Children of the Bloodlands

by S. M. Beiko

  When they finally cleared the blinding, stabbing cloud, all that spread below them was the wide and hungry sea.

  “Shit,” Eli said.

  He soared ahead, pulling the air current around him like a blanket and letting it shoot him farther and faster than the heavy plane could manage. His Owl eyes could see sharply; land wasn’t far, but with a quick shoulder check, Eli confirmed that they’d never make it before that column of destruction caught them first.

  Leave them, too many voices suggested. Find safety. You must protect the Moonstone. The Emerald approaches. They can never be brought together.

  Eli jerked, nearly crumpling. The Emerald, here? Park had mentioned it in that fleeting moment. Had said it was there, in Seoul. How could it suddenly be here, over Russia?

  Leave them, the Moonstone screamed again. Eli shook off his surprise and confusion, mastered himself again. The Moonstone and its occupants had such an elegant way of saying Let them die for the greater good. But Eli had learned autonomy, which they’d all have to get used to.

  “No” was all he said, out loud and into the screaming void of sky, as he pulled up higher and landed softly on the plane. He dug his talons into the steel body for purchase, squared his back, and sent his mind into the terrified passengers within: “Whatever is causing this is coming too fast. The plane won’t make landfall, let alone an airport in time. We’re going to have to do this together.”

  Eli scowled. He knew that the power of the Moonstone alone would be hard-pressed to take control of and smoothly land even a small aircraft without casualty . . . but he felt Solomon’s mind reach out to his and offer the mental equivalent of a squeeze. Pride. Allowing the other Owls to help would make them all more determined to survive.

  Eli didn’t have to ask twice. He opened up everything inside of him like an aperture, spreading tethers of gold psychic light to the passengers. They grasped onto the lifelines and tugged.

  Eli lifted himself from clinging to the plane, arms akimbo, fingers twitching. He pulled the air back to him, around the plane, buffeting and cocooning it in a manufactured hurricane. To master the wind itself, to pull it out of its self-contained current, was seen to some as another tenet that must never be broken. But even the ancestors in the stone, though they cried and moaned before, were silent now, focusing the power of Ancient, always given with a price.

  “I call upon the element that breathes life into the others, from the tempest to the breezes in the lowlands. Phyr, mother of wisdom, I charge your power to my name and your Moonstone.”

  Eli felt a warmth in his chest, one that he had felt months ago, in an airport in a small Canadian city, fingers wanting to reach out but never able to.

  He thought of Roan.

  “Wind!” he howled above the gale and ripped the very element from her place, pulling it inside him.

  It was a tricky thing, bearing people and metal and trying not to come apart, carrying these burdens past the sea and to whatever land his failing eyes could find. Eli felt like he was being alternately crushed and ripped into pieces as he slowed the plane into his control while still guiding it safely to land. Too many smells and sensations assaulted him — the sea salt, the resin of nearing trees, and something like tar, like burned bodies and souls, nipping at his heels.

  His chest was heavy. His heart hurt. And suddenly, something latched on to one of his great wings and burned like a brand.

  Eli screamed and let go of the plane.

  ~

  What woke Eli was not the gentle hand of a well-meaning aide this time, but the tensing of his whole body, pre-retch. He rolled over painfully, sputtering, pulling air back into his lungs as if he’d been drowning. But his fingers dug deep into soil and sand. Earth. They’d made it.

  A burst of flame exploded nearby, and he covered his head, cinders and bark and tree branches showering down.

  Maybe not.

  He staggered to his feet, which were partway human again, but long razor claws dug into the ground when he stumbled. His clothes were torn, one arm still half-feathered, and when he tripped, pain stabbed through his scapula. He was still partially the owl Therion, one wing broken and hanging behind him. The stone seemed silent, and for a moment Eli was both excited and afraid that it might be silent forever, but it hummed at the edges. With a small jolt, Eli was able to grunt his way back to human form, shedding the wings and feathers and righting himself as best he could.

