The Bones of the Earth- The Complete Collection

by Scott Hale

  Without his mask and some red body paint, Aeson could pass for a decent Corrupted. Because of this, he could go where Vrana could not, and lead men and women back to these woods for her to feed on. But the Great Hunt was closing in. And they were beginning to build a reputation.

  “Just hold on,” she said, scarfing down skin, spilling steaming blood onto the sparking snowpack.

  They were in the wild woodlands between somewhere and nowhere—a remote town by the name of Communion. Though they’d only been here for two weeks, the Corrupted had caught onto the murders and labeled them the work of a serial killer. Naturally, Aeson, having just arrived and living in the woods outside Communion, was their number one suspect.

  “Vrana,” Aeson said, irritated. “I’m fine.”

  Vrana shoveled meat into her mouth, swallowed without chewing. She choked on organs, hocked them back up, then downed them again. Aeson wasn’t fine. She wasn’t fine. Like safety risks, neither of them could be left alone for long. They were a danger to themselves, and the world a danger to them. They were one another’s padded cells.

  “Hurry up. It’s cold,” he said, relenting.

  But it wasn’t the Great Hunt that had Vrana calling out to Aeson to wait for her.

  Nor was it the terrified townspeople of Communion who were, at this moment, most likely throwing together a lynch mob.

  It was the first thing they saw in the morning, and the last thing they saw at night. It was the first sound they heard when they woke, and the only sound of which they dreamed. It was the shadow in their shadows, the Kistvaen of their fears. It was promise. It was punishment.

  It was the Vermillion God.

  No matter where they went, It was there, watching them, all of them. The Vermillion God sat upon Kistvaen, hunched and breathing heavily. A halo of roiling smoke crowned Its enormous head, and storms could be seen raging in those vile vapors. Its eight arms, four to each side, were constantly splayed outwards, and like nets, they caught celestial lights, causing massive shadows to be cast at all times across the continent. But it was Its eyes that penetrated the People, like an invisible spear of pure paranoia. Its eyes, those reflective, spiderous orbs, were always open, always watching; and like a doll’s eyes, they were always fixed upon the watcher, as if It were intensely observing everyone in the world all at once.

  Vrana didn’t know the extent of Its powers, but It had shot out of the Ossuary on an intercontinental span of vermillion veins and put to rest Kistvaen’s Night Terror-induced eruption. She doubted any Worm she’d met could’ve done that, or even the witches themselves. The Vermillion God’s power was in Its mystery, in Its steady stream of low rumbles that assaulted each day; melancholic disharmonies not unlike the Choir’s songs. Vrana, Aeson, nor anyone else save King Edgar, and even then, maybe not even him, knew what the Vermillion God was capable of. But there It was, and there It stayed, like the murderer’s knife raised over their victim. Vrana knew It would kill them all one day, but until then, It would enjoy the suffering from their wonderings of when.

  And if It was truly watching each of them individually…

  Vrana split the Corrupted’s stomach and ripped out his intestines.

  … Then It might know what she’d begun to consider.

  She shoveled more red food into her mouth. She tried to chew, but this frantic feast had exhausted her. She opened her mouth, and the gore slid down her beak and burned its way into a hole in the snow. Coming to her feet, she glanced at Aeson.

  “I’m finished,” she said.

  He laughed. “You sure?” He pointed in her direction. “Looks like you missed a spot.”

  Any snow that landed on Vrana melted immediately to her heat. But her feathers were drenched in sweat, hers and the Corrupted’s—and blood, gore, and bits of bone. It seemed a shame to let it all go to waste, but that was Pain talking, not her, and she had to, no, needed to remember that.

  “I’ll rinse off,” Vrana said.

  Aeson nodded, and he turned away.

  There is no greater flayer than winter; it takes from the world its noises and leaves it with the rawness of silence. When it snows, especially as it had been in these parts, things are rendered in much simpler tones. Gone are the vast details and countless considerations. Gone are the Corrupted, the things they kill, and the things that aim to kill them. In relentless winters, the world becomes a graveyard, and they the ghosts that haunt it.

