Warmaidens

by Kelly Coon

  It’s a little boy. And a woman. They’re wearing tunics from an age long ago, light bursting from their skin. They race toward the Boatman, the creature of whom I was once so afraid, and they throw themselves into his arms. He captures them both and lifts them from the ground, his face breaking apart in joy. After a few moments of him crying and squeezing them to his chest, he looks over their shoulders at me, standing on the water, gazing into a reunion that appears to have been long overdue.

  Mudi’s words about the Boatman’s intent come flooding back to me, and I tremble, remembering: “He was once a warrior, cursed to his post for murdering innocents in war. He is trying to gain his freedom by helping prevent the deaths of as many lives as he took.”

  Selu holds his swirling arms over the trio who cling together, and they climb into the rickety boat with Linaza, and push off from the shore, toward me.

  The boat slides near, and when it does, the man I once called the Boatman holds two rough hands out and cups my face.

  “Thank you,” he whispers in his familiar voice. He lets go and they drift away down the river, and in no time at all, the boat comes back, empty of its passengers.

  As I watch it dock itself at the shore, I see a speck of red, malevolent light glowing next to Selu, who has his arm held up high, summoning the wind. The rain. The thunder and lightning. He disappears in a swirling tornado as the air turns into fire and whips into a fury, blowing my hair violently all around. The water begins to rise into rough, choppy waves as the speck of light grows and grows and grows until it is the shape of a hideous woman, seven curved horns growing from her head, bloated black tongue lashing from her mouth. Alani. She screams as she wrenches herself from the depths of the seven gates, lifting her claws into the sky and pulling a chained man up from the depths. He wails in torment as he is formed from fire, formed from wind, formed from the darkness itself.

  And when I look at his face, I suck in my breath.

  For standing in the center of that firestorm is a man who once stole life from me. Who once wrecked my little family and hurt more people than I can even recall. Than I likely even know.

  Uruku.

  At once, the flames roar and Alani shrieks as Uruku stands on the riverbank, consumed with fire. His face contorts in an agonized scream, and his flesh bubbles and melts and drips from his body until there is nothing but his rattling bones left behind. He’s wrapped in chains and covered in a dark cloak, like the Boatman’s. Racked with terror, I listen as a song, as if unbidden, encircles Uruku, enslaving him to his task. With black tears falling down his bony cheeks, his breast a torment of horror, he lifts his face unwillingly to the murky sky and sings the ghostly refrain:

  The river is wide

  The river is deep

  I take their souls to earn my keep

  The end of day

  Is the start of night

  I bathe in horror

  Bask in fright

  My queen is beauty

  My queen is fair

  I’ll bring her souls

  I’ll do my share

  For the river is wide

  The river is deep

  I take their souls to earn my keep.

  * * *

  I startle awake, awash in sweat, tangled in Dagan’s embrace. Carefully lifting his heavy arm from around me so as not to disturb him, I grab a quilt from the chair near our pallet and walk, trembling, to the window. The night sky is scattered with stars, spots of brightness against the gloom. The moon illuminates my healing tent on the far side of our home, a lone candle burning inside. Likely Iltani, awake again, yearning for a drink.

  I should check on her.

  Looking back at Dagan, bathed in moonlight, his chest softly rising and falling, I tug the quilt more closely around me, breathing in the freshness of the cool, night air, and shiver.

  It was only a dream.

  As I tug on my cloak, I know that now is not the time to think about such evil. For out in my tent, the one I have built with my own two hands and the support of Dagan, the one I have staffed with a young mother named Bikku who was once a fishmonger but had always dreamed of being an A-zu, is my friend who battles her own kind of darkness.

  And I, as her healer, must be her light.

  I’d love to take credit for bringing this book to life and sending this series off into the world all on my own, but I’d be a liar, and that’s really more of Iltani’s thing than mine.

