by Nyna Queen
Forcing her true skin back into her core, she rose slowly and inspected the black spider that perched on her countertop. Male, her senses informed her helpfully. Hunter. He’d frozen at her sudden movement, but now he rose to his hind legs, presenting her with adorable little mandibles: a threatening gesture.
“Yeah, scary,” Alex muttered.
Well, at least she hadn’t jumped at her own shadow. Not that this was much better. What the hell was wrong with her? She might have missed an intruder’s noise while she had been under the shower—unlikely, but not completely impossible—but her senses would have warned her if something of considerable size had moved in the kitchen. Really, if she didn’t get a grip soon, she’d end up doing something very stupid.
Alex leaned forward and scrutinized her uninvited guest through narrowed eyes. “Now, aren’t you a hairy little fellow.”
Granted, “little” was a bit of an understatement. Given a good stretch, body, and legs, her eight-legged gatecrasher was at least the size of her palm. Not a guest most people would tolerate in their home. His presence didn’t bother her, though. He wasn’t bad company. Oh, she’d certainly had worse. After all, he didn’t bend her ears with rubbish or tried to sweet talk his way into her panties, which made him preferable to about ninety-five percent of the males she usually dealt with. And he was a spider, that had to count for something, right? Kindred souls had to stick together.
Alex looked at the spider on her counter and pursed her lips. She didn’t mind being called a spider. Spiders were astonishing, efficient creatures with remarkable abilities. Skilled artists and deadly hunters.
No, she didn’t mind being called a spider. Being treated like vermin was what she minded.
Well, there’s the rub.
Alex pushed the thought from her mind and opened the fridge door, trying not to grit her teeth at its emptiness. Not much left. It basically came down to a small plastic box with the few leftovers from the days before: the rest of the vegetable casserole she’d eaten for the last three days. Yay!
In the door she found a cooked egg and the finger-long piece of roasted chicken breast she’d saved up for a rainy day. Well if this wasn’t it, she didn’t know.
Alex put it to the rest and critically surveyed her frugal meal. Not quite the dinner her worn-out body craved, but it would do. Had to do, really. Except for a few beverage bottles, she literally had nothing else in stock. Breakfast would have to consist of imaginary pie, again.
Her stomach growled in protest, but Alex ignored it. She took the plastic box, dumped its contents onto a plate together with the egg and the almost nonexistent nibble of chicken and shoved it into the microwave. She’d bought this little jewel four months ago second hand for a mere twenty bucks and it hadn’t let her down so far.
Reaching around the microwave, she grabbed the spot where the cable connected with the backside of the device and sent the tiniest blast of magic through her hand. A white-blue spark danced from her fingers and the microwave creaked to life and started rotating.
Alex permitted herself a small smile. As a half-blood, her magic wasn’t particularly powerful—nothing compared to most trueborns anyway—but it did come in handy now and then. Oh, she was lucky, she knew that. Most of her kind didn’t possess any magic at all or so little it was negligible. But she was one of the few exceptions to the rule. It wasn’t anything she would rely on in a fight, but it was another ace up her sleeve, that opened up a whole lot of nice little opportunities. She let another spark dance along her fingers like a flashy coin and grinned. Necessity begets ingenuity. And every dime she could save on electricity she could spend on soap and clothes and all the other little things one needed.
When the microwave finally dinged, it was all she could do not to yank out the plate and tear into the food like a famished beast.
No, she wasn’t an animal. And she wouldn’t behave like one either.
So, instead, she grabbed her single pair of cutlery from the sink, snatched the plate, and moved over to her living-slash-bedroom. Using another teensy bit of magic, she switched on the TV and flopped down on the couch. For a while, she zapped through the few available channels—not out of real interest, but rather to drown out the silence in the apartment that reminded her too much of the fact that she was sitting here on a Friday night, all by her lonesome, while other people actually had a life out there. Without meaning to, she thought of Darcy, being out with her friends, having a laugh somewhere in a club … Silly Darcy, being about with her silly friends, probably talking about silly things … having fun, enjoying themselves …
An unexpected feeling of loneliness stabbed her through the chest. She ground her teeth. Don’t be ridiculous, sugar. You have your reasons why you keep away from people, and you know it.
