by A. M. Manay
Willow moved on from hair to makeup. She was subtle, managing to make November look fresh and healthy rather than exhausted and frightened. She seemed uncharacteristically cheerful, happily humming as she prepared her prisoner for sacrifice. She certainly seemed to buy the whole “murder as celebration of life” line. It occurred to November for the first time that Willow might be completely out of her mind.
When the fairy pulled out the snow white dress she was to wear to her execution, November could not hide a small smile. She wrapped well-worn memories around herself, thinking of the girl in a dark blue dress, the girl awaiting burial, surrounded by friends. The vision that had terrified her, that had haunted her childhood—this vision now became her comfort and her armor. This is not the dress I die in. This is not the dress I rise in. “You like it?” Willow asked hopefully.
“Yes, it’s lovely,” November answered cooperatively. It's actually a little bit Bride of Frankenstein, but whatever. Willow helped her put it on, carefully protecting her hairdo. Looking in the mirror, November thought she looked like a child bride or a virgin sacrifice. She supposed they intended her to be both. To her surprise, she found the dress had a pocket. She slipped the fairy lantern into it, on a whim. She found it a comforting thought, that she could carry some light in her pocket when she went to face the dark.
Then it was time to wait. November wound up doing what she guessed most people did when waiting for death: she got down on her knees and prayed, careful not to mess up the dress. She prayed that Luka’s plans would be foiled. She prayed for the safety of her friends. She prayed that no one else would die because of her. She prayed for courage. She prayed that there was a reason for all of this: for her gift, for her incessant reincarnation, for her being drawn into this long-brewing conflict. She prayed that there was a purpose for her in all of it and that she would learn what that purpose was. She prayed that she wouldn’t do anything terrible. She prayed for the werewolves, for freedom and an end to their suffering.
“I didn’t know you were so religious,” Luka commented, startling her out of her contemplation. She hadn’t even heard the door open.
She looked up at him and replied, “Neither did I.”
“Rather surprising given your track record with priests.” He helped her to her feet and examined her from head to toe. “Perfect,” he said, pleased as punch. “Well done, Willow.” The man himself was dressed in his usual black, impeccably pressed. “I’ll send Philemon to help you escort her up in just a little while. He’s almost done supervising the feeding.” The vampire bent to kiss November on the cheek. She couldn’t suppress her shudder. He laughed at her discomfort. “See you very soon, kitten.” And with that, he departed.
November was grateful that she did not have too long for her anxiety to build before there was another knock on the door. Philemon keyed in the code and entered, a fairy stranger at his side.
“Philemon. Persimmon. It's time, I take it?” Willow greeted them, rising to meet her comrades.
“It is,” Philemon replied, just as he buried a hatchet in Willow’s skull. Willow fell to the ground, insensible, light bleeding around the blade. November stepped backwards in shock. “Don’t scream,” he ordered. November obeyed, hands over her mouth, trying to slow her racing heartbeat.
The fairy called Persimmon stepped forward with a concerned expression, asking, “Em, are you okay?” She looked at him in total confusion before the unfamiliar features resolved into those of one she’d thought she'd lost forever.
“Pine?” she whispered in disbelief. “How?” Before he could answer, she threw her arms around his neck. “I thought you were dead. I saw you die. Thank God! Oh, Pine,” she said fiercely, holding him tightly as she could, as if she feared he would vanish again. “How is this possible?”
“Power of illusion,” he replied as he squeezed her back. “Comes in handy when your partner repeatedly tries to kill you. I’m so sorry I couldn’t stop her, Em. I tried. I really did.”
She stepped back and held his hands tightly. “Not your fault. And you’re here now.”
“This is all very touching,” Philemon interrupted snidely. “We haven’t much time before we’re expected topside.”
Pine stepped over to Willow, pulling out a knife to finish the job Philemon had started.
“No!” November shouted without thinking.
“She’d have seen us both dead, November. She’s a dangerous enemy,” Pine counseled.
