First, Become Ashes

by K. M. Szpara

  She screams as an armored figure grabs her out of my arms and drags her down the stairs. “Lark!” Zadie’s voice cracks as she shouts through the smoke.

  It stings my eyes. I blink furiously as tears blur my vision. “Zadie!” I can’t see her. She’s gone. I flatten myself against the interior wall, coughing as I pick up a discarded scarf and wrap it over my nose and mouth. Below the smoke line, Fellows struggle to escape, but black gloves drag them to their feet one by one. Shock paralyzes me. There are FOEs on Druid Hill. Inside the fence. Beyond the wards. This isn’t supposed to happen in my home. We’re safe here. We were.

  My breaths come hard and heavy as smoke weaves its way around bare feet, boots, and screams. Enough. These are my people. My family. And I’ve trained almost twenty-five years to defeat monsters. I can handle this.

  When someone grabs my arm, I throw my weight and bring them to the ground. I see a black-clad figure with bug-like goggles and enough padding to break their fall. They reach toward me again, with the same gloved hands that pulled Zadie away.

  “Stay down!” I shout. Power rushes through me as I pin them, twisting my fingers to keep them in place.

  They lunge at me, ripping through my magic. The surprise puts me on my back.

  “I said—”

  But they flip me over, wrenching my arms behind me. Plastic tightens around my wrists.

  My magic won’t come. It’s failing me.

  Below the smoke line, I catch Maeve’s eyes before she’s hoisted up out of view. All around me Fellows and Anointed are pulled to their feet and disappear. And then, the same happens to me.

  “Let’s go. Outside!” they bark, still holding tight.

  I move with them—I can’t not. And as we breach the doors, I feel their grip loosen. In the distance, surrounded by people in uniform—people with cropped hair and radios—stands Kane. My stomach drops. They have him.

  With a final surge of power, I break the plastic ties that bind my wrists, slide my ritual knife from its holster, and thrust it into my captor’s thigh. I feel hot blood on my hands, hear the FOE’s distorted scream.

  Kane, from beyond the wall of outsiders, rushes toward me, but FOEs stop him. A swarm of them push me to the ground. And I feel the spark inside of me flare before fading out.

  2

  LARK / NOW

  We drive through the gate as if it means nothing. As if the fence and its wards aren’t there. Nova cast them herself, when she bought this land. We maintain them for her weekly. Nova has to personally disarm the gate when we trade with outsiders for supplies. But these FOEs don’t even notice them.

  Fifteen minutes later, the car stops, my door opens, and a hundred lights flash against the darkened sky. An outsider guides me inside. Into a towering stone building with stale air and artificial light. Inside wait a dozen FOEs with pits for eyes and skin that shifts and writhes. I can barely look at them, blinking as I fight the sting of their presence.

  I am in enemy territory, painfully aware of the two months and sixteen days remaining before my quarter century. How stupid of me to have thought I was ready to go with Kane. Kane and I needed every day of training we could get, but, more than that, we needed the magic to mature in us. Only the power of our quarter century could allow us to enter the poisonous realm of outsiders without being poisoned ourselves.

  I look over my shoulder at the two FOEs guarding the doors, their unworldly bodies disguised with bulky uniforms and gear. Nova warned us about outsider weapons, crude, non-magical devices that shoot electricity and lead, and I spot the dull black metal waiting at their hips. They must’ve used one at Ritual House, some kind of smoke gun. I didn’t win then and I won’t win now. Not unless I learn more about what I’m facing.

  They hand me off to someone they call a social worker, whose eyes look more like mine than a monster’s. At that, at least, I am relieved. I glimpse some of my Fellows being ushered into rooms. Hear the cry of children taken from their teachers. The social worker does not let me stall. They lead me, hands still bound, down the hall. Outsiders stumble back against the walls as we pass, disappear behind closed doors. I frighten them. I should.

  I walk with my head high, feeling Nova’s finger under my chin, even when we stop. The door is impenetrably thick wood. The number 147 stares back at me, a shiny gold. So many rooms in such a small space. The walls close, halls narrow. The social worker flashes a card in front of a black plastic pad affixed beside the door handle. A bright green light flashes as a click sounds from within.

