It was all November could do not to start screaming. She prayed that the bloodletting was over and that these three would not be replaced by additional unfortunate souls once the drinks ran out.
Luka caught sight of her and beckoned her. She walked slowly, trying not to fall. As much as she was trying to hide her feelings, he must have seen the bleak look in her eyes, as he took pains to assure her, “They felt nothing, kitten. No pain. No fear. We practice humane slaughter of our livestock whenever possible.”
She nodded mutely, not trusting herself to speak and fearing she would vomit if she opened her mouth. He was drinking steaming blood from a crystal goblet, jubilant about his victory. News footage played on a huge plasma screen opposite the bleachers. He gestured for her to sit on a nearby divan, and she gratefully availed herself of it. She tried to prepare herself for whatever was coming next. She was beginning to feel numb, and she welcomed it.
Once the vampires had all been fed, the corpses and tubs were removed from the floor, and Luka stood to address his loyal troops. November knew she should pay attention. She tried to focus on the words, but she simply could not process them. All she could do was look at the bloodstains on the concrete, all that remained of three human beings who once had pasts and families and friends and dreams, only to be turned into the vampire equivalent of beer kegs. She prayed that she had never been so callous in whatever lives she’d led, and she prayed that she never would be.
Finally, some of Luka’s words made it through, and they only deepened her despair. “Soon, we will control this land together with all of our vampire and fairy brothers and sisters. Now that the leaders of our enemies have been decimated, we will restore unity among our people. We will cleanse this country of the werewolf vermin. For those humans who bend the knee to our rule, we will be the wise shepherds they so desperately need. Those who resist, we will cull from the herd. We will restore the natural world that the humans have despoiled with their foolishness and greed by imposing upon them a simpler lifestyle more suited to their true station. We have taken the first steps in building a better world, but there is still much work to be done. You will be heroes, remembered for generations. Are you prepared for revolution? For revelation? For rule?”
The cheers of Luka’s people snapped her out of her frozen state, and she looked up to see Luka motioning for her to stand and join him. As she struggled to stand, paralyzed with fear and disgust, Philemon took her elbow and pushed her forward.
“You have heard stories about the Oracle found by our enemies. You have heard rumors of how they used her to disrupt our plans, to delay our quest for a better future. You have heard that she is a true seer, the first we’ve found in many centuries. All of this is true. It is my joy to tell you that tonight, after our greatest victory to date, thanks to your sister Willow, this weapon is now in our hands.” Luka pulled her forward to stand next to him, displaying her proudly like the prize of war she was.
He then forced her to her knees, eliciting another cheer. November concentrated on looking straight ahead and remembering to breathe. Her face flushed red, and tears threatened to spill past her eyelashes. Luka’s troops were screaming and stomping on the bleachers, riled up by the speech and the blood and the victory. Luka raised a hand for silence. “And two nights hence, when the moon is full, I shall drain her and give to her my blood, and she will rise again our newest sister.”
More cheering followed, resolving into a chant. “Claim her! Claim her!” they shouted over and over. November’s stomach clenched even tighter. Please don’t scream. Please don’t faint, she begged herself.
Luka turned and looked down at her with a shrug and a smile as if to say, “I have to give the people what they want,” before pulling her roughly to her feet. Keeping a tight hold on her arm, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back with enough force to rattle her teeth. He breathed in deeply of her scent, savoring the moment before he plunged his fangs into her neck. Despite her best efforts, she cried out with pain and fear as he tore into her flesh.
William had taken tiny sips from small punctures made by the tips of his fangs, leaving wounds not much larger than a needle’s. This was a real bite, a predator’s bite, with no gentleness about it. As she grew dizzy, Luka disentangled his hand from her hair and supported her back as he drank several large swallows of her blood. When he was finally finished, she slumped against him, her head resting helplessly on his shoulder as he licked her wound until the flow of blood stopped. The fact that she needed her assailant’s support and care in order to stay upright made her hate him all the more. Before he turned to half-carry her back to the divan, he cried out to the crowd, “Let the games begin!”
She found herself sitting with her head still leaning against Luka, a goblet filled with fruit juice pressed into her hand. She managed to raise it to her lips without spilling it and drained it without stopping for a breath. The rush of sugar cleared her head a bit. Luka had his arm possessively over her shoulder. She wanted so badly to pull away, but she was beginning to see that she might be able to turn his proprietary feelings about her to her advantage. It seemed like he wanted someone who would not only be in his control but who also would actually need him, who would depend on him in a personal way. So she leaned into him as though it didn’t turn her stomach, and she tried to put out of her mind how much she wished for the vampire who smelled like pipe smoke instead the one who reeked of brimstone.
