Seraph of Sorrow

by MaryJanice Davidson

  One thing prevented Hank from succumbing to the chimeras around him. It was the image of Glorianna Seabright attending his funeral, presiding over his coffin with that condescending sneer on her face, pretending to honor this young man’s sacrifice for her cause . . . and afterward, gripping his tearful mother by the shoulders and whispering in her ear, My condolences, Dawn. I can’t help but feel partly responsible . . . I shouldn’t have asked little Henry to go. Plainly, he wasn’t as good as we could have hoped.

  He lifted the viper, snapped it straight, and drove it into the left eye of Smokey Coils. The old creeper screamed and washed the floor of the apartment with flame. By then, Hank had vaulted himself onto the dragon’s back. As the dragon thrashed, it was all Hank could do

  (“Please, Hank, protect me!”)

  (“Dawn, what the hell are you saying!?”)

  (“Dad, Mom’s hurt! Put down the sword—”)

  (“I don’t put down this sword for anyone, not in my own house!”) not to fall off.

  Neither the scream nor the fire lasted much longer. The millipedes and the slime and the stench and the viper gave way to reality. Smokey’s body heaved and fell, sending Hank rolling.

  It took a few seconds for him to get up and survey the room. It appeared normal again, if you discounted the roasted skink, glowing-hot quarter, and dragon sprawled on the floor. A few of the papers on Hank’s desk were on fire, but that was easy enough to stamp out. Once he had done so, he kicked the quarter at Smokey’s chin. “This month’s rent,” he sneered.

  He pulled out a backpack from under his bed, went over to the bookcase, and crammed all of his journals inside, including the one with the map. After tossing in a few clothes, he zipped it up and slung it over his shoulder. Then he stared at the terrarium for a few seconds, weighing his options. He finally opened the cover, reached in, grabbed the baby skink as it licked up the last of the sweet potato puree, and snapped its neck between his thick fingers.

  After dropping the tiny corpse, he walked up to the dragon and pulled his sword out of its eye socket with his right hand. Smokey screamed again, startling Hank into kicking the beast in the jaw. That sent the geezer back into unconsciousness. In a panic, Hank ran out of the room, down the stairs into the garage, and into Smokey’s pickup truck. He threw the backpack and bloody sword into the passenger seat, pulled the key out from where it was wedged between visor and roof, and got the engine roaring.

  Five minutes later, two newolves watched from a distance as the familiar truck of Smokey Coils left Eveningstar, proceeding north. They said and did nothing. Smokey left town regularly, to spend time with nature. He was quite the recluse.

  Hank’s return to Winoka was all he could have hoped for. The town burst into celebration, his mother showered him with affection, and even Glorianna Seabright raised an eyebrow when she saw the bloodstained sword and stack of journals Hank dumped out of his backpack. Everyone accepted his story that he had killed Smokey Coils, but had no time to hew off the beast’s head before it became necessary to leave town.

  Glory declared him a young man, having passed his rite of passage. His mother threw him an enormous party. Best of all, Wendy Williamson showed up.

  “There’s not much here.”

  “Don’t be a fool. There’s plenty.” The mayor’s voice dripped with disdain.

  “Names and addresses? Sketches of big wolves? What can I do with this?”

  “If you don’t know, you have no business planning an attack on that town.”

  Hank leaned in closer to the mayor’s office door, and heard someone inside shuffling about paper—perhaps unfolding a map.

  “How do we know your agent listed them all?” This was the first voice, a man whose smooth tone carried an undercurrent of ill temper.

  “He didn’t. We agreed to conduct espionage, not generate a complete directory. That map pinpoints more than half of their elders and identifies their types. The journals document their defensive patterns and tactics. The rest we leave to you. Surely you have some method of skulking about in the dark, which will suit that purpose.”

  “It will take time,” the man said. “Perhaps years, to do it properly.”

  “Good heavens.” The mayor sighed.

