by Heather Knox
“A symbolic bird? Sounds like a load of symbolic—”
“Question the girl’s motives, if you will, but only a fool challenges the existence of something based on their own limited experience.”
“Are you making a case for God?” he retorts.
“I’m telling you that we have no idea just what our Blood is capable of. Even the eldest among us”—she glances to Enoch before continuing—“contains multitudes of untapped potential. If we focused our effort and resources on studying the Blood and training those we Usher in maximizing their Gifts, the Everlasting would be revered as Gods.”
“I could stand to be worshipped.” Brantley leans back in his chair, propping his feet up on the large mahogany table, ankles crossed. Sighs and snorts of disgust greet Temperance as she returns to the Council chambers.
“What did I miss?”
“Just Brantley being himself.” Leland quips.
“Nothing, got it.”
“And your conversation with the girl?” Alistair asks.
“She admitted there was more to her vision.” Temperance begins carefully. Enoch can tell she chooses not to reveal something, but Enoch will bide his time. Each body at this table hides more somethings than history textbooks. Alistair is not so tactful.
“More to her vision? What are you withholding, siren?”
Temperance ignores him. “Do you blame her? She has never met us before now. She just lost someone she cares immensely for. I could feel her grief.” She pauses, looking to each face for dramatic effect. “Not to mention, well . . . she’s the seeker’s Childe. How long did he keep her a secret from us? A trusting nature does not run in her blood.”
“Which is why she can’t be trusted. Treachery—” He backs off when Evelyn fires a look in his direction that could stop even the tides. “You know where I’m going with this and you know I’m right . . . ”
“Delilah had a point, Alistair. Ismae the Bloody predates both of our sects.”
“And she still chose a side when the battle came.”
“Chose a side? She was a side.” Brantley, in a rare moment of hubris, chimes in. “They don’t call her ‘the Bloody’ for nothing.”
Silence blankets the bickering Elders, all children with too many opinions and no discipline. They have ignored Enoch’s presence until now, prattling on in their way. Now, one by one, their attention turns to him. Enoch needn’t speak for himself. Instead he looks to Leland. Leland makes a fine mouthpiece and, as the youngest, his voice remains the easiest to borrow. He and the others won’t notice. Not a gift of the blood, but one learned with time and discipline: ventriloquism, in a manner of speaking.
“We’ve lost sight of the matter at hand. What of Ezekiel’s death?”
“If he was murdered,” Brantley begins, “it isn’t a mystery by whom.”
“So you believe the girl?” Alistair asks.
“I said if.”
“We all know that if isn’t in your vocabulary.”
Brantley shrugs. “If it was an act of terrorism by the Praedari, I won’t be the vote that prevents the Council from defending the sect.”
“How patriotic.”
“Besides, it’s been rather dull these past few decades.” Brantley yawns, emphasizing his point.
“That’s the appropriately short-sighted reason we’ve all come to expect.”
“And what if her vision tells of her grief and not what came to pass?” Temperance asks.
“Just a minute ago you were championing her.” Brantley challenges.
“I’m not saying that she is lying. Not at all, actually. I’m saying she hasn’t been shown a face. We cannot be certain who killed Zeke or if he met his end because he dug too far into something none of us knew about.”
“Like Temperance, I believe her. I watched her when she told us of Zeke’s death. She went elsewhere, retreated to somewhere in her mind.” Evelyn explains. “But that matters little to what we must decide.”
“Matters little? If Delilah knows more than she’s let on—” Alistair argues.
“If. But we can’t know that. We can sit on our hands and do nothing—as we have for far too long, might I add—or we make moves and punish Zeke’s beloved if indeed we unearth her deceit. Either way we can find a way to keep her useful while our investigation of her continues.”
“That’s the most sense you’ve spoken in a quarter of a century . . . ” Alistair grumbles. Brantley shrugs at the back-handed compliment.