  He was in the woods, but ahead was a new clearing — made by the plane. Its nose was crumpled, its underside crushed from the impact of the landing, but otherwise it looked intact. The emergency hatch and slide had been deployed, but when Eli came around, he couldn’t see anyone else, couldn’t find any other waking minds when he cast for them. And if the explosion hadn’t come from the plane —

  Eli turned. Not more than two feet away from him was a child. Her clothes were covered in ash, her skin mottled with black and almost cracked, like brimstone, red shimmering below the surface.

  “Will you meet my family?” she asked, pointing to the trees.

  Eli stepped back. The air was sick with the reek of sulphur. From the woods emerged more children, faces blank, eyes glowing. Their skin and faces ash-smeared wrecks.

  Eli. He jerked. The voice was inside his mind. He’d left it open and did not dare shut it now, because it was Solomon. He couldn’t see him, couldn’t find him. There were only the trees, branches stretching to the sky, like arms . . .

  Eli, the urgent voice said, and he knew it was coming from the trees. Run.

  Behind the children coalesced the dark column that had ripped them out of the air. It was a solid murk, each tendril it sent ahead a leg to pull itself up, crab-like. And it did — into a body, with features that hardened the longer Eli stared. It was seven feet tall, eyes obscured by an inverted triangle of shining black bone. The smile beneath was unforgivable.

  And sure enough, embedded in its shoulder was the gleaming, corrupted green of the Rabbits’ Calamity Stone — the Serenity Emerald.

  Then the Moonstone screamed, and Eli knew he should have listened to it when he’d had the chance.

  Ashes to Ashes

  Cecelia was already undoing her coat as she stalked through the club’s side door, squeezing through the tight hall that connected the stage door’s poky corridor to an even narrower stairwell to the change room. Nothing like a rat maze to start off the day. As she passed through the main hair and makeup room, she threw the coat onto a sofa, like it was an afterthought, because living in the moment, everything was. Had to be.

  “Watch it!” someone barked, and Cecelia waved her hand, feeling the kinetic heat ripple from her elbow to her fingertip. Whatever.

  Once in the dressing room, behind a closed door, every little motion was a muscle-memory dance number. One-two-one — powder, blush, mascara. A sweep of a brush into a gaudy palette worn down to a scant ring with plastic backing showing through. Eyes cat sharp and blazing under the three-out-of-seven mirror lights — the rest having sat dead in their sockets since she moved to Toronto three blissful months ago. Who cared? There was light enough, the brush feathering over her décolletage till she tossed the brush, too, and unpinned her wild rib-length mane. Backcomb, spray, set, pat.

  There was a meditative quality to preparing for a show, and the method of it made her thoughts lapse back to years of training: the repetition, the steadying of the heart, the lessons and the worshipping all in servitude to a godhead she neither respected nor believed in. Should she ever have the misfortune to cross it, she’d laugh in its face.

  Heels on, ostrich-and-silk robe slung over her bustier. Singed feathers littered the floor as she crossed the room, checked herself. Goddammit. She’d have to take a trip to Kensington Market, see if she could find another robe at that consignment boutique. But more than that, she needed to be more careful. Even when you controlled your own pyrotechnic show, e
verything was a delicate liability — especially the glamour.

  “Thanks, Charlie,” Cecelia muttered as the stage boy, nervous but obliging, handed her a glass with the usual vodka soda, once she’d made it back up to the main floor and backstage. True, she’d only just woken up an hour ago at the crack of sunset, and adding alcohol to a natural belly fire wasn’t going to do her any good . . . but she’d earned it after the recent dreams. If she kept count — and for what little peace of mind life afforded her now, she didn’t — she couldn’t remember the last time she’d really slept. Not since Chartrand’s little runaround. Not since giving the Conclave the middle finger. Not since she pushed away a lineage that put her in the path of a power she’d never wanted in the first place.

  And not since she’d left Ruo behind with barely a word.

