by Kyra Quinn
“Here. You will work with these today.” Aster folded in half and reached up her skirt. When she straightened herself, she clenched a sharpened dagger in each palm.
My nose wrinkled as I reached for the weapons.
“What, you’re already a master of the sword?”
“No, but...why do I need to be? With everything else I can do, throwing knives seems pedestrian.”
Aster pushed her sleeves up to her elbows. “How many times must I explain to you why you can’t rely on your powers for everything? Knives and swords may not be as glamorous as your explosive fits of magic, but they’re far more reliable and do less damage to your surroundings. Besides, you can’t learn to fly until you comprehend the basics.”
Who was little Miss Necromantic Blood Mage to lecture me on safety or abuse of powers? The longer Aster went without access to her soul gem, the more dismissive she became of anyone else’s capabilities. Some days I had to resist the urge to tell her she should settle with the passives if she preferred to behave like one.
“What am I supposed to stab with these?”
“Not stab. Accuracy is the most important goal. As a camphelem, you possess the blood of an Archangel and the Mother of Night herself. You’re gifted with an increased focus. With a little work you should be able to throw a dart into a creature’s collar from damn near anywhere.”
I heaved a sigh as my shoulders slumped. “You dragged me all the way out here at this moment to practice tossing knives around?”
Aster’s expression darkened. “Do it right and we can both return home.”
I opened my mouth to inquire where to aim, but a crack split the air. A sudden fog of crimson smoke surrounded me. My throat burned as I hacked and coughed until my core ached. The fog cleared. The beast in front of me stopped my heart.
I’d never seen a demon as ugly as the thing near the gate. Two spiraled horns covered either side of his long rectangular head. Two diagonal slits sat between his eyes and his mouth in place of a nose. Thin white lips circled fangs sharper than glass. Fierce red eyes offered a sharp contrast to his almost translucent skin. He hissed as he crawled across the field, his eyes latched on my face.
No magic. In theory, the stipulation seemed straightforward enough to adhere to. But the closer the beast moved, the more I wished to use whatever energies I could summon to force him to disappear.
“Aster—”
“Concentrate, Lili,” she said. “Focus on the target and clear your mind of all other concerns. The less power you turn over to your fears, the more efficient you’ll be in combat.”
Easy for her to say. Whatever she’d summoned to play with didn’t plan to devour her for his next meal. My hands trembled as I licked my lips and squinted at the Shadowfey.
A grunt of effort escaped my lips as I hurled the first blade. The knife flipped and twirled as it sailed through the air and landed several feet away from the monster. Aster groaned, only increasing my frustration.
“I’ve met elderly women with better aim than you. Empty your mind, Lili. Only then can you discover the focus you require to save your life.”
“We didn’t all study the blade as children.”
“All the more reason to learn it now. It limits my access to blood magic to not have my gem. I can spare neither the time nor the patience to babysit you, Lilianna. Our survival depends on your ability to grasp this.”
I gritted my teeth and struggled to steady my hand. Babysit? Who had asked the impulsive sorceress to babysit anyone? The beast’s ugly mug almost upon me did little to calm my nerves. I tried to imagine Viktor’s smug grin on the demon’s face. Or my murderous mother’s. I growled again and flung the dagger with all my strength.
Not. Even. Close. The blade only flew a few feet before clattering to the ground between me and the monster. Blast. I dug my heels into the frozen soil and braced myself, ready for the fight. The demon lurched forward, his claws aimed at my face.
“Exilium!” Aster shouted behind me.
The demon froze mid-stride. His face contorted with pain as he panted. A shrill wail broke from his jaws as his feet turned to vapor. Within moments, the demon evaporated into the open and disappeared.
Aster locked her hand on her hip, an oak wand clutched in the other fist. “Magic powers or not, you have a long way to go in your practice and limited time.”
“So you say.” I stalked away to retrieve her daggers, my face hot. I refused to give Aster the satisfaction of knowing how much her criticisms bothered me.