  With a quiet snip, the outsider cuts my bonds. They push open the door for me. Tell me they’ll bring a doctor to my “hotel room” tomorrow, that they’ll explain everything in the morning. Tonight, I should get some rest. When the outsider leaves, the door shuts between us with a metallic clang. I wait. Listen as their feet pad down the carpet, as another door opens and closes, as heavy silence falls.

  I walk toward the door, run my fingers over a small, glass-covered hole at face height. My eyes still itch with irritation, but I press one against it, peering at the distorted hallway. No one’s out there. Slowly, I press down on the handle, pull. The door opens and a tall FOE stares at me from the hallway. Outsider weapons line the holsters around their waist. I close the door. No matter; I can break the lock when I’m ready to leave.

  I take a tentative step inside what the outsider called my hotel room. Number 147. Assuming there are at least 146 others, they can’t possibly be unique. I reach a cautious arm out in the darkness. There are no lanterns and I have no lightsticks with me. Outsiders use different methods to achieve what they can’t without magic, like the key card. I inspect the sparse furniture. Obviously, I know what a bed is, though I’ve never seen one so tall or plush. Opposite, a wide black mirror hangs on the wall over a set of drawers. In the corner, a table and chair that looks like it’s covered in wool. Beside it—a lamp.

  I reach a hand up its shade and wrap my hand around cool glass. A bulb; there must be a knob to turn it—my fingers find plastic and twist. Warm light emanates throughout the corner of the room. Some of the buildings on Druid Hill still have bulbs, like Nova’s office, but those are operated by a wall switch.

  I don’t like this space—don’t feel at all at home, despite the furnishings. A hotel must house temporary living quarters; I certainly wouldn’t want to spend more than one night here. The lifelessness unnerves me; I must stay vigilant. Search the room, find a way out. But my body aches from fighting and the bed calls to me. I sit on its edge. Allow myself to sink onto its mattress. Fall back on blankets so cool and soft, I’d swear they were clouds. Exhaustion consumes me. I close my eyes—only for a minute. I need my strength back. Need to recharge my body and my magic. Need to sleep …

  The bed dips, I jerk—“I’m awake.”—did I fall asleep?

  “Shh, sleep.” Lips press a familiar kiss against my forehead.

  “Kane?” I push myself up onto my elbows. Blink against the quiet dark of the room, eyes straining until he materializes, lips pale and thin, eyes nearly black.

  “It’s late.” He unbuckles my harness, emptied of potions and weapons. Lifts my shirt over my head, and I acquiesce, letting him pull the filthy clothes from my body. They smell like smoke. Not the kind that erupts from a dampened fire. Acrid. Like rotten eggs. “We can talk in the morning, when you have your strength back.” Kane drags me down with his weight—it’s not hard. My body aches like I’ve been running since the moment he crossed the red line. I curl my body against his and pretend we’re home in our quarters. Maybe we are, maybe this is all a dream. Maybe he never left.

  “What are you doing here?” I mumble, eyes closed. Already, I feel myself drifting back to sleep. “You’re supposed to be…” on your quest.

  * * *

  I wake all at once. Eyes open, mind alert. I feel the blanket, the pillow, the unnatural softness of the bed, and the sensation of eyes on me. Kane lies on his side, watching me. “I didn’t want to disturb you,” he says, sitting
up when I do. Light peeks around the edges of the curtains. Morning. “Let’s clean you up. Come on.” He takes my hand and stands, pausing when I don’t follow. “You okay?”

  “No.” I feel deep grooves forming in my forehead. “Kane, what’s going on?” I stand, but not to follow, only to look him in the eyes. To meet him on even ground. “Why are you here and—” I take his hands. They look so clean next to mine, soiled by work and battle.

  “Please, let’s wash first, and then I’ll explain.”

  “Okay,” I mutter.

  Something is wrong. Kane doesn’t look at me as he leads me into the hotel bathroom with its white tile floor and mirrored wall. He manipulates a lever until water shoots forth. I hook my thumbs into the waist of my underwear and slide them down my legs, while he undresses. I don’t recognize his clothes: bright blue jeans, a white shirt—we would never wear white. It’d be ruined in an hour. I watch as Kane’s reflection kisses my shoulder; I feel the soft press of his lips against my skin.