  “It’s not just the rest of the list! An attack of this magnitude, against a town this fortified, requires assembling an army. Our kind hasn’t gathered in numbers for centuries. And I have research to do, if we’re going to be able to display enough power to fight dragons.”

  She laughed mirthlessly. “I should have known. Well, whatever. Take a year, or ten, or a hundred if you like. Plan and plot with your fellow bugs. You seem like a young, spry fellow, so maybe you think you have forever. Just remember that people do move, from time to time. The information I’m passing to you today will get steadily less helpful, the longer you wait.”

  “It takes as long as it takes.” The man was gathering up papers.

  “Careful that I do not lose patience with you and your friends. If it takes you too long to start a fight with them, you may have one with me.”

  The man scoffed, and Hank heard footsteps approaching the door. By the time it opened, he was far enough away to appear having newly arrived at city hall. The tall, angry man brushed past so quickly, all Hank caught was his chocolate hair and sharp blue-green eyes.

  “Come in, little Henry.”

  Distracted by her pet name for him, he turned away from the other man and entered her office. She was leaning against the front of her desk with a faint smile.

  “I suppose you heard everything.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re wondering why.”

  “You gave away everything I learned,” he said.

  “I gave them a copy. The information helps them, and costs us nothing to pass on.”

  “So they’re going to attack Eveningstar, instead of us getting the chance?”

  She clapped her hands together in the prayer position. “Little Henry, try to let the testosterone settle down. Not every battle ends the way you want it to. And not every fight requires a beaststalker’s sword. You and I discussed economy of force, when we first met. Why should I, the mayor of this town, send beaststalkers to fight and die in Eveningstar, when I can find a bloodthirsty arachnid to do it for me? Let the spiders and the dragons kill each other. We will destroy the victor, who will be bloodied and weak at the end.”

  “But you said yourself, by the time they attack my information could be useless!”

  “Hmmm.” She mocked him, pretending to consider his words. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “You sent me out there to do what, nothing?! I risked my life for you!”

  “Please, little Henry. You didn’t do anything for me. You did it for

  (“I don’t put down this sword for anyone, not in my own house!”)

  (“Hank, he’s going to kill me! Stop—”)

  your mother.”

  “This wasn’t my mother’s idea. You came up with the mission, not

  (“Hank, he’s going to kill me! Stop him!”)

  (“YOU BITCH! Hank, she’s setting me up! Don’t listen to—”)

  her!”

  Glorianna blinked, as if remembering. “That’s right. You said you wanted me to teach you . . . What was it? Patience. And I told you I would. So did I succeed, little Henry? Have you learned patience? Will you be content to watch your hard-fought accomplishment waste away, year by year, as the werachnids plot and plot and plot and plot, and the dragons harden their position, and your fearless mayor makes no move toward them because she’s . . . What did you say? Too afraid? Will you have the patience to watch your fame fade, your mother grow disappointed, and your precious Blacktooth Blade go unused? Or will you lose your temper, and make a horrible mistake . . . again?”

  Now it was Hank’s turn to blink. What was the mayor

  (“YOU BITCH! Hank, she’s setting me up! Don’t listen to—”)

  (“Dad, get away from Mom—I said GET AWAY FROM
MOM!”)

  saying?

  The mayor leaned in. “Hank, do you think that because I show my emotions more readily than your mother I’m somehow less capable of manipulation? Do you think she is better at this game than I am? That she somehow fooled me into giving you an opportunity? I had you do exactly what I wanted you to do, little Henry.”

  Hank clutched the edge of the mayor’s desk. “You sent me out there for nothing.”

  “Hardly. I sent you out there to rid the town of a budding sociopath. Imagine my disappointment when you returned intact. Yet I still got something out of it. We may yet see some dead beasts—a happy consolation prize to take out of this whole sorry affair.”

  “You lied! And you turned over everything I learned to one of those fucking insects!”

  “They’re not insects, little Henry. They’re arachnids. There’s an important biological—”

  He spat on the desk and walked away.

  “Don’t forget yourself, young man.”

