Children of the Night

by Zan Safra

  My hands open. I shove myself back, onto the floor as Ayanda rips the cord from around her neck. It’s true, it’s her, it’s her—

  The manacle sears me, screaming its commands. The daroga’s mirage overtakes Ayanda again. My teeth grit. My fingers lock into claws. But no, no, it’s a lie, it’s Ayanda, it wants me to kill Ayanda—

  Obey!

  You…don’t…

  Obey!

  Own…

  OBEY!

  Me—

  I find my dagger. I turn it inwards. “Ayanda…look…away…”

  The mirage tackles me, wrenching the dagger from my hands. A mask presses against my face.

  Pain, pain, screams and twisting and falling, sickness and exhaustion overtaking me so that I can hardly move, hardly think…

  Fingers hook under the edge of the manacle. The metal tears. The metal cuff falls in pieces. The Citadel burns away like a painting in a fire. The remnants reveal a grand hall, a gilded ceiling, a marble floor. The Palaso Ducale, and…

  “A-Ayanda?”

  She jumps to her feet. It’s her. It’s her. Disheveled, bruised, armor glinting through tears in her black clothing. A mark stripes her throat, the burn of a cord.

  A miserable, animal moan the color of oil cuts the air, crawling from my own throat. I fall. I scream.

  Ayanda…I nearly killed…I held a dagger to her neck, I nearly…

  The scream turns to a sob. “Forgive me…”

  Footsteps, a shadow, a soft touch on my shoulder. I lift my head. Ayanda recoils. Frightened. Of me.

  I want to die, I can’t stand to think of what I did, whom I almost… “Please forgive me…”

  She kneels beside me, taking the remains of the manacle from the floor. She stares at it, her face unreadable.

  “It wasn’t me,” I whisper.

  “I know,” she says.

  She throws the manacle away and takes my hand, linking her fingers with mine. She moves my hair from my eyes.

  I clutch her hand. “Ayanda, I—”

  “As touching as this is,” a man drawls, “is this the ideal moment?”

  Ayanda lifts her head. A gray-faced man in a lacy coat stands over us, his smirk revealing a glint of jagged teeth.

  He turns away, whistling as he examines the mounted paintings, “Ah, so little’s changed. But for that new piece there.” He sniffs. “I don’t like it.”

  For a moment I wonder if I’m trapped in another dream. Ayanda gives the smallest shake of her head. “Laszlo.”

  He looks back to me, an eyebrow raised, his smirk unchanged. “Feeling better?”

  The tingling of my mask subsides. I touch it, remembering. “How?”

  “I can free moroi.” Ayanda inclines her head at something past me. The alchemist who stole my mask stands at the room’s entrance, hair still soaked in blood. More Naturals stand a few paces behind him, palace servants, arsenaloti, a pair of alchemists, all wan, watching me with fear.

  “I came upon him when we entered the prison,” she says. “He told us what had become of you, and we, well, came to rescue you.”

  “You and the…the moroi?”

  She nods past me again. “And them.”

  I turn again and feel my breath halt. A crowd of Dead creatures stand beyond the one called Laszlo, some with scythe claws, others wolf-like, others winged skeletal gargoyles. A muscled Dead woman in a tarnished circlet glares at me, lip curled in a sullen sneer.

  “What…them?”

  “Yes. They follow me.”

  Laszlo bows with a sardonic flutter of his hand. Ayanda’s cold look fades as she turns back to me. I see her gathering herself, but I still see the fear she means to hide. “She’s taken my family. She means to kill them tonight,” she says. “I’ve freed Andreas, but the fiend still has Jette. I don’t know what’s become of Belle.”

  The fiend.

  The rage I felt moments ago returns, but not the same. It doesn’t boil. It blazes, a cold star, dark frost.

  I will kill her.

  Ayanda draws back her sleeve and frees a folded crossbow bound to her arm. She meets my eyes again. Her own are cold, bottomless wells of night.

  “It ends here,” she says. “Tonight she dies.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Jette

  I WAIT.

