by A. W. Cross
“Cillian, look. There.” She pointed into the distance, to a space miles outside the city. He could just make out thousands of tiny figures. “Is that—”
“It must be.” But why didn’t they seem to be moving? It was as though they’d frozen with the city. Motionless, empty of life.
Dorian explained it all to them later that day.
The older man had been disappointed yet again, bewildered by the anticlimax. “So, there we were—oh, and we were a sight, I’ll tell you. We may not have truly been an army, boy, but we damn well looked it. We waited, our eyes to the sky, waiting for that damned lid to open.” He mimed it with great alacrity, spurred on by his rapt audience. “Nothing seemed to be happening then boom! City Hall erupted into a ball of flame. I haven’t seen such an inferno since the war. You made a good job of it, that’s for sure.”
He slapped Cillian hard on the back with glee. “The entire sky seemed to light up for a second then…nothing. So we waited, and waited… Had the force field come down or not? I’d begun to feel a damn sight foolish then, standing there with my dic—sorry, gun in my hand, waving it around and pointing at shadows. Nothing. We waited ages for someone—anyone—to appear, those Grace Alphas coming to finish us off. And nothing. So then that Guild guy, one of yours, what’s his name? Quinn? He says that maybe we should go and check, you know, walk to the edge of The Vault. So I asked him whether or not he was going to be the one to volunteer to put his hand up and test it…”
It had taken some time, but eventually, Dorian got to the point.
“The damn thing was down. You could see the line on the effin’ grass…all pale and yellowish on our side, lush on the other—looked so good I wanted to eat it—and the unspoiled land stretching for miles.”
His expression softened then, a look Cillian had never seen him wear before. “You should’ve seen them, Cillian. They didn’t know what to do with themselves.”
It had been at that point when Cillian and Beauty had found them—hours after Wakelight had gone down, it turned out. It seemed as though everyone from The Vault was there, a few thousand people, silent and still.
Beauty had squeezed his hand. “What’s wrong with them?”
“They’ll be fine.” He hoped. Many of them seemed dazed, unable to comprehend their sudden freedom. The world had opened up before them, revealing the truth, rather than the war-torn nation they’d expected to see. Many had simply dropped to their knees and wept.
Beauty found Red on the edge of The Vault’s perimeter, kneeling on the green grass, staring straight ahead, her eyes dry.
“Red?” Beauty had put her hand on her shoulder, shaking it gently. “Are you okay?”
The other woman had looked up at her, as though seeing her for the first time. “What do we do now?”
Beauty kneeled and wrapped her arms around her friend. “We live.”
“What if we’ve forgotten how?”
And for days after, it had seemed like that might be the case. The people of both The Vault and Grace Alpha—and the other cities under Grace Alpha’s control—had lived under the guidance of the AI for so long that even the simplest of things had seemed impossible to organize. Those first few weeks had been very rough. Especially when stragglers from those other fallen cities began filing into Grace Alpha, wearing identical dazed expressions, what little they had left of their former lives clutched in their arms.
But that had been a few months ago, and under the guidance of Morgan Dane, their lives were slowly gaining a new normal. Morgan, it seemed, had been planning the liberation for years, biding her time. They’d known the minute The Vault had dropped, Grace Alpha screaming its alarm as Wakelight fell. It had tried to cut off the poisoned limb before it was itself infected, but it had been too late.
Grace Alpha had died.
As the city powered down, people had rushed into the streets, confused and alarmed. Morgan’s team flew into action. Immediately, a public address was given, explaining what had happened and giving people a choice: accept the newcomers, the people who’d supported Grace Alpha for so long, and welcome them into the city they now shared, or join the rest of Grace Alpha’s leaders in prison. Those who’d advocated for the destruction of The Vault and its people had been arrested in the hour after Grace Alpha’s death, their impending trial the first act of the new order.
Another part of that beginning would happen today, something special Cillian and Beauty had worked on together. And yet, all he wanted was to stay where he was.
“I have everything I need right here.” He pulled her down to him, knotting his fingers into her hair as she kissed him. Some days he still couldn’t believe that this life was real, that she was real. And that she was his.
Pulling back, she smiled at him with that look in her eyes that made it hard for him to breathe. She ran a finger down the side of his face. “How much time do you think we have?”
For her, he had all the time in the world.
“Not enough for what you’re thinking about,” a voice piped up from the doorway.
Cillian groaned. Cybel. “Don’t you knock?”
“Don’t you close the door?”
“It’s our house, Cybel. Why would we close the doors in our own house?”
“Yes. It’s our house.” Her tone was reproachful. “And you’re going to be late.”
“Can’t we just take a day off?” He pulled Beauty back down and rolled over. Her hair spread out on the pillow beneath him, and her hands slid up the back of his neck, tracing a promise on his spine. Surely, they could take just a few minutes? He dipped his head and kissed her deeply, her mouth parting under his with a smile.
“No, you can’t. You know how long people have been waiting for this. If you two aren’t there on time, there will be a riot, Cillian. A riot. Is that what you want?”