Her button-pressing ended on one of those halfborn news channels where prepped up reporters presented the news as they were fed by the trueborn officials.
“… should be taken under severe consideration,” dolled up news reporter Virginia Pennycole chirped into her mic, blinding the audience with a bleached white smile.
The petite blonde always did the late night and early morning specials, not high enough on the ladder yet for the main times. Well, you couldn’t say that she wasn’t giving it her all. Those hardly concealed boobies probably scored big time with the male audience.
“And now the breaking news,” she announced. “The following is a short report on the festivities in Corona on the occasion of this year’s Peace Memorial Day which is as well the fifteenth anniversary of the White River Agreement, more popularly known as the Treaty of Grace or just The Peace Treaty. In the capitol, the preparation for the reception of Tharsis’ Head of State are in full swing.”
Ah yes, the peace treaty. Alex rolled her eyes. Even here in the Bin people had been talking about it all week, getting more or less excited. She herself had just been a kid when the treaty had been signed and she didn’t remember much about it and even less about the war it had ended. The worst impacts had been at Arcadia’s western border to Tharsis—the “Obsidian Country” as people called it, due to its many volcanic structures and rich gemstone occurrences.
They said it had been mostly a cold war, with both countries restraining themselves to prancing, snarling, and baring their teeth, but every now and then the show had escalated and in the following crossfires many people had died. Sometimes the collateral damage had been so high that transport companies were called in from the surrounding provinces to cart off the dead bodies and debris. Alex remembered her sire, a small businessman in the transport industry having been away sometimes for days and when he’d returned he’d looked haggard, older, like a man who had seen nightmares come to life, despite his efforts to put up a cheery front for his kids.
When the peace treaty finally was signed, everybody was over the moon, and now every year they were making a huge fuss about it, featuring reports of the royal family, showing historical documentaries and hosting great public parades.
“This afternoon Prime Gerald Michel Beauchamp-Mareille, leading initiator of this memorable document arrived with his family in Corona for tomorrow’s ceremony. Before retiring to the royal residence, they made an appearance at the White Cathedral to pay their annual respects to the war victims.”
The screen changed to a clip, giving a view over an enormous square in front of the imposing structure of the cathedral: built from magnificent white and rose granite stone with tall arched windows made from facets of silver and blue glass, it sparkled like a sunlit white cloud in front of a vanilla sky.
The square below was a shining expanse of reflecting white marble, streaked with silver and gold. In its center rose a huge fountain that grew from the marble in organic bends and curves like a natural structure. Crafted with enchanted silver and crystal it almost seemed to float above the ground and depending on the way the light fell, it appeared to be covered in either running water or ice. A weightless structure, combining all seasons in one work of flowing, ever-c
hanging art. Frozen Time Square. Who hadn’t heard of it.
Alex watched the display of splendor and lavishness with a mixture of awe and disgust. Of course, there was some kind of magic art involved. She’d once read it had been built by some famous architect and that he’d aimed to catch the “unequaled glory of nature” and that it was supposed to give his artwork an “air of calm sublimity and timelessness.” Well, at least right now it failed to hit that mark since the square was almost completely packed with people, who noisily pushed at each other, trying to get the best view at was going on in front of the cathedral.
The camera zoomed in on a shiny black magic-driven coach coming to a halt close to the massive marble stairs leading up to the cathedral’s front entrance and a man jumped out before the chauffeur had time to get out and hold the door for him.
Prime Gerald in the flesh. Alex recognized him from the shitload of pictures she’d seen of him and she had to admit it, they didn’t over-promise. Broad-shouldered and long-legged, he looked splendid for a man in his middle years, especially in that white uniform jacket adorned with its golden braids and those tight black pants tucked into polished black boots. His full blond hair gleamed in the sunlight like a natural crown on his head. An easy smile rendered his masculine face charming and made it hard to believe that you were looking at the most powerful man in the whole country.
