Paragon

by Rowan Rook

  Anson pressed the barrel of his gun against its belly—its scales muffled the bang. Blood spilled, painting both of them red. The shifter melted into its Lyrum shape and collapsed. Anson gasped, his shaky arms barely strong enough to shove the other man's body off his own. He'd killed again.

  The others had, too. When he managed to take in the scene, Aydel and Tayla were the only Lyrum still standing. The Butterflies had eliminated a group twice their size, without a single casualty beyond his right ear.

  "Monsters! Killers!"

  The voice was Rita's. He stood on the branches of a nearby tree, wearing his Lyrum form.

  "Shoot him, Anny!" Aydel yelled.

  Anson reacted on instinct, firing a shot at the other Lyrum without thinking about what he was doing. It missed. The Councilor leaped to a new branch.

  "You killed them! You killed Kaida and Morak! You killed all of them. All those people!" Rita's shouts slurred with hysterics. The calm, mocking tone he'd owned in Riksharre was gone. "You're all mad!"

  Anson lined up his gun with clumsy fingers and answered Rita with a bullet. Another miss. Aiming true was almost impossible with the pain pulsing at the side of his head. His whole world was tipped to the right.

  "Do you even understand what you're doing? What you're killing for?" Rita's wide eyes swept across his lifeless troop. "They were heroes!" He flushed with red rage. "Someone has to stop you!"

  ...Heroes? Anson's insides twisted.

  "The Editor must never start the Draft! You say you know the legends. You all must know what will happen if—"

  Another gunshot broke the outburst, but this time, it wasn't Anson's. Jeriko glowered through the scope of his rifle. He'd clearly missed on purpose—his bullet veered toward the western sky—but he'd bought a few seconds of silence from Rita. "Do it," he whispered at Anson.

  Anson's fingers froze on the trigger.

  "How can any of you want this?" the Councilor screamed down at them, his shaking arms gesturing across the bloodied battlefield.

  Anson knew he should try for another shot, but he suddenly couldn't remember how to move, the signals that controlled his body jammed in his brain. It took all the effort he had to shift his tongue. "I...I'll bring all of you back! You and Torus and Mayver! I'll make a world where Lyum and Humans aren't divided—where you could live to be one-hundred!"

  Rita only stared. Confusion flashed across his features, but then their color drained. "Is that really what you think?" He laughed—an angry, incredulous sound. "And what gives you that right, huh? Who gave you permission to change millions of lives? I won't let you erase what I am! Our lives may be short, but you're the one who can't accept that!"

  "I..." Anson's sweaty fingers shuffled on the trigger.

  Rita's glare burned into his, and for the first time, Anson saw the sorrow behind the rage. "I was happy, I'll have you know. All three of us were."

  Anson was silent.

  "You can't do anything without my Inkwell!" the Councilor shouted. "On my pride as a Lyrum, you won't have it." He transformed, spreading his wings.

  "Shoot him!" Jeriko screeched.

  Anson's bullet found nothing but air, and the final Councilor was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-One: Mother

  "Up up, the day waits for no one!"

  Sound slipped through the twelve-year-old's ears like colorless liquid that left no stain on slumber's black.

  "It's five-forty. Get up."

  Shakaya registered Rickard's voice, but she wasn't sure if she was asleep or awake. She groaned, clutching her quilt. Her eyes refused to open. She'd stayed up nearly all night, secretly training in the gym when no one else was there. Considering the way the soldiers either laughed or stared at her if she visited during the day, she had no other option. If she wanted to be as strong as those men one day, she needed to work harder than any of them.

  "I've already let you sleep ten extra minutes, but my patience is wearing thin."

  She stirred, each movement a fight against gravity. Her body sunk into the sofa cushions as if they were quicksand. "Tired," she complained.

  Her comfortable warmth disappeared when Rickard yanked her blanket away. She shuddered, grasping her exposed shoulders. Her eyes burned with the effort of opening them.

  "That won't do," Rickard scolded. "I have something important to talk to you about, after all." She turned away. "Get up and make breakfast. You've already missed your shower."

