by Heather Knox
“It is. Just as my Usher led me through the pain to become one of the Everlasting, so too I’ve led Delilah.”
“Isn’t that what the Becoming is for? Pleasant, perhaps, but not easy. Not all survive even our rites.”
He’s right. For most of us—for the Keepers, at least, who still follow the old ways untainted by the savage customs championed by the Praedari. It hurts just a moment as your Usher’s fangs pierce your flesh, but that pain quickly gives way to sensations no mortal could fathom, a flood of endorphins and oxytocin that no mortal could survive were they not, in that instant, becoming something more than themselves. The intimacy of drinking someone’s life charges the Usher with something like the electricity of a first kiss, that breathlessness, something akin to what their Childe feels in that moment, albeit a sick approximation of that same pure pleasure that courses through their mortal veins in those final seconds. Most, then, Become, and do so quickly: their mortality slipping seamlessly into the night, replaced without pause by the hot blood of a fresh kill put gently to their lips by their Usher who guides them in sating their thirst.
Those selected by Keepers for the Becoming are courted, groomed, wooed, not ambushed and buried and left to die for the sake of some barbaric custom. The Keepers boast their fair share of regretful moments in the Corpus Rituum Perpetuorum, but I have yet to participate in a Praedari rite that did not force me to reconsider the worth of the mission as weighed against the loss of a part of myself. Not a moment passes that I don’t regret what I did to her to Usher her. I spoke to Caius of it once and haven’t spoken of it to anyone since.
“The Becoming physically transforms us. The Binding is what Ushers the soul, what shapes us into the Everlasting we will become. At any point she can ask to stop. Nothing happens without her consent. Still, it is not uncommon for one to lose themselves to the Beast within during this rite. A regrettable possibility, but one all the same.”
“This,” he indicates again Delilah, “makes sense for Ismae the Bloody. You, though?”
I shrug. “What was yours like?”
“Mine was sort of . . . an anti-Binding ritual. I spent the time alone, far away from other Everlasting, far away from everything, really. The Becoming tested my physical endurance; the Binding, my ability to both sate and keep at bay the predator within. We spend too much time ignoring the balance we need to survive, afraid that by communing with the Beast-half of our soul we risk becoming the enemy, or worse. But our Beast-self is a part of us, nonetheless. Starving it ensures it rises up and seizes control, if not now, then later.”
I consider this, my attention on my Childe—hurt, but not harmed. He’s right, of course. In a sense, all Everlasting strive to teach balance in their own way, if not out of obligation of caretaking, then out of self-preservation. After all, before an Usher petitions the Council for Autonomy for their Childe, who does that Childe spend the majority of their time with? Which other predator within might they feel threatened by?
Like most things in the world, balance isn’t all or nothing, but exists on a spectrum. By attempting to maintain existence somewhere between the extremes of hunter and hunted, we ensure that we don’t succumb to the predator within and lose ourselves entirely. Caius exists somewhere between the center and the Beast, choosing to seek this balance by spending time with other hunters, with the wild, allowing his predator within to thrive but not take control.
When Ismae Ushered entire armies to fight for her empire, where did she fall on the spectrum? What about after, when her empire was secured, when she slaughtered all those she’d made? And then when she rose up against the Keepers after they offered her a title, prestige? Where did she fall then? What about me? And Delilah, where will she fall?
“Brother? You’ve gone elsewhere.” Caius’s voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Sorry—as grueling as it’s been for her, so has it been for me.” I offer a weak smile.
“Are you still cleaning up her messes?”
“She’s learning to control herself. We all had to learn.”
“I’m surprised you would willingly take this much time from your pursuit of the Valkyries. How long would you have tolerated her mistakes from another?” he asks. He narrows his eyes, studying me. “You care for the girl.”
“Of course, I am her Usher.”
“No. You care for her, in the way most our age can no longer. You love her.” Though he spends much of his time removed from the company of other Everlasting, his insight remains as sharp as that of those who cannot go but a few nights without contact.
“And if I do?”