  This is heaven, Vrana thought to herself, thinking of those things, as she and Aeson trudged through the snow through the woodlands. At the corner of her eye, the Vermillion God clung. Except for You, she corrected herself, thinking of It. Just give me this and him—she smiles at Aeson—and… Mom.

  By the time they reached the hut, most of the blood and gore on Vrana’s feathers had frozen.

  Aeson, in his furs, kicked his boots against the door and said, as he opened it, “You want to go in first? Make sure there’s no monster under the bed for me?”

  It was getting harder and harder to tell these days when Aeson was being sarcastic, or just being sad. The same could be said for Vrana, so Vrana said, “You’re a big boy. I’m sure you can handle it,” and went around the hut, as Aeson went in.

  Ten feet from the hut, which was formerly owned by Communion’s favorite hermit and ornithologist, the late Fowl Bob (how appropriate Vrana should stay there), was a small, six or seven feet deep pond. It was in that pond that Vrana cleaned off after each feeding. Aeson had to endure a lot staying with her, and she wasn’t about to make him endure her natural odor—Death.

  Vrana went to the edge of the pond, braced herself. She broke the top layer of ice and quickly dropped into the waters. Hot, freezing pain enveloped her body. She convulsed. Holding her breath, she submerged her head. The double-digit negative temperatures seeped into her skull, and she imagined the needles of Rime Rot jutting from her gray matter.

  Like eating Corrupted, this was routine. Not a day went by that she didn’t have to do something awful to herself or someone else. If she wasn’t killing people or washing their remains from her feathers, then she was dealing with the persistent pain from the feathers that’d been stabbed into, rather than grown from, her body. If it wasn’t that, then it was the memories of time spent with Pain and Joy, or the terrible fact she could still taste, and sometimes want, the coppery softness of children in her beak. And if it wasn’t that or anything else, then it was the way she sometimes caught Aeson looking at her, the same way he’d been looking at her moments ago—distant, disappointed; lost, most likely, in memories of his own, before they were flesh fiends, before there were witches and Worms; when all they had was Caldera, and those hormone-charged moments between them; when hands would touch, or heads would be in laps; when they were together because they loved each other, and nothing else.

  And if it wasn’t about Aeson or any of those other things, then it was about her… Mom…

  Vrana reared up out of the water. The drops slung like crystals into the night. She palmed the sides of the pond and pushed herself out of it. The freezing water ran off her slowly, like a cloak.

  Mom, she thought, standing. Mommy.

  When she thought of Adelyn, she thought of the pool of magma she’d melted in, so she thought of something else. Eventually, the memories of her mother and her mother’s death would be teased from another, like a splinter from a finger. But not tonight. And not likely anytime soon.

  Vrana shook her entire body. Her feathers ruffled. A nova of water and blood exploded from her, lashing the snow around the pond in starburst designs. A few seconds later, she was more or less dry. It was one of the few things she appreciated about having been turned into a giant fucking bird.

  Vrana knocked out their code on the hut’s door. Three short, three long, three short. It had been Aeson’s idea to use Morse code. He tried to relate a lot of his Old World knowledge to issues when the opportunity presented itself. It was about the only thing he could trust anymore, he told her once, since h
e couldn’t even trust his own genes.

  He didn’t answer immediately. Vrana’s heart picked up the pace. When you’ve been through the worst, you assume the worst. She was about to barrel through the door when she heard his feet shuffling across the floorboards, and a muffled yawn.

  Aeson opened the door within a cocoon of blankets. His eyes were red, but there were no signs of tears.

  “Did you get behind your ears?” he asked.

  Vrana muscled her way into the hut. “Don’t fall asleep,” she said. “She’s going to be here soon.”

  Aeson said, “Yeah,” and shut the door behind her.