Leland stands. “I call for a vote by the Council of Keepers on the matter of Ezekiel Winter’s death. Thumbs up if we treat his murder as a declaration of war against our sect. Thumbs down if we do not pursue this matter until further evidence is brought to our attention.”
Enoch does not vote. He does not need to. Five will vote and there will be no tie. Everything unfolds exactly as it must.
“HOW LONG WILL THEY DELIBERATE?” I CALL from the bathroom as I change into shorts and a tank top for bed.
“As long as they need to. And then longer to make sure you squirm,” Caius answers matter-of-factly, holding out a mug from which steam rises and curls. I fling myself onto the bed with a sigh and take the mug, enjoying the sharp pain as I wrap my palms around the hot ceramic.
“So I’m a prisoner until then?”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
A space feels very different when you’re confined to it, even if it served as a sanctuary before. The walls inch closer to one another. The carpet sucks at your feet like thick mud. The air thickens as you breathe viscosity. I fight the urge to gasp. Sometimes slipping into a vision feels this way: the mind turned from sanctuary to prison.
“There were only six Elders,” I say, lifting my head to look up at him.
“I noticed that when the charlatan escorted you inside. More than likely one of them couldn’t take time away from personal matters to attend, or perhaps, like Zeke, they don’t always make themselves easy to find.” He pauses, pretending to study the thick curtains as he draws them shut for me out of habit. “Or perhaps one Slumbers.”
I consider this for a moment. Zeke told me that sometimes Elders choose to enter into a deep sleep-like state called the Slumber. In doing so, they become vulnerable to their environment, entirely unable to protect themselves or awaken on their own. Why they make this choice varies, but it is not without reason—going to ground after earning the ire of too-powerful an enemy, loneliness, to wait out a plague or the Inquisition. Rumor has it that most will lock themselves away deep below the earth’s surface, guarded by servants Ushered for this very purpose. I never knew whether to believe Zeke or whether it was a bogeyman story told to young Everlasting to keep them in check. Behave, lest ye Elders rise up and reclaim what is rightfully theirs—or something.
“You should rest. They will not summon you tonight and you look drained.” He settles into the overstuffed chair next to the bed as he speaks, adjusting a pillow to support his neck.
“I am, actually. More so than usual.” I close my eyes and for just a second I can smell spice and wood.
“Did you force a vision?” He asks, concerned.
“No, nothing quite like that,” I half-lie. I slipped into what Zeke and I called The Remembrance, but I didn’t force anything. Though his concern comes from a genuine place, I don’t feel too badly about my lie of omission.
“Well, Temperance is a vampire as well as one of the Everlasting,” Caius jokes. “That’s probably why you’re so tired.”
I smile at his cleverness—rare is the Keeper that allows themselves to be called a vampire, believing it to demean the superiority of their nature. Everlasting, though, has a more elegant ring to it, maintains a distance from the gritty reality, and adds a certain air of grace and dignity that the Praedari feel little need to replicate. No, the Praedari fancy themselves the ultimate predator: vampires.
“You needn’t sleep in that chair,” I invite as I roll towards one side of the bed and shimmy underneath the com
forter. “The bed is big enough for the both of us. I’ll even keep my clothes on,” I add just to make him uncomfortable.
He considers my invitation for just a moment before shaking his head “no.” My joke seems lost on him. “This serves me well enough, thank you. We sleep like the dead regardless where.”
“I’M GOING OVER TO JOSH’S TO WORK ON OUR English project,” Logan calls over his shoulder, having just shoveled mashed potatoes and roast into his mouth and loaded his dirty plate into the dishwasher.
“For Pride and Prejudice which you have yet to finish?” His stepmother teases between bites, indicating an untouched copy of the novel still on the counter.
Logan smiles and offers a shrug, scooping up the book.
“It’s not my fault they can’t assign the cool version of it, the one with the zombies.” He pauses at the door. “Hey—how late did you say dad was working?”
“Probably about one. He’s in court tomorrow so it’ll be a late night for him. Why?”
“You know, I could have Josh come here to work on the project. Then you wouldn’t have to be alone.”