“It’s a risk. Caring for something means it can be taken away,” Caius warns.
“We’re talking about a person, not someone’s lucky T-shirt,” I quip.
He waves my comment away. “All the same at our age, isn’t it? Have you considered the trauma she endured during her Becoming?”
“Does it matter?” I shrug.
“What if she can’t heal, Ezekiel? The Praedari use that method of indoctrination because it works, because it breaks their recruits. And then to put her through this for the sake of preserving a Bloodline tradition?” He indicates the room with a sweeping gesture of his right arm as he leans forward, the fingers there mangled and useless most nights, save for when he chooses to expend the energy to heal the wound he sustained so long ago, which I’ve never known him to bother with.
“Who am I to judge whether she’s healed?” I offer.
“You keep answering in questions, Zeke. Maybe what you should be asking is whether she feels the same for you. And why.”
Transcribed from a Praedari rally at [location unknown] on June 13, 2001.
SPEAKER: Brothers and sisters in noctis!
We come together on this sacred night to honor those fallen brothers and sisters who held their ground against [audio unclear] forces. They embody what we as Praedari stand for and strive for. Without them our Blood is diminished.
CROWD: In their names we replenish the Blood!
SPEAKER: Tonight let us mourn not our loss, but celebrate the Becoming of our newest brothers and sisters—for they are our future. They do not yet know for what they are chosen, nor what trials they may face.
CROWD: But Praedari never face these trials alone!
SPEAKER: And this is our strength! Some of our brothers and sisters prefer the solitary hunt. We do not shun them, but instead welcome them each full moon with open arms and open veins.
CROWD: For no blood is lost between brothers and sisters!
SPEAKER: Some of our brothers and sisters prefer to hunt as a pack and each full moon we embrace them, share with them the honor of the Sacred Hunt.
CROWD: For no blood is lost between brothers and sisters!
SPEAKER: Let us now be reminded of the Code of the Praedari, as our Ushers spoke it to us and as our Ushers’ Ushers spoke it to them—and so on, since the first Praedari became Praedari, refusing to hide in the shadows, refusing to bow to the Keepers’ will, refusing to let the weak keep ruling the strong.
CROWD: We shall not hide, for we are the shadows! We shall not deny our Beast, for our Beast is who we’ve become! We shall not bear our throat to our enemy, for submission runs not in our blood! We shall not be afraid of the kill, for we’ve each died and only in that death become Praedari!
SPEAKER: We do not fight for some stodgy Elder that handed down a decree centuries ago. Let them keep their castles. Let them keep their councils and their chivalry and their cattle. We fight for now. We fight for us, for our brothers and our sisters. We fight to preserve the natural order: we are the predators, humanity the prey.
CROWD: It is not the burden of the lion to protect the gazelle!
[Cheering.]
[End transmission.]
“HERE KITTY KITTY . . . ” SAYS THE SNEERING Man with the pockmarked face. Ugly, even in the streetlight his teeth glow yellow, crooked like a fence that’s been mended too many times. Hunter thinks of his cousins overseas w
ho lost the battle between good genes and too many rough rugby matches.
“I can’t believe I’m packed with you,” says a girl who rolls her eyes and snaps her gum. Maybe fourteen, the youngest of the bunch but easily the fastest. She reminds Hunter of Selina Kyle, Catwoman before she was Catwoman, still with superhuman grace but clad in Dickensian-orphan sort of clothing rather than a latex catsuit, a black cropped T-shirt boasting in screenprint something in what might be French, a band name or a suggestion. The T-shirt: adorned with an obscene number of holes—some having worn with time and some perhaps intentional. She’d outgrow cute in another couple years, if she could find a shower. In another place, at another time Hunter might even ask her out if they weren’t trying to . . . what? Kill him? Kidnap him? Mug him?
“If we’re playing cat-and-mouse, isn’t he the mouse?” another man speaks. He has an accent Hunter can’t place, somewhere that isn’t here.
“Huh?” Sneering Man asks.