  Cecelia lit a passing showgirl’s cigarette with her fingertip but flicked it out a second later in case the girl was looking a little too closely. But they never did. Cecelia smiled at her, like a big cat at a slow bird. She knew better. She was careful around Mundanes . . . even if she took to a stage five times a week to light herself on fire in front of a roaring crowd of them. She was the one in control. And no one could take that away from her now.

  She staggered slightly and caught herself on the wall, holding her stomach like the dreams were there, held tightly under the satin, trying to claw their way out. A torrential sea. A crack in the world. The face that is hers and not hers. And the dark at the bottom of that crack. So dark it blinds . . .

  “Cece,” the stage manager, Louis, barked in her face. Her eyes narrowed at him, and he looked like he immediately regretted it.

  “What is it?” Cecelia went to take another pull on the cocktail, but the glass was empty and probably had been for a while. She shoved it at him. “I’m here on time, aren’t I? You can’t threaten to fire me over anything today.”

  She glanced towards the stage they flanked now, from the wings. Kitty was still swaggering through her number. Tables were starting to fill. Kitty resented the fact she was there just to warm everyone up for Cecelia, but she worked the stage every night like it’d be her last. And it could be. There really was no need to “warm” anything up when the inferno could do it all herself.

  “You, uh, got a visitor.” Louis thumbed behind him, wiping his sweating brow as he fumbled with Cecelia’s empty glass. At least he didn’t ask very many questions. His confident stride petered out pretty quickly once he realized Cecelia was a broad who bit back. She had little respect for Louis, but he was still the reason she was able to live this free life, with all its dull caveats.

  When Cecelia turned, the corner of her lip twitched, but she didn’t betray herself with a smile. She inhaled, steeling herself, as if her tight corset and peignoir could be the heaviest armour. And like the warrior she once was, she headed into the charge. “Ruo,” she said thickly, folding her arms over her bust. “Never thought I’d see you in a place like this.”

  Ruo had made a show of meeting Cecelia’s gaze, but she couldn’t hold it for long before her expression broke. “I could say the same about you.”

  Despite their parting, Cecelia took the risk and opened her arms. It was the barest hesitation, but Ruo leapt into them with much more impact than Cecelia anticipated. She was half a foot shorter than Cecelia on any given day, but Cecelia’s six-inch heels made Ruo look Lilliputian in comparison. Cecelia had to keep herself from squeezing too hard.

  “You hadn’t written in a while. I was worried.” Ruo pulled away, reflexively tucking her short hair behind an ear, even though Cecelia knew it never stayed put. Much like Ruo, who was still looking about, hesitant and nervous. “Now I see why you didn’t.”

  “Oh relax. Haven’t you heard it’s the ’60s?” Cecelia waved her off, hands on her hips. “And wasn’t it you who encouraged me to do something that was a bit more expressive?”

  The twins, Gretchen and Hilda, wearing only tassels and matching grins, passed by like it was cued, and Ruo’s face darkened several shades, which even Cecelia could perceive in the pot light’s shadows.

  “I didn’t mean burlesque,” she hissed back, squeezing close to Cecelia to accommodate the backup dancers that had just taken over what little space there was back here. “How can this be better than —”

  “Anything is better than the Conclave.” Cecelia draped her arm around Ruo, pulling her closer, lowering her voice, arching a perfectly drawn brow. “You wouldn’t be here on their behalf, would you?”

  Ruo looked away.

  Cecelia sighed, a vice-grip locked on Ruo’s wrist as she dragged her deeper backstage, behind the curtain concealing the furthest wing. She deposited her onto a prop fainting couch.

  “Hey!” Ruo protested, but Cecelia loomed over her, her index finger, now aflame, the only thing lighting her dangerous face as she leaned in.

  “You know what you mean to me.” Though she smiled, the words were cold. “But don’t think I wouldn’t burn you or anyone else who tries to take me back to that gods-forsaken den of iniquity.” She snapped her fingers and the flame made a pop, which in turn made Ruo jump. “This club is far cleaner than the dirty dealings I had to put up with from the Foxes who claimed to be as saintly as even you. For three months I haven’t once thought the words Ancient or Five Families, and I will be damned if I have to hear them from you. For whatever reason.”

