Divine Born

by O. J. Lowe

  He’d made all of them run twenty laps around the ship following that, had been pleased when none of them had made it past fifteen. It was a gruelling run, he’d had someone count it out at the start. Each lap had to be a couple of miles long. Those last few to collapse, they’d run until they couldn’t run any longer, they’d crawled the last few feet. Just like he’d crawled back to his leg. They’d not been laughing then.

  He was unsettled these days. The Mistress had changed over the last six months. He’d never liked her, not really. She’d always been cold. Normally he couldn’t care one jot for the approval of women. There was only one that he cared about, the only reason that he did anything. There was one other that he could just about tolerate. They were blood after all. He’d not seen Lola for months, they weren’t encouraged to contact the world outside this ship, except with the express permission of both the Mistress and the captain. He’d last spoken to her weeks ago, seen how the burden was going. Even then, she was playing hard to get. She didn’t want to talk to him, even before he’d gotten himself in this situation.

  The moment she died, he’d told himself, he’d get out of this. Once she died, the burden was over, and he could go back to his life. He’d told himself that story so many times, he’d started believing it. Except he couldn’t. Not now. The Mistress had caged him for all purposes. His life was over. Every law enforcement officer in the kingdoms was looking for him. If they caught him, he might not even reach trial. Rumour had it that any Unisco agent who captured him was under orders to execute him for what he’d done to their director’s daughter. The sheer injustice of that hurt him. He hadn’t known that was who Mia Arnholt was. He wanted her dead or suffering for a whole bunch of other reasons. Her father had never come into it. How arrogant was Terrence Arnholt if he thought that he was the only reason that someone might want to harm his daughter?

  No, he was trapped. He’d live or die with Coppinger. She was his only chance at being able to resume a life that now felt so alien to him. Everything did these days. At least he was enjoying what he did. That was a blessing.

  He’d needed the credits back then. Lots of them and fast. The burden had only grown, reached the point where she needed around the clock medical care and attention, not the sort that could be found cheaply either. The sort that bankrupted families and wiped out inheritances. That he resented. All these years of being the sort of dutiful son that deserved a reward at the end of it and it had been snuffed out in one continuous heartbeat, a heart that continued to beat when by rights, it should not.

  By rights, he should have placed a pillow over her face. Held it there and watched her twitch, feel her struggle as she gasped for the last few breaths of sweet air. He’d probably have been denied even that. She’d never been the most helpful sort of woman. Even when he’d been just a little boy, her affections had been saved for his sister. It had been all ‘oh Lola, you are marvellous’ and ‘why are you still here, Harvey?’ She’d never really appreciated him. He was the one who’d gone out and made something of himself. What had Lola ever done in the end? She’d had talents, she’d chosen not to use them, although being a tattling little bitch who couldn’t keep her nose out of stuff wasn’t really something that ever translated to success.

  He laughed, the bitterness in his voice an old friend come to visit again, balled up his fist and beat it against the wall. Heard the clang of his prosthetic fingers against the metal. A whole false hand, he might be able to leave a dent in it. As it were, all he’d do was mangle his real digits. Pain stabbed up through them, he grimaced and let himself lean against the wall.

  He’d been a spirit dancer. He’d been excellent at it too, truly reaching the prime of the art. He could out-do anyone, could step onto the stage and own it. He had the soul of an artist, the heart of a musician and the mind of a calculating son of a bitch. All three had served him well. He knew what he had to do. He knew how he needed to do it. Whatever it takes as quickly as it takes to do it. If there was someone he needed to step over, he stepped over them. Sometimes he left the boot in if he needed to, left a metaphorical footprint on their face to remember him by. He’d always figured that a swift and brutal dismantling of their hopes and dreams was the fastest way to get to the top. If he managed to intimidate opponents into their shell whenever they tried to face him, that was just gravy. He’d built an aura before long, had stepped out onto every stage like he owned it. He’d wanted it all and he’d gotten so close.

  He’d taught himself. He knew what it was like to come from nothing, to be entirely sufficient. He’d taught himself how to survive. After that, spirit dancing was easy. He’d buggered off away from home as soon as he could, wanted that bitch to be out of his life forever. He wasn’t her son. She didn’t acknowledge him as such. She’d always said he was like a parasite; had been ever since the day he’d been ripped out of her. Words like worthless and pathetic had been the lullabies he’d been soothed to sleep with. Lola had gotten the praise. Lola was the wonderful one. The dutiful daughter who’d never left home. Lola was the one she’d loved. Lovely Lola. Perfect Lola. Princess Lola.

  He’d never known adoration until the first time he’d stepped onto the stage and felt the roar of the crowd at his back. He’d tried the calling side of the performance, he’d found it too insufficient for his needs. They wanted blood when he wanted to give a performance. They wanted savagery when he wanted to give them art. War and art were mutual opposites, never to collide. That was an immutable truth where he was concerned. They were contrasting pages in the book of life. Nothing good came out of pain and death for the sake of it.