“In your metaphor,” the Foreigner replies before shaking his head and sighing.
“Can we just find the kid already?” the Future Selina Kyle asks. She holds a large hunting knife so naturally it seems like an extension of herself.
Down the alley a ways something clangs and the three in pursuit and the one being pursued hear whispered cussing. The three immediately sprint in that direction and Hunter doesn’t hesitate, unfurling himself from the fetal position between the dumpster and the wall, sprinting in the opposite direction though it seems too easy. He curses his genetics under his breath, that he’s more Peter Parker than Spiderman. His shoes crunch on broken glass and rain-wet pavement and he’s sure they can hear him but he runs anyway. The drunk down the alley bought him a minute, maybe.
He tosses his jacket to the ground and tugs the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head. He ducks into the nearly-deserted metro station—past his curfew, but the hour not so late to justify the emptiness. Rather, this stop has gone neglected, only a matter of time until it’s removed from the city budget altogether. Hunter hops the turnstile. No one notices, or cares to intervene. The apathy of humanity at its finest. No matter, security cameras smile over the length of the station in lieu of paying employees to attend to riders and Hunter tips his head up to greet them before lowering it again. If I’m going to disappear, he thinks, I’m leaving behind as much evidence as possible.
He tucks himself into shadow near the center of the platform, awaiting whatever train rolls through next. He lost his cellphone and the cash he’d just picked up when Future Selina Kyle and her knife had startled him mid-text. If anyone here looked any less terrifying than she, Hunter would ask for help—but this line is more than a few stops from anywhere he should be at this hour, so he waits.
He blames his overly cautious customer who insisted on meeting after curfew in the suburbs to make their transaction, concerned that a handoff at school—despite Hunter’s years of experience and lack of getting caught—would be too risky. Test answers would ensure his customer kept his spot as starting quarterback for the upcoming Homecoming game, but getting caught would spell the end of not only his sports tenure, but his academic standing. Of course, reading To Kill a Mockingbird hadn’t dawned on the boy.
A train. Hunter steps on, not noticing the destination or even the direction: he’s so far near the end of the line that odds were good the train was heading where he needed to. A few strangers do the same, though with the confidence granted by having a “where” and a “why” for their late travel that probably didn’t involve selling test answers to support their comic book addiction. Hunter moves to the front of the car, planning to exit from a different door than he entered. A woman sits muttering to herself. She smells like soap and cigars. Hunter avoids eye contact, leaning against the wall just out of sight of those they might roll slowly past at subsequent stops, willing himself to shrink into the safety of his hoodie.
The interior lights stay dim. Lamps like streetlights spot the tunnel as the train car careens through, causing a sort of strobe effect. At the next stop a few more people clamor aboard. A priest. A frazzled mother with too many grocery bags, an infant, and a small, bleary-eyed child up past his bedtime. The little boy whines and she pulls him onto her lap. Hunter contemplates asking for help, but shakes his head. No explanation for him being out past curfew would sate his parents’ curiosity and involving other people just ensures his parents find out—the unspoken code of adults. A couple of tired-looking men in suits chatter cheerily about the upcoming office Christmas party that’s still months away, annoying the muttering woman who glares at them. They’re nearing downtown.
More stops, more passengers on. No one exits, the car is filling up so Hunter uses this time to make eye contact with as many people as he can, willing an imprint of his face to burn into their memory. He figures his odds of being helped are better before he explains to everyone just what he was doing out at nearly midnight on a school night. No one wants to rescue the kid who sells test answers and essays to classmates, a brainiac delinquent, and the anxiety of coming up with a suitable lie doesn’t hold up against the option of remaining silent. Without a reason as to why those three were after him, he can’t be certain that being safe now means he’s safe in the future—so he needs people to see him, remember him. The priest. The mother. The businessmen.
Maybe he’s read too many comics, seen too many movies, he thinks as he nears a fringe downtown stop with a hoard of passengers-to-be waiting. At the other end of the car a gaggle of riders crowd, eager to get off. He doesn’t have time to join them before they stop, so he moves to the door nearest him and steps out. He barely has time to feel the concrete of the platform under his shoe when the entire tunnel rumbles and erupts into chaos.