“Excuse me?”
“We fled from the Shadowrealm almost a month ago. Nothing has happened. At this rate, we’ll all be deceased by the time the war arrives.”
Aster tapped her foot, her lips pressed into a slim line. “With such a sour attitude, it’s a wonder we aren’t already dead. Meet me inside. We’ll let you concentrate on your bookwork for today instead.”
She didn’t offer me a chance to argue or plead for another opportunity to prove myself. Aster whirled on her heel and stomped back towards the door. I stood alone in the barren field, her daggers clasped between my hands. The moment her back disappeared around the corner of the building, my heart dropped into my gut.
I had witnessed how deadly Aster was with a pair of daggers or a sword, but none of it prepared me for the bite behind her words. She meant well. Despite her brash tactics, Aster had done nothing but try to help me since our first encounter. She had opened her home to me and devoted countless hours of her time to whipping me into fighting shape. The closest thing to a sister I’d ever known, I had no reason to feel anything but gratitude towards Aster.
Yet her use of the word ‘babysitting’ left a sour taste in my mouth. The law recognized me as an adult, and I carried more than my weight in life trauma to prove it. Why should her own lack of magic limit the use of mine? If she—and the rest of Astryae—needed my protection as much as she implied, what sense did it make for her to force me to fight at half capacity? What use did I have for silly daggers and blades? I’d already demonstrated my ability to smite demons, though I’d burned down a quarter of a forest.
Fire burned my throat as I stomped across the frozen soil around the row of connected brick flats towards Aster’s front door. No matter how much I resented Aster for saying it, she had a point. The weight of the world tightened around my neck like a noose. If I didn’t master my abilities soon, everyone I cared about would perish in the holy war.
* * *
True to her word, Aster grabbed me by the wrist and marched me up the winding metal staircase the moment we stepped inside her maisonette. She stopped in front of the altar table on the mezzanine and plopped me down with a stack of books taller than my head. Assorted objects surrounded the books, everything from candles to a handful of smooth seashells and a jar full of dirt. Her eerie eyeball portrait nailed to the wall above the table glared at me until I squirmed. Smoke with a floral, musky scent seeped beneath the door of Aster’s bedchamber and down the stairs to where we sat.
“What am I supposed to do with these?” I wrinkled my nose. “If I’m the first of my kind, I doubt there’s any mention of me in your texts.”
“Your limited understanding of the world is a hindrance. Educate yourself some while I attend to my own problems.”
The sharp edge in her voice warned me not to press my luck. I held my tongue. She stormed off up the final set of stairs towards her bedchamber. Seconds later her door slammed shut.
Sometimes I wished I’d asked Viktor to take me with him. No one forced him to sit around and read books. Not while the demons still stalked Astryae. He might not have found the veil yet, but at least he had freedom to move around and explore. Aster refused to let me venture beyond the gate around her building most days.
“This is pointless,” I mumbled to the empty room. I reached for the dusty hardcover book on top of the pile and slid it into my lap. The pages were crisp, the spine worn and bent. Gold script across the book declared it the Book of the Curse
d Children: Myths, Legends, and Monsters.
I flipped the book open to the middle and skimmed a random paragraph in the center of the page. Tiny black ink detailed the story behind the creation of vampires, including various opinions on who sired the first child of night. By the time I finished scanning the page, my head swam with more questions than information.
“All right, book. What can you tell me about my dear mother?” I flipped through the pages and scanned the text for Daeva’s name. Though the Temple had mentioned Zanox’s arrogance and his desire to watch the world burn in almost every sermon, I couldn’t recall a single story about the woman who’d given birth to me. Or how she’d fallen into bed with an Archangel while married to the God of Chaos.
I had to comb through the book twice to find Daeva’s name. The section devoted to her was depressingly brief. Only two paragraphs of text followed her underlined name, neither of them helpful for my purposes.