What he wanted was the woman lying on the bed beneath him, and a couple of hours all to themselves. Alone. He dropped kisses along her collarbones, teasing kisses that promised something more.
“Cillian!”
“Okay, okay, we’re coming.” Groaning again, he rolled onto his back and sat up, wincing. His chest had been repaired by Morgan weeks ago, but ghost-pain still haunted him as much as the nightmares. Perhaps they always would, but it was a small price to pay. “Okay, give us five minutes. And please, shut the door.”
“I am not shutting the door, Cillian. You made a commitment, and you’re going to keep it.”
An hour later, Cillian and Beauty stood in front of the manor in the new Wakelight district. Today they would unveil what they’d been working on since a few days after The Fall. It was their gift to both themselves and the people of the newly christened Grace Nova, and a tribute to everything they’d lost. Thousands of people had gathered on the lawn; everyone who’d wanted to attend was welcome. Cillian nodded to Quinn and the rest of the former Hallow Hands. They would be taking care of everything after he and Beauty had said their piece.
“Do you want to do the speech? Or shall I?”
She raised his hand to her lips. “Let’s do it together.”
He took the lead. “By now, all of you know the truth about what happened to us. I know it hasn’t been easy. To adjust or to forgive. But we’re doing it. We’re surviving. We won this war in the end—all of us. I know we still have a long way to go, especially as we try to avoid making the same mistakes.
“I know we’re all determined to look forward, to keep our eyes on the future, rather than the past. But part of that is not forgetting. So we’ve decided to preserve this place, and hold it in trust for all of us. Inside, its room are dedicated to our history—all our histories, both the good and bad. All of the things brought here before The Fall will be kept as they are, reminders, a museum of our history.” He stepped back, and Beauty stepped forward. Her hands shook as she held them behind her back, and he pressed up against her, lending his support as best he could. But she had this.
Her voice rang out loud and clear as she rev
ealed the secret they’d kept. “And there’s more. Before Wakelight, our AI in The Vault, was destroyed, it gave us a gift—a gift for everyone here.”
She gestured to the large screens that had been set up on the lawn. “As you all know, every minute of our lives was recorded, the data used to tell us how best to live. But Wakelight did more than that. It cared for us, fought for us against Grace Alpha, even though we didn’t know it. And it saved us in the only way it could.” She pressed a button, and the screens filled with images.
A first, the people didn’t understand what they were seeing. Then they began to recognize themselves, their loved ones, going about their daily lives—lives years of grief had wiped away.
“These records will be kept here, in these rooms. Anyone is welcome to come at any time of the day or night to view them. This is your history.” She stepped down, finished. What more was there to say?
A roar broke out at the front of the crowd, rippling through thousands of voices. The wall of sound was too powerful, too painful, and after giving Quinn the signal, Cillian and Beauty disappeared. Let them absorb it and grieve. We’ve had our time, now let them have theirs. Quinn would see to the rest with pride.
They retreated to the new library. They’d filled as many of the rooms as they could with books, but this one was their favorite, a collection of their own personal choices. Two chairs sat in a corner, a small table between them. On it lay a small book, its cover new and unworn.
Beauty noticed it immediately and picked it up, as he’d known she would. “What’s this?”
“It’s a new book, one you haven’t read yet.”
Her face lit up. These days, a new book was a rare treasure. “Where did you find it?” Her smile faltered as she examined the cover. “It doesn’t have a title.” She opened it, flipping through the pages until she reached the end. “It’s blank.” She frowned at him. “What is this?”
He tried to keep his face neutral. “It’s a romance novel.”
“But there’s nothing written in it.”
“Not yet. It’s our story. Or it will be, once you write it.”
Her smile was radiant as she hugged the book to her chest. “Does it have a happy ending? Our love story?”
He sat down on one of the chairs and pulled her into his lap. His life was complete now, every moment of pain and darkness dissolved by the tenderness in her eyes. “Yes, it does. I don’t want to spoil the ending for you, my love, but we live happily ever after.”
THE END
Mistress of More by Anne Stryker
Copyright ©️ 2019 Anne Stryker
All Rights Reserved. This book is a work of fiction. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the proper written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For information address [email protected].
Created with Vellum
Untitled
For the believers,
the dreamers,
the wanderers.
1
The noise that shattered the peace of the forest was not exactly a scream. In Fayre’s ears it compared to a baby’s cry, and it did not stop. The long whines rushed through the trees, over the lake, and under the brush, landing in the clearing where Fayre sat beneath a willow.
She looked up from her book the instant the distressed call hit her, then she was on her feet, hitching her skirts, and cursing them. Darting deep into the forest as fast as the excessive fabric she wore would allow, she followed the noise until it led her well away from town. When she had finally reached the source, she halted on the edge of the clearing.
Sun dappled through the overhang, casting a golden glow over the tawny hair of a small teenager. Her lips were parted as tears streamed down her tan cheeks, and the unusual cries burbled up from her throat to fill the space.
