by Eli Grant
“Seeking to steal his power for their own, Tiamat’s children plotted to murder Abzu. But they gained nothing, and their mother’s wrath cost them everything. For his failure to control that which had been given him to rule over, the firstborn was cursed to never again show his face to the sun. Having destroyed the God of Order, the Fae were bound to a law they could never disobey, and the witches, who once knew all magic by nature and could cast it as easily as breathing, were stripped of all magical knowledge, forced to relearn it by rote and ritual. For their part, the trolls were banished beneath the earth, where they grew twisted and ugly and forgot the shape of their mother. And the wolf, for striking the killing blow, was stricken with a madness that made them little more than animals when the moon rose. The same madness that afflicted their alphas even generations later and necessitated their purging.”
If I hadn’t been so afraid I might have rolled my eyes. I sincerely doubted the mythical curse of Tiamat had anything to do with the vampire’s decision to exterminate and outlaw werewolf alphas.
There were only two windows left. One showed Tiamat smiting her children, weeping as she cast them into darkness. The last showed her wading back into the sea.
“Unable to bear the sight of her children or the world she’d given them, Tiamat returned to the depths of the ocean to mourn, leaving one last curse as she went. Since they had cooperated to kill her husband, they would never be allowed to unite again. They would war with one another from that day to the end of days. Well, I suppose we’ve disproven that part of the myth at least. Haven’t we?”
He looked at me expectantly, apparently wanting my input again. I was tempted to just nod and agree with him, but remembering the command from earlier I decided to be honest.
“Hardly.”
He smiled, his sharp teeth shining, which sent a cold shudder through me.
“Quite,” he agreed. “Anyone who thinks the fighting stopped with the Treaty is a fool.”
He leaned closer to me and I tensed like an animal in the grip of a predator.
“Do you know what’s more foolish still?” he asked in a playful whisper. “Thinking it ever should have stopped to begin with.”
He laughed, uncomfortably close, then suddenly paused, a strange expression on his face.
“What an interesting scent,” he said thoughtfully, his grip on my shoulder growing tighter. “Hold still.”
The compulsion seized me, making it impossible to even breathe as he leaned in so close to me that I could feel the warmth of his body mere inches from mine. I wanted to run. I would have given anything under the sun for the ability to move my legs, my arms, to shove him away and bolt. But all I could do was stand, frozen, feeling the heat of his breath on my throat.
Someone in the crowd saved me by calling the man’s name.
“Alulim! Cease flirting and come drink with me, you miserable corpse!”
The vampire pulled away from me immediately, his expression sour, and turned to look at who had called him. The oldest vampire I’d ever seen was grinning at Alulim with sharp white teeth. He must have been in his seventies when he was turned, at least. His black skin was lined with wrinkles, his stark white hair braided and shaped into five large wedges. Instead of the black tie jacket and waistcoat he wore an embroidered black and gold kaftan.
“Excuse me,” Alulim said under his breath. “I must go deal with a buffoon. We will have to dance some other time.”
I felt like I’d been holding my breath since he’d approached me and didn’t release it until he turned away to deal with the old man, who winked at me as soon as Alulim wasn’t looking. I made a mental note to thank that guy if I ever saw him again. At the moment I just wanted to get as far away from “Alulim” as possible. Shaking like a leaf and still feeling that aura of fear like a tire around my neck, I ran for the south transept, where things were quieter and I might be able to just hide until the ceremony started.
chapter
9
IN A SECLUDED CORNER BEYOND the southern exit was the Chapel of Grace. It was the oldest part of the cathedral and also where the artifacts were supposed to be displayed, including the treaty. It was also mostly deserted at the moment, which was all that mattered to me. I found an empty corner near the door and braced myself against the wall, forcing myself to take deep breaths, trying to fight back to tears stinging my eyes. I was not going to fucking cry here, not over some asshole leech. God, I could still feel his breath on my neck and I scrubbed at it furiously to try and make the sensation go away. I stood there until my pulse returned to normal and my dress stopped throbbing like a huge, horrible heart. Finally, enough of the fear eased away for my anger to come back. I was almost as embarrassed as I was angry, ashamed of my own weakness. I wanted to punch that son of a bitch so hard he shit molars. I wanted to leave, call this whole thing off and bail. Nothing was worth the risk of running into him again.
“Evie.”
I jumped at the sound of my name, then realized it was coming from the wireless two-way radio in my ear.
“Domino,” I whispered back. “Aren’t we supposed to be keeping this line clear until the ceremony starts?”
“I’m just doing last checks,” he replied. “Making sure everything works. I heard, uh—It sounded like you had some trouble there. You alright?”
“I’m fine,” I said quickly. I really didn’t want to talk about what had just happened, not over a damn walkie-talkie while we were in the middle of a job.
“You sure?” Domino asked again. “If you need to me to come in there and bust some heads just say the word. I can be there in thirty seconds.”
“I’m fine,” I repeated. “It was just a creepy bloodsucker. What else is new?”
“Do you want to pull the emergency chute?” he asked. “It’s not too late to just back out of this.”
