by Heather Knox
“Indeed, it is not. Choice is often an illusion.”
“Why should I find the kids rather than seek out Zeke’s murderer? How would this avenge my Usher?”
Enoch considers me a moment, the corners of his mouth turning just slightly downward. “As Keepers, our job is protect the mortal world—both from knowledge of our kind and from the Praedari who would openly hunt them. If it is indeed the Praedari who’ve killed your Usher, your quest to find the children should lead you right to their hive. If your vision is correct, I can only imagine the horrors that await them—and humanity—should they not be found.”
“Why me?” I ask, not quite convinced.
“The rage of Ismae the Bloody still sings in your veins, Delilah. Will you avenge your Usher and beloved by protecting the mortals from your vision, or will Ezekiel’s sacrifice have been in vain? Will you honor your Blood or deny your legacy? A decision of this gravity cannot hope to be encountered twice by even the Eldest Everlasting. It is a blessing, but it does not come without risk. It is a chance for glory, as well as closure. You may take some time to decide.”
“That is not necessary,” I declare, stepping forward. “I’ve made my decision.”
TEMPERANCE ESCORTS ME FROM THE COUNCIL chambers this time. She waits to speak until we are out of earshot of the other Elders. Caius lingers by the stairs, making very little effort to conceal his eavesdropping.
“Delilah, I know we had a moment in there but I really hope you come, in time, to see me as an ally.” Her words meet silence, so she continues. “As Leland said, you have the full support of the Council in your mission. Whatever resources you may need—”
I hold a hand up to stop her.
“You’re going to say ‘I don’t need your help,’ aren’t you?” Temperance says.
“Close. I was going to go with ‘I don’t need a babysitter. Or six,’” I retort.
She sighs, rubbing her furrowed brow. “None of us have lived as long as we have without having to rely on someone once in a while. Usually it’s our Ushers, until we’ve outlived them. You’re like us now, Delilah. With Zeke gone you must make your own way, but you can’t do it alone. You can dive deep for what you’re seeking like he did, but eventually you must surface for air.”
“And what do you know about what I’m going through? I’m nothing like you,” I challenge.
“I know that the decision you made didn’t seem like it had multiple choices—but it did. That you could only fathom one shows your dedication to his memory.”
Caius takes a few steps towards us. “Let it rest, Siren. Can’t you see she’s been through enough?”
“I’m surprised you’d care, Conqueror. Or that she’d let you rush to her defense.”
“She’s my ward.”
“Not as of now. On behalf of the Council I am awarding her Autonomy, since her Usher didn’t have the chance to petition for it himself. She is ready. It is what Ezekiel would have wanted,” she adds softly for my benefit.
Caius snorts. “Autonomy? That’s a strong word for such a short leash.”
Temperance rolls her eyes. “Is this going to be another oppressor versus the oppressed diatribe? Because I must warn you sunrise isn’t far off. You’d have to make it quick. Wouldn’t want to see you burn, Conqueror. Haven’t you had enough of the smell of burning flesh?”
“Independence must be taken by force and protected, not given,” he argues.
“She’s right, Caius,” I say, hoping to diffuse the tension I’m exhausted of. “We should settle in for the day.”
He shrugs, putting his hand up in front of him as in resignation and heading up the staircase.
“Delilah,” Temperance reaches out to touch my shoulder, “I am in your corner. I want you to take this.” She draws a small, navy blue velvet box from somewhere I can’t see. “Don’t open it until you’re far away from here.”
I glance up the stairs but Caius is already outside. I nod and tuck the box into my jacket before following him.
“SO WHAT’S THIS KID’S NAME?” A FEMALE VOICE asks as Hunter comes to.
“How should I know?” a male responds.
“Do you two ever listen to briefings?” a familiarly-accented voice sighs.
“I missed the memo.”
“Hunter. His name is Hunter.”
“That’s ironic,” the female snorts before belting out a few bars of Alanis Morissette.
Hunter is lying on his side in the fetal position, scratchy fabric like a welcome mat that smells vaguely of gasoline and soil against his face. He sees darkness despite his eyes being open, the slight pressure of cloth against his eyelashes as he blinks. The hum of tires on freeway and the familiar lurch of being in a vehicle. A window is open, just a crack by the sound, the cool air a respite from the stuffiness at least. He’s bound at the wrists with his arms behind his back with some sort of thin plastic; at the ankles with something he can’t quite feel through his jeans.
He nods his head against the carpeting, trying to slide the blindfold down so he can see but it holds tight. Now his face itches. He stretches his legs out straight trying to get a sense of how much space he’s confined to, taking care to make as little noise as possible.
“Who sings that song?” the accented-man asks.
“Alanis Mor—”
“Yeah, let’s keep it that way,” he interrupts, his pleased smile evident in his voice.
The hollow thump of someone smacking someone in the chest, hard, and then the vehicle swerves a moment. Hunter winces and shrinks back to fetal.
“Shut it, Pierce.”
A phone rings.
“It’s Victor,” Pierce announces. The squabbling falls silent.
“Hey boss. Target acquired. Of course it wasn’t too much trouble—we’re professionals. No, he’s fine, not a hair harmed on his little mortal head, just as you instructed. As you Americans are fond of saying, this hasn’t been our first rodeo. Straight to the ranch, got it.”
“‘This hasn’t been our first rodeo’?” The girl teases. “God you’re lame talking to the higher-ups. Don’t you have rodeos in the UK?”
“Shut up, Lydia—”
Someone turns the radio up. A broadcast about an explosion in a downtown metro station is met with hoots and hollers from up front. Someone high-fives someone else.
“We made the news!” Lydia cheers. “Sorry I doubted you, Johnny—credit where it’s due.”
“Tagging at the scene of the explosion links the incident to a string of violent petty crimes and vandalisms that have taken place throughout the city,” the voice on the radio reports.
Hunter repeats their names in his head. Pierce. Lydia. Johnny. The metro explosion, why I’m here.
“Huh? Guess we weren’t the only Praedari in town . . . ”
“That was us,” a rather sluggish voice offers.
“No, the metro explosion was us—the rest of this crime wave must’ve been someone else . . . ”
“Quiet,” someone shushes.
The newscast continues, “Spray painted in red in the tunnel at Spring Street Station—”
The three voices from up front join the broadcaster in a bright chorus. “It is not the burden of the lion to protect the gazelle.”