Fury

by Rachel Vincent

  I sat up again, scowling at him. “Could you please not call it that? I’m having enough trouble dealing with the fact that I killed someone, without the graphic descriptors.”

  “Delilah, if the furiae killed that man, he deserved it. And if the baby did it, you are not responsible. You have nothing to feel guilty about. Because you’re right. You are not a killer.”

  “But our child might be.”

  He gave me an odd look. “I certainly hope so.”

  “Okay, this is just too weird and morbid. And it can’t happen again.” I heaved myself off the bed.

  “That may be beyond your control. If the baby needs blood, I will make sure you’re not out there feeding our child’s bloodlust alone, where anything could happen to either of you.”

  “You said ‘if the baby needs blood,’ not ‘if the baby needs to kill.’ Does that mean we can just give her blood? Can you soak your cap in blood you didn’t shed? Will that sate the urge?”

  “Yes.” But he didn’t look happy about where I was clearly taking the conversation. “In a pinch, that would keep me alive, but I doubt it would satisfy the need to rend flesh and break bones.”

  “Again with the graphic descriptors.”

  “Killing is an art, Delilah.” He gave me a grim smile. “Describing the act properly is a skill that requires colorful words.”

  “I remember a time when you didn’t speak much. Fondly.” I propped both hands on my hips.

  Gallagher chuckled. “I suppose soaking up blood from another source is worth a try. Claudio and the pup hunt nearly every day, if you’re thinking of a squirrel or a rabbit, but I’m not sure the blood of an animal killed for food would work. I suspect that’s sidestepping the actual principle of bloodlust. And I don’t think you could keep up with the shifters, in your condition.”

  Of course I couldn’t race through the woods with a couple of werewolves while I was nearly eleven months pregnant. Or...ever. “Not squirrels or rabbits, Gallagher. Men. People. You have to kill, anyway, and I have as much reason to want Oliver Malloy dead as you do. You would share your kill with your child, wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course. That’s common for parents of young redcaps. But are you sure you want to watch?”

  Valid question. Though I’d seen the result several times, and I’d seen him pitted against many beasts in the ring at the Spectacle, I’d only actually seen him kill one person. And it was beyond disturbing. But I was bonded to Gallagher for life, and I was carrying his child. A child who would likely inherit both his craving and need for shedding blood.

  The time for squeamishness had passed.

  “Yes. Especially if that’ll mean I don’t have to do the killing. Will you help me get my shoes on?” It had been so long since I’d seen my own feet that if I couldn’t feel them swelling, I wouldn’t even be sure they were still there.

  Gallagher pulled a fresh pair of socks from the top dresser drawer, then he fished my boots from beneath the bed with a smile. August wasn’t really boot weather, but I’d learned the hard way not to wear sandals in the woods, and we had no idea what kind of landscape we’d encounter at Oliver Malloy’s house.

  “I never expected to have a child,” he said as I sat on the bed and lifted my legs onto the mattress for him. “And I will admit that when I did consider that possibility, I always assumed I would partner with a much...sturdier woman. Someone who would pass on a thick frame and strong musculature to our offspring.”

  I glanced pointedly at my bulging stomach. “Only you would complain that I’m too small.”

  “I’m not complaining. I’m just thinking about how strange fate can be. Yet how shrewd. You are not physically strong, but you have the heart and mind—and the mouth—of a warrior.”

  “Well, thanks. I think. But this wasn’t fate, Gallagher. This was a crime. Which is why the universe owes us this baby. And we owe this kid a long, safe, happy life.” Even if that meant killing and...

  He frowned at my obvious confusion. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t have a cap. This baby doesn’t have a cap. How would either of us have even absorbed the blood, if it was the baby that made me kill?”

  “I don’t know.” He seemed startled by the question itself. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see if you’re driven to dip anything in Malloy’s blood. Often instinct understands more than intellect does. That’s something humans tend to forget.” Gallagher’s focus dropped to the curve of my stomach. “But you are less human now than you’ve ever been.”