She waves Logan off. “I appreciate that, but I’m fine. It’s going to be a late night for me, too.” She holds up her coffee mug for emphasis. “My thesis committee wants a polished draft by Thanksgiving. I’m about to cause the town a coffee shortage.”
“Alright . . . ”
“Really, I’m fine. Nothing interesting ever happens around here, you know that,” she adds lightly, smiling.
“Okay,” he nods, convinced. “Love you, mom.”
“Love you, too. Watch out for zombies!”
Josh is one of those kids whose parents inexplicably whisked them away to the country, onto a beautiful acreage that used to support a hobby farm—only to keep him enrolled in Logan’s school and make the forty-five minute drive twice a day. Their loyalty extends beyond the school district to include restaurants, salons, mechanics, coffee shop, the library, and even pet grooming boutiques—despite there being two small towns along the way that, combined, boast at least one very pared-down version of most of these. Their new favorite hobbies are complaining about this drive and brainstorming about what they might use the hobby farm for, if only they had the time. (Which they might if they didn’t drive an hour and a half for work, dinner, a haircut, an oil change, a latte, to return books, or get their toy cockapoos bathed and trimmed.) Of course, Josh being on the team with Logan further complicates his daily routine, so often he stays at Logan’s place; Logan tries to make the drive out to his place when he can’t. Logan’s known Josh since they were both about five. He shared his Twinkies with Logan, which is also pretty much how Logan’s girlfriend won him over a couple years ago.
The snow’s been holding out, so right now the drive is easy. Logan likes driving in the country: there are speed limits but it’s so rare to run into another person out here that they really are more of a suggestion than a hard-and-fast rule. The roads out here curve gently, so gently that no sign is posted warning of them or urging motorists to slow down. Of course, had they once been posted they’d likely all have been stripped during senior prank week each year. That little act of defiance counted as street cred in these parts. Despite it being chilly, he lets down the front driver window and turns the radio up. Something Top 40, but he doesn’t care.
He’s singing along to Taylor Swift when he notices headlights in his rearview mirror. The road stretches on fairly straight here, so he’s not sure how he didn’t notice another vehicle until now. He slows just a little before he realizes they’re going at least as fast as he is, so he pays them little mind. Like driving in the winter around here, the greater danger comes from the other person not knowing what they’re doing. Someone driving as fast as he does out here means they know the landscape, too, each pothole, each divot mapped permanently in their mind.
Their headlights grow larger, less distinct, brighter in the mirrors as they cut through the darkness. Logan takes his usual turn onto Willard Creek Road only to be followed by the same set of headlights. Having slowed down for the turn, he keeps a slower pace. It’s not a popular road. None of the roads out here are unless you’re a tractor or a cow that’s somehow escaped the fence at the property line. What were Josh’s parents thinking?
The headlights, however, haven’t taken his cue and slowed, nor sped up to pass him, the car still careening behind him at a dangerous clip. They flash their brights a couple times and he’s reminded of an urban legend about a gang initiation game where soon-to-be gang members will drive with their headlights off so cars will blink theirs as a courtesy. Doing so marks these good Samaritans, as the initiates will then drive these cars off the road and shoot everyone inside.
Never mind that they flash their brights at him: trains of thought are not always logical and all he can think of are the news report Logan and his stepmom watched before dinner, violent accounts of vandalism taken too far in cities far larger than theirs, mandatory curfews being considered, all possibly gang-related or so the newscasters like to conjecture. It’s not like people can play this game in the city, so what’s the next tactical choice? The suburbs. Even better: the country surrounding the suburbs. He glances to his phone on the seat next to him, but before he can decide to call—who?—the car pulls into oncoming traffic’s lane, so close Logan can almost feel the vibration of their horn when they start honking it. He pulls off to the side, onto the gravel shoulder, heart racing. The other car doesn’t slow. The honking doesn’t stop.
