by Anise Rae
“Wagon coming in!” The shout came from one of the snipers on the roof.
The six mechanized horses and their over-packed wagon bumbled into view. It careened back and forth as it traveled over the tracks. Houston stopped his beasts in front of Prophet, jumped down, and strode around to the front, checking on his creations, the Pegasus in the lead.
“Sir, we loaded as many as she would hold. There’s a few dozen more waiting in a cargo hold at the station in the city. We left seven guards on it.”
“Unload quick. Then go back and get ‘em,” Prophet barked. “This time, I’m sending in my suit. He’ll get the whore for sure. We’ll put the sorceresses to work on the copper, and we’ll show the High Councilor what happens when I rule the place.”
15
Mara leaned against the side of a building. Its naked wood was cracked and rough against her shirt, but a sliver of shade graced the spot. In the middle of the street, the outlaws unloaded the spinning wheels. Prophet had ordered Gregor to help.
The gang’s leader wanted him; speculation lit the man’s eyes every time he’d looked at Gregor. He would not let them go. She was certain of that. She watched Gregor lift and carry. If she could see him, she felt safer though it was nothing but an illusion.
Standing here, she’d formed an escape plan, but if she enacted it, Gregor would want nothing to do with her. He’d take his charming smile and kind heart as far away from her as he could. She should have kissed him when she’d had the chance, after he’d saved her from the train.
Too late now.
Regret rustled through her.
It took almost an hour for the Skulls to line up the spinning wheels under Prophet’s exacting eye. The long row stretched across the dusty road just shy of her shade.
A few elderly men, black vests showcasing tattooed skulls on their skinny biceps, sauntered up and shared the protection from the sun. Ignoring her, their chatter rehashed the challenges of harvesting the sprawling hay fields and the fate of the botanist mages who had, in their opinions, gotten what they’d deserved.
Mara listened but couldn’t determine the details of that fate. Something bad, no doubt.
Suddenly, Prophet screamed. Mara jumped, straightening from her slouch. She refocused on the man she never should have looked away from. He was close, his body tense. She followed his wide-eyed gaze, but she didn’t see whatever he saw in the distance. The outlaws froze, silent, but their eyes gleamed, excitement sparking.
“Goddess damn. It’s another fit,” one of the old men said, glee in his voice.
“Scribe! Scribe!” Prophet staggered, stopping six feet away from her. His head twitched to the side, a hard jerk that must have rattled his brain. His mouth worked, forming words that never sounded. White flecks of spit scattered over his lips. His eyes glowed softly, a wayward’s power coming to the fore.
Every member of the Black Skulls rushed forth as if Prophet were about to scatter gold coins everywhere. The curse of the evil, wayward eye was not an issue for these men.
In the milieu, Gregor sidestepped over to Mara and she instantly reached for his hand. “Can you drive a motorcycle?” she whispered. “We need our packs. They’re in that sidecar.” She pointed at the motorcycles parked in the middle of the road.
“I’ve got a plan,” they both said at the same time.
“Great. We’ll enact yours if mine fails.” He didn’t stop for a breath. “We don’t have time to debate, and your life is more important than your pack.”
“Wrong. My pack is my life. If your plan doesn’t include grabbing it, then I’m going with my plan,” she whispered at a furious pace. All she needed was to be in sight of every outlaw here. Considering the location of the sun, she needed to get across the street; otherwise, she’d be nothing but a shadow to half of them.
“We’ll go with my plan and I’ll get your pack.” Gregor’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Just stay put. Trust me?”
She did. Which took her by surprise. She never thought he’d be one of the few mages she trusted.
“Scribe!” Prophet twitched again.
A man rushed across the street with the shiniest black boots she’d ever seen. “Scribe, coming through!” He waved a scroll high in the air as if it contained the cure to Prophet’s fit, his brilliant boots reflecting sunshine all the while.
Prophet pulled at his hair as foam dripped from his mouth, his cigar clenched in his fingers. “Glister mistress, twined delight.”
Her breath quickened. She knew those words.