Reporters swarmed forward in a buzzing cloud like a swarm of insects before his feet had even touched the ground, cameras and the bright blue glow of recordare memorandi flashing. The prime winked at them and waved at the crowd which broke into hoots and cheers at his appearance before he hopped up the wide stairs. He was followed more slowly by a thin, serene looking woman with dark hair in a high-necked dress who looked so different from him in every aspect you wouldn’t guess she was his wife if you didn’t know, and a lanky pale teenager with equally dark hair, in a crisp suit who glanced at the adoring crowd with the bored expression of a kid who’d played with a toy too many times. The Prime’s son. What was his name again? Louis? Lucius? Ah, who cares.
At the top of the stairs, the Prime turned to the expectant crowd and threw out his arms. The people went completely wild, screaming and waving and stomping their feet. Prime Gerald grinned and made several sweeping bows—like some bloody rock star after his show.
Alex grimaced. Cheesy or not, the crowd absolutely loved it.
Well, leading a country to peace after years of war did that kind of thing. She supposed it made it him some kind of national hero.
Behind Prime Gerald, the double doors of the cathedral slowly opened as if by an invisible hand and bathed the Prime family in a golden ethereal light from the inside, giving them an aura of power and otherworldliness. Somebody definitely knew how to play their effects.
With one last enthusiastic and screech-concert-rewarded wave and a blown kiss that probably had a lot of over-thirty-women faint, the Prime put an arm around his wife’s shoulders and led her inside, their son trailing behind like a reluctant puppy.
The camera turned back to Virginia whose smile had, if at all possible, widened even more. Seriously, if she smiled an inch wider, she’d probably dislocate her jaw.
“This anniversary is cause for rejoicing and it is with great pride that we can look back at what we, as a nation, have accomplished over the last few years.”
Alex grimaced. She heard a lot of things and if you could believe only half of what people said about the Treaty of Grace, the whole thing looked pretty posh on paper, but nobody really went so far as to loudly claim that everything was nice and well between Arcadia and Tharsis. More a brittle truce than a real peace treaty, she’d heard a group of temp workers claim just the other day in the bar, and then they banged on about how the peace only held because both sides knew what was at stake and neither dared to make the first move because no one could predict which side would win another war. Knowing peoples’ cock-and-bull-stories, especially after a couple of drinks, it probably wasn’t that dire, but it certainly wasn’t all roses either.
As if picking up her train of thought, Virginia said, “Yet it is not without any shadows that we mark this festive day. Many of us still remember the horrors of the war as if it was yesterday. One more reason to praise the man who made all of this possible. By arranging this treaty Prime Gerald accomplished what his father, our beloved Old-Prime Willem—may he rest in peace—had desired but failed to achieve before his untimely death. He thereby also silenced many of those critical voices he’d had to endure over the years, expressing their doubts about his ability to lead the country, him being a man of the military instead of an outspoken pacifist like his father had been.”
Heh, guess being the harbinger of peace pulled the rug out from under those allegations.
“Still, there are some who, even in the light of the upcoming festivities, insist on drawing attention to the fact that the relationship between our nations is still, after all those years, a rather difficult one. But fifteen years! Wow! What a number! It shows that our past efforts have borne fruit and I think we can be hopeful that another period of peace of the same length will follow.
“And now for less pleasant news.” Her artificial smile wavered for the first time and a slight frown creased her pretty face, an untypically serious expression for her. It made her look less like a life-size mannequin and more like a human being.
“A tragedy has taken place in the south of our country: a trueborn landlord and his family were found dead on their premises in Manor Creek County yesterday morning.”
Alex looked up sharply from her plate. Manor Creek County? That wasn’t even twenty miles west from here.