Logan is bathed in light as they cut close, kicking up gravel that pings off metal. A rush of air and flurry of noise—honking echoed by laughter—as the car whooshes past. He recognizes the borrowed Mustang from the rear just as his phone beep-beeps on the seat next to him. A text message.
Party out at Old Mill Road! Tiffany Lang.
Tiffany Lang out to a party on a Wednesday night, and Logan doubts her mother knows she has her daddy’s ride. He laughs to himself, more to shake off rattled nerves than because of Tiffany Lang’s stunt. Someone’s getting a sheep’s eye from the biology supply closet in their Nalgene bottle tomorrow, he plots.
“Come on, Logan, pull yourself together,” he chuckles to no one. Okay, maybe not a sheep’s eye.
That’s when he notices just how bright the interior of his car has become, the dashboard illuminated to an eerie glow, indistinguishable from the windshield, from the rearview mirror. Screeching of tires on pavement, sickening crunch of metal-on-metal. The force of the seatbelt in his pelvis or the impact itself knocks the wind out of him as the airbag hits him in the face or his face hits the airbag before snapping back against the headrest. A warm tickle on his forehead, but he’s aware that he’s aware.
With some difficulty he manages to push the driver’s side door open, fumble with his seatbelt until it clicks free. He falls to his knees on the ground, where gravel shoulder meets worn pavement, breathing heavily. Everything hurts. Sharp pain radiates up and down from his left knee where he can see a bruise already forming. Hot tears form in his eyes.
He hears car doors close, shoes on pavement. Voices arguing.
“Was ramming the car really necessary? What if he’d died?”
“Yeah, maybe you don’t remember, but mortals aren’t like us. They can’t survive this kind of thing.”
“She’s right. We need him alive. He’s no good to us dead.”
“Lighten up, guys. He’s fine, see?”
“I think we lose points for damaging them,” the first voice offers.
“Oh, like you think Pierce’s pack isn’t going to rough them up? That ugly brute Johnny can’t resist a fight and Lydia doesn’t carry that knife for show, trust me. Who’ve they got on their list? That Kiley girl and some guy named Hunter?”
“What’s this one’s name?”
The four voices now tower over Logan. One booted foot nudges him in the ribs, punctuating the question.
Logan tries to speak but can only manage a guttural “uhhhhnnnn
n . . . ”
CAIUS RETURNS FROM HUNTING TO INFORM ME THE Council has summoned me once again, as promised. I take extra care getting dressed, pulling my hair back off my face. I fold a sheathed dagger into my jacket.
“That’s from the raid?” he asks, though it’s less of a question and more of an observation.
“You recognize it?” I say with some surprise and he nods. Though he claims to have been present for the raid, I’m not sure what role he played. Was he inside the warehouse? Did he help Zeke put all the pieces in place beforehand? Did he keep to the shadows and pick off Praedari as they hunted?
The plan was a trap, a raid on an alleged Keeper cell within Praedari territory to be orchestrated by Zeke—at least, until another Keeper operative infiltrating a pack was discovered, their cover blown. Zeke couldn’t save the operative, but since the timing was fortuitous with the approach of one of their sacred nights, Zeke convinced our pack to host the next gathering. The Rite of Howling, celebrated at the full moon, always culminated with a symbolic, albeit lethal, hunt symbolizing the Praedari’s dominance over the Keepers. Usually a Praedari brother or sister honored their sect by acting as tribute, but what luck that my first Howling be with a true-to-life Keeper and this tradition could be honored with an actual Keeper sacrifice!—or such was the ruse. So with the assistance of the Council—in the form of equipment and keeping the media at bay, not actually getting their hands bloody—we were able to execute the entire pack we’d been infiltrating and take down many of the members of those packs visiting for the rite.
Though we called the initial plan “the raid” because Zeke had planned for it to be a raid on a made-up Keeper cell within Praedari territory, the name stuck because of how we cornered them in a warehouse and picked them off like—well, that was neither the first nor the last time I almost saw my Final Moment, a story for another time.