  I stand in a grand parlor, but I cannot see it. Shivers rattle me. I feel so ill. I feel the lady’s blood crawling through the veins of my neck, creeping like centipedes under my skin. A dreadful taste coats the inside of my mouth, as though I have swallowed rotten sludge.

  I know that I am dying. But I am not bothered. When I die I will transform into a unique varianta of the Dead. I will still be able to serve the lady

  From a distance I feel the coldness of the parlor. The lady sent me here and ordered me to wait, but I only glimpsed the room before I left myself. I feel myself standing, but I only see the dream-space. All is blackness, a void. My neck and wrists ache. Ropes of Dead blood grow out of my skin and anchor me to the darkness.

  Ghostly shapes stand far from me. I cannot make out their features, but they are like me, moroi, waiting for the lady’s instructions. But they seem adrift, confused. Lost.

  I feel lost as well. I know that there was something before this. There were people, and places, and happenings…

  But everything is distant now. Nothing matters apart from the lady’s will.

  I drift. I am myself, but I feel empty. Something has been taken from me, a missing part, as though if I opened my jacket I would find a hollow in my chest.

  A voice cries out in the distance. It sounds…it is familiar, but its calling is so weak that I cannot—

  A shudder ripples through the dream-space, like an earthquake in the air. Ghostly moroi cry out and evaporate, ripped out of existence. A terrible rush of panic floods me. But it is not mine. It is hers.

  The lady is frightened.

  I hear her voice, speaking not to us but to herself. More…she has taken more from me…

  This is not right. This cannot be. The lady is never frightened, the lady can contend with anything…but now something is wrong, terribly wrong…

  I think into the darkness. My voice sounds small and thunderous at once. My lady?

  The dream-space ripples. In an instant it grows and I shrink. I feel a tremendous shock, the weight of a giant attention fixed on me, as though I am a mouse in the sights of a cobra…

  The lady’s voice pours into my head, blotting all else. How do you address me?

  Her emotions engulf me, a murk of confusion and fear that bursts out in a screech. I address YOU!

  Ice darts down the Dead vines and yanks me out of the dream-space. The darkness pulls tight. I cannot see walls or boundaries but I feel smothered, locked in a pitch-black coffin.

  The lady’s voice slithers about me. Speak.

  “I-I can help,” I say. “I can do so much to aid you! Please allow me to—”

  No. Remain where you are.

  “But—”

  Her whisper is deadly soft. Do you defy me?

  “No! No, I only—”

  The ice grips me like a giant fist, trapping me inside a glacier. How do you question me? the lady hisses. I who saved you? I who rescued you from your evil?

  With every second the cold tightens, freezing me. I cannot move. I cannot move…

  I relieved you of your suffering. I made you as the Naturals are. Was that not your wish?

  “I…”

  ANSWER!

  “Y-yes.”

  The distant voice cries out again, nearer. I know that voice—

  But the lady’s voice is stronger. I have a task for you. Go to the Lead Prison, to the uppermost cells. Wait there for my command.

  The glacier releases me. The vines of Dead blood drag me away like a marionette and throw me out of the dream-space, back into myself. I am where the lady ordered me, standing in the middle of
the parlor. A crowd of other moroi stand silently about me, waiting.

  My stomach heaves. I cover my mouth before I can retch. The floor wavers under me and I grab hold of a chair.

  I do not have much longer. But I cannot fail the lady, she loves me, she knows what is best…

  I push past moroi to the far wall. There is a passage here, a faster way to the Lead Prison. I find the particular wood panel and undo its catch. It opens into a narrow splintery corridor.

  Wave after wave of sickness overcomes me as I enter the passage, bracing myself against the wall. The passage descends and leaves me at a cramped landing. I press my forehead against the wall, shivering so badly that I am certain my legs will give way. Keep moving…keep…moving…

  The hollow in my chest burns. The world about me ripples. Something pulls at me, calling me, telling me to turn.

  I turn. There is a door in the wall. It was not there before. Black vines of Dead blood crawl over its edges.

