The Beast of Callaire

by Saruuh Kelsey

  *

  I walk into the dining room and promptly choke on smoke. “Min,” I cough. “Too much.”

  She bites her lip. “I didn’t want it to fade before dinner.”

  “I don’t think it’ll fade before Matronalia.”

  Minnie grimaces and begins snuffing out incense sticks and cones.

  “Why are you using incense anyway? The Numina don’t care about that stuff.”

  “I want to show Apollo I’m making an effort.”

  “Could you do that without trying to kill us?” Rowan says nastily, hoisting himself onto the fully-dressed table. The gold cloth ruches beneath him, knives and forks unsettled and glasses knocked over. He smirks in satisfaction until his eyes fall on something behind Minnie and me, and I’ll bet it’s Mavers.

  It is. “Set that table right or I might change my mind about the sacrifice and offer you.”

  Rowan flushes a dark red and hops off the table. I try to hide my smile.

  Mavers sets an age-old gilt bowl in the centre of the table as Rowan pulls the tablecloth straight. The bowl takes up as much room as six ordinary ones, its lip bent and hammered into the shape of a gaping maw. It looks hungry. I glance away, touching my Akasha pendant for reassurance.

  Cornelia Hannam wafts into the room, her sister behind her. Their eyes are as cold and calm as a pool of water and just as grey. They sit with synchronised movements. I try not to stare but it’s hard to peel my eyes from them. Crea of the ocean are sometimes less ‘human’ than the rest of us. There’s an old myth that the sea calls to them constantly, drawing their minds and attention away from the Earth, and that even the Legend Mirror can’t compete with their pull to water.

  They’re more inhuman than most Dei, than even me.

  I sit at the end of the table, as far from the Kelpie twins as I can get, and Minnie drops into a seat beside me. People file in, dressed in finery—silk, velvet, and cashmere; pearls and sparkling gemstones; pressed suits, crisp shirts, and polished shoes. I feel underdressed in my red wool dress and plain pumps, even if there is intricate lace on the collar and sleeves.

  Guy plops into a chair at the table’s end, opposite Mavers, in a battered blazer and casual jeans. He’s only half bothered to make an effort for the Numina. I smile, knowing the exact bitterness he feels.

  When everyone is present, Mavers rises and speaks in a language I still don’t understand. I know only a few words—gratitude, honour, beg—but I recognise it as the Vow. We swear fealty and loyalty to the Numina and beg for mercy and forgiveness for any sins we may commit. That’s about as much as I remember. There’s something about being honoured to be their kids, a line about being blessed with their greatness, and yet more sucking up so the Numina don’t decide we’ve been ungrateful and kill us.

  Mavers takes a ritual dagger and slices his finger open, holding it so the blood drops into the golden bowl. He hands the knife around the table, all of us offering up our blood. When it comes to me I do it quick and mutter ‘Numina be good’ like I’m supposed to.

  Finally—finally!—it’s done and we can eat. The food is nothing special, just an ordinary Sunday dinner, but I didn’t eat before I came out so it tastes better than it should.

  I’ve just finished eating when Minnie darts up, excuses herself, and runs out of the room. I stare after her, wondering if I should have followed, but she comes back with a velvet bag. Now I understand her eagerness.

  “Minnie, we’ve barely eaten,” Mavers complains. The others roll their eyes and grumble to themselves. Amity berates a few whose complaints were a little too harsh for her liking.

  Min sticks out her tongue. “I’m not reading for you.”

  “Will you read for me?” Harriet pipes up, pushing her plate away. Minnie agrees with an indulgent smile.

  Rowan and Fearne leave the table, Mavers pursing his lips at their backs. The rest of the Red filter out until it’s just Minnie, Harriet, Vic, and Amity sat with me at the table. Mavers hovers behind Amity’s chair, his hands on her shoulders.

  Minnie takes the pack of cards from the bag. “Yasmin goes first,” she announces, much to my dismay.

  “I don’t want a reading.”

