by RJ Blain
~*~
Invisible hands jerked Terin to a halt, leaving him to dangle upside down staring at the lights of Lower Erelith City far below. The Speech holding him place stabbed at his ears and thundered through his skull. With each breath, the grip tightened until he couldn’t even manage a wheeze.
“Bring him up,” a man’s voice called from above.
“Is it really worth the effort?” a woman asked. Someone snickered. “Let him fall. No one will care.”
Laughter rang out. Voice light with amusement, a man replied, “Are you going to be the one to retrieve the collar, then, mistress? That’s a gold collar he wears. I won’t be at fault if he dies in the Arena for his crimes.”
“I’m sure its owner will understand,” the woman grumbled. “I can always send down one of my slaves if needed.”
Terin struggled to draw a breath to Speak and free himself—even if it meant plummeting the hundreds of feet to the ground below. Not even the flash of heat from the collar quelled his desperation as his lungs ached with the need for air. His vision dimmed until the lights below were nothing more than faint specks in the darkness.
His right hand tingled and a chill spread up his arm. The Speech holding him shattered and he gasped in a gulp of cool night air. He didn’t drop far before several hands grabbed ahold of his legs.
Instead of falling to Lower Erelith City, Terin’s face slammed into the cliff. Stones pierced his cheek, gouged at his stomach, and scraped his arms and knees. The little air he’d managed to gasp in rushed out of his lungs.
“He broke my window. The Arena is too good for him,” the woman said with a sniff.
Terin was dragged through the broken window, the shards of glass tearing through his side and arms. The heat of his own blood didn’t compare with the surge of pain radiating from his throat.
The collar knew; it knew he’d failed, and punished him for it.
He was thrown down to the hall’s polished stone and a boot cracked against his ribs. “Who is your master?”
Terin bit his lip. The answer was on the tip of his tongue, and he swallowed back the need to obey the Citizen. It didn’t matter what Terin said; if he bowed to the Citizen’s will, the collar would punish him for defying his master, like it punished him for his failure to escape without getting caught.
“Check his collar,” the man growled.
It wouldn’t do them any good, but Terin didn’t say anything. He suffered through the fingers digging at his neck and the collar in silence. Nails tore his skin in the effort to get beneath the ring around his throat.
A man Spoke in a whisper. Terin tried to blink away the darkness, but he could barely make out the tiles of the hallway floor, and they were shrouded in gray.
“It isn’t marked, sir.”
“What do you mean? All collars are marked,” the woman said.
“I’d turn him over to the military right away, sir. Only a few are allowed by the Emperor to have unmarked collars, and if he’s one of the Emperor’s slaves, it’ll be our heads if we don’t return him,” the Speaker replied.
“Just my luck. Summon the guards, then. If he is the Emperor’s slave, he can be retrieved from the Arena.”
The boot cracked against Terin’s rib again, and the pain of it robbed him of breath.
The Words for sleep were murmured in his ear. Before Terin could mutter the counter, his will crumbled and he descended into the depths of unconsciousness.
With luck, he’d never awaken.
~*~
Blaise leaned against one of the cathedral’s many columns and fought the urge to sigh. The man skulking in the garden darted from the sculpted hedge to the rose-covered fountain. The figure paused at the statue’s feet to drink.
If the early summer evening was a bit warmer, Blaise might’ve enjoyed the hunt. His prey crossed to the cathedral’s promenade designed to let worshipers admire the church’s two-storied stained glass windows.
One by one, the lanterns within flickered to life. The windows shed colored light on the pale stones until ghostly roses decorated the walkway.
Without lowering his head in prayer, his prey trod over the roses, the light illuminating the man’s dark doublet. Blaise narrowed his eyes. There was no evidence his prey wore a slave collar.
It’d been at least three or four years since a Citizen dared to infiltrate the cathedral instead of sacrificing a slave.