“I’m not backing out of anything,” I said, a little too loudly. “I’m going to scope out the target right now.”
Domino was quiet for a few seconds, probably considering overruling me, but he let it go.
“Alright,” he said finally. “Be careful. Talk to you when the show starts.”
I took one last deep breath to steady my nerves, then headed into the Chapel of Grace. I’d told Domino I was scoping out the target, so I might as well actually do it.
Only a few guests were milling about, looking at the display cases. The music was more muted, and I felt my heart settle as I browsed the displays. Tapestries bearing accounts of the first Great Occult War, the crown jewels of a vampire who had very briefly been a major European monarch, the stolen Da Vinci pages that described his extensive magical research. All beyond priceless. And none more so than the humble document that took pride of place at the far end of the chapel. The Treaty of Five Races.
I moved closer to look down at it, just a simple sheaf of parchment lying under the glass of its heavy wooden case. The script was meticulously hand drawn and illuminated, the words familiar. They’d made us memorize it in my magical history class.
“We, the children of Tiamat, five races alike in power and grace, equal under the mother, here set aside our swords and bind ourselves with the highest magic to peace and to one another in new fraternity, in the name of the mother and for the sake of the survival of all our kind.
Here do five nations, sovereign and united, declare in one voice an end to the callous fratricide which has haunted our peoples since our first days. We forsake all grievance and put aside every past hatred, swearing by the highest powers an oath to never again raise a campaign of war against one another.
For the service of justice in defiance of tyranny, to further the freedoms of all peoples, to pursue mutual good and shared prosperity, let us be no longer five nations divided but resolve to become one mighty kingdom, blessed in the mother’s sight, the Unified Magical Peoples of the World.”
It looked just the same as it had in my history book as a kid, but somehow it seemed so m
uch bigger now. Maybe because I was planning to steal it. I suddenly kind of wanted to throw up.
I was distracted by the sound of heavy footsteps. A troll shuffled carefully into the chapel and the other two people looking at the artifacts exchanged a scornful look and exited. The troll ignored them, focused on the display cases. He was big, even for a troll, and moved cautiously. His suit strained at the seams. It wasn’t unusual for trolls to hit seven feet. This guy must have been pushing eight. His biceps were bigger than my head. The smooth stone surface of his skin was dark slate, with a green translucence where the light hit it, and flecks of glittering mica. He had a big broad nose and a heavy underbite that made his already impressive tusks seem even longer. His hair, and the fur that touched the backs of his hands and tipped the end of his tail, was black with the same dark jade depths as his skin, long and sleek. It was pulled back for the event, but already trying to escape and fall into his face.
“Is that what I think it is?” a shrill voice asked in a tone of mild horror.
I’d missed the tiny figure of a goblin in the troll’s shadow. She was maybe four foot nothing and might have been mistaken for a human child from the back, till you noticed the blue cast to her skin and the batlike ears. Her curtain of white blond hair nearly touched the floor as she stood on her toes to see into the display case. Her eyes seemed to take up most of her face, massive and tawny.
They were both looking at a case I’d passed by, containing what looked like a big chunk of stone, rough and broken except for one heavily engraved surface.
“I think it is,” the troll answered in a slow, uneasy rumble.
“Gross!” the goblin said with a shudder. “Why would they put that on display? Who was it? Does it say?”
Like most goblins, she didn’t have much of a nose to speak of, just two slits that were practically invisible when closed. Her mouth was equally ambiguous until it opened, at which point you realized it was as broad as her face and full of tiny, incredibly sharp teeth. Her dress looked like it had been stolen from a child’s doll, all pink and bows, which she’d accessorized with as much costume jewelry as she could manage. She glittered and jangled with every movement.
“The thing is in English, I can’t read it,” the troll said, tapping the little plaque that described the artifact.
A lot of trolls couldn’t read English, from what I’d heard. Their traditional schools only taught Trollish, and though most picked up spoken English just by growing up around it, few learned written English. Apparently the fact that written Trollish had a unique alphabet and very different grammar made learning to read in English uniquely difficult. The goblin strained to read it herself, but couldn’t reach.
“I could lift you—” the troll offered.
“Don’t you dare,” the goblin snapped. “Half these assholes already think I’m your kid or your pet without you carrying me around on top of it. Ask her to read it.”
She pointed at me and the troll’s head turned in my direction. I flinched as he caught me staring. He had surprisingly beautiful eyes, deep and dark brown, like a deer, wide with surprise. He looked away quickly, flustered. The goblin made an exasperated noise.
“Hey!” the goblin called out, while the troll gestured frantically for her to stop. “Can you read this thing for me?”
“You don’t have to,” the troll stammered quickly, holding up a hand to ward me off. “It’s fine.”
“No, uh, I don’t mind,” I said, caught off guard and curious. “Really, it’s cool. I’m not busy.”
“See, Flint?” the goblin said. “She says it’s fine. Now move over so she can see it already you big baby.”
He shuffled aside as I moved closer to lean over the plaque and grimaced as I realized why the goblin had been so disgusted.