Prophet’s glowing eyes brightened. He was an oracle mage like the High Councilor. Power pulsed as inky black strands spread around him. Those nearby leaned in as if they might inhale the prophecy.
The wind blew, carrying the prophecy’s power toward her. A tingle of rightness passed through her, nothing like the High Councilor’s prophecies. This was light and easy. No wonder his men wanted to be close. Prophet’s vibes were velvet against her skin. Gregor stepped forward, but she caught his hand, stopping him from joining in. He blinked at her and shook his head as if to clear it. A worried whisper blossomed inside her. What if it wasn’t just the fairies’ power that made all these men loyal to Prophet?
The scribe’s pen recorded Prophet’s words, powered by a scribble spell.
Prophet twitched. “Wields the relics, a royal right. Spin without line of blooded descent, a deadly choice.”
Mara whispered the next words along with the elderly outlaws. “Spin and lament.”
Gregor turned to her, questions in his eyes, but now wasn’t the time for answers.
Prophet came out of his trance with a shiver, and the townsmen gave a collective sigh.
“Well?” He glared at his scribe.
The scribe re-rolled his scroll and held out a handkerchief. “Repeat, sir. About the glister mistress wielding the relics.”
Prophet smeared the handkerchief across his mouth. “The relics.” He spoke the words as if they were a mix of curse and blessing. “We need that damn wheel.”
Shock wrapped around her with a sharp, tight thread. He needed the wheel?
“When it arrives, I won’t be the one lamenting,” Prophet spat. “That will be her high and mighty bitch majesty.”
This relic had been haunting her for far too long. Fate was herding her toward a destiny she’d refused to see on the horizon and now it was too late to flee. The white wheel. Why her? She had to open her mouth to catch a breath against the fear squeezing at her chest.
Prophet pointed at Gregor with his slightly crushed cigar. “Glister-marked.” It was as if the man had forgotten about Gregor and suddenly remembered. Mad was an accurate nickname.
He marched three long paces toward them. His eyes held a wild gleam and specks of spit still dotted his chin.
Adrenaline renewed its rush and quivers flowed down her spine. How much terror could a body hold before it lost its potency? Surely, she should have reached maximum by now.
Gregor pushed her back, shielding her from the crazed man. Prophet grabbed him by the chin and peered at his scars. Gregor didn’t move under the examination.
“Two pricks, eh?” Prophet thumped his fist against his chest. “She stabbed my heart. Now all I hear are the prophecies of the glister. Couldn’t stand the creatures for the longest time, but they ain’t so bad as long as you control them.” He smiled with vicious satisfaction. “And they’re not a bad lay.”
The outlaws whooped. Some thrust their hips, mimicking things she didn’t want to see.
Prophet pointed his cigar at Gregor as if he were about to impart some wisdom. “Always fuck a fairy from behind. You don’t have to worry about getting caught by her lying eyes.” He took another drag off the cigar. “You ever done one?”
“Never have. Never will.”
“I recommend ‘em, actually.” With a growl, Prophet twitched his head to the left. “Scribe!” The word blasted through his clenched teeth. Spit flew in Gregor’s face.
“Still here,” the
man called from behind him.
The previous scene repeated itself. The scribe’s scribble spell wrote furiously on the scroll as Prophet recited, inky strands of smoke drifting out.
“The needle sings for the stitcher’s dance,
But claims the songs of warrior chants.
Guard the quest of the one who spins.
Seek her truth and healing begins.”
Her truth?
That’s not what the High Councilor had said. Mara would never have noticed that one little word except that it referred to her. Her sense of equilibrium with the world tumbled. Had the High Councilor spoken incorrectly or had she lied? She met Gregor’s eyes as he looked back at her. She shook her head at the hope kindled in his face. She had no truth that would heal him.
Did she?
“Well?” Prophet demanded of his scribe.