  “Too bad, you’re getting one.” Stubborn as ever. She flips her dark hair over her shoulder and gives me the deck to shuffle and halve. I do as she says, not paying attention as my hands pull and push the cards. I take the top card, having done and seen this done so many times it’s become second nature.

  The card I put down is right-way-up, which is I think is good. When cards are upside down their meanings tend to be sinister.

  Harrie makes an oooh sound. Min touches the card with her left forefinger, narrowing down the card’s meaning until its direct relation to me makes itself known to her. As far as I can gather, a card can mean a few different things. But with Minnie’s Divine Majick she can pick out the exact meaning of a card for a specific person.

  “It’s good,” she says, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Tarot cards are a fun look into your past or future—unless you have a friend whose predictions and observations have never been wrong. “The Wheel of Fortune means chance, an opportunity, a new beginning. For you it stands for new relationships.” I open my mouth to say something but she shushes me. “It doesn’t just mean romantic relationships. It could be friends, family, co-workers, neighbours. But in the next month you will develop a new relationship or new relationships.” She glances up at me. “If you pick another card, I can tell you more.”

  I take a second card—The Devil. And it’s upside down. “Great,” I mutter.

  “It doesn’t mean it’s bad,” Min says as she touches the card. She draws her finger back sharply. “But it is. Your new relationship will bring darkness into your life, into the Red.”

  “Well then I won’t make any new friends.”

  She taps the card with her nail, careful not to touch it with her skin. “It represents manipulation—an imbalance of good and bad intentions. It’s bad, Yas, really bad. Something dark is coming into your life, and it won’t leave without taking something from you.”

  I swallow, not letting my thoughts take the obvious route to Ceres killing Guy to spite Venus. It could mean anything. There are a million things I could lose; Muffin’s daughter Megan could steal my job. It doesn’t have to be drastic.

  “I could be wrong,” Minnie says desperately. “I don’t always have a clear read on you. You’re difficult. You have barriers.”

  “So I’m doomed and difficult.” She lets out a high pitched noise; I laugh to let her know I’m teasing. “How many bad readings have you given me?”

  “Three,” she answers instantly.

  “All of those came true, and I’m still alive aren’t I? This time will be fine as well.”

  “Bad luck, Yas,” Vic says. I start, remembering Minnie and I aren’t alone. Everyone’s eyes are on me.

  “Do you all have to look at me like I’m dying?” I demand, awkward with the attention. Harriet saves me by begging Minnie to read for her next and I flee the room.

  The Academy hasn’t changed much over the years so I find my old room easily. Nobody’s been in it since I left—that’s obvious by the layer of dust over everything I left behind. I only took what I needed, so most of my old things are still here.

  I expected to feel sad or uncomfortable to be back in the room I spent so much time crying, feeling sorry for myself, having nightmares. But I don’t feel anything. It’s not possessions that make a place feel like anything, I suppose. It’s the people.

  Guy appears behind me. I don’t turn to look at him but I don’t have to; the aftershave gives him away. It smells like rust and chemicals. I have no idea why he wears it.

  The dust in the room lifts off my old things. It gathers in a cloud of grey smoke as Guy sends the dust out the window.

  “You could come back,” he says quietly.

  “This isn’t my home anymore.” I look at him from the corner of my ey
e. “I like my flat. I don’t feel lonely, even though you all think I do.”

  “You’re independent,” he says, brow furrowing as he processes. “I never knew that.”

  “Now you do.” I pick up a wind chime that’s fallen from the window while I’ve been gone. Bells and chimes collide with sea glass as I hang it back up. On impulse I take it back down; I’ll find a place for it in my flat. It’s too pretty to be left in this graveyard of a room. Besides, Vic and I collected the glass from the beach he Changes on. It’d be nice to have some evidence of my friendships back at home, since I’m done with pushing away the people who care about me.

  I take the wind chime and close the door to my old room behind me. Minnie catches up to me in the hallway and thrusts a voile bag into my spare hand. “Runes,” she explains. “So you can read yourself. You might have more luck than me.”

  “Minnie you don’t have to give me these. I’m not bothered by the reading. Really.”

  She won’t back down so I just accept the gift.