  The hut was a hut, no ifs, ands, or buts. One room, one bed, and one window, with an alcove at the back for a crude fireplace. With the two of them inside, they couldn’t move without bumping into one another. Some would say it would be the perfect place for a couple to put to the test their relationship, but given everything Vrana and Aeson had been through, the hut, in comparison, was nothing short of paradise.

  She made her way to the fireplace, where a small fire burned beneath the snow showering through the chimney. She sat, and seconds later, Aeson was sitting beside her, and then against her.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Vrana croaked.

  She often forgot how different her voice sounded until they were alone like this. Pain had left nothing out. The transformation had been complete in every way. Aeson, in one of his lighter moods, had asked her once if she could lay eggs. She had told him he’d have to step up to the plate to find out. He didn’t. She wished he had. She missed that.

  “It’s a good idea, though,” Aeson said. “There’s no point to being a Night Terror anymore.”

  “Not sure there ever was.”

  “The more I can lie to myself about what we are…”

  “There’s nothing wrong with you. Or me. Well, you know. We’re not what we were supposed to be.”

  Aeson outstretched his legs, heels to the fire. “I know. You’re right, I know. But it would make me feel better—”

  The Vermillion God let out a low rumble that rattled the woods.

  “—and it’ll help us. If she’s that good, maybe she’ll know how…”

  Vrana shook her head. “Only thing that’s going to change me back is Joy, and I don’t even know if she can do it.”

  “I’d rather not ask,” Aeson said.

  “Same.”

  Aeson sighed and took her hand, sliding his fingers between her talons. “How many Night Terrors you think are left?”

  Vrana shrugged. “I just hope R’lyeh’s okay.”

  “She’s a tough one. I’m sure the Marrow Cabal’s taking care of her. Or she’s taking care of them.”

  Vrana laughed. “I guess.”

  “We could… do this forever.”

  “Sit around? Scrap? Hide?” Vrana shook her head; her beak grazed Aeson’s cheek. “Have you ever known me to? I know you’re dying to find out what’s going on in the world. I know that’s why you want to have this tattoo done.”

  “It’s messed up that I think I’d feel safer with Corrupted than our kind.”

  “It’s messed up that anyone’s safer anywhere than with our own kind.”

  Aeson swallowed hard, furrowed his brow. “Did you hear that noise last night?”

  Vrana pretended not to hear him. Aeson often dreamed of flesh fiends, and often swore he heard or saw flashes of them in the woodland.

  “Maybe when the storm breaks, you could do a flyby. Not just for… them… but to make sure no one else is out there trying to—”

  The front door rattled. One heavy knock after the other threatened to rock it off its old hinges.

  Aeson lost his color. His face went clammy.

  “That’s her,” Vrana said, getting up.

  She went to the door.

  Aeson lagged behind.

  She held out her hand, as if he were a child.

  He rolled his eyes, approached, and took it, begrudgingly.

  “Password!” Vrana screeched.

  From behind the door: “It’s fucking cold, yeah? Quit dicking around.”

  Vrana whispered to Aeson, “That the password?”

  “Close enough,” he said, smiling.

  Vrana opened the door. Behind it stood a young woman in a heavy coat, a hood thrown over her head, and a small, black bag in her gloved hand. New, vibrant tattoos ran up and down the sides of her face. One showed the tentacles of an octopus; the other, bones.

  She looked familiar.

  “Elizabeth?” Vrana asked.

  “Yeah, obviously.”

  CHAPTER II

  Isla Taggart had never known joy until she met Her. She came to her one night when Isla had been reading her way through Lux’s novel, A History of Hell, for the umpteenth time.

  “I knew her,” Joy had said, through the window, soaked, as if she had just emerged from the lake behind Rime. “I knew her well.”

  Isla had thought about shouting for her guards, but instead she went to the door and she let Joy in.

  CHAPTER III

  Heaven is what they made it. That’s what Justine had told Felix moments after the Vermillion God climbed upon Its erupting throne. He’d had his doubts then, but now, months later, Felix just had ideas. He’d thought when God awoke, the Holy Order would be finished; that they’d be seen for the liars they were. But the Vermillion God was not a beautiful God, not like him or the Mother Abbess, or even the stone Holy Children they’d started passing off as angels. The Vermillion God was ugly. And if It was ugly, then all that It touched would be ugly, too.

