by Katie Cross
“The adopted family died from a plague,” Papa whispered, his face pale.
“Yes,” Marten whispered. “Jorden removed our child from the house before he could contract it, and the family died.”
The devoted way Marten spoke the words our child sent a chill down my spine. Clearly, his loyalty was absolute despite the horrible circumstances. But Papa’s knowledge frightened me more.
There was only one way…
“So the child went to an orphanage in Newberry,” Papa said. His breathing sharpened, coming in fast, short bursts. Marten gazed at him with teary eyes.
“Yes,” he whispered. “I did everything I could for our adventurous, rebellious son but could not intervene without drawing suspicion. He lived in an orphanage until he turned fifteen, when he lied about his age and joined the Guardians. To be honest, I was so excited to finally be his mentor that I didn’t care he was too young to join.”
The muscles in Papa’s jaw pulled so tight I could see the tension in the thick, muscled cords of his neck. “The witch in the forest?” he asked. “Was that you?”
Marten chuckled under his breath. “Yes. I caught you pickpocketing when you were twelve and made you return the stolen items. I transformed my appearance so I wouldn’t be recognized.”
“We wanted to tell you, Derek,” Stella said, her dress rustling as she stepped forward. “But we agreed to a vow with Mildred to never disclose what we knew. Mildred released us from the vow the night of her death. We both wanted her to know, and she agreed. Marten told her about Derek before the Anniversary Ball, which means she died knowing who you really are.” Stella turned to face me. “And she died knowing she was giving her life for her granddaughter.”
Their words clicked together in my mind like puzzle pieces. I thought back to the last conversation I’d had with Mildred and the sad expression on her face, so cryptic and fleeting. She’d known. Papa had rarely spoken of his life before he met Mama, except for a few references to his rebelliousness. He had mentioned that he’d lied and joined the Guardians at fifteen.
“Papa is your son,” I said.
“And Mildred was his mother.”
If an army of Clavas had spilled into the room, I couldn’t have been more shocked. It felt as if I’d fallen a long distance and couldn’t regain my breath.
“But … that means—”
“You are my granddaughter.”
Hearing the words caused something to shift inside my chest. I paused, uncertain what to say.
“Mildred didn’t know until just after Derek’s empowerment ceremony,” Stella said. “She didn’t knowingly appoint her son as High Priest.”
Papa still hadn’t spoken. His eyes were distant and fixed, as if he were reviewing every memory. Did he remember leaving his childhood family? Did he remember Jorden?
“So what does this mean?” I asked, forcing back all my whirring thoughts and seeking the steady ground of reality. “Why … why are you telling us now?”
“Because he deserves the truth,” Marten said. “And now, of all times in his life, he needs to have confidence in the powerful magic in his blood. Derek did not come to the Dragon’s Throne by an idle chance.” Marten stared hard at Papa. “He is the most powerful witch in Antebellum, just like his mother was.”
A long moment passed in silence. Papa stood and cleared his throat. “Thank you for telling me,” he said, firm and businesslike. “I … thank you.”
A hint of disappointment lingered in Marten’s eyes, but he nodded, his lips pressed into a line. The sound of the second bugle resonated, distant and weak. My stomach plummeted. The West Guards were here.
“If you’ll forgive me,” Papa said, stepping off the platform. The Dragon Throne looked oddly small without him filling it. He took three steps forward, stopped, and turned around. I held my breath.
“I have one request,” Papa said.
Marten opened his hands. “Anything.”
“Once this war is over, I want all of us to have a long conversation.” Papa looked at me, then back at Marten. “A very long one.”
The corners of Marten’s lips turned up. Relief flooded his features. “Of course, Your Highness. I would like that very much.”
Stella followed in Papa’s wake, but I remained behind, my feet frozen in place. Marten stayed, as if by an unspoken understanding. Was I supposed to call him Grandfather now, or was he still Marten? Knowing we were related by blood made everything awkward. I tugged at the ends of my sleeves, unsure of what to do with my hands and even less sure of what to say.