Sun winked off metal, so Fayre squinted down the girl’s body. Clamped in a steel bear trap was a single slender hoof.
Shock widened Fayre’s eyes, but she didn’t hesitate before crossing the clearing, dropping to her knees beside the creature, and setting her book in her lap.
“Hello there,” she murmured. “There’s no need to cry.”
The girl’s eyes snapped open, her distressed calls fleeing into a chorus of terrified whimpers. She yanked on her leg, yelped, then went as still as death, wary gaze fixated on Fayre.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” Fayre smiled, hoping it would bring some comfort. “I stepped on one of those last summer. If you’ll let me, I can get you out?”
The girl trembled when Fayre raised a hand, so she paused and pressed her lips together. “Can you even understand me?” Eyes dropping to the trap, Fayre gasped. Char eroded the girl’s skin wherever the metal touched, and dark smoke twisted into the air; burning flesh stung Fayre’s nostrils.
Panic made her heart jump as she looked between the girl’s face and the girl’s wounds. “Sorry!” she blurted at last, grabbing the hooved leg with one hand to steady it, then loosening the springs and yanking the maws of the trap open. When the girl snatched her leg free, Fayre pulled back and sat unmoving.
The girl wrung bloody, singed hands, leaning heavily off her injured hoof. Her lips parted and closed beneath a short brown snout, quivering. Nose twitching, her eyes flitted over Fayre’s shoulder, and, moments later, she jolted back, bounding away.
Before Fayre could attempt to ask her to wait, the girl was gone, little more than a rustle on the wind. Fayre’s gaze remained locked on the shivering brush as she whispered to herself, “She couldn’t have been much younger than me.”
A dozen questions danced in her head, compiling with every moment that passed. What was she? Where was she from? Why was she here? What was her name? Could she understand me?
Why hadn’t Fayre read about people like her?
But then that was a silly question. Fayre looked down at the book in her lap. An embellished Herbology stared up at her. It was very rare she could get her hands on tales of adventure, rarer still that she was allowed in the tavern when travellers came by, sharing their own riveting stories of the world beyond her town.
“’Tis a man’s and harlot’s place,” Fayre mocked her mother’s words, gathering herself, standing, and kicking the trap closed. A metal clang rattled the nearby area. “No fine daughter of mine shall be seen in it.”
Something settled uneasily in Fayre’s gut as she brushed pine needles off her skirt, and the words died on her tongue. Blinking, she looked up, then around. “Wait…” she whispered, brows knitting, “when did I get this far from the lake?” Her mind muddled through a simmering fog as her attention fell on a closed bear trap. Her eyes narrowed, but she couldn’t place when she had found it. Running her fingers through her hair, she glanced at the sun, turned toward home, and opened her book to continue where she left off, though she couldn’t remember quite where that was either.
As she searched for the last recording she recalled, a shadow skittered across the pages, and her heart thumped. The dark spot shifted on the corner of her vision when she looked up, but whatever it was skirted the edges of her sight no matter where her eyes chased it.
“Hello?” The word drifted into the eerie silence. And it was silent. Not a single tremble of leaves broke the quiet. No distant twitters. No breeze. Her swallow was the loudest sound in her ears, until a sharp inhale behind her sent her running.
Her book tumbled from her grasp when she gathered her skirts. Noise erupted in her head. Her heartbeat thundered through her skull. Her boots snapped a dozen twigs, each crunch echoing behind her as though something followed.
“Fayre!” her mother’s voice sliced her fear as she burst from the treeline and skidded to a stop before the frowning woman. “What have I told you about going so far in the woods? I’ve been c
alling you for ten minutes.”
Fayre gulped air between panting breaths. “There was…there was something…a shadow, or a man.”
“A man?” Her mother’s lips pinched as her gaze dropped. “Where’s your book?”
“I—”
“Did you lose it?” Exasperation laced her mother’s tone. “You know it cost a fortune.”
“No.” Fayre shook her head, glancing back, just in case the shadowed figure had followed her. Nothing stood out in the late afternoon sun. “I think I dropped it. But, Mother, there was—”
“You dropped the very expensive book you begged your father and I to get you?”
“Mother, please, just listen.” Her heart raced with a sensation that though she couldn’t see what had been following her, it stood just behind her, breathing down her neck.
Brown eyes narrowed, the woman set her hands on her hips. “I am listening. But I’m not hearing anything good. You went past the lake—something you promised you wouldn’t do—and you lost your book.”
“I was being chased!”
“By what?” her mother exclaimed, tugging a stray pine needle from her daughter’s thick brown hair. She sighed as she flicked the offending plant away. “If you were being chased, it would be behind you now. And there’s nothing here.”
Fayre wasn’t so sure. Her fists clenched. “If I were a man, would you believe me?”
“What?”
“You’d have to, wouldn’t you? If I were your son, you’d have to believe me because I was a boy.”
The woman’s face twisted. “Stop this nonsense. Don’t think just because you’re nearly seventeen I’ll tolerate disrespect. Neither would a husband. And especially not the man whose eye you’ve caught.”