“A maid discovered the dead bodies of the man, his wife, and two children aged six and four in the gardens of their farmhouse. The young woman is still in shock and is currently in psychological care in the Hope Haven Medical Center in Manor Creek. We wish she will get well soon.” Virginia looked down at her note cards, obviously shaken. “The investigations are still ongoing at the moment, but unconfirmed yet credible records suggest that the investigators of the Southern Federal Guardaí Department assume this to be yet another shaper attack.”
Alex groaned.
“Yeah, great!” She poked her fork in the direction of the TV. “As if people don’t already think that we’re all brainless, bloodthirsty monsters. But sure, go ahead and give them proof for those beliefs!” As if things weren’t bad enough already. Why did some degenerate bastards have to walk around throwing shit at their whole kind?
“These pictures we received from the crime scene are a testimony of an atrocity that leaves the whole nation speechless.”
Alex glanced up and the fork dropped from her fingers, landing on the table with a clang. On the screen, a manicured lawn stretched behind a pretty white farmhouse among rich green hills. And scattered across that lawn … She sucked in a sharp breath. There were no bodies, only limbs: arms and legs and other more unrecognizable bits strewn along the grass, some of them horrifically tiny. A lonely blue children’s shoe stood beneath a tree swing, with the bloody stump of a leg still sticking out of it, while in the pastures behind it cattle were feeding peacefully as though nothing had happened.
Alex felt the food she’d just inhaled start to rise. She’d seen her fair share of death, but this was … gross! They hadn’t just been killed. They looked like they had been ripped apart, the way a dog tore up a ragdoll. But instead of white cotton stuffing, it was blood and gore that splashed the walls and dotted the scene. She wasn’t of the squeamish sort, not at all, but this … It had some kind of deliberate cruelty to it. There was something … off about it. She wasn’t sure what it was, but she was pretty sure of one thing: this wasn’t a shaper’s work. Even a rogue shaper in a blood rage wouldn’t do that. More likely some rabid bear or a wolf-pack gone astray from the mountains.
But sure, blame it on us shapers because it is so damn easy.
Virginia looked a bit green when she raised her mic again. “
I guess we all agree that this is a particularly heinous crime that lacks any sign of humanity. It is hardly a wonder that this event has added new fuel to the fire in the debate on the new shaper regulations which had fallen a little dormant in recent times. In the light of the pending gubernatorial elections in the Southern Provinces this fall, the dangers of the raising shaper-population in our country has been a subject of much debate in the election contest already. Designated governor-candidate Stephane Dubois-Léclaire, who had been adopting a more liberal position to the desired registration-policy so far, will once more have to face quite some confrontation. It remains to be seen how these recent events will influence—”
Alex punched the off-button.
She’d heard and seen enough! It was always like that; one shaper-related incident and the whole nation would go on the rampage, sharpening their knives and calling for the witch hunt.
She dropped her head into her hands and groaned again. Great, great, great! Marvelous! As if she didn’t have enough problems. Now she’d have to be even more careful.
She turned back to her food, but her appetite was as spoiled as was her desire for entertainment. Still, she forced down a couple more bites—who knew when she’d get to eat next?
When she was done, she cleared the table and carried the stuff over to the kitchen. It lay empty, no sign of her uninvited guest. So even he had skipped out on her. No surprise, really. Apparently, she couldn’t even hold the creepy crawlies.
With a sigh, she dropped her stuff into the sink and leaned at the counter, hands braced on the wood.
Maybe Mitja was right. Maybe she had given up on life too early. Maybe if she took a leap, if she allowed the people to get a little closer to her … well, maybe things could change.
Yeah, maybe. Or maybe she’d deliver herself right to the butcher’s meat cleaver.
The alarm clock grinned a wicked red grin at her when she finally crawled into her sleep nook, and she seriously considered throwing it against the wall. She’d regret it in the morning, no doubt, but right now it would give her a moment of immense satisfaction. Her still half-empty stomach brought reason to bear and she contented herself with dwelling on those fantasies for a moment. Then she set the alarm—not without a first-rate scowl—slipped under her covers and switched off the light.