  December 12, 1986

  “She doesn’t want to go,” Grandpa Frank snapped softly from the bedroom down the hall. But as usual, he underestimated his own volume. Rebecca heard him perfectly.

  “It’s just down the street, Frank. And she needs to go,” Grandma Janice insisted. “We all do. If we want things to get back to normal, we have to start doing normal things again.”

  “A kid got shot yesterday, Janice. None of this is normal.” His cane thumped against the floor as he headed for the hall. “What’s the use in pretending?”

  “We need to focus on the positives. Ninety percent of how you feel is how you look and act.”

  “One hundred percent of your statistics are made up,” Grandpa Frank grumbled. But he gave in, as he always did, because he believed that even when his wife was wrong, she had their best interests at heart.

  And, Rebecca knew, because he really needed a drink. The flyers tacked up all over the neighborhood had promised spiked eggnog and homemade “adult” apple cider at the Coopers’ annual Christmas party.

  Rebecca planned to sneak a glass of her own, if she got a chance.

  “You look nice, sweetheart!” Grandma Janice patted Rebecca’s shoulder as they made their way down the front porch steps onto the frozen, stiff grass. And Becca was pretty sure her grandmother meant it. In the nearly four months since her parents had killed two of her siblings and the eight weeks since the federal government had declared her six-year-old sister to be a Trojan-horse-style cryptid terrorist, Becca had stopped crying. She’d stopped feeling sorry for herself.

  She’d moved into her mother’s old room and redecorated it with a little of the money from her parents’ savings account—which they’d signed over to her grandparents, to help with the financial burden of raising a teenager in their twilight years.

  Rebecca had started watching the evening news with her grandfather and she’d given up on ever discovering the true identity of the little girl the police had taken custody of in her grandparents’ front yard. But at night, when she stared up at the ceiling trying to sleep, she did wonder what had happened to the human baby her mother had actually given birth to, six and two-thirds years ago.

  Together, Rebecca Essig and her grandparents walked down the salted sidewalk toward the Cooper house, which was lit up like an airport runway with blinking lights and plastic Santa displays on the front lawn. Through the windows, they could see their neighbors chatting, holding steaming Styrofoam cups and clear plastic glasses of eggnog.

  While her grandparents headed up the front steps and into the living room, Rebecca went through the gate and around the side of the house to the backyard, drawn by the crackle of a fire and the laughter of kids her own age.

  Several adults she didn’t know had congregated near the fence, around a freestanding bench swing. Their raucous laughter suggested they were each several cups into the eggnog. But in the middle of the yard, clustered around an in-ground fire pit lined with river rocks, sat several kids from Rebecca’s school, toasting marshmallows and hot dogs on straightened wire hangers.

  They looked so happy. So normal. Maybe Grandma Janice was right. Maybe she really could fake normal until it became a reality.

  For several minutes, Rebecca stood shivering on the edge of the flickering glow from the fire, unseen in the dark, listening to her classmates talk.

>   “She shot him in the face,” the redheaded senior boy said as he forced a hot dog onto his hanger, lengthwise. “Right through the driver’s side window. Just...bang.” He mimed shooting a pistol with one hand. “Dead werewolf.”

  “His sister’s in my English class,” the cheerleader said, her dark ponytail sweeping the shoulder of her boyfriend’s letter jacket. “She said he had a flat tire. He just needed help getting it changed.”

  “Well, how was the lady in the car supposed to know that?” the redhead said. “He shouldn’t have even been out in public. What the hell did he think ‘house arrest’ meant?”

  The federal decree had come down in October, placing cryptid citizens on twenty-four-hour curfew, except for essential travel to shop for food or go to work and school. According to Grandpa Frank’s favorite nightly news program, more than 1.3 million cryptid employees had been fired from their jobs in the two months since the decree, which meant that many were now confined to their homes seven days a week.

  The cheerleader rolled her eyes. “He was Christmas shopping. That shouldn’t get you killed.”