Blaise sniffed. The scent of fear hung in the air, growing stronger when his quarry hurried by where Blaise hid. Savoring the metallic taste teasing his tongue, he shoved away from the column and followed. The hem of Blaise’s frock coat swept out behind him, the white fabric bright in the moonlight. Lifting his gloved hand to adjust the collar hugging his throat, he undid the top button and slipped a finger between the material and his skin to loosen it.
The red of blood clung to him when he passed through the window’s portrayal of God’s roses. Blaise’s lip curled upward. Blood and fear. Both scents taunted him, rousing the instincts that refused to die away despite over a thousand years of living among humans.
Humans who, despite the insistence of Blaise’s tongue and stomach, were not food. He didn’t dare prey on them yet, not while he wore their form and hid among them, and certainly not without His permission.
Not until a human sinned beyond redemption, their soul too tattered and worn to return to God’s garden. Blaise almost wished the fool would turn and notice him.
If the man ran, Blaise would have an excuse to hunt. If the man got away—just for a little while—Blaise would have the excuse he needed to let loose and stretch his wings, which were trapped beneath the veneer of thin, flimsy human skin. Frustration erased the sweetness on his tongue and replaced it with a strong, bitter flavor.
His prey didn’t turn and run. To Blaise’s annoyance, the man didn’t even hurry in his prowling around the cathedral, adopting the stride of someone who belonged there, of someone who admired the art of the windows. The only indicator that the figure didn’t belong there at all was the infrequent pauses to stare into the shadows of the veranda in search of a way into the towering monstrosity of a cathedral dominating the Church Ward.
The temptation to reveal himself and show the fool the way into the building rose, and Blaise forced it back. He smothered his impatience by drawing a deep breath.
The scents of fear, blood, and excitement taunted him. The taste of it roused Blaise’s appetite; he licked at his lips and his stomach rumbled.
A worshipper seeking God’s compassion or the soothing words of a bishop felt such things. The intensity of it, however, was unusual and roused Blaise's hunger.
That left one other option: The man sought the Heart of God, and thought so low of the Erelith Church of God to believe he could acquire what the Emperor and all of his power could not.
Until Blaise had proof, he couldn’t lift his hand to strike. A sigh escaped him, and he followed the unbeliever.
~*~
Blaise whispered God’s Word and enticed the side door to obey his will. The metal and wood resisted for a moment, but the click of it unlocking carried to where he stood behind the stone framing one of the windows.
The Citizen twisted the vine-engraved knob with no sign of having heard the sound. With a soft, triumphant cry, his prey pushed through the door and vanished inside. Blaise counted to thirty before following.
Giving the man a head start made things a little more interesting.
An empty hallway greeted Blaise, the silence adding to the heavy weight of antiquity to the church. Lanterns hung from chains far overhead, illuminating the stone floors polished smooth with age. Rose mosaics lined each side of the hall.
Blaise breathed deep and followed his nose. The scent of fear was all but gone, replaced by the richer aroma of anticipation and excitement. It led him around the central sanctuary toward the inner cloister.
Toward Alphege, who carried the Heart of God. Blaise’s awareness of the relic manifested as a tingle i
n his lower spine when he concentrated on it. Its voice was similar to someone still lost in sleep; mumbles without words or true feelings.
Blaise turned back long enough to reach out toward the door and lock it once more with a whispered Word. The door didn’t fight him this time, clicking in obedience of his will.
If the figure gave Blaise the slip and he had to hunt, at least the locked door would slow the fleeing human down a little. Blaise’s Speech wasn’t perfect; he wasn’t God, but few could open a door he didn’t want them to pass through. His prey would have to find another way to escape the cathedral.
If the servants and worshippers complained of a stuck door in the morning, Blaise would deal with it after the would-be thief was eliminated. He smiled.
The last time someone had gotten so far, they had spent hours exploring the maze of halls, chambers, altars, and small cloisters pocketing the cathedral. Blaise’s prey took the most direct route, ducking through empty hallways, skirting the three-storied library, and crossing the inner gardens before descending into the hive of rooms flanking the entry to the catacombs.
“Bishop,” the raspy voice of the steward greeted him.