“You did splendidly, kitten,” he told her in the way one might over-praise a small child or a particularly stupid dog. “You just rest now.”
She lifted her head with great effort and screwed up the courage to look down to the floor of the hall, but she couldn’t make out what was happening. It was all a blur. “What’s happening now?” she asked timidly.
“Fencing tournament,” Luka answered brightly. “I expect they’re moving too quickly for you to follow. There will be hand-to-hand sparring as well, and then something special for the finale.” November shuddered to think what that might be. She hoped desperately that it would not involve her.
She watche
d the activity below with disinterest and an unnatural calm brought on by the vampire venom in her veins. If it weren’t for all the cheering, she might have fallen asleep. She found her gaze drawn to the news coverage. She gathered from the closed captioning at the bottom of the screen that many of the hotel guests had been evacuated before the plane even hit. Someone had pulled a fire alarm twenty minutes before the attack.
November wondered who had realized that something was amiss. Perhaps Ilyn had taken her warning more seriously than she realized. Of course, the news couldn’t tell her if they’d managed to get the vampires out in the middle of the day. Every so often, they would flash Ilyn’s photo on the screen, lauding him as a hero for remaining in the building to guide victims to safely.
A loud noise startled her into awareness. A tough-looking metal gate was descending from the ceiling, separating the bleachers from the floor. She looked to Luka for an explanation. “Steel coated with silver,” he explained. “It’s time for the finale. Wouldn’t want the wolves to get loose, now would we? The alpha of our little wolf pack made the mistake of killing one of my men last week. Obviously, he has been suffering for it ever since. Now it is time to put him down, as entertainingly as possible.” His smile chilled her.
A noisy rattle began below, and November watched as a rolling cage packed with half a dozen prisoners was pushed out of the tunnel. They were dressed in rags, frighteningly thin, obviously despondent, and defiantly proud. Their condition made plain that werewolves were not worth tending in the same way as human livestock. There was a little boy, no more than five years old, who had the eyes of an old man. November couldn’t tear her eyes from his as the tears she’d been suppressing all night began to roll down her cheeks. The boy noticed her chains and raised his hand just a little, an almost invisible wave of encouragement. She wiped her tears hastily away, hoping Luka wouldn’t notice the exchange. All of the adults were looking intently at the screaming crowd, scanning it as though memorizing faces for future retribution.
Luka did not fail to notice her weeping. “They don’t deserve your compassion. Who do you think betrayed you to the Inquisition when you were Juana, hmm? Werewolves have always excelled at betraying their fellow supernatural creatures to human authorities. They had no compassion for you then, and you were an innocent girl of twelve or thirteen as I recall.”
“He’s just a little boy,” she protested softly.
“Nits make lice,” he replied, patting her knee paternalistically. “Soon, you will understand.” She said a silent prayer that she would not.
One young man stood out from the others. He held himself tall, calmly taking in the scene. He gazed at the blood stains on the floor, at the hate-filled crowd now grown quiet with anticipation. He looked for a long moment at November and her chains and gave her a smile as though they were conspirators.
The young man called up to Luka, “Why not make this more interesting, bloodsucker? Come down and join us.” November looked up with a start as she recognized his voice from her day in the box. Keep singing, sister.
“Not tonight, cur,” Luka replied. “Your father is the star tonight.”
“I thought the star was your pretty little body snatcher there,” he replied with a grin. November winced at his name for her. “Sees the future, does she? Has she seen the part where I kill you?”
“Your father is the one who dies tonight, Hector," Luka said with a fang-filled smile.
“Your demon sings like an angel, did you know?” the werewolf replied, stalling, trying to delay the inevitable. Luka raised an eyebrow at her, demanding explanation.
“I sang in the cell when I came around, that first day I was here,” she quickly explained, trying to avoid trouble. “He must have heard me through the vent.”
“Ah. Well, then we must hear you later. Perhaps you can sing a memorial hymn in honor of the dead mutt,” the vampire replied. Her heart sank. That was all she needed: more attention and humiliation. Why did he have to bring me up at all? she thought, but when she saw the desperate look in Hector's eyes, she forgave him. He was just trying to forestall his father's slaughter. Luka, however, was done letting the wolf delay the inevitable. “Begin,” he ordered.