  Something...important? Faint curiosity glimmered, but the pull of slumber was just as powerful. Why did she have to get up at five-thirty every morning, anyway? With four years left until she became a student, why not just sleep more of it off?

  She rolled over, blinking her eyes. She'd already slept on the same couch in Rickard's office for four years, and she would for four years longer. She'd had her own bed, once. She'd had books and toys and pictures. Now, Rickard would sometimes let her take a book from the library, and that was it. Rickard always said she was lucky enough to simply have a roof over her head. It...was all right. She didn't really like reading anymore, anyway. It felt empty.

  Shakaya dragged her toes onto the carpet. Her body moved like lead jelly, all of her torn muscles aching, begging her to rest a while longer. She used the thought of Rickard's disapproving scowl to get herself to her feet.

  It wasn't like Rickard offered that roof over her head for free. Chores were the first thing she did after getting up and the last thing she did before bed...at least, when she didn't sneak away to train. Rickard said it was so she could learn to adhere to a daily routine—that was what soldiers did, after all—but really, she supposed Rickard just wanted her to take care of life's most menial tasks for her, so that she could tuck herself away in her labs and her art studio.

  Shakaya went through the motions of making breakfast. At least there was some comfort in the familiarity. It wasn't that she enjoyed cooking, or any of the other inane tasks Rickard assigned her. But they passed the hours, and when days smeared together, they seemed to vanish faster. Less than ten minutes later, she dragged two bowls of boiled noodles and two glasses of orange juice to the table.

  Rickard arched her brow from her chair. "Not even any eggs this morning?"

  Shakaya sighed. "I'm tired."

  "Come now, don't complain." Rickard twirled a lock of hair around her fingers. Other strands, wet from the shower, clung to her chin. "Do you know what happens to soldiers who whine? They die, that's what. The Lyrum will run you through and go back home with your pretty little head on a spear. It'd make a nice trophy."

  Her lips quivered, but she didn't argue.

  "You're weak," Rickard pressed, "and this sort of weakness is exactly why women don't become soldiers. If you don't work through it, then you'll never be anything more than just another girl. You may as well practice being strong now, when you don't have anything to lose but a meal."

  Shakaya bit back the urge to bring up her nightly practice—it wasn't the sort of practice nor the sort of strength Rickard would approve of, not until she finally started her classes. Rickard had lectured her about needing to master so-called feminine strength before trying to mimic men far too many times.

  "I'd tell you to make a proper breakfast, but since we need to talk, this will do." Rickard smiled too widely. "Sit."

  Shakaya pulled out a chair and sat across from Rickard, her eyes on her lap. "What is it you want to talk about?"

  "I'm going to give you your first job as a Butterfly."

  Shakaya straightened, letting the words sink in. A grin caught the corners of her lips. "Really?"

  The Butterfly: The group Rickard helped lead, the group fighting for a new world, and the group Rickard promised would one day help her enact her revenge. He'd christened her in as a member shortly after she'd arrived at the Academy, but in nothing more than name. She'd yet to do any work for them. Was she finally going to get to do something besides chores? Was she going to start becoming a soldier?

  Rickard rested her chin
on cupped hands. "Do you remember the boy who came to the Academy last week?"

  Shakaya blinked. There had been plenty of new arrivals, but only one stood out as odd. "The one who looked like a girl?"

  Rickard snorted, stifling a chuckle."Yes, him." Her eyes gleamed. "I'm glad you remember, because he's going to be your new best friend."

  Shakaya only stared, not understanding.

  "Listen." Rickard leaned in closer. "That boy is important. I need you to befriend him. Get him to trust you. That's your role."

  Her excitement fizzled into dismay. "No! I don't want friends. I want to fight! I want—"

  "It's not a matter of what you want. It's a matter of what the Butterfly needs," Rickard corrected. "And it needs you to get close to him. You'll have your chance to do all the fighting you want one day, but this is what you need to do now."

  Shakaya shook her head. Why would the Butterfly need her to do something stupid like that? She was a soldier! She wasn't...she wasn't whatever this was. "I don't like him."

  Rickard arched a brow.