We know little about the Mother of Darkness. Some legends say Zanox crafted her out of shadows himself. Others claim she was born to human parents before Zanox’s creatures stole her away to the Shadowrealm. Regardless of how she came to wed the God of Chaos, Daeva is one of the newest gods in history at the time of writing this.
Despite her late addition, Daeva developed a rapid following. She is worshiped by many names, including Queen of Shadows, Mother of Darkness, the Dark Mother, and the Mother of Monsters. Many credit Daeva with creating the first Shadowfey with skin able to withstand sunlight and walk the surface.
I slammed the book shut. What value did Aster find in texts offering little more than speculation and printed gossip? I had no interest in the weird rumors around how my mother came to rule or how many other monsters she’d birthed. Why did she and an angel create me? Why had she let me grow up alone in Faomere?
Aster’s dusty old books were unlikely to offer any satisfying answers. I rose from the table and grabbed my boots from next to the door. Carramar had to have a few temples buried amidst their sin. Perhaps someone there could shed some light on things.
As if she sensed my disobedience, the door to Aster’s bedchamber flew open. Seconds later, her heart-shaped face peered at me over the side of the railing. She had changed into a pair of soft cotton pants and a loose white button-down. Her platinum and raven curls sat in a messy knot on top of her head. “Going somewhere?”
“For a walk—”
“Have you finished the books already?”
“I didn’t find much on my mother. Information on her is scarce.” Not that I’d given much effort to the search.
Aster grimaced, as if she hadn’t already read each book cover to cover. “The King and The Council purged most of the useful information about the Shadowrealm ages ago. Did your tutors ever teach you about the Age of Atonement?”
A cold sweat covered my palms as I shook my head.
“Sit. We’ve found our lesson for today.”
I shuffled back over to the table and sank into my chair. The Age of Atonement. At least I discovered where the tree in Faomere had taken its name from. The words resounded with me in a way I couldn’t explain, both familiar and strange all at once. By the time Aster joined me, perspiration glued me to the chair.
“The humans and Feyfolk have not always lived in the relative peace they do now.” Aster reached for a book from the center of the stack, her eyes locked on my face as she spoke. “Before the Age of Atonement established the Sect of the Sacred Seven, the predominant faith in Astryae was known as the Enlightenment of the Eight.”
I arched a brow. “Eight?”
“Zanox had as many open followers as Cimera for many years. Where Cimera offered structure and purpose, Zanox promised freedom and enjoyment. Covens and vampire nests erected private Temples in His honor. Until the Age of Atonement came.”
“What happened?”
Aster rubbed her forehead. “Mages refer to the Age of Atonement as the Dark Years. To simplify a complicated tale, children disappeared throughout Astryae. Only one or two at first. Enough to cause concern, but not enough to stir up mass panic. But by the end of the growing season, dozens of passive children had vanished from every town.”
My stomach twisted. “What happened to them?”
“No one knows.” Her face darkened. “But the mortals assumed they did. Astryae had far fewer Feyfolk in those days, but the passives had never tolerated their presence well. A mob of hysterical parents raced to Wyvenmere and demanded an audience with the King. They pointed the finger at the Fey community and accused them of using the children as some ritual sacrifice to Zanox for power.”
“Were they?”
Aster scoffed. “Zanox is the god of chaos, not sadistic slaughter. Even the worst of his followers didn’t feed on the blood of innocents. But that didn’t stop the King’s guards from rounding up every Feyfolk they found.”
“Oh no.”
“Yes. The King executed any of Zanox’s captured worshipers without trial. His soldiers collected any texts found mentioning him favorably and burned in front of the castle. The guards destroyed any statues or Temples built in his name and replaced them with what we now know as the Sect of the Seven.”
“And my mother?”
Aster shrugged. “I wish I knew, love. The lore on her is scarce. But if you give these books a chance, you might find something helpful.”
“I’d hoped a trip to the Temple might deliver faster results.”
“You would have better luck with a nest or a coven. Daeva isn’t a popular figure in modern worship. Why don’t I ask Morrigan to dig around for you?”