  Somehow it’s agreed that Guy will drive me home, though nobody thinks to ask me, so I find myself in his convertible ten minutes later, speeding too fast down the thin lanes.

  At some point I fall asleep, barely waking when Guy summons his Akasha to unlock my door or when he sets me on my bed. It’s been the longest day of my life so I just let myself sleep.

  TWELVE

  THE CONFUSION

  Muffin is flustered by the time I make it into work the following Friday. A cloud of flour surrounds her like a nuclear bomb as I ditch my coat and grab an apron. I get started with the morning’s work, kneading dough and separating it into tea cake sized rolls. The town outside lightens as tray after tray of cakes, pastries, and bread go into the oven and come out golden. By the time the morning’s batch is finished, the sun has come up and turned the street outside a pastel shade of purple.

  The town slowly awakens, shutters rolling up as shop doors are unlocked, and the morning gets its first glimpse of people making their way to work. I stare absently out the window, leaning on the flour-dusted counter I’m supposed to be wiping down.

  “Something on your mind?” Muffin asks, piling hot cross buns in a wicker basket for display. I sweep a wet cloth over the marble top and shake my head. “You’re lying,” she says. “But that’s alright. If you’ve got a reason to keep it to yourself, that’s good enough for me.” She pats my arm and disappears into the back room.

  She’s right. There is something on my mind. There’s everything on my mind. The Numina in conflict. The hunters returning to Almery woods. The new Crea in the woods this moon and how people are going to get hurt. The Legendaries being drained of their Majick and having no idea what took it. The new relationship with my brother, the old friendships I’m trying to patch back together.

  With everything that’s going on, there’s never a time when something isn’t on my mind. As if to add to my problems, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I take it out and groan. Amity’s number. I read the text before I can chicken out.

  Another person has woken up without their Majick. A Cross-Blood Crea called Jonathan Hamm. He’s 40 y.o. from Richmond, VA. We’ve never heard of him. Mavers says it’s strange he’s a lot older than the others.

  I frown. That’s the first Crea that’s been drained. All the others have been Dei. It makes sense—every Dei is born with Majick. They inherit their parents’ power. Minnie, for example, has Divination Majick because her many-greats grandfather Apollo was an oracle, among other things. Sometimes Dei inherit Majick that doesn’t make any sense; Guy has Akasha Majick and I have Psychic Majick, despite Venus being the God of love and prosperity, and in no way associated with any of the elements Akasha consists of. But Dei are always born with power.

  Crea are only born with Majick in rare circumstances—when they’re descended from a God and their particular Crea form is connected to an element. Like me. And Vic, whose Selkie nature means he has Aqua Majick at his disposal. But even then the Majick is sporadic, developing in some people and not others.

  If whoever is draining Majick has targeted a Crea, they’ve either run out of Dei to hunt, or they’re taking more Majick than they need.

  Sounds like they’re stockpiling Majick, I send back. Within five seconds my phone buzzes with a phone call.

  “Stockpiling for what?” Mavers sounds the farthest from calm I’ve heard him.

  “I don’t know. Maybe they need Majick to live. There’ve been creatures like that in the past, right?”

  “Centuries ago! It’s unlikely those Crea still exist. Their bloodline died off long ago.” He lets out a breath. “I thought you meant stockpiling for an attack.”

  I inhale sharply. “I never thought of that.”

  “Sorry.” I imagine the look on his face, crestfallen and deeply sorry. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I’m being overly cautious. I feel … because I’m the head of the Red I’m responsible for every Legendary on Earth.”

  “That’s crazy. You can’t look out for everyone on the planet.”

  He sighs.

  “We’ll find out what it is,” I tell him. “We usually end up finding trouble. This won’t be any different.” I glance up as Muffin emerges from the backroom, wrapped in a thick coat and scarf. “Gotta go, Mavers.” I end the call without waiting for a reply. “Going out?” I ask Muffin.

  She turns the sign on the door so it reads ‘open’ to the outside. “Wholesalers. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. You can hold the fort here, I know you’re capable.”