  I push myself away from the wall and go to it. It squelches open at my touch. The room beyond it is a cell. Dead vines cover it so thickly that the walls seem shaped from pulsing slime. Someone lies in the middle of the cell. Arm-thick Dead vines wind around her like heavy chains. Ragged black hair hides her face.

  I step inside. Dead tendrils wriggle against my boots. The figure raises her head.

  It is me.

  Her skin is stone-gray. Her hair is ink-black. Her irises blaze white. But she is me.

  And I…I know her…

  She drags up an arm and reaches out to me. Dead vines pierce her skin like daggers. She opens her mouth. Her voice is a wavering rasp, her words drawn out and clumsy, as though she has only just learned to speak. “Help…me…”

  I know her.

  And I hate her!

  The world ripples again. The cell melts away. All that lies before me is a wooden wall.

  I whirl and run down the stairs, further down the passage. Delusions. My illness is causing delusions. That is what it was, that is all she was…

  The passage ends in a rough wooden door. I unbolt it and find myself in a stone chamber, bare and windowless, with only a single candle in a sconce to cast light. The Lead Prison.

  I double over, hands covering my mouth. My stomach heaves. Strings of black slime drip through my fingers.

  Keep moving…obey the lady…

  I drag myself on. Arsenaloti appear throughout the prison, guarding cells. They make no move to stop me. I climb another staircase and fall against a door. It bursts open and sends me stumbling into another chamber. Only a single candle lights the room. It contains two cells, larger than the others but little more than wood-barred cages. Shapes lie on the floor inside them.

  I go to the cells. What I see sends another fist of illness smashing into my stomach. Two small boys. A green-tinted older girl and a child who seems made of solid smoke. A woman with enormous furred wings. Blackened veins pulse at their wrists and throats.

  My knees weaken. I grab the wooden beams that serve as bars. My legs strengthen but my hands do not unlock. I…I do not—

  A small voice whispers, “Who are you?”

  A shadow emerges from beneath one of the woman’s wings, a tiny girl with tangled black hair and skin like porcelain. She clings to the woman’s wing, keeping it close like a blanket.

  Bars…there were bars in Edinburgh, cages where they held us packed together, so tightly, and I was so small…

  One of the children coughs, a silver-skinned boy. The blackened veins draw jagged webs over his wrist like streaks of rot.

  He is ill. All of them are as ill as I am. They are Unnaturals. The lady’s blood will kill them as well.

  Edinburgh…they put us in cages…children in cages…

  The sickness overcomes me again, roiling my blood and gripping my throat, as though it means to overwhelm me, whenever I think that the lady might—

  The lady is correct…the lady has her reasons…

  But this—

  I cling to the bars, pressing my forehead against them as my stomach heaves. The little girl slips from beneath the woman’s wing and drifts towards me, floating like a ghost. “You’re ill,” she says. “Everyone is.”

  “Who are you?” I croak.

  “Fiorella.” She stops at the bars, red eyes wet with tears. “I want to go home.”

  Something scrabbles at the wood of the far door. I hear a faint mechanical whir, like the sound of a tiny automaton.

  The door swings open. A golden automatical insect flutters into the room, flapping towards Fiorella. A girl limps after it. She is coated in dust and flaking rubble. Her leather gorget is scored with the marks of fangs and her right leg is bound with strips of cloth, soaked in silvery blood.

  I remember…I know her, her name is Belle…

  She wipes dust from her eyes and sees me. “Jette!”

  She throws her arms around me in a crushing hug. More memories leak through the sickness. We escaped a place called the Scholomance, and came to Venice, and met—

  “She set a trap for us. She has Andreas and Yurei. I thought she must have…”

  She lets go of me, catching her breath. “How did you get away? Where is Ayanda?”

  The clockwork toy darts into the cage and lands on Fiorella’s shoulder. She reaches through the bars. “Belle!”

  Belle’s face blanches, sickly blue like a frozen corpse. “Fiorella!”

  She clasps the small girl’s hands. Fiorella’s face crumples. “They won’t wake.”