  The senior shrugged and shoved his hot dog into the flames. “That’s one dead cryptid kid who was out where he didn’t belong. They killed more than a million of ours. As far as I’m concerned, we’re a long way from being even.”

  Rebecca took a step back, intending to retreat to the front yard and hide until her grandparents had gotten their fill of the neighbors. But then her foot snapped a twig. One of the girls roasting marshmallows turned and saw her.

  “Becca!” Sara Cooper waved her forward, then scooted to make room for her on the thick section of log she was using as a chair. “Grab a hot dog!”

  Rebecca accepted the offer, though she understood perfectly well what drove it. Everyone knew what had happened to her family. They knew Erica had been taken and that her parents would be among the first perpetrators of “the reaping” to face trial. The kids around the fire pit weren’t being friendly. They were being curious.

  But she would take what she could get.

  She sat on the left half of the log and took a hanger from the pile near her feet. A boy with bright blue eyes passed her a bag of marshmallows and she took two, then impaled them on the end of her straightened hanger. “We have graham crackers and chocolate, too.” He pointed to a platter where the s’mores makings were stacked. “Help yourself.”

  “Thanks.” Rebecca held her marshmallows over the fire, turning the hanger slowly so that they browned evenly. The blue-eyed boy held his too low, and it burst into flames. Rebecca stared at the burning hunk of sugar. Her brother John had always done the same thing, insisting that he liked them best when they were charred.

  She pushed the memory aside and ate her marshmallows. To her relief, though everyone seemed to be watching her closely, waiting for her to say or do something interesting, no one mentioned the reaping or asked her about her family. And after a few minutes, the conversation carried on without her.

  For a while, everything seemed good. Almost normal. Then...

  “Oh my God.” Sara Cooper’s second hot dog dipped low into the flame, forgotten. “I can’t believe they actually came.”

  Rebecca followed her gaze to a large window looking into the Coopers’ den from the backyard. Framed in the window were a man and woman, each standing with one protective hand on their small daughter’s shoulders.

  All three had small white flowers blooming from woody stems growing in their hair.

  Rebecca recognized them as the Galanis family, the dryads who lived across the street from her grandparents. Their daughter, Delphina, was four years old, and she often waved to Becca as she sat in her front yard, playing with a doll while she fed from the nutrients in the soil.

  The cheerleader shrugged, her gaze glued to the window. “The party flyers did say ‘everyone welcome.’”

  “We meant everyone human,” Sara snapped. “We didn’t think we’d have to spell that out, considering that cryptids are practically under house arrest.”

  Yet there the Galanises were, at a neighborhood Christmas party, as if they had nothing to fear, even though people didn’t trust cryptids much lately.

  “I heard they marched on the state capital,” the blue-eyed boy said. “They were there with nearly a thousand other cryptids, carrying signs and chanting about how unfair the curfew is, when they’re the ones responsible for...what happened.” He shot Rebecca an apologetic look.

  “I heard they took their daughter to the march,” a blond girl across the fire pit added. “My mom said they were there when the cops started shooting, and their daughter actually got sprayed with blood.”

  “Shh, here they come!” the redhead hissed, turning to face the fire again just as the back door opened behind him.

  Mrs. Galanis stepped out first, holding her daughter’s hand, and Rebecca wasn’t sure whether to feel sorry for them or admire their courage. She was an outsider because everyone knew that her family were victims of the reaping.

  The Galanises were outsiders because they were cryptid, and everyone knew that cryptids were responsible for the reaping.

  “Look, s’mores!” Delphina pointed at the platter of chocolate and graham crackers. “Can I make one?”

  “Sure.” Mrs. Galanis’s smile looked stiff, but she led her daughter toward the fire pit, her husband following closely behind. His gaze flickered all over the yard. He seemed to Rebecca to be searching for threats.

  She couldn’t blame him, after the curfew and the march on the capital.