The man read the prophecy from his scroll. “A new one, but it poured forth with no hesitation. No stutters. No pauses.” He slumped. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Hell! The old bitch beat me to it. I wonder how long ago she spoke it. That was about you, eh, Whitman? A cadence mage, are you?” At Gregor’s stiff nod, Prophet continued. “A singing man! Worthy entertainment at last. Sing us something.”
“I cannot.” Gregor’s words held such grief that even the wind responded, swirling around him in sympathy. If she had a truth that would heal him, she would have handed it over right then.
“Your prophecy speaks the truth. The needle stole my songs from me. I cannot hear them; therefore, I cannot sing them.”
“Well, that fucking sucks.” Prophet turned to the crowd, switching on his dark charisma. “Who’s ever heard of a cadence mage with no songs?” They roared with laughter and boos on cue.
Mara stepped forward and took a sharp inhale, ready to defend, but Gregor squeezed her hand. “Don’t.”
“Did she share that prophecy with you?” Prophet puffed his cigar.
He nodded in slow motion. “Something like it, yes.”
“So you know her. Did she send you to me?”
“No.” Gregor’s word must have rung with truth.
“I didn’t think so. She’d never want two glister-marked together,” Prophet said. “But there’s no healing for you. Just as there wasn’t for me. Your precious power is damaged beyond repair. And there isn’t a woman alive—not your uppity bitch on her throne or the one you’re dragging across the West—who has the power to fix it.” He held out his arms. “You’re ruined. Welcome to the club.”
The cigar’s sweet smoke drifted around them. Mara’s stomach ached and she wasn’t sure if it was from the smoke or from what the High Councilor had done to Gregor.
“Did she make it seem like you were going to be greater than ever? Immune to fairies? Gain amazing power? Lies. All of it. She uses people, molds them in her palms and shapes them into exactly what she wants. And woe to those who are scooped up.” He held out the cigar. “But you’re here now. You’re with us and out of her reach.” Prophet tilted his head. “How did she speak the words of the prophecy? Easy and flowing? Or did she choke on every word?”
Gregor shrugged. “Easy, I suppose.”
“She already knew it then. She probably choked up the words ages ago and then searched her ranks of warriors for one who chants. A little poke with the needle and bam! Prophecy in motion. Wily bitch.”
He pointed at Mara. “Is she the one who spins?” His eyes lit up. “Another sorceress. They are falling from the sky. My mission is truly blessed!” He spun on his heels and held out his hands. “Bring the women!”
Across the pockmarked pavement, a man opened the door of an old shop in the middle of the row of buildings. The windows on either side of the door were lined with bars, and the glass in each was shattered in a web of damage. The man reached into the shadows beyond the doorway and pulled out a woman, shoving her in their direction. He impatiently summoned with his hand and women filed out, marching toward Prophet with barely disguised annoyance.
Mara covered her mouth with her hand. This was Power United all over again. Memories twirled through her mind like thread on a bobbin, conjuring sights she didn’t want to remember. Drained sorceresses forced to spin, bleeding fingers, lifeless eyes that had long since forgotten what hope looked like.
The women paraded out. Their clothes were skimpy, corsets, sheer skirts or shorts so tiny their bottoms hung out, strapless tube dresses that wouldn’t stay up on top or down on the bottom. There was more skin than cloth.
The women came in all shapes and sizes, but every curve, big or small, was flaunted to its maximum potential. A mix of defiance, caution, and fear sprinkled across their faces.
“Line up,” Prophet commanded
The first obeyed with a roll of her striking green eyes. The others followed, at least fifty of them.
Green Eyes lifted her chin. “You got three more busy with your colleague. He’s a slow draw.” She cackled and some of the women joined in.
It had never occurred to Mara that some entity other than Power United could be in the business of gobbling up sorceresses.
“Meet my women, monk mage.” Prophet pointed at Mara. “She spins? Then this is her quest. The end of it. She’s here to join my sorceresses. And you have found your truth with me. You were made wayward by the order of the High Councilor for the good of the Republic. Congratulations, soldier. Your mission is over, and a new one has begun. For you and your woman.”