  Belle drags open the cage door and kneels beside the Unnaturals, Fiorella clinging to her arm. She shakes them, speaking names I have never heard.

  “Do you know them?” I croak.

  “Madrina and the children!” Belle takes one of the winged woman’s arms. Her sleeve slips down her forearm, exposing her blackened veins.

  “She’s poisoned them,” Belle whispers.

  She looks from one face to another. “How can we get them away from here? They’re in no state to walk! How—”

  I slam the cage door shut and pull my etching stylus from my bandolier. I stab it into the lock. The glass spike glows with etching compound. The metal fuses in a burst of sparks.

  Belle jumps up and yanks at the bars. “Jette, what the devil are you…”

  Her gaze falls to my hands. Pain burrows through the backs of them as the lady’s blood creeps towards my fingers.

  Belle covers her mouth, backing away until she nearly knocks into the others. She sweeps Fiorella behind her. Her voice is hoarse. “You as well?”

  A feverish haze closes about me. Belle…Belle is dangerous. She means to ruin the lady’s plans…

  Belle grabs the bars and pulls at them. “Let me out, Jette.”

  I must stop her. I cannot let her distract me as I wait for the lady’s instructions—

  She slams her fist into the bars. “Let me out!”

  Convince her…if I can convince her…

  “Belle,” I choke out, “you must listen.”

  “I’ve done enough listening, thank you.”

  “There is no reason to fight. The lady—”

  “Oh, she’s the lady now, is she?” She jerks at the bars. “Let me out!”

  “Only the…only the lady can save us. Only the lady loves us—”

  “Loves us?”

  Belle squeezes the bars, screaming through them. “Look at yourself! She’s killing you! She’ll kill us all!” She points to the others. “Children, Jette! She’s torturing them! Just as they tortured you!”

  Her voice is a slap to my face. The scars that cover me sear like knives.

  My head swims. I cover my face, hiding in the dark.

  “Jette!”

  I cannot think, I can barely… “Shut up.”

  “Jette, listen to—”

  “Shut up!”

  The lady…the lady is not wrong, she protects me, she knows that I am not strong enou
gh to…to…

  A distorted voice screams through my head, hers, the double lying chained in the cell. Help…me…wake…up…

  The hollow inside me burns. I press my hands against my face. She has a name. She chose it when I chose mine, I remember, I remember—

  The lady’s blood writhes through my veins. Forget. The lady knows what is right. Listen to the lady.

  “Jette, please think!” Belle screams. “I know what to do! I know where to strike her!”

  My stomach twists again. More slime drips from my mouth. “Wh-what?”

  “A chamber filled with devices! When I damaged it it freed the moroi!” She strains at the bars. “Let me out! I’ll free you! I’ll kill her myself if I must—”

  She means to harm the lady.

  A blast of pure fury snaps me upright. That is all she ever meant to do. Harm the lady. Kill the only one who can help us. The only one who loves us.

  “I should never have saved you from the Scholomance!” I scream. “I should have left you to rot!”

  Belle recoils. She swallows hard. “Those are her words. Not yours.”

  Her face hardens. “I know that.”

  “You know nothing!”

  The sickness doubles me over. Black dripping tears blur my sight. I can only hear her voice.

  “I do,” she says. “You’re my sister.”

  Every word, every thought leaves my head. But for one.

  Sister?

  Belle stares at me through the bars. The way she stared out of the Scholomance’s cell. Let me out…please…

  The horrible rotten taste rushes up my throat. That does not matter, only the lady matters, listen to the lady…

  Fiorella begins to sob. Belle sweeps the small girl behind her. One of the other children moans, sweat beading on his forehead.

  The lady has her reasons…the lady is always correct…

  But the lady did this, the lady poisoned children…

  “Jette,” Belle whispers. “Think. This isn’t right. She made you this way.”

  She made you this way…

  Made me this way…

  There was…a moonlit room, moroi, and a different girl, a girl named Ayanda, and everything had gone wrong, and I was so frightened—

  And then she made me—

  A freezing vise clamps shut around me. The lady. Here. Watching through my eyes.