  “Tell me.” Our eyes meet in the mirror. We stand side by side, Kane in his underwear, me wearing only my chastity cage. Steam billows out from behind the flimsy shower curtain. “Tell me what happened after you left.”

  He doesn’t. He guides me into the shower, under the hot spray, still wearing his underwear. He’s pulling the elastics from his own hair, not waiting for my help. That’s not how it’s supposed to be done. We don’t touch ourselves and we don’t braid our own hair. We tend to one another, as part of the morning ritual that disciplines us and charges our magic. I realize when he pulls the clumsy, asymmetrical braid out that he did it himself—of course he did. Who would he ask for help, an outsider? I shiver at the thought of being that intimate with anyone who isn’t Anointed.

  Despite my wariness, I let him wash me. He works with a focus and deliberation that eases me and erases our surroundings. His fingers free my hair from its elastics, massage my scalp with gels that smell like oranges and mint. They wash the blood and dirt from the creases of my knuckles and under my fingernails. Gently, he soaps my cock and balls where they meet metal. The remains of Ritual House and Druid Hill wash down the shower drain and into outsider pipes. I know it’s only dirt and grime, but it was home and I miss it.

  When I reach for his underwear, Kane turns away to grab a cloth. He tells me to close my eyes, washes my face without letting me wash between his legs. My wariness turns to worry. Something is wrong—he’s not letting me complete our ritual—but I don’t speak up yet. I let him finish with me. See where this is going.

  Kane shuts down the shower and steps out, grabbing two towels and handing me one. I watch him rub his own through his hair and down his body. Over the soaked black fabric of his underwear.

  “Something is wrong.” I don’t mean to say it out loud, but the feeling is too strong, my worry has become panic. “Please.”

  Kane wraps a towel around his waist and walks into the bedroom. I follow, water dripping from my soaked hair onto the carpet. “Tell me what happened—tell me what the FOEs did to you.”

  “They didn’t do anything to me,” he says through gritted teeth.

  “Then why won’t you let me wash you, touch you? You’re barely looking at me.” I take hold of his shoulder, pushing some of myself into him and receiving nothing in return. Even when we’re depleted, the echo remains because it is part of us. “Your magic feels wrong. Something happened. Let me help—”

  “Nothing is wrong, Lark!”

  His words fill the room, pushing me back, making space between us. My hands lose purchase and drop to my side. He’s never shouted at me before.

  Kane pushes his hands through the long, loose strands of his hair. Digs his fingers into his scalp. “For the first time in my life, I feel good. Safe. Like I have a real future.”

  “What do you mean?” I’ve never heard Kane talk like this before. My head buzzes with confusion, with a sudden lightness.

  “I left Druid Hill, Lark.”

  “For your quest.”

  “No. I left long before that.” He thumps a fist against his chest. “In here. After what Nova did to me—after what she arranged for the Elders to do to you … I snuck through the fence.”

  “What?” Kane telling me he snuck out is like someone claiming they went to the moon. It can’t be done. No point in asking how.

  “I couldn’t stay any longer, Lark. I had to know what was on the other side of the fence, if it was all true. If it could be worth what she was doing to us.”

  My eyes widen, head seems to enter its own cloud of outsider smoke. Somewhere separate from Kane and the nonsense spilling from his mouth. A question forms on my lips, but I don’t know if it’s what or why. The premise is too senseless to interrogate.

  “I met an outsider. I met their dog!” He smiles to himself as if at a fond memory. “They were kind to me.”

  “Even if I could believe that you got out, which isn’t even—” I shake my head, bewildered. I can barely put my scattered thoughts together, much less words. “You talked to outsiders?”

  “Yes … and they put me in touch with help.”

  I’m shaking my head so fast, the ground appears to shift under our feet. I won’t think it. Want to keep the pieces from snapping together. I refuse. “No.”

  “I did this, Lark. I gave them the information—”

  “You didn’t.” He couldn’t.