  In spirit dancing, he’d found that. A place where he could belong. The community had welcomed him at first as they’d welcomed all new initiates into their group back then, they might be rivals but, in a world, where theirs was of a lesser interest to the amateur butchery of spirit calling, everyone had each other’s backs. They’d do for another, they’d die for another though obviously most of them didn’t have the spine to hope it came to that. Most of them would sell out their principles and their fellow dancers for a chance at a bigger purse come the next competition.

  His first few dances had been, well he’d never experienced anything like it. Cacalti, his troll and a gift from his mother… That memory rankled. An ugly little shit, she’d said as she gave him the crystal. Just like you. May it serve you better than you ever did me. Because life’s full of disappointments, son. It’s a shithouse you can’t escape, you just hope that you get dealt a better hand next time.

  That had been one of the more pleasant exchanges the two of them had ever had, as painful as it had sounded. He wanted to take the positives from it, that she’d handed him a potentially powerful spirit that he could use as a keystone to make his way in life. All until Lola had been given a unicorn. One of the rarest beasts of the lot of them. And what had she done with it?

  Nothing! Nothing, nothing and a whole lot more of nothing. She’d kept it to herself, not let anyone else have the chance to appreciate its beauty and poise. It was still little more than a wild beast, she’d never put in the effort to bend it to her will. What a fucking waste.

  When he and Cacalti had entered the stage, he a little overweight and shy, Cacalti a troll in an arena usually dominated by sylphs and slight spirits, they’d drawn glances. Amidst the cheers, there’d been jeers and boos, people had wanted them to fail. More than that, they needed them to fail. He’d been all too aware of what people had said outside the arena. They’d said it wasn’t a competition for the likes of them. They seemed only to want beautiful people and the two of them, him and Cacalti, didn’t pass up to the muster of their expectations. It was easier to support the pretty people when it came to the heat of competition.

  What he and Cacalti might lack in looks, they made up for in other areas. Neither of them knew the meaning of the words ‘give’ and ‘up’. Neither of them would want to stop until the job was done. It was the sort of quality, he’d had to admit in some of
his more reflective moments, that might well have made him a top spirit caller if he hadn’t found the whole notion to be so ridiculous. That said, he had learned how to fight. Dearest Reda had gone that way, learned the often-disregarded ways of the battle dancer. The two of them had sparred together more than once, Harvey had been overjoyed when Reda Ulikku had come into the program. He hadn’t been overseeing things then, had missed out most of the rush job of training to be thrust on Ulikku. No wonder he’d been taken down. The Angels of these days wouldn’t be so easy to beat. They’d engaged in months of intensive training that could put them on a par with hardened Unisco agents.

  Still, he wasn’t convinced yet. Sure, the killer instinct was there, he’d done his best to bully and kick most the compassion out of them. The training was there. All they lacked was experience beyond a few missions he and Hota and Fuller could probably have accomplished between them. And look at the three of them. Him, crippled. Hota, useless in a fight. Fuller, female.

  He had to admit that some of his best Angels were girls, that didn’t mean anything. He’d reluctantly given command to one of them. Maybe he needed to encourage their male counterparts to try harder. They weren’t working hard enough. Their failure reflected badly on the program overall and especially on him.

  Thinking back to how easily he’d cowed the room at first and how any of them could kill him with ease now brought about sobering thoughts, made him feel like all his life choices to this point had been dubiously interesting ones he had the potential to regret.

  His prime method of spirit dancing had been to needle and intimidate where he could, undermine and criticise with the best of them. He’d gotten good at it, he’d learned how to read people. Of course, there were always those that just wouldn’t fall for intimidation. He could remember his dance-offs against Jesseka Blake, that fiery haired little bitch. She bore her marks of ruin, she did her best to hide them. Maybe she was as ugly on the inside as she was on the outside, a hot-tempered little minx who did her best to hide it. Couldn’t trust women like her. She’d never fallen for his intimidation, had instead sought out to beat him down harder for it. That made her predictable, he had to prick at her anger, coax any sort of sense out of her and she would be his for the taking. Sometimes it was about playing the opponent, sometimes it was about playing the crowd and sometimes it was about both to the best of your ability.

  The only one who never fell for it ever, was Selena Stanton. She’d been the first dancer he’d ever met, not quite a champion then but well on the way. She’d taken him under her wing, she’d smoothed out a few of his rough edges and he’d been better for the criticism she’d given him as much as he’d hated it at the time. Begrudgingly, he’d come to respect her, had found a burning desire to beat her. It had never come. She’d been just too canny, more experienced than him and she’d always used it well. She was to spirit dancing what Sharon Arventino had been to spirit calling. Both had been filled with the grace of champions, they’d risen to the top and stayed there for quite some years, neither of them had let it change who they were as a person. Both considered beautiful. Pioneers of women as ultimate competitors. Both had had their lives ended by him in devastating fashion.