  A sudden rush of emotion brought Cecelia back to her feet, a few steps back. She sucked back the stone in her throat.

  But she started at Ruo’s sardonic chuckle, her slow clap. “What a performance,” Ruo said, leaning back, hands behind her head. “You were always so good at the dramatic pity party. Is it intermission yet? Do I get my line?”

  Cecelia unclenched her fist when she realized her long nails were biting into the flesh. Her mouth twitched. “It’s nice to see you still don’t take crap from anyone. Least of all me.”

  “I thought that’s why we broke up?” Ruo teased. “You just couldn’t handle someone saying no to you. Let alone calling you on your crap.”

  Cecelia parked herself on the chaise’s arm, leaning her head back with closed eyes as the live band’s brass section hit a crescendo. “I don’t remember us actually breaking up, though . . .” She couldn’t help the dig, even after —

  “Chartrand’s dead,” Ruo said suddenly, and Cecelia’s eyes flashed open.

  “What?”

  Ruo’s grin remained, this time accompanied with blatant bitterness. “I can see you’re busy, though. Fan-dancing through life like you weren’t next in line.”

  The stage lights flickered over Ruo’s face, and Cecelia had to look away. She was telling the truth. And worse, she hadn’t come gladly with the news. Because Ruo was still the best of either of them, the best Fox she’d known, really, and Cecelia had willingly left her behind.

  “If he’d been fan-dancing through life he’d still be around to live it.” Cecelia’s chest buzzed with too many feelings. She needed to get herself under control, or else she’d end up burning down the stage and everyone on it.

  Cecelia clutched her abdomen, feeling sicker. “No,” she said, getting up immediately. “I can’t get dragged into this again.”

  She started to leave but Ruo grabbed her, fierce and determined despite the height difference. Despite the words and memories that hung between them, it was the deed with Chartrand and the Conclave that had driven the last wedge. No matter how close they were in the moment, some divides couldn’t be crossed again.

  “All they’re asking,” she said carefully, “is that you consider attending the Arbitration. Chartrand was training a young boy. He’s the most likely to be chosen by the Opal. There’s no obligation on you.”

  It was Cecelia’s turn at a bitter smile. “Even Chartrand would think that was a fool’s errand, sending a child into a spiritual war zone.”

  Suddenly there was Louis, pan
ting with his clipboard under one arm and mopping his sweaty bald pate. “C’mon, Bettincourt! You’re killin’ me here. Get up there.”

  “Oh hold your damn horses, Kitty’s still picking up the rhinestones from her pasties.” Cecelia whirled, all bright eyes and confidence as she pulled Ruo in, tipped her head back, and kissed her. It was just like it had been, just for that moment — even though the past was long past and probably wouldn’t come back anytime soon.

  Cecelia pulled away, Ruo’s face stunned. “I’ll go. I’ll watch. Whoever they get to fill that idiot’s shoes will need to pass muster.” She cupped Ruo’s chin thoughtfully before stepping back. “Leave it to the best idiot to judge the next in line, right?”

  Cecelia turned back to the stage, crossing to her mark when the curtain came back together and her intro was played. She looked behind her, and there was Ruo, watching and still breathless. The beat thrummed high in her veins, the flame building. She hadn’t yet moved but the heat was intense inside of her.

  She smiled at Ruo. Don’t worry. And even though her former lover smiled back and nodded, they both weren’t fooling anyone.

  The curtain pulled back, and Cecelia swept into step with the luscious refrain. Men catcalled and whistled. She wasn’t afraid of them. She wasn’t afraid of anything. This was where she felt the most alive, the most free. Here, on this stage, with the ghost of Ruo pressed against her as it had been many times before this. Cecelia already knew what she would do, bitter that the steps were already laid out for her, beaten into her. She would go to the Conclave of Fire. She would resist taking Chartrand’s place, but the Stone was always the last word. Even though she railed against it, it had to be true: the stone had probably already chosen her, and it had shown her as much in those nightmares of fire and darkness.