  Thank you to Kelsey M. Horton, my incredible editor, who asked all the difficult questions and pushed me, again and again, to home in on the story this was destined to be. You made me a better writer because you never gave up on getting it right. And to Beverly Horowitz, Barbara Marcus, Adrienne Waintraub, Tamar Schwartz, John Adamo, Timothy Terhune, and Dominique Cimina, thank you for giving this series its home at Delacorte Press. It means the world to be part of this community of authors.

  Thank you to Kari Sutherland, my dream agent, who is the best cheerleader, advocate, and friend a writer could ask for. This series was such a challenge, and you listened to me cry, talked me through difficult plot points, and rooted for me from day one. I can’t thank you enough for believing in me and for encouraging me to believe in myself, too.

  Thank you to my publicist, Elena Meuse, who has been ridiculously organized and positive during my book and blog tours (spreadsheets for the win!). You’re an absolute rock star, and I don’t deserve you.

  Thank you to copy editors Colleen Fellingham and Jen Strada, who questioned all my dangling modifiers and made me sound smarter than I am; to Sammy Yuen for the incredible cover artwork, Alison Impey for the lovely jacket design, and Andrea Lau for the perfect interior; to Janine Perez for patiently answering all of my annoying marketing questions and Nathan Kinney for heading up the production; to the entire GetUnderlined team, including Kate Keating, Elizabeth Ward, and Jenn Inzetta, for your digital shout-outs.

  Thank you, a million times, to my community of fellow writers who had a hand in shaping Warmaidens from the ground up. To Lillian Clark, Gita Trelease, and Heather Christie, thank you for your beautiful friendship and thoughtful critiques that helped me craft this jumbled pile of emotion and words into a story I’m proud to have my name on.

  To my Tampa writers’ coven—Sorboni Banerjee, Dominique Richardson, and Linda Hurtado—I’m blessed to be included in your witchery. Long live handsome pirates and good wine. Huzzah!

  To Lillian Clark, Erin Hahn, Keena Roberts, Brigid Kemmerer, Isabel Ibañez, Natasha Díaz, Rory Power, Shelby Mahurin, and Calvin Dillon, you don’t know how often your texts and messages have saved me from writing gloom and general publishing angst. Thank you for understanding and for always being there no matter what. To RuthAnne Snow and Sarah Lyu—WOW, we friggin’ made it (dies a little inside)—and I love you both to pieces. To L. D. Crichton and Shelby Mahurin, thank you for prying me out of my self-imposed technical jams just because you’re kind. We need more people like you in this world.

  To Kell’s Skeleton Crew, you are mighty and I adore you! Thank you for launching my books with me and for being the most creative, inclusive, and accepting street team on the planet! Wooo!

  To the booksellers and librarians who have stocked my stories, invited me to come hang out with you, and cheered me on from afar, your support has literally been one of the most unexpected blessings in my life.

  Thank you to my bestie, Hez, who sends me feminist podcasts and videos that make me tear up; to my cousin-sister, Lacey, who sends me memes that make me die laughing when I’m under deadline; and to my entire mom squad—including my Moms Gone WOD team and my MTC Moms group—who show up for me over and over again.

  To my mom and dad, thank you for being proud of me and getting both your bingo and church friends to buy my books. I love you! To Michael, thank you for faithfully listening to me talk about my
stories and then reading them under duress. To Kimmy, thank you for always supporting my social media game, no matter what nonsense I’ve posted that day.

  Thank you to my husband, Matt, who is the kindest man alive and has shown me empathy, compassion, and patience from the minute we met on the beach. (You gonna kiss me or what?) To my three boys—Brady, Kaden, and Brennan—you inspire me to be a better human. Thank you for being a light on my darkest days.

  And lastly, to my readers—to YOU!—thank you so much for reading this series. You’ve made my dreams come true and I am forever grateful for your generosity. Here’s to many more years of storytelling adventures together.

  Cheers!

  KELLY COON is the author of Gravemaidens, an editor for Blue Ocean Brain, a former high school English teacher, and a wicked karaoke singer in training. She adores giving female characters the chance to flex their muscles and use their brains. She lives near Tampa with her three sons, her brilliant husband, and a rescue pup who will steal your sandwich.

  kellycoon.com

  @kellycoon106

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