  “Humans are superficial, even when it comes to the supernatural,” Justine said.

  They were in her room, having breakfast, though neither of them had hardly touched their meals. They spent most of their time staring out the windows at Cathedra below and God beyond.

  “We are the Gods we worship,” she went on. “It bears repeating: Heaven is what we make it. What kind of a heaven does the Vermillion God seem to promise?”

  Felix prodded the sausage on his plate and said, “Not a nice one.”

  “The Disciples call their heaven the Deep.” Justine laughed. “They’re practically begging us to beat them at this war of ours. No, not a nice heaven at all.”

  “Yeah, but It caused the Trauma. If God does anything, we can’t stop it, can we?”

  Justine smiled. “A God is nothing without Its followers. It only woke back up because It believed It had enough followers to make it worth the effort to do so.”

  “If It attacks us…” Felix chewed on the inside of his lip.

  “A lot of Its own will die. The Vermillion God works through Its Speaker to accomplish the small things. Something that can mutilate an entire world isn’t something you want fixing the gears in your watch.”

  “But King Edgar isn’t the Speaker,” Felix said.

  Justine grinned; appendages writhed beneath her glistening skin.

  “So… who is?”

  “Maybe we are,” Justine said. She nudged his plate. “Eat.”

  Felix really wished she didn’t say things like that. For the longest time, she had him convinced that he was hearing the voice of god. That was the whole point of the Holy Child: to be god’s speaker. Then she told him that was a lie, but was it?

  Not liking where his thoughts were going, he downed the sausage and then went to town on his peanut butter sandwich. It tasted just as good as the ones he would have back in Penance. He didn’t like that. He didn’t know why.

  Dabbing her mouth with a napkin, Justine excused herself from the table and slipped into her private bathroom. She didn’t need to do any of those three things, but after exposing herself as the White Worm of the Earth on the Divide, she went all out these days to show everyone just how human she could be.

  Felix didn’t feel so human himself these days. Puberty had hit him hard, leaving him in a gangly, greasy growth spurt that made movement awkward, but he could manage. If the Vermillion God c
ould stop Kistvaen going off, then he, more or less god himself, could deal with some zits and awkward boners and all that fun stuff. Sometimes, he wondered if their followers would turn on him for growing up. There had never been a Holy Child as old as him before. Justine had seen to that.

  Nope, not doing this today, he thought. Instead, he looked at the closed bathroom door. If there was anything good about Cathedra, it was that it gave Felix new opportunities to get his sneak on. The problem was that he didn’t much know or care about what was going on in Cathedra. He only knew it from his windows, and from the stories he’d heard from the others who came and went through the cathedral. It was just another place in a long chain of places, from Penance to, eventually, Eldrus. He didn’t want to get attached to anything that might be ripped away from him. Again, Justine had seen to that.

  So, when it came to sneaking and spying and subterfuge, Felix really only had one target these days: Mother Abbess Justine.

  He stood, scooted back while bringing the chair with him, and then set it down quietly. The bathroom wasn’t but a few feet away, but Justine’s quarters were a nightmare to navigate. They were large, but the constant archways made it look much smaller. There was the fabric, too; pale sheets in pastel colors—pink, yellow, red, silver, white, blue, and green—strung up throughout the quarters, sectioning off parts of it, like the clinic back in Penance. They reminded him of the other Worms he’d read about in Victor Mors’ journal about going into the Membrane. They’d had those colors, too.

  Felix padded across the tile, retracing Justine’s steps. It was sticky from where she’d stepped. He’d caught things oozing out of her from time to time. He didn’t know what to make of that, and he was afraid she might tell him if he asked.

  Getting to the bathroom door and feeling like a creep for doing this, he pressed his ear to it. At first, nothing; and then: laughing. A hushed laughing, like she didn’t want him to hear her.