“I’ve dropped a heavy burden on your shoulders tonight,” Marten said, breaking the silence first. The compassion in his tone overcame my rising barriers, reminding me that whoever Marten was to me, he was a good witch.
“May I ask you something?” I asked.
“Of course.”
My throat thickened. “What did she say? What did Mildred say when she found out I was her granddaughter?”
He smiled warmly, as if it were a special memory. “She just stared at me at first. She had gone quite pale when I told her about Derek. After a length of time, she cleared her throat and said, with a tear in her eye, Yes. Yes, I believe that wild Bianca is my granddaughter. Spunky, foolish girl.
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. It bubbled out of me with pain and annoyance and the feeling that even though it was all so unfair, it was right.
“Even though Mildred didn’t know your father, she loved her child with a strange and fierce love,” Marten said in a reverential tone. “It plagued her every day. I caught her staring into nothing many times. I never had to ask her what she was thinking about. I always knew.”
“It’s not fair that we should never have known,” I said. A surge of gratitude, even happiness, took me by surprise. Was there any other witch in Antebellum I would want as my grandfather? No. Just Marten.
“No, it’s not fair. But many things in Mildred’s life weren’t fair; this was just the greatest of them. As it is with all of us.” He reached out and put a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t expect you to adjust to this revelation right away. Nor your father. I have no expectations for an instant family or for you to even call me Grandfather. If you want, I can still be just Marten. I wanted you to know the truth so it didn’t die with Stella and me if things go badly today.”
His lack of demands softened the building knot of uncertainty in my chest. I relaxed. Marten’s face, though exactly the same as it had been before, seemed new to me, like I could sort through his features and see pieces of myself in him.
“Thank you, Marten. I’m grateful to know the truth,” I said with a smile, glancing at the doorway. “Perhaps we should go.”
Marten smiled wryly. “Or should we say it like Mildred?” His tone sharpened. “Pull yourself together, Bianca Monroe. We have a war to win.”
I tilted my head back and laughed, amazed at his uncanny impression of the late High Priestess. It felt good to experience an emotion other than fear, even if for just a moment.
Marten’s expression dropped into a half-frown when he followed my gaze to the empty doorway. “I hope it wasn’t too much of a shock for Derek. The last thing I wanted to do was distract him. He needed to know he comes from a line of stubborn, powerful witches. He possesses the ability to win this war and control the counter magic.”
“Papa will be fine,” I said, hoping to convince myself. “Nothing can distract him when he’s pursuing a goal.”
“I hope so,” Marten said. “Because we’ll never win without him.”
We Are Mighty
Thirty minutes later, Merrick and I stood on top of the Wall, staring out at the remains of Chatham City.
The fading heat of the day radiated off his skin and onto mine. Night had started to fall, coating the hazy air in another layer of darkness. I gripped Viveet, comforted by her smoldering blue flame. Sweat streaked down my palm. Merrick had found an old set of half-armor in the Guardian storage room. After a few magical incantat
ions to adjust it, it fit me like a glove. Despite the weight of the thin metal plates, I felt as if I wore nothing more than a jacket. The leather was soft and pliable but enchanted to withstand sharp objects.
“Damn Westies!” Tiberius roared from where he paced in front of the Gatehouse, barking commands at every turn. His small eyes darted around us, constantly assessing the situation. Blood oozed from a cut on his shoulder that had been hastily sewn together with uneven stitches of black twine. His beard had been burned off on just the right side, and he smelled like singed hair.
Crowds of Guardians and witches from the Antebellum Army fled Chatham City, rushing down Chatham Road toward the castle gates and signaling the final retreat. A knot formed in my throat as I watched them hurry, trying to outrun the long fingers of death not far behind. Some limped as they carried other injured Guardians, dragging them or using levitation to float them back. The rest transported in. A low buzz of voices hummed in the high and low baileys.
“So this is it,” I said, staring at the smoke-clogged sky. Chatham City burned—the black flames consuming the bakery, Miss Holly’s Candy Shop, and the pub.
“Yes,” Merrick said. “This is it.”