  "I think he lies a lot." The memory of his face appeared in her memory. There was something subdued, restrained, about his eyes. They looked too much like hers did in the mirror. "His name is weird, and he looks older than sixteen. He smelled funny, too."

  "That's just what people smell like when they don't have a home. If I was to send you away, you'd smell like that soon, too." Rickard narrowed her eyes. "You're going to do this. I don't care if he turns out to be a monster, and I don't care if you have to paint every smile you pass him. You don't have a choice in the matter."

  "Why?" Shakaya bit her bottom lip, forcing herself not to cry. "I don't want... Why is he so special, anyway?"

  "Well now, that's quite the story." Rickard shuffled in her chair, almost looking uncomfortable. "There's an old...folktale, I suppose you could say, although it's certainly more than that, which is written within Lyrum texts dating back before the Inversion—"

  "I don't want anything to do with Lyrum legends." Shakaya wrinkled her nose.

  The Butterfly had a Lyrum division, too, but Rickard promised her that its members were just tools. Rickard would betray and eliminate them, along with the rest of their kin, when the time was right. So why was she giving credence to anything those things said? Lyrum hadn't been any less monstrous two-hundred years ago.

  "Just listen for a moment—most of those books belong to the Butterfly, now." Rickard found her eyes."And that boy is something they refer to as the Editor."

  "The...Editor?" Shakaya only blinked as a dread she didn't quite understand washed over her.

  Rickard's smile bared her teeth.

  Ƹ̴Ӂ̴Ʒ

  Shakaya leaned against the wall outside the old cafe, the bustle of main street passing her by. Seabirds called from the sky above the small town while waves lapped at its edges. The sun glimmered on the sea and belied the chill in the crisp, salty breeze. The afternoon had grown into a beautiful day for Havventhale's autumn, but she hardly noticed.

  Two days had passed since the ship's arrival. The vessel had finally departed the dock for its journey back to Lusanthine that morning, but Shakaya had yet to venture away from Port Cymorra.

  She stared listlessly at the sandwich in her hands. She hadn't had a proper meal since...well, since her last dinner with the Editor. She needed to eat something, yet somehow, she didn't feel hungry. She forced down a couple of bites, the act of chewing and swallowing more of a chore than a pleasure. Even as she ate, her stomach still felt hollow.

  ...What was she going to do, now?

  Amaranth was no more—he'd never actually existed. Rickard had lied to her—she wanted nothing more to do with her. She was no longer a Butterfly—she had no reason to be.

  Everything that had shaped her life, everything that had given it a modicum of meaning, was gone.

  Perhaps she could return to the Academy. Perhaps she could even gain recognition by arriving with Riksharre's coordinates and two Councilor's pins in her pocket. But that would mean dealing with Rickard again on a daily basis, and somehow... Somehow, she couldn't imagine Academy life without... She swallowed. Without a certain scientist. It wouldn't be any less empty than standing alone by the sea.

  Maybe she could stay in Rahloor. Maybe she could become a mercenary. There had to be plenty of problem Lyrum in Havventhale, too. Perhaps this way she could actually earn Rune while eliminating them. Yes, she decided with a sigh, that wasn't such a bad idea. After all, her loathing was all she had left.

  She tore off another vacant bite from her meal.

  Then, at least, she wouldn't have to rely on the words of anyone else. No one could lie to her. No one could use her. She could start over.

  She could make it on her own.

  A hand tapped her shoulder, and she nearly dropped what remained of her sandwich. Her fingers instinctively reached for her chakram as she whirled.

  "Hello, dear."

  Her meal did hit the ground when she saw who had creeped up on her.

  "Rickard?" she breathed, shock eclipsing any other emotion.

  Rickard only smiled.

  "What the Hell are you doing here?" Shakaya bared her teeth. "You must be more foolish than I thought to show me your face again."

  "It's a pleasure to see you again, too."

  Her knuckles tightened around her chakram. "I won't show mercy twice."

  Rickard's fingers anxiously intertwined with themselves. "That wasn't mercy, was it?" She swallowed. "We both know you wouldn't truly kill me. You couldn't, could you?"

  Shakaya seethed, a fire starting inside her. "I could," she lied. "Would you like me to prove it?"