“I know, but—“ she began, shaking her head. “I don’t think it’s all her fault. I think he took advantage of her pain, warped her from her childhood. She's insane.”
“Of course he did. That’s his gift: he sees inside people’s hearts, knows their deepest fears, desires, and pains. That’s why he is so good at manipulating people and gaining their loyalty. That doesn’t make Willow any less dangerous,” Pine replied. He moved closer to his former friend.
Willow’s eyes fluttered. She struggled to move her hand, as though she was planning to pull the hatchet from her skull. The three of them watched her eyes register Pine’s presence and his weapon and saw the fear and shock dawn in them. Then, without a sound, she disappeared.
Philemon spoke for everyone after a shocked pause. “What. The. Hell. See what happens when you hesitate?”
Pine swore. “She's the hider. Well, I'll be damned. No one figured it out in all these centuries. Must be how she survived that attack on her village when she was a kid."
“That certainly does explain a lot,” November said. “But she’s still there on the floor. Couldn’t you just stab at where she was?” November asked, making vague hacking gestures with her hands.
“Nope. Won’t work. It keeps her invisible and shielded,” Pine shrugged. “Fairy magic. What are you gonna do?”
“Well, at least she’s not going anywhere with a silver ax in her head,” Philemon said, uncharacteristically looking on the bright side. “She'll die of it sooner or later. And now we don’t have to worry about hiding her half-dead body. So, can we get on with destroying Luka now? I’m a little impatient to avenge my wife,” he said with his accustomed acerbity. In reply, Pine shimmered slightly and turned into a perfect copy of Willow, minus the hatchet.
“Excellent. So, here’s the plan, weirdo,” Philemon continued toward November, who was still staring in amazement at her not-dead friend in the guise of her not-dead enemy. “We go through the motions of this shindig until the moment of truth. We need to get all Luka’s people on the roof, you see, if we have any prayer of living through this and getting away clean. When he starts biting you, that’s when the fighting starts. The vampires have all been fed slightly tainted blood, which they will start to feel the effects of right about when your friends start trying to kill them all. The fairies will be hampered by the fact that it’s nighttime and they can’t suck the life out of anybody. Pine will get you out of the way. Try not to get yourself killed. Or do; I don’t really care.”
“So you snuck everyone in using the trucks with the provisions?” she asked, trying to piece it together. She had to admit, she had not expected Philemon’s betrayal of Luka to happen so quickly or to be so complete. She hadn’t even been sure the vampire had believed her explanation of Agnes’s death.
“Obviously,” he replied with a roll of his eyes. “I can tell why you’re such a sought-after soothsayer.”
“Was the poisoning your idea?”
“No, Ben does get credit for that much. I, however, came up with how to best capitalize on it when I caught him coming up from the basement with rat poison. Now, we really must go.”
So up they went to the roof, empty but for the men at the Gatling guns. Her escorts walked November up to the platform where they bound her to her strange cross. She felt clumsy with anxiety and cold. Her feet were bare. They took their positions to either side of her.
Soon they were joined by the arriving assembly. All of Luka’s people were in attendance. Even the flying guards broke from their aerial p
atrols to witness the festivities. The wolves were brought out, heavily chained in silver, to enjoy their tormentor’s moment of triumph. November wondered if Luka planned to finally let his minions tear the wolves to pieces. She also wondered where her friends could possibly be hiding. She felt hyperaware, noticing every breath, every beat of her heart, every splinter in the wood, every scratch from the rope.
Luka himself was last to arrive, of course, processing through his adoring followers like some kind of rock-star bridegroom. They cheered for him. She could not wrap her mind around how much they loved him. She wondered if he returned their love at all. At the sight of him, November felt even colder. But you’re not alone, she told herself. They came for you. Keep your wits about you. Breathe.
Too soon and not soon enough, Luka stood in front of her. He smiled his awful smile. “It’s time,” he said, brushing the back of his hand against her cheek.
“You are a monster,” she said, unable to restrain herself. “And I hate you.”