Blaise slowed to a halt and forced a smile before turning to face the hunchbacked man clad in the simple brown robes of those who lived within the monastery adjacent to the cathedral.
“Steward Volas. God’s Blessing upon you,” he replied.
“You’re late,” Volas scolded before letting out several wet, heavy coughs. The perfume of blooming roses tickled Blaise’s nose and his smile faded.
“You should rest, old friend. You’ve done your duty well.”
The steward’s smile transformed the leathery, wrinkled visage into a thing of ancient beauty. “He descended into the catacombs where the Archbishop prays.”
Blaise reached out and brushed his fingers across the man’s forehead before dipping down to press his lips to Volas’s gray-haired head. “I will see to it. Rest well, Child of God.”
The steward bowed his head and shuffled away, and the presence of God’s roses clung to the old man in a shroud invisible even to Blaise’s keen eyes.
Blaise stared at the steward’s back and waited until the man was out of hearing before murmuring the prayer for the dead. When the Gates to God’s Garden opened in the middle of night or early morning, Blaise hoped He would guide Volas’s weary soul to peaceful rest until the time of rebirth.
A sigh escaped him, low and long, and Blaise couldn’t resist glancing toward the tallest spire of the cathedral housing the lone bell. He pressed his lips together in a thin line and abandoned his slow, leisurely pursuit for a purposeful, ground-eating stride.
It didn’t surprise him that his prey knew the Heart was held by the mortal Voice of God, the Archbishop appointed to rule over all of the Erelith churches. But how had the man known where to go?
Who had spoken of Alphege’s whereabouts? Few knew where the old man rested after sunset services until the midnight prayers.
Blaise descended the stairs leading to the catacombs. Not even dust dared to defile the plain sarcophagi inset in the walls from floor to ceiling. The sense of eyes watching him sent shivers through him as always, as though those interred within recognized that the deathless stood among their mortal remains, and glared at Blaise from God’s Garden
The tingle in his spine erupted into pain, stabbing through his back into his skull. Blaise’s bones burned, and his teeth clamped down on the tip of his tongue. The hot, metallic and sweet taste of his blood flooded his mouth.
A wordless cry thundered in his head. The tip of Blaise’s precious tail, severed over a thousand years ago to create the Heart of God—called out to him, and its rage pierced through him like a blade made of ice.
Someone other than Alphege touched the Heart, and the relic cried out at the violation. Blaise let out a growl from deep within his chest and obeyed the Heart’s call.
Taking the narrow steps two at a time, Blaise glared at the ancient doors barring his way to the Heart and Alphege. “Only through destruction may there be renewal, so Spoke God,” he hissed through clenched teeth, snapping his arm out to dismiss the barrier from existence. The stone trembled, and the ancient voices of the catacomb’s creators fought against him, but Blaise splayed his fingers and dispelled them with a snapped Word.
The door exploded in a cloud of dust. The shower of debris plummeted to the floor under the weight of his will, as if fearing the rage storming within him.
The intruder held the Heart of God aloft. At the man’s feet, the Archbishop was still. Alphege’s short-cropped, brown and gray hair masked his face. The red patterns on the Archbishop’s white robes resembled pools of blood.
Blaise forced himself to focus his attention on the Heart of God. The bone staff gleamed in the light of the red gem embedded in its center. It pulsed in the beat of a living heart. The Heart faltered, skipping several beats, and its cry hammered at Blaise until he let out a chiding hiss to silence it.
Within the gem, the final remnant of God’s Daughter obeyed and the blood-tinged glow dimmed. Blaise almost felt guilty at scolding her, but so little of Aurora remained that Blaise doubted she would remember after the unworthy released her staff.
“Give me that,” Blaise demanded, holding out his hand.
His prey jumped and whirled around. Dark green eyes were marred with glowing flecks of blue and red. Spittle clung to the man’s lips.
“Obsessed,” Alphege coughed out from the floor.
“So I see,” Blaise replied with a relieved sigh. “Most of them are.”