  Stopping long enough to look over his shoulder at her, he wrinkled his nose. “You may have manipulated me, old woman. But I’ll pay you back someday. Count on it.”

  Her sword appeared in her hand, as if out of thin air. She looked hopeful. “A threat?”

  Hank was never going to fight this woman. His mother would not forgive him if he won.

  “A promise. Don’t worry . . . You’ve taught me patience, as promised. I’ll look for the right chance. Meanwhile, you can put the sword away. You don’t scare me anymore.”

  He slammed the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 18

  Threatened

  Over the next few years, Hank avoided Glorianna Seabright at every possible turn. Instead, he nurtured a friendship with Wendy Williamson. She enjoyed archery, so he practiced it with her. She liked modern abstract painting, and so he went to art museums to learn more about it. She enrolled at the University of Minnesota, and so he made plans to do the same.

  His actions ignored inconvenient truths—that he wasn’t as good as she was with a bow, that modern art resembled nothing to him so much as two- or three-dimensional vomit, and that his late father had always hoped he’d attend one of the exclusive private colleges in Minnesota.

  Wendy Williamson was worth it, he was sure.

  A few months after arriving on the Twin Cities campus of the university, Hank was sitting with Wendy at a local coffee shop and decided to pop the question.

  “Out?” Wendy replied with a furrow in her brow. “What, you mean like a date?”

  “Yeah.” The spoon in his coffee swirled faster. “Don’t you think it would be fun?”

  “Oh, Hank. I think I like us as just friends.”

  The coffee spoon stood still. Hank had heard of the just friends phrase before, though it had never been used on him. Why, the dating landscape of the world was littered with the wreckage of young, brash male pilots who dared to fly their fragile jets of romance through the hurricane-force winds of female friendship. He refused to crash among them.

  “I don’t,” he blurted. He caught her reaction and tapped his spoon on the coffee mug nonchalantly. “I mean, it’s not like I don’t like being your friend. I do. It’s more that I don’t like being . . . just your friend. I think we can be more. I think it would be chickenshit not to try.”

  She rolled her tongue inside her pretty cheek. “So I’m chickenshit, unless I date you.”

  He matched her cold tone with some chill of his own. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Hank, I don’t think this is a good idea—”

  “Why not try it? We have nothing to lose.”

  “We have our friendship to lose,” she pointed out.

  “If it doesn’t work out, we can always go back to being friends!”

  Shaking her head, she licked her lips. “That won’t work. It never works.”

  “How do you know that? Why are you afraid to try?”

  “I’m not afraid! Why do I have to be afraid, or chickenshit, when I don’t agree with you?”

  “What is this, if it’s not fear?”

  “It’s common sense. We’re too different from one another. You’re younger; you come from an established family; you—”

  “Different is good!” he insisted, arms stretched and palms up. “Different people have more to learn from each other! The more different someone is, the more attractive they are!”

  She narrowed one eye. “So by that logic, I should seek out a tiny aboriginal man who can’t speak English, prefers Monet over modern art, and hates sociology and anthropology?”

  “You should find someone . . .” He hurried to think of neutral descriptors that applied to him. “. . . unexpected, surprising! Maybe someone you weren’t originally attracted to!”

  A nervous laugh escaped her. Instead of apologizing, she cocked her head with condescension. “Hank, you’re not making any sense. How can I be attracted to someone I’m not attracted to? You’re being ridicu—”

  “I’m sharing my feelings for you!” he pressed. Forcing himself not to panic, he considered his strategy of last resort. Over the course of their friendship, he had gotten to know Wendy well. He knew she had difficulties forming relationships with men, abandonment issues with her father, and a general fear of living (and dying) alone. As her closest male friend, he had a privileged position in her life. And at this desperate point in time, he intended to use that position. Otherwise, he asked himself, what was it all for? Why strike up the friendship with her in the first place, if you’re not willing to do what it takes to get to the next level?