  The kids around the fire pit went quiet as the Galanises approached, and though Delphina had been eager moments before, she hid behind her mother’s leg when they got close enough for her to take one of the straightened hangers. Rebecca felt the tension as if a fog had settled over the Coopers’ backyard, obscuring not just faces but intentions. Dividing neighbors into islands of mistrust.

  “May we join you?” Mrs. Galanis asked.

  Everyone turned to Sara Cooper, and though she’d sounded hostile toward her cryptid neighbors moments earlier, her expression softened when she came face-to-face with the little girl. “Um...sure.” Sara handed the child a hanger, then knelt to reach for the bag of marshmallows.

  The back door squealed open, and a man stepped out of the house carrying a glass of eggnog, his focus fixed on the Galanises. “You need to go home.” Even in the inadequate glow from the fire, Rebecca could see anger shining in his eyes. Or maybe that was...fear.

  Mr. Galanis stepped in front of his family. “We don’t want any trouble, Steve. We were invited, just like the rest of the neighborhood.”

  “It’s okay, Mr. Lawrence,” Sara said. “She just wants a marshmallow.”

  “They shouldn’t be here,” Steve Lawrence insisted, his grip on the glass white-knuckled. “For all we know, they’re surrogates.”

  The child’s chin began to tremble, her eyes wide and scared, and Rebecca’s heart ached for her. “She’s just a kid.”

  “The little ones are the most dangerous,” Lawrence snapped as the adults gathered near the fence began to make their way over. “You should know that better than anyone.”

  Rebecca’s face flamed. She glanced at the child again, but where before she’d seen cute pigtails with little snow-puff ponytail charms, she now saw a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

  Erica was a kid, too. She’d been cute. Apparently harmless. Until she’d made their parents kill John and Laura.

  “We’re not surrogates.” Mr. Galanis tugged his daughter closer.

  “How are we supposed to believe that?” Lawrence demanded.

  The back door slammed shut, and Sara’s father jogged down the steps. Carrying a baseball bat. “Kristos, you need to take your family and go home.”

  “We haven’t done anything wrong.” Mr. Galanis held his head high. “We just wanted—”


  Sirens wailed from down the street. From between the houses to the west, Rebecca saw flashing blue lights as a police car raced toward the party. The car slowed, then disappeared in front of the Coopers’ house. But the siren kept wailing.

  Mr. Galanis turned a hurt look on Sara’s father. “You called the police?”

  “No, I—”

  “That was me,” Lawrence said.

  “We’ll go home.” Mr. Galanis took his daughter by the hand and nudged his wife toward the open gate. “Sorry to have bothered you all.”

  Lawrence drained his glass. “That option has expired.” He glanced toward the gate, and Rebecca turned to see two police officers step into the yard, their hands hovering over the butts of their guns.

  “Kristos Galanis?” the cop in front asked, his focus narrowing on the family with flowers growing in their hair.

  Galanis nodded. “We were just leaving, Officer. We don’t want any trouble.”

  “I’m afraid it’s a little late for that.” The second cop pulled a set of handcuffs from his belt. “As of two hours ago, in a special session, congress voted to repeal the Sanctuary Act, effective immediately. You and your family are no longer considered citizens of the United States of America, and as such, you have no rights here. I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with me.”

  Delilah

  “So, why do you think bloodlust is just now starting, eleven months into my pregnancy?” Assuming it was, in fact, the baby’s bloodlust. “Does that mean she’s nearly done gestating?”

  Gallagher actually smiled as he stared out the van’s windshield at the moonless night. He’d been in a good mood—or as close to that as I’d ever seen him—since we’d left the cabin, and the cause was clear.

  Now that we were close to finding Malloy, I could actually feel his excitement.

  “I honestly don’t know.” Gallagher blocked the glare from my phone with one hand, and I angled the screenshot of our map away from his face. “Since the war, I’ve seen only a few other fear dearg, and never a female of my species. What few redcaps survived now exist as loners, as far as I can tell.” He shrugged. “For all I know, our child—though half-human—might be the first fear dearg born in a generation.”