  Rickard shook her head quickly. "I'm not here to fight. I only want to talk to you. You never gave me the chance to properly explain. I don't think that's fair, do you?"

  Shakaya stared her down. Bandages peeked from beneath the sleeve of her right shoulder, and she held that arm close to her chest. Shakaya smiled. Her own handiwork.

  "I've done so much for you. You know that. The Butterfly aside, I am still the one who saved your life, who gave you a home." Rickard played with strands of her hair like a nervous child. "The least you can do is give me a chance. That's all I'm asking for."

  Shakaya straightened, but her fingers lingered at the edge of her blade. "Five minutes. You better sell me by then, or for your sake, I hope you're gone when time runs out."

  Rickard's arm twitched. "When I lied to you, I did it to ensure your cooperation—to help achieve a goal in our mutual best interests. I didn't know you would become attached to the boy."

  "I did not," she insisted. "What angers me is the fool you made of me, sitting me beside an Anwell."

  Rickard tilted a skeptical stare at her, but apparently, knew better than to argue. "Either way, it was not my intent to use or embarrass you. I realize, however, that I was wrong to keep things from you. I made a mistake. I am at fault. And for that, I apologize." She bowed, as would an actor at the end of a play. How fitting. "Please, dear, forgive me."

  "I won't believe another word that comes out of your mouth. Certainly not an apology." Shakaya took her hands off her weapon but crossed her arms over her chest. "You won't have my forgiveness."

  Rickard slowly straightened, that smile still painted on her lips. "I understand. I must earn your trust, once more. Please offer me the opportunity to try. I've treated you like a child, when truly, you are a treasured, competent equal. I need you. I don't want to lose my partner and my precious daughter."

  "You aren't my mother!" Shakaya hissed. Oh, for how long she'd wanted to say those words. Now she could—it didn't matter anymore. "You never were and you never will be!"

  Rickard's smile didn't change. "You don't have to see me that way, but no matter what you say or do, it won't change how I see you. You're lucky to even have someone who wants to call herself your mother. I never did."

  Shakaya grimaced. She didn't want to hear this rant again.

  "My f
ather did whatever he could to deny that he was my father at all. All I wanted was his love, but all he saw was the Lyrum in me. He never saw my Human heart. I never even met my mother, but there would've been no love there, not from a creature who wasn't capable of it." Her smile melted into sadness, right on cue. "Is it really so selfish of me to desire love from the child I raised as my own?"

  She was more familiar with this sob story than she ever would've wished to be. The brothels inhabiting the seedier Human streets were infested with Lyrum using their fine, delicate bodies to slip in among the desperate Human women and men. Rickard's father had fucked a Lyrum whore, oblivious to what it was he was lying in bed with. Even more carelessly, he'd gotten the thing pregnant. The Lyrum had abandoned the child at his doorstep. At first, Rickard's father had accepted her and raised her, but when he'd discovered that his daughter was an Otherling, he'd retracted his love. Rickard had been beaten and berated, until one day, her own father had meant to kill her. She'd escaped, using her Translation as a weapon. She'd managed to find work and live on her own, crawling her way up from the bottom of Human society, but she'd never had a family again. At least...not until she'd found her, she'd always said with such overripe sweetness.

  "I know, too much of me has become my own father, my own mother." Rickard hung her head. "I've not been the person—or the parent—I've wanted to be. So, I want to do things differently. I want to be honest with you. If you'll hear me out, I'll tell you everything."

  "Three minutes," Shakaya pressed.

  "You are wrong to assume that one lie invalidates everything I've promised. I've also told you truths I haven't shared with anyone else." Rickard folded her hands in front of her stomach like a naughty child trying to look sincere. "When I told you of my plans to betray the Lyrum division—to erase Lyrum from the world—I was honest." She dared a step closer. "I want revenge, like you do. I want to fix this world, like you do. I want to be Human, like you are. My father was ruined by fear, but my mother felt nothing at all. A species capable of abandoning its own child—a species that has done everything to prey on Humanity's own weaknesses, on its anger and loneliness and naivety—doesn't have a place in a proper world. I want to make my own world. A better world, where people like you and I can be happy."