  “I’m sharing my feelings,” he continued, leaning in with a harsh whisper, “and all I’m asking for is a chance. Friends give each other chances. They try new things for each other. They set aside their fears and reservations, and they stand up for each other. You say you want to be my friend. Fine, be my friend!”

  Her expression softened. “Hank, be reasonable—”

  “This isn’t about reason! This is about my feelings! Wendy, most people don’t get chances like this. It’s hard, I know—for both of us—to reach out to others. It’s something we share. It’s a lonely way to live. I don’t want to be alone anymore, Wendy. Do you?”

  When he saw the mixture of fear and resignation on her face, Hank knew he had won. “I don’t see why we can’t stay just friends,” she attempted one last time, but it was already over.

  Hank did not respond. He stared at her and waited for her to wrestle with herself. Eventually, she lost. “Fine.” She sighed. “We can try a date, I suppose.”

  “I’ll make sure every detail is perfect. I promise.”

  She returned his smile, weakly. “This weekend?”

  “Whenever and wherever you like.” He could afford to be magnanimous in victory.

  Familiarity with Wendy Williamson—deepened already during their friendship and rapidly intensifying as they dated—made Hank bolder with the once-imposing woman he had met when he was only fifteen and she was on the verge of adulthood. He came to understand most of the neuroses she had developed while being raised by a judgmental mother and distant father, and the battering her ego had taken at the hands of Glory Seabright. He knew from probing her psyche that Wendy Williamson was pliable, far more than the average woman (and the average woman, Hank felt, seemed already predisposed to please).

  In his mind, this made Hank her perfect match. She needed the sort of guidance he could give. When the first date worked out okay but her choice of restaurant had slow service, he pointed out that he could find them a nicer place for their second date. He found on the second date that he could make subtle comments about her hair and clothing, and she would change her style to match his preference by the third date. When he rewarded her by telling her how amazing she looked, it lifted his heart to see her smile. Hadn’t he just made them both happier?

  He could tell her a few months later, after spending the night in her dormitory room and watching her practice her sword technique, that she loo
ked a little rusty, leading to her missing classes and staying awake to practice for the next forty-eight hours. A year or so after that, he could tell her it was stupid to want to be a sociologist or anthropologist, since there was no money in it and her parents wanted her to move back to Winoka after college anyway, and her major was essentially a big mistake, just like her other naïve dreams for herself. Eventually, he could tell her he didn’t like her tone that much when she argued with him so hotly . . . and she began to back off. Piece by piece, he chipped away at her perceived faults until all that was left of Wendy Williamson were the parts of her that pleased him.

  Truth be told, Hank could never remember the name of Wendy’s sorority. Sororities were silly, unnecessary fabrications. Since when did it take a house with Greek letters to get college-aged women to cluster together and do stupid things? The parties they sponsored were no better. Overly loud and crappy music; provocatively dressed females hooting mating calls into the darkness (“Who wants to get me a beer bong?”); flocks of males strutting around until chosen by one of the women, who dragged him by the groin to a quieter, smellier room. The disappointed males left behind would disperse and wait for the next mating call.

  He had hoped he had seen the last of these events when Wendy graduated. As it happened, it wasn’t Wendy’s idea to return. It was Elizabeth’s.

  “Lizzy wants to show her new boyfriend her old school. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing.” This was not completely true, since Hank found himself irritated at the thought of Elizabeth Georges with some dork of a boyfriend who would be impressed by a sorority party. “Why do we have to go along?”

  Her smile wavered. She knew what she’d say wouldn’t be good enough. “Because you don’t show up at your old sorority by yourself, with a boyfriend! You have to bring someone!”

  “So let her find some other chump. You outgrew that place years ago, before you left. I don’t even know why you were in a sorority to begin with.”

  She tried a nervous laugh. “Hank, I was in a sorority to make friends. Women supporting women, that sort of thing. Some of those friendships you want to last a lifetime. Lizzy was in the same house. She wants to go back, and she wants me to go. I want to go.”