  She’s through the door and unlocking her car before I’ve uttered a word. I grumble, amused and frustrated at the enigma that is Muffin, and check that the till’s full. Then, with nothing else to do, I lean against the counter and wait for a customer.

  *

  I lose myself in the erratic rhythm of serving customers. Most of the people who come in during the morning, their hands full of shopping bags, are looking for a quick lunch, so it doesn’t take much effort. I alternate between worrying and daydreaming.

  The Crea moon is just over a week away, and the beast is stirring again. I feel it in my moods, slowly shifting from tiredness to anger, and my hunger, which is becoming impossible to sate. I’m not sure what I’m hungry for; it’s not like I can tap into the beast’s mind and ask what it craves.

  I suppose I need to stop thinking of myself and the beast as separate. The beast isn’t a disconnected creature that takes over my body when I stop fighting—though I suppose in some way it is. But it’s me as well. I’m as much beast as I am girl. All my complexities and wants and fears and physical forms are wrapped up in the Manticore. I am the Manticore. I don’t know why it’s so hard to think of myself as the beast, as girl, as Manticore. I’m all of those things, all at once, but it feels like they’re all disjointed.

  Right now I am ‘human’. Next week, at the Crea moon, I’ll be beast. And somewhere in between, at times when I least expect to feel it or I’m not paying attention, I’m the Manticore. Which is crazy, since the Manticore is constant. It is what I always am—it never leaves, never changes, as much as anyone’s ethnic background changes.

  I tap my nails against the counter, groaning. I have too many identities, too many puzzle pieces to fit into one person. I have all the makings of a Pure—the Anglo-African heritage of my father, the quick temper of my mother, the kindness of Mavers—but I have Dei qualities—my Majick—and Crea qualities—my curse of Changing—and somewhere amongst is what the Manticore means—to be a mindless animal with the desire only to kill and tear flesh.

  How am I supposed to resolve that into one person, one Yasmin?

  I jump at a resounding slap on the counter top and look up to see the Girl In The Woods. Fray. My breath rushes out of me. What is she doing here? Is this a coincidence—has she just come for cakes? Or has she hunted me down?

  Her expression is a mix of fury and fear, and my blood runs cold at the sight of it. I don’t think her finding me was a coi
ncidence at all. She drops her eyes pointedly to a stack of paper on the counter.

  I fix my jaw to keep from biting the inside of my lip and giving my anxiety away, and I thumb through the papers. Mythological creature after mythological creature stares back at me from the pages of internet research. At the very back are scans of a book I’m intimately familiar with—the only book that accurately recounts my paternal family’s history. The fevered eyes of the Manticore are shadowed by the cheap photocopy.

  “You didn’t have a scorpion’s tail,” Fray says quietly.

  I close a hand around Fray’s arm and pull her into the back room. I grip her too tightly in my attempt to keep my fingers from shaking. I drop my hand as soon as the door is closed and stare at the speckled damp in the corner of the room, composing myself. I have to be careful about this, clever. I need to know what she knows. “What are you saying?”

  “Manticore,” she says, her eyes anywhere but on me. “You’re one of them. Aren’t you?”

  I give up on secrecy. Something about the look in her eye makes me defenceless. “Yes.”

  “That’s impossible.” Her hands become fists.

  “What made you do all that research? You must have thought it was possible.”

  She glares. “I thought you were a shape-shifter. A werewolf kind of thing. So I did some research but it didn’t add up.” She pulls on the sleeve of her coat, though I’m not sure she’s conscious of doing it. “Look—the hunters might be stupid but I’m not. There’s a pattern. People only get hurt once a month, on one night. The full moon.” She laughs. “And that sounds crazy. It is crazy. But then I thought—what if I was right when I called you a were-lion?”

  “You weren’t.”

  A muscle twitches in her jaw. She has more anger than fear now. “I researched every creature I could find. Norse mythology, Egyptian mythology, Japanese folklore, the Inca myths. Roman, Celtic, Hindu, Slavic, Maya—everything.”

  “Let me guess,” I breathe. “You found an interesting Persian myth that fit all your criteria.”