Chatham Castle had her own protections—magical spells that prevented witches from climbing the Wall on the outside, false hallways leading to nowhere, and main doors impervious to magic. Contingents from the North worked with our Guardians to secure the inside of the castle, where Wolfgang and five of his Masters roamed the halls. But that didn’t make Chatham Castle impenetrable, and as I watched the West Guards advance toward us with their black fire, I had a special appreciation for our mortality.
“You’re not going to stop me from fighting?” I asked Merrick.
“What’s the point? I’d rather have you fighting next to me than somewhere else. Besides, I’ve given up hope that you’ll ever listen to anything other than your own sense of right and wrong.”
A grin stole across my face. I’d been preparing myself for a long argument, so it was a relief to win so easily. “You’ve given up hope of controlling me? That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said.”
He wrapped his fingers around my wrist and yanked, slamming me into his chest. There was nothing tender or sweet about the way he crushed me in his tight grip, pressing his lips to mine. When he pulled away, his eyes were a stormy green.
“Shall we save Chatham Castle together?”
I kissed him once more, refusing to believe it might be the last time.
“Let’s do it.”
The front doors to the castle slammed open, and Papa strode out, carrying himself with long, sure steps. Light from the floating torches along the walkway flashed on his half-armor. Dark crimson flames shot high and bright from his sword, so dazzling I couldn’t look straight at it. He blithely leaped up the Gatehouse stairs two at a time. Despite the shocking news he’d just received, he didn’t seem at all distracted.
Papa nodded once as he clapped Tiberius on the shoulder. “I believe it’s time to win a war, old friend.”
The Guardians and witches in the baileys behind us cheered. Tiberius’s massive shoulders slumped, as if relieved that the weight of maintaining control had shifted to someone else.
“High Priest,” he said, gesturing to the West Guards with a sweep of his arm. “Your party is ready to begin. We’ll follow you wherever you take us.” He put a fist over his heart in the Guardian sign of unity. “We await your orders.”
Papa scanned the sky, the woods, and the last stragglers limping toward the castle. “Has Mabel shown up?”
Tiberius shook his head. “No sign of her.”
“Very good,” Papa murmured. “Let her hide until she’s desperate. In the meantime, we’ll take the fight to them.”
Papa climbed to the top of the Wall and raised his sword. Great flames leaped skyward, drawing every eye. He used a spell to project his voice over the baileys, Chatham Road, and Letum Wood, where thousands of witches awaited his command.
“Witches of Antebellum,” he called, his mighty voice rippling over the tightly packed bodies. “I am honored to lead you to victory tonight. Tonight we fight for our right to live free. Tonight we fight for our homes, our families, and our children. We fight against an evil power that has not been seen in thousands of years. But should we fear? Never! We shall never fear, for we are strong. We shall prevail!”
A rousing chorus rose from the castle and the forest surrounding it. Two dragons snorted fire. Michelle sat on the back of an umber dragon that hovered high above the fight, no doubt to protect her and her unborn child. Nicolas rode the red, who knocked the hats off two witches on the Wall when she soared over the baileys.
“I cannot promise you that you’ll live,” Papa continued, “just as I do not know that you will die. But do not shrink away. Fight as if we are going to win, and fight as if today shall be your last!”
A deafening cry of agreement, led mostly by Guardians, rose through the crowd. Movement just behind Papa caught my eye, nearly stopping my heart. A thunderous black cloud raced toward Chatham Castle with stunning speed. I grabbed Merrick’s arm, the tips of my fingers digging into his skin.
“Are those Clavas?” I asked, tilting my head in their direction.
“The good gods,” Merrick muttered. “There must be thousands of them.”
“Papa!” I cried, pointing behind him. “The sky!”
A cloud of half-dead, half-living entities flew toward the castle, born from the depths of hell to fall on us in a gruesome massacre. Interspersed in the midst of the Clava ranks were bats, the Clavas not yet transformed into their ghoulish state. They emitted an unnaturally high-pitched shriek that made my ears ring. Only Mabel could conjure a cloud of such size and power. And only a force of such excessive proportions and nightmarish strength could siege Chatham Castle.