He laughed at her. “I know, kitten. You'll come around. Now, scream for me.” And before she could blink, he had sunk his fangs into her neck.
Chapter 17
She did not scream for him. The screams came later, and most of them were not hers.
November gazed over Luka’s shoulder as he drank, barely registering the pain of the bite or the twisting of his fist in her hair. She noticed neither his icy hand on her back nor the cheering of the crowd as he swallowed her blood. She was distracted by shadowy figures rising slowly through the air just outside the roof’s boundaries, four ghosts floating silently upward, waiting for their moment, bows in hand.
She did not see them with her eyes, for she was the well-lit star on stage and they were in the pitch dark of the balcony, but see them she did. William, Savita, Greg, and Hazel, lifted skyward by their king, stood in midair next to the corner gun towers, poised to strike, prepared to kill or die to save November and their house. For a moment, November could have sworn she smelled pipe smoke. Suddenly, she wasn’t cold anymore.
Philemon’s attack came quickly. He could no longer check his rage. He allowed his master only a few sips of blood before falling upon him, stake in one hand and silver blade in the other. His angelic features twisted with hatred, and his eyes called a shark to mind. Luka’s instincts alerted him in the nick of time. He pulled away from November, her blood dripping from his mouth, and he managed just barely to evade Philemon’s weapons as he drew his own vicious dagger. They became a savage blur: Philemon frantic with rage and grief, Luka fighting for his life. November could barely make out which killer was which as they flew across the roof in a manic dance. She rather hoped they both might perish.
Before the crowd could even react to the change in the evening’s program, the four phantom invaders had taken the gun towers for their own, killing the gunners with only the twang of the bows to mark their deaths. As the invaders turned their newly-captured weapons toward those assembled on the roof, Pine quickly freed November from her ropes and pulled her down to relative safety between the scaffold and the roof’s wall. He had also dropped his magical disguise, much to November’s relief. Pine disguised as Willow was one of the evening’s creepier features, which was saying something. She wondered if Luka had seen the transformation and now knew that the real Willow was missing.
Members of the crowd began to cry out as they registered what was happening; they started pulling weapons and looking for cover. Some of the less-courageous tried for the door, which they found to be locked and stronger than it looked. A few moved in to try to help their leader in his fight against Philemon, but they were whirling about so violently that those who got close only succeeded in getting themselves injured. Those who fired arrows or bullets at the towers found their projectiles batted out of the air by llyn's unseen hand. A sizable number of Luka’s people appeared to be dizzy and disoriented; a dozen fell to their knees, disabled by vertigo courtesy of Philemon’s tainted blood delivery.
November tried to catch her breath while she crouched next to Pine; she wished her head would stop spinning. Her friend held a gauze pad against her punctured neck. “Are you alright?” he asked gravely, for the millionth time. He totally needs that t-shirt. He can put "I'm so sorry" on the back. Christmas present! She nodded weakly and closed her eyes for a moment, wanting desperately to sleep. “Stay with me,” he said, shaking her gently. “I know it’s hard, but you need to try to be alert if you want to get through this in one piece.” She forced her eyes back open. “That’s the way,” Pine encouraged her. “Deep breaths.”
As November listened to the sounds of battle and struggled to still her shaking, Ilyn vaulted over the wall and landed lightly, with the grace of an acrobat. He had used his telekinesis like a certain superhero’s webs, pulling himself up the side of the fortress, swinging from the invisible lines of his own thoughts. He looked at November as though she were a miracle before gathering her up in his arms. He said nothing. She squeezed him tightly in reply, too giddy with blood loss and relief to formulate a sentence herself.
Their reunion was, of course, interrupted by the battle in progress. November jumped as howls rose from the chained wolves. “The werewolves! Ilyn, you have to free them. Please!” He looked at her for a moment, eyebrow cocked incredulously. “Look at them, your grace! They’re innocent, and trapped, and they’re going to get killed if you don't do something.”