“Ah, jeez,” I muttered. I glanced up at him, hesitating, then took a deep breath. “The thing says it’s a piece of Harald the Blue, Mediator of a troll-Fae conflict in the first century, recovered after his execution by shattering at the hands of the Summer General Threadfern.”
I could see a kind of weariness settle on both of them as they heard that. What I’d taken for a chunk of stone was the remains of a person. Trolls turned to stone in sunlight. They returned to normal when the sun went down, but in the meantime they were vulnerable to shattering. It wasn’t easy to shatter a troll, but if you could break them down into small enough pieces they wouldn’t be able to change back when the sun went down.
“Execution,” the goblin scoffed. “That’s a funny way to say murdered in cold blood.”
“At least they remembered his name,” Flint said, touching the edge of the case lightly. “They usually just say unknown troll.”
“Probably a passive-aggressive thing,” the goblin suggested. “Remind the Fae guests about that time they got embarrassed by a troll. Vampires love that kind of petty bullshit.”
“Damn straight,” I muttered, remembering the stained glass windows again.
“Ӓiti Opal used to tell us stories about Harald the Blue,” Flint said almost sadly. He glanced at me again, then quickly away, tugging on the collar of his suit. “He was, uh, he was a hero. Did all kinds of great things.”
“I’ve never even heard of him,” I admitted, feeling awkward and weirdly guilty to be standing next to the remains of a murdered troll hero.
“I guess it’s not a story anyone but trolls like to hear,” he said, and shrugged his broad, heavy shoulders.
“That’s because no one wants to hear troll stories,” the goblin said, leaning against Flint’s leg with her arms crossed. “All troll stories suck. Too many sad endings.”
I checked the time quickly, but I still had a while before the ceremony began. I needed to avoid drawing any more attention, and frankly I was more comfortable around these two than the pack of vampires out there. The Othernet liked to blow up about trolls being dangerous, but most of the ones I’d met were passive to a fault. Goblins were violent as hell, but they were also tiny. I could punt her across the room like a football if I had to.
“I’ve got time to kill,” I said. “If you wanted to tell the story, I’d like to hear it.”
The troll looked at me, blinking slowly in surprise. He had very long eyelashes.
“Seriously?” the goblin asked for him.
“I’m here by myself,” I said with a shrug. “And I’m not about to spend the night talking to a bunch of stuck up vampires. It’s this or wander around in a stupor till I offend someone and get thrown out.”
“Hear that?” the goblin said with a snort. “We’re better than nothing!”
“First time for everything,” Flint replied with a small, awkward laugh. “I don’t know though, I’m—I’m not very good at telling stories, or talking in general.”
“I won’t judge,” I said with a shrug.
Flint still looked uncertain, but the goblin gave him a little push and he looked back at the piece of troll sitting in the display case, gathering his thoughts.
“Harald was a hero who went on many adventures,” he said, with the tone of someone reciting something memorized. “But eventually he grew tired, and he went to the burrow at Valkulammi to spend his last years as an isä, raising children and telling stories.”
I knew enough about trolls to sort of understand most of that. Trolls by nature were solitary and wandered all over huge territories. They usually only came together once or twice a year at special burrows. Children weren’t raised by their parents, but in groups by elders who had finished wandering. Aiti and isa were the Trollish equivalent of mom and dad.
“But then the Summer Court came,” Flint continued, shoulders sinking a little. “They wanted Valkulammi. Who knows why? They didn’t say. They just attacked, and destroyed anyone who fought them.”
“Sounds about right for Fae,” I said, bitter and sympathetic. Half the Occult Wars history I knew started with the Fae arbitrarily deciding they wanted something and killing anyone
who tried to stop them. But going after a troll burrow was cruel and pointless even for the Fae. Trolls held those burrows sacred. And I wasn’t one hundred percent certain on the biology of it, but I was pretty sure they needed those burrows to reproduce. They would die rather than give them up.
“They were either after the magic or the metal,” the goblin said, rolling her eyes. “Everybody knows troll burrows that have been in use for at least a couple hundred years accumulate a ton of raw magic. And the stone ends up super rich in rare minerals and ore. Why do you think goblins hang out with them? It ain’t for their sparkling wit.”
“Thanks Dee,” Flint said, giving her a look.
“What? It’s true,” Dee said, unrepentant.
I heard about that, though I didn’t know the specifics of how it worked. Something about their natural magic just enriched the earth around them. Farms and gardens near troll burrows supposedly did phenomenal, though you’d never want to raise animals there. In places where trolls still lived in the traditional way, they were notorious for snatching livestock.
“Anyway,” Flint went on. “Harald refused to leave. He sat down in front of the entrance to the cave where the children were hiding, and he was so big he blocked it completely. And then he wouldn’t move. Even when the sun came up, he stayed and let it turn him to stone. In the evening, when he was flesh and bone again, still he wouldn’t move.”
“I’m guessing the Fae didn’t appreciate that,” I assumed.
“Flipped their shit, probably,” Dee said, laughing. “You ever see someone tell a Summer Fae no? They throw tantrums like you wouldn’t believe. Red in the face, screaming, throwing themselves on the ground, the whole shebang. And then they kill you horribly, of course. But man, what a riot!”