“Please. The more I learn about my screwed-up origins, the better I might understand my powers.”
Aster laughed. “The temples may, however, know more about your father.”
“You mean the Archangel?”
“Who else?”
I shook my head. “Thanks, but I think I’ll give the books another try. Maybe they’ll know more about Samael or Daeva.”
“As you wish. Start with Enlightenment Through Shadows. It’s one of the few texts penned by Zanox that survived the burning.”
“Thank you.”
“Always a pleasure.” She rose from her chair and pressed a peck to the top of my head before scurrying up the staircase back to her bedchamber.
I waited for the door to close once more. The pile of books taunted me. If Aster was correct, the books held as little information about my mother as my memories. My chest tightened as I shoved the stack away. The history of Astryae and all its useless inhabitants was pointless to learn when the war on the horizon threatened to reduce it all to ashes.
I pressed my forehead against the cool wood of the table and sighed. Aster had read every book in front of me from cover to cover. She didn’t expect me to dig up some grand revelation to save us all. Her lost gem stone consumed her focus. She’d bury me with busy-work if it bought her enough time to focus on her own needs.
But obscure occult knowledge wouldn’t conquer Daeva’s forces or save Remiel. No one in history had ever prevented a war by reading. My chest tightened as I shot a glance at the staircase. Astryae couldn’t afford to wait for Aster to find her soul gem. My hands shook as I clenched them by my sides. If something didn’t change soon, I would be Astryae’s only hope of surviving the apocalypse.
When the floor above me remained silent, I rose to my feet and crept towards the staircase. The early afternoon sun streamed in the open windows, specks of dust dancing in the beams of light. Aster had her theories on how to save Astryae, but I had a few of my own. Even if her pride refused to allow her to admit it, my powers might offer the only hope Astryae had of survival. What good did Archangel blood or demon powers do if no one allowed me to practice them?
I paused at the bottom of the staircase, my hand wrapped around the doorknob. I waited for Aster to call out or fly down the stairs and demand to know where I thought I was going alone. Silence answered, and an invisible weight lifted from my soul. I jerked t
he door open and raced into the chilly afternoon air to save Astryae from my bloodthirsty parents.
CHAPTER FOUR
Worn-Out Welcome
And so the gods decreed, ‘Let none judge their neighbor but the holy scales of fate, for judgment is as corrosive as acid to a village.
-The Sacred Texts, 31:26 (Osius)
His argument with Jett weighed on Viktor’s mind long after he’d marched out of the Whispering Woods towards Carramar. He had no right to resent Jett. He’d had Viktor’s back since the night of their first encounter, their shared lycan blood offering an unspoken bond of loyalty and trust Jett had more than upheld.
Yet the news of his decision left Viktor with an uneasy feeling he couldn’t put into words, something in his chest knotting and twisting each time he thought about the rustic camp without Jett’s presence. Why was Jett so determined to speak with the King? What good did he hope to accomplish by adding politics into a holy war?
Viktor’s head wasn’t shoved too far up his own ass to miss Jett’s point. Hundreds of thousands of innocent Fey and passives stood to lose their lives if Savina’s premonitions came to pass. To anyone on the outside, it had to seem as if Viktor planned to trade those lives for Remiel’s without a care.
The realization sickened him, but it didn’t halt his path. If Jett wished to speak with the King, Viktor wouldn’t stand in his way. A small part of him wished he could join without betraying his oath to Remiel. But his word was his vow, and he’d sworn to protect Remiel’s life with his own until he repaid his debt. No matter what it took, he’d free Remiel from the Shadowrealm or die trying.
It took Viktor the better part of the day to reach Carramar on foot. His feet ached by the time the rows of brick and brownstone buildings appeared into view. A thin layer of snow dusted the red dirt soil, most of the trees iced over and barren. The sun sank towards the horizon, the day already almost over. He cursed how long it took to travel on heavy human legs. He still had apprehensions towards his primal state, but he covered twice the distance in half the time on four legs.