  Sometimes he thought about that day on Carcaradis Island when he’d killed Sharon Arventino. He’d had a kinetic disperser in his hand, she’d had one of those laser swords he wanted so much, she’d been distracted and fighting Wim Carson who wanted to take her alive. He wanted her, he didn’t know what for, but it couldn’t have been anything fit for purpose. He was old and broken, she was young and vibrant, every inch the professional even in death. He’d fired, she’d taken the blast in the back of the head and fallen on the sword. She’d been dead before she hit the ground, a life snuffed out in an instant.

  Just as often, he thought about what he’d felt during that moment, the instant when his finger had closed under the trigger guard, curled around the trigger and he’d felt the kick of the huge weapon explode out, saw the first fragments of bone and blood hit the wall behind him. One fleck of blood had hit him on the cheek, he could still remember feeling that warm trickle run down his face. He’d stuck his tongue out, licked it up from the corner of his lips.

  He’d felt nothing. Not sorrow, not regret, certainly not joy. He didn’t have any sort of beef with Arventino, he’d never really met her in person. They walked different paths. He might have seen her at the Belderhampton carnival a year ago if he thought about it, but he couldn’t be sure. No, most of his enjoyable moments came at the expense of those that he knew. What had happened with Stanton, that was a feeling he’d never replicated. The betrayal there had been delicious, he’d watched her eyes close and down below, he’d felt a few droplets escape into the silk boxers he always wore. They’d stuck to his skin for the rest of the night, but that discomfort was a small price to pay for feeling on top of the world.

  And then there was Mia. He imagined that dealing with her would be better than what had happened with Selena Stanton, by miles. No way it wouldn’t be. It could be argued that most of his troubles had started when he’d made the choice to try and lure her from the land of the living into the sweet embrace of death. He’d been so careful, had cornered her on that damn island and set his own personal investigator after her.

  Maxie Brudel. He had fond memories of the boy, he’d been sweet in a way that had left him imagining how he tasted. Harvey always imagined that he’d taste of bananas, sweet and chewy with just a little hint of exotica. Not that it made much difference. Brudel had died long ago. Harvey had drowned him. That had been the first part of his downfall, he’d been informed that that death had left people looking for him. He’d cornered Mia, was about to shove her off a roof… oh no! What a tragic accident, the poor dear cut down in the prime of life while her greatest friend was helpless to stop her… when Wade Wallerington had shown up. What they knew about him now, it made sense in a way. Then there’d been Roper on that last day and Harvey remembered painfully how that turned out. He wasn’t ever going to forget it.

  Mia Arnholt, the bane of his fucking life. One day. One day, he’d get her. He’d have her in his grip and he’d tighten it until he felt her slacken. He’d break that pretty neck, ruin that face that she valued so much. Maybe he’d take a knife and ruin that body she’d work so hard to build. Wouldn’t be the first time. Amateur vivisection was a little hobby of his, one he’d never had opportunity to indulge in frequently. His dirt little treat.

  The things he’d like to do to her, thinking about them kept him warm during the cold nights on the ship. She’d been fortunate enough to escape him three times now. Her luck would not save her forever. Soon, he had to enjoy some luck himself and when he did, her time would run out. She’d run out of people to save her, she wouldn’t be able to save herself. Not that he believed that was something she was capable of. She’d always been a little parasite, worming her way around those with so much more. First her father. Then Selena. Then her first boyfriend, Andrew Donohue. Harvey had always liked him. He should have done better than that little whore. He’d always considered Donny, if not a friend, then something like one. Someone whom he’d have liked to be closer to. Andy Donny had got him. Donny understood where he was coming from. Sometimes he’d have been voicing his thoughts, going dangerously close to showing his true self and Donny and always been there, nodding and smiling as if he understood. He wondered what Donny would think of him now, if he could see him. A future lord of the new world order. Maybe even one day he’d rule it all. The Mistress had no heirs since her bitch daughter had disowned her. He knew Meredith Coppinger from the circuit as well, never as talented as the cunt-licker she’d hooked up with Lydia Dupree had something about her, not a lot but something there. He might end up with it all one day. Coppinger’s empire. Perhaps. Unlikely but not impossible.

  And to think, all of it had stemmed from that one fateful meeting.

  Back then, the diagnosis had been like a thunderclap. The call from his sister, he�
�d heard it in the changing room before the finale of the Kenzaris Invitational. Premesoir was lovely that time of year, especially down in the warm south-west. He’d had a chance to peruse the promenades, enjoy the sights of the shirtless out enjoying the sun shimmering down on well-toned bodies. The sand and the sea and the hints of sex. All so subtle but throw them together and it might as well become the chance of an orgy. That would be sweet. His loins ached, had been too long since he’d had something bad for him. Maybe he’d find some nice young man, a fan, nervous perhaps, it’s his first time and he’s oh so shy as he has his clothes ripped off…

  The news hadn’t been great. Four words. Lola had told him in four words and then she’d cancelled the call, leaving him with that bombshell. Four words and his life had changed forever. That was it, the turning point. Looking back, he could see it now, the start of a path he’d never intended to walk. The path that had cost him his leg and his fingers, and the pain that persisted in his wrist where Wade Wallerington had broken it months earlier. More than that, it had cost him his freedom, his ability to walk the streets unhindered.