From the tunnel below the bleachers came an unholy howling that set November’s teeth on edge. Some primal part of her knew that sound. It made her want to howl back. A snarling mass of fur burst out onto the floor, herded by fairies with long cattle prods. He was enormous, easily twice the size of a normal wolf, heavily scarred and missing an eye. Another growling sound soon followed, and three coyotes came tumbling out. The wolf made fairly quick work of them, though they did manage to wound the larger beast, eliciting cheers from the crowd whenever the wolf howled in pain.
The spectators’ features were twisted with hatred, especially Willow’s. November looked around for Ben, who also had much reason to hate the wolves, but she couldn’t find him. Every vampire’s fangs were showing, their mouths watering at the scent of wolf blood.
The werewolves made to watch this display began to shift forms, as the smell of blood and the nearness of the full moon forced their transformation. Desperate to aid their leader, they threw themselves against the silvered bars of the cage, adding the smell of singed fur and skin to that of blood and excrement.
The only one who did not change was the little boy, of course, who had not yet reached puberty, the time when werewolf children generally began revealing their heritage. He remained in his trembling human form, eyes squeezed shut, hands balled into little fists over his ears. November’s stomach clenched. She wanted to turn away but knew that it would not save her from seeing. Besides, something made her want to bear witness. She felt like the condemned man deserved that at least.
The wolf tore into his kill with a desperate hunger, but before the Hector's father had a chance to swallow more than a bite, the gate to the tunnel opened again, and a mountain lion stepped into the fray to continue the torment. The parade of vicious animals continued for an hour, each battle more difficult for the werewolf as he accumulated wounds. A bear followed the mountain lion, and a pack of wolverines followed him.
Even a werewolf’s remarkable healing ability could not keep up with the onslaught. Finally, unable to continue the fight, the condemned creature collapsed half-dead in the middle of the carnage, shifting back into his human form as he fell, revealing a slight, middle-aged man, naked and grizzled and covered with wounds. The other wolves howled and reverted as well.
November remembered a conversation she’d had with Pine months before, when he had tried to explain the antipathy between the supernatural races. “They style themselves as protectors of the innocent,” he had explained. “They feel justified in killing us because we prey on humans. The fact that most of us only kill as a last resort is lost on them. They’re also fond of getting humans to do their dirty work. Every witch hunt in history, they’ve had their fingers in it. Why do you think suspected witches were tested by immersion in water? You can’t drown a fairy or a vampire, so we were guilty as charged. We sure as hell burn, though. And if humans die in the process? Collateral damage, unfortunate but necessary. They especially enjoy murdering fairies because if a werewolf takes a fairy life, it extends his own, sometimes by decades. They resent our longevity and feel justified in murdering to take it from us. Every fairy living has had loved ones or ancestors slain in the night by a werewolf. Every vampire knows someone dragged from his resting place by them, condemned without trial to die screaming in the sunlight.” She wondered if the cycle would ever stop.
In the end, Luka’s men hanged the poor man, hauling him up with a noose of silver chain, without even the mercy of a quick fall and a broken neck. His family was forced to watch him twist and twitch for the better part of twenty minutes, listening to the catcalls and glee of their enemies.
November placed one hand on her neck, swallowing convulsively, the scene before her alternating with flashes of a vision of her own hanging centuries before, in anoth
er life. She saw a slight old woman, swinging in the wind at a crossroads, strangling slowly from a too-short fall, a crowd screaming its condemnation of a witch. Finally, both the phantom and the flesh-and-blood victims gave up their struggles and swung limp.
She was overwhelmed by the sadism she’d witnessed that night, at the very limit of her strength, when Luka turned to her and said, “I think this would be a good time for a song.”
She was about to beg for his mercy, to plead exhaustion. She simply couldn’t face anything more. But when she looked at the wolves in the cage, their grief and rage and hopelessness, she decided that if she could give them any kind of comfort, she would try. “You wanted a funeral type song, sir?” she asked with as much fake meekness as she could manage.
“Yes, I think that would be best,” he replied, pleased to think she was going along with his taunting of the werewolves.
“I can only remember the words to one at the moment,” she replied. She struggled to stand up on shaking legs. She started with a weak voice which grew more powerful as she managed to ignore everyone but the grieving wolves. She drew a deep breath before beginning.
Some bright morning when this life is over
I'll fly away
To that home on God's celestial shore
I'll fly away, fly away, oh glory
I'll fly away, in the morning
When I die, hallelujah by and by
I'll fly away
When the shadows of this life have gone
I'll fly away
Like a bird from these prison walls I'll fly
I'll fly away
Oh how glad and happy when we meet
I'll fly away
No more cold iron shackles on my feet
I'll fly away
Just a few more weary days and then
I'll fly away
To a land where joys will never end