  “How else could I get you out? Get everyone out? Zadie and Maeve have been training almost as long as we have, and more Anointed were coming into their power every few months. I couldn’t watch them go through what we did. It was my responsibility to stop—” He cuts himself off. “What Nova convinced us we needed to do to each other in order to build our magic—what she convinced us we needed to do to ourselves in the name of discipline, was…” A frustrated, monstrous growl rips through him.

  I step back. Cross my arms in front of my chest to protect myself. That’s not the Kane I know. A monster got him. He’s been corrupted.

  “I knew I was going to lose you when I decided to leave. You believe so deeply. Which means you’re not going to believe what I’m about to tell you, but I have to anyway.” He looks momentarily at the floor. “I still have trouble myself. Hopefully we can work through it together.”

  Together? I shouldn’t even be in the same room with him in his current state. In the shower, he touched me. Last night, he kissed me. I was going to ask him to braid my hair, but now—“No, we can’t—”

  “Lark, listen.” He reaches for me and again I step back. The backs of my knees hit the bed, and as I stumble, Kane grabs my upper arm. “Listen to me!”

  I squeeze my eyes shut as if against a gust of wind so strong it pulls the air from my lungs. When I open them, he’s crying. It feels like something is writhing under my skin where he touches me, but I let him hold on. If Kane has been corrupted by a monster, he needs me. It can’t be too late. It can’t.

  He whispers, “None of it’s real.”

  I don’t know what he means and I don’t ask. The monster must be deep inside him. I can barely look at him, fuck. The outsider profanity slips through my mind—probably because I’m in Kane’s presence. Monsters corrupt you, make you do and say things you normally wouldn’t.

  But Kane goes on as if he’s himself and I’m paying attention. “What we’ve learned about the world. That there are monsters for us to slay. That we are in any way special or Anointed. That we can do magic. Nova made it all up.”

  I’m not falling for this, obviously. It’s bait. “She did, huh?” It’s all I can manage while I sort through my thoughts, through my strategy. That Nova “made it all up” is a laughable idea; I can literally feel magic pulse in my flesh and blood. I’ve never been more sure anything was real in my whole life.

  Kane’s grip loosens. “You don’t believe me.”

  You don’t taunt a monster unless you’re prepared to attack, and I don’t want to hurt Kane. I want to save him, so I lull him. “No, I do. I
’m just processing.” I rub my hand across his shoulder like I’m petting one of the sheep. Nice, but devoid of human connection.

  He steps back, still skeptical but otherwise calm. With him placated, I need to think. Need a plan. If a monster’s gotten to Kane, then I can still save him just like I would the outsiders—after all, that’s the whole point of our quests, to save humanity from the grip of corruption. That’s what I need to do. Go on my quest. Start slaying monsters until Kane is free.

  I’ll have to get out of here. I take stock of the hotel room, placing its now-rumpled bed and woolen chair. Windows, door, bathroom … which is my best escape? Ideally, I’d find Zadie and Maeve, but which room are they in? This place is a maze.

  Kane glances at a clock on the small table beside the bed. “I want to introduce you to Agent Miller. She helped me, and I know she can help you understand too. She works for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. F-B-I, they call it.”

  More like F-O-E. Stars, I cannot believe he’s been speaking with one of them. On purpose! “Sounds good,” I say, forcing myself to nod and look him in the eye. To stop myself from scanning the room.

  We dress to the sounds of drawers sliding open and closed, hangers clanging and wet towels slapping against tile. The clothes we wear are not our own. They barely fit us. Kane has returned to the blue jeans and shirt he came in, but my clothes weren’t where Kane discarded them last night, and all I could find was some kind of loungewear. Soft stretchy pants and matching sweatshirt that I pull over a plain white tee shirt. As I stuff my feet back into my boots, the disconnect hits me. These are not the clothes of a hunter. Not made to withstand journeying or battle—not even the weather. They’re for someone content to get comfortable amidst monsters.

  Kane nods at the door and holds out his hand to me. Oh. He wants to go now. This is my way out. I’ll play along. If Miller trusts him, then she’ll underestimate me. I take his hand. When he squeezes mine, I return the gesture. The affection sours my stomach. I fight not to grimace, to keep my lips relaxed.