No. She’d die first. Fight flooded into her as a river of never forgotten rage and regrets poured forth. “They don’t know why they’re here, do they?” she asked. “Because if they did, they’d be fleeing for their lives.”
Prophet laughed. “They’ll do what they’re told. As will you.”
No, she wouldn’t.
Two of the women put their heads together, looked at her, and laughed, probably at her specs. Bully for them. They still had energy for making fun. The dark despair of spinning metal had not yet seeped into these women.
All joy the wheel will steal, she thought. Prophetic for every sorceress forced to spin.
“You must have emptied a dozen bordellos to get them all,” she said.
He lifted an eyebrow. “That I did.” He pulled on the cigar. “How much experience do you have spinning?”
She stared him down. “I am the finest spinner you’ll ever meet.”
Beside her, Gregor stiffened, but she didn’t look at him.
Prophet laughed. “Confident and bold.” He flicked ashes and they landed on the scribe’s polished boot. “Have to be, I guess, to wear those spectacles.” He gestured to the women. “They’ve never spun. Not a one of them. I’m afraid you won’t find them very ladylike. I’ve heard that, unlike my Wild West, the Republic has a multitude of spinning sorceresses who do their patriotic duty.”
“With fat asses squished wide from so much sitting! And they wouldn’t know a cock from a spindle!” the green-eyed woman shouted. She tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder and thrust her chin high. “I told ya it’s not for me, and I’m sticking to that.”
“That’s Flossy,” Prophet said.
“I ain’t spinning no yarn either!” another cried. Others followed her lead until it was a chorus of protests.
Prophet took another puff on his cigar, studying them. Then he leaned close to Gregor as if he might embrace him. Instead, he pulled the gun hidden at his side beneath the hem of his shirt. Prophet pointed it at the sorceresses.
“Wait,” Mara cried. “They can spin yarn. I can teach them.” Her voice cracked.
Prophet moved his finger on the trigger three times. Flossy jerked on her feet, yanked right and left by the bullets.
The ferocious noise pummeled Mara’s mind, stealing sound and thought, leaving her frozen.
Flossy fell to the ground.
Prophet pivoted, pointing the gun at Mara. Before she could flinch, before she could hold up her hands in surrender, silence surrounded her. Vibes encased her—Gre
gor’s.
Prophet pulled the trigger again.
She was going to die.
It was the only thought she had time for. There was no chance to worry for her sorceresses or regret the past. At least not until she saw where the bullet landed. It gleamed in the dust, two feet away from her. A tiny moan slipped from her lips as she stared at it, her gaze as paralyzed as the rest of her.
Gregor’s vibes had stopped a bullet. He was that fast, that powerful. He’d guarded her like the prophecy had said. She managed to shift her gaze to look at him through the faint shimmer of his vibes.
His lips were flat, his stare hard on Prophet. He didn’t glance over to check on her, as if he knew he’d solved her most pressing problem and she could handle the remainder of her issues. She supposed she should appreciate his confidence in her, but the truth was her face was going numb. Icy cold crept down her neck and into her arms and legs.
Shock, perhaps?
Prophet pointed the gun in the air and held up his other arm as if he’d performed a trick. The Skulls applauded, a silent celebration to her ears. All she could hear was her panting gasps.
Get it under control, she thought. She couldn’t get the hell out of this place if she passed out.
Prophet pointed the gun at Seth. Clouds of dust burst from the ground, burying Seth’s boots. The man’s eyes were wide as he danced backward with every bullet.
The spell around her disintegrated. The noise of the world rushed in. She gulped down a breath of hot, dusty air. Gregor glanced at her, his forehead tight with worry at her gasps.
“—forgot to check him for a Goddess damn gun, you fuckhead,” Prophet shouted at Seth. He shot the gun again. More dust exploded. Another pull of his finger and the dull click of the trigger sounded. The gun was empty. “What kind of lieutenant are you? Always pat the fuckers down. Next time you bring a guest into our town and he still has a gun on him, you’re dead. This time, dig me a fucking hole for the whore!”