The sound is so loud that Hunter cringes involuntarily at the edge of the platform, near the door he just stepped out of. People sprint past him. Screams rise from where the explosion occurred, making the epicenter of the chaos easy to spot. One of the cars ahead of his has been consumed by flames. Strong arms tug Hunter upwards and away from the platform’s edge. He’s grateful that someone else has the focus-during-crisis skills he’s exhausted for the night—until rough cloth is placed over his mouth and nose. The flames, the tunnel, the train all slip from view.
“Limp! Pretend you’re injured,” a strangely accented voice hisses to someone. The Foreigner.
Then he hears her, Future Selina Kyle. “My brother! He’s been hurt!”
Her voice drops to a whisper, each hard k punctuated by slight breath. “Here kitty kit—”
Then nothing.
I PACE OUTSIDE THE CLOSED DOOR OF THE COUNCIL chambers. Even with the heightened hearing of a predator I can hear nothing beyond it. Caius leans against the cool basement wall, arms crossed at his chest, eyes closed. He has been a comfort these past few nights in Zeke’s absence, even offering to escort me to the Council. Since being summoned I’ve thought of nothing else. Perhaps the distraction from my loss should be a comfort, though I struggle to think of it as such.
“Calm yourself, child.”
I shake my head. “What do they want with me?”
“I’ve told you, they wish to speak with you about Zeke’s passing. Nothing more. You act like you’ve done something wrong.”
“Then why does it feel like I’m on trial?”
He doesn’t answer. I know we will not be disturbed, as the entrance to this section of the hotel is private, owned and maintained by the sect and considered a safe place for Keepers to conduct business. The oldest hotel in the city and still it doesn’t rival a single member of the Council in age or grace. The sect spares no expense in its upkeep or revitalization. Like most beautiful, old things, the elegance must outlive the threat of becoming threadbare or dingy or obsolete. Even this section survives, mahogany paneling and chandeliers impeccably maintained, fresh flowers adorning the small antique tables to either side of the door—their brightness oddly juxtaposed against the macabre art one might expect in a place wh
ere vampires meet.
I pause in front of one such painting. A woman wearing bloodied tatters and covered in faint traces of Nordic tattoos wears a raven headdress, all skull and feathers. She stands in a battlefield at night, the ground covered in recently dead. The only things in the painting not marred by battle and blood are the sword and shield she holds. Her eyes glow faintly, as does the aura around her. A wisp of light trails from one of the corpses to the blade of her sword.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” a voice erupts in the quiet, startling me.
I turn. A man dressed in a suit that reminds me of the 1920s and who smiles as easily as Gatsby stands in front of a now-yawning door. Inside I see a large round table, ornately carved of the same mahogany that gleams in the rest of the hotel.
“A powerful myth, the Valkyries,” he adds.
I nod, studying him before continuing. “Zeke spoke of them to me, a long time ago. He told me that there’s rumor of a secret faction of female Everlasting who champion different beliefs than the Keepers or the Praedari.”
“You speak more eloquently than I would have guessed.”
“When it suits me,” I challenge.
The corners of his mouth turn up, though I hesitate to call it a smile. “I am sure your Usher told you more than that, child. Ezekiel Winter chased after rumors as though they were the Holy Grail. His methods were unorthodox, but the Council cannot question his efficacy or dedication.”
“Did he find them?” I ask.
“More rumors to distract himself with, or the Valkyries?”
“The Valkyries.”
“You would know better than I, child, what he did or did not find. But the thing about seeking the Holy Grail when you’re one of the Everlasting—we are already eternal. It becomes less about the object you seek and more about the story. In this case,” he shrugs, “the story is all of it.”
“That’s what you’ve summoned me here for, a story, haven’t you?” I ask carefully. I do not know what Zeke told them about me, just that he kept the secret of my visions from most and cautioned that I do the same.