Ilyn rose to get a look at the chained prisoners and shrugged, hesitating no further before raising his hand and unlocking the shackles. He used his gift to pull away the silver and sent the chains flying through the crowd, taking down several of the fairies and vampires in their path. The former prisoners looked over to Ilyn, surprised by his assistance. He gave them an ironic little bow. Hector smiled at November and saluted Ilyn before changing form and joining in the fight, along with the other adult wolves.
“Carlos! Over here!” November called. The small boy stood frozen in the midst of chaos, his fellow wolves too charged by the battle and the full moon and their sudden freedom to stop and get him out of harm’s way before seeking vengeance on their captors. “The little boy! Look!” she cried as a stray arrow careened towards the child.
Ilyn batted down the projectile and snatched up Carlos, pulling him through the air towards their hiding place. The poor child was terrified, eyes wide and full of tears as he flew above the turmoil. As Ilyn gently put him down, he shrank from the vampire. November took his hand. “They’re my friends. They won’t hurt you. They’re good ones, I promise.” He responded by jumping into November’s lap, burying his face in her neck, his arms and legs locked tightly around her. Just skin and bones, he weighed almost nothing. November hugged him tightly. His wrist was still wrapped with the scrap of fabric from her skirt.
“I must go fight. Pine, keep her safe,” Ilyn ordered, and he disappeared in a blur before November could say anything more. Ilyn raised his hands and began to pull weapons from the hands of Luka’s soldiers, mangling them before tossing them over the wall to the desert floor far below. His people continued using their captured guns to cut swaths through the crowd, careful to avoid November’s refuge and their king, as well as Philemon and Luka. Ilyn had given his word that they would allow Philemon to kill his master himself, if he could. That had been the price of Philemon’s assistance.
By the time November’s friends in the gun tower ran out of bullets, well over half of Luka’s people were dead or severely wounded. Greg and Hazel continued firing arrows from on high, while William and Savita descended to fight at closer quarters. Savita began to sing in a foreign tongue, sending those close to her into a trance from which they would never emerge. She made her way grimly across the roof, swinging a silver scythe as though cutting grain, surrounding herself with a cloud of ash and light as her victims fell helpless before her, an invisible terror wrapped in a fog of death. William fought gleefully from the opposite corner of the roof, ax in one hand and mace in another. He was a juggernau
t, and no one could touch him.
Luka’s people fought desperately, but most were young and inexperienced and hampered by Ben and Philemon’s ploy. The only ones who could escape were the flyers. A dozen or more of them flew about above the battle, helpless after Ilyn took their weapons, looking for any chance to save their friends, and mostly failing. It was a slaughter.
A number of the more mobile survivors moved for the shelter of the platform, finding November and her companions there. Pine stood to fight them off, aided by one of the wolves. November was somehow certain it was Hector. November turned, using her body to shield Carlos as fairy and wolf fought on the same side for once. They worked in tandem to hold off the weakened but desperate attackers.
One of the vampires slipped past their defenses and went for November and the child. With but a moment to spare, November snatched up a dropped ax and swung wildly for the attacker’s neck. The vampire disappeared in a cloud of ash. Once November and Carlos had finished coughing, they saw that their refuge was once again free of enemies. Pine grinned at her, calling out, “Nice one,” over the noise of the battle. Hector howled at her almost cheerfully before heading back into the fray.
Philemon and Luka’s duel slowed to visible speeds as both vampires began to grow weary. Luka had a slight edge in age and strength, but Philemon was fueled by his thirst for vengeance. They were fairly evenly matched, and each had bloodied the other several times in the preceding minutes. Wounds appeared and healed again and again.
As they circled each other warily, Luka got his first good look at what was happening to his people. Despair briefly flashed in his eyes, turning quickly to cold steel and determination. His loss fueled him, and he now had the advantage. He attacked with renewed vigor, driving Philemon back until his former servant tripped over a fallen weapon. Luka’s knife, the same one that had wounded November so grievously many weeks earlier, soon found Philemon’s heart.