So much for his hunt. With the Archbishop’s keen eye on him, Blaise couldn’t afford to do more than Speak his prey into quiet submission and let the military deal with the unbeliever who had touched the Hand of God.
Not that there was much left of the man; madness lurked in his prey’s eyes, and the remnants of his tattered soul faded under the onslaught of Lucin’s influence.
“What do you want me to do with him, Archbishop?” Blaise asked.
“Ease his suffering, Child of God. I absolve you of your sin in His name.”
Blaise felt both of his brows rise to his hairline. Lifting a hand to brush away one of the golden locks falling in his eyes, he considered the ruined man holding the staff.
“You can’t have Her,” his prey rasped in the dry voice of Lucin. The last fleck of green withered away to nothing. “Mine! Mine!”
The staff was swung in a wide arc and caught Blaise across the ribs. Wheezing for breath, Blaise slapped his palm against the bone staff and took hold of it.
“Blaise!” Alphege screamed.
The staff burned at Blaise’s touch, and its rage joined with his. The crystalline squeal of the Heart drowned out the words tumbling from his lips.
A tingle swept through him. The catacombs vanished with a crackle and a flash of blue-white light.
Chapter 2
Sparks danced over Blaise in blue and white flashes. His clothes clung to his twitching limbs, and the touch of the soft material on his skin set his nerves on fire. The stench of burnt hair and charred flesh mingled with the fading remnants of fear without any hint of the perfume of God’s roses.
He staggered back, stirring the dust on the catacomb floor. The back of his heel cracked against the step. The Heart of God slid from Blaise’s numb fingers and clattered the floor. With aching bones creaking in protest, he sank down on one of the steps and struggled to catch his breath. His throat itched with the need to cough.
“Blaise!”
Alphege swept through the settling dust and smoke, the long hem of his frock coat trailing behind him. Flashes of blue and white arched between the paired silver, rose-shaped buttons, drawing Blaise’s eye to the flash of light and color. The Archbishop reached out with both hands.
The touch on Blaise’s shoulders startled him. He blinked and shook his head to clear it of the buzz in his ears.
“Blaise?”
“That was a littl
e much,” Blaise admitted, unable to stop from coughing.
The urge to transform, to shed off his human form, if only for long enough to lick his wounds, roused as a hunger in his stomach, which threatened to drive away his reason.
His desire to feed faded beneath the force of Alphege’s scolding. “How many times must I tell you to control your Speech, son? Are you hurt?” Each word was accompanied with a shake of Blaise’s shoulders.
“Only my dignity and pride,” he replied with a scowl. At least his call of Divine lightning hadn’t struck the Archbishop.
The Church might’ve accepted Alphege’s death as an accident and necessary sacrifice to protect the Heart of God, but He didn’t look so kindly on the death of His mortal Voice.
Blaise shivered. Alphege frowned, shook his head, and stooped down to retrieve the Heart of God.
“All is well, then. I shall go pray for this lost soul’s deliverance to God’s Garden,” the Archbishop said. “Rest a while.”
Blaise struggled against the urge to reach out and touch the Heart of God. His bone, serving as Aurora’s vessel, cried out for him in his head, and its mournful wails accompanied by the murmur of the Daughter’s fragmented soul. It didn’t complain long, but it roused the phantom sensation of him having a tail when he was trapped within a body never meant to have one.
Alphege knelt beside the husk of the obsessed man, the prayer for the dead was whispered in so soft of a voice that Blaise struggled to make out the words. There wouldn’t be a warm greeting into the Gardens for a soul devoured by Lucin, but Blaise remained silent.
The humans didn’t need to learn the truth—not from him.
“You could’ve gotten yourself killed,” Alphege said, rising from the floor, tapping the Heart of God against the stone. “Why didn’t you just step back and Speak him to sleep?”
Blaise scowled and stared down at the dead man. “My apologies, Archbishop.”
“Do you need help to your chamber?” Alphege asked, reaching out to Blaise with a hand, but Blaise rose to his feet without accepting the assistance. The tingling in his fingers and toes remained, but the pain faded to a tolerable sting.