“There’s no way we can fight off that many,” Merrick said.
“We don’t have a choice. I’m not going to let one of those sticky buggers be the last thing I see on Antebellum.”
“I’d kiss you if we weren’t under attack.”
“Save it for later,” I said. “I’m busy.”
“Witches!” Papa shouted, his sword pointed at the sky. “Prepare for attack!”
Five dragons circling overhead released giant plumes of fire so hot they singed the hair on the backs of my hands. The green and blue dragons hovered protectively over the baileys, scattering debris and dust with every pump of their mighty wings. Their black scales gleamed despite the cloud of Clavas blocking the moonlight. Screams of fire and rage came from the purple and silver dragons as they circled through the turrets.
“Well,” Merrick said, his head tilted back, “at least the dragons are ready to fight.”
My heart didn’t take much courage. Five dragons couldn’t fend off so many Clavas. What about all the witches from the Antebellum Army in Letum Wood? I braced myself for the worst.
The Clavas approached Chatham Castle with unnatural speed, their twisted faces becoming visible all too quickly. After a moment, they were nearly upon us, their white fangs gleaming and their ethereal black cloaks only seconds away. The blue dragon grabbed the first Clava near the lower bailey and tore it in half. Black blood trickled from his snapping teeth when he screamed, sending fire at fifteen bats and turning them to cinders.
A familiar sliver of wind brushed my cheek, stirring up magic in my chest and drawing my eyes to Letum Wood. Vines shot out of the trees, yanking Clavas and bats into the dark canopy. The high branches swayed, twisting around the ghoulish bodies and breaking them in half.
“The forest,” I said to Merrick. “It’s fighting.”
Three massive creatures shot out of the treetops, headed toward the Clava horde with breathtaking speed.
“Dragons!” a nearby Guardian cried. “Look at the dragons!”
Seven more dragons bolted from the depths of Letum Wood and took to the sky, tearing into the Clavas with ferocious teeth. Eight, n
ine, ten, and finally too many to count filled the night. By the time the Clavas and bats descended on the castle as one entity, countless dragons clogged the air, incinerating and swiping at the ghastly beasts.
“Jikes,” Merrick said, dodging a wounded bat as it screeched by, one wing bitten off. “Where did these dragons come from?”
A bat flew at my braid, gripping it in its talons and wrenching my head forward. Merrick swung his sword high, cutting off half my hair and killing the creature with swift justice. The bat fell to the ground with a meaty plop. I stepped on its head for good measure, my hair swinging around my jaw.
“Thanks for the haircut,” I muttered, blowing my new bangs out of my eyes. “Wasn’t exactly the style I had in mind.”
“Looks good on you,” he said, winking.
“I didn’t know there were this many dragons.” I ducked another errant bat wing and jabbed upward with Viveet. A morphing half-bat, half-Clava screamed in pain and toppled to the lower bailey. Corpses dropped from the inky sky, casualties of the vengeance of the dragons and the forest. When one of the undead wraiths made it through, a Guardian felled it. The two baby red dragons stood on the section of the Wall above the high bailey, scorching any Clava that made it to the ground.
With the dragon attack well underway, the Clavas hesitated. Every attempt at challenging the castle was met with pearly dragon teeth and searing fire. The red had never been so surly or so pleased. She snapped, growled, and hissed, mauling each Clava with moans of pleasure.
“Think the dragons can hold them off?” I asked, kicking a fallen corpse off the Wall.
“Don’t know,” Merrick said, his eyes on Chatham Road. He dodged another bat, grabbed its wing, and twisted it until it cracked. “Where’s Mabel?”
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
“For Papa to weaken. She’ll arrive once victory is assured. She’s lost too many times in recent history, and I doubt she wants to face Papa if there’s a chance someone else can kill him first. She’s a coward who can’t afford to lose again. She’ll fight him only after he’s used up most of his energy against the Clavas and West Guards.”