Scion of the Fox

by S. M. Beiko

  You are my granddaughter. Nothing else matters. I am glad that you’re here. I will see you soon. And that will get me through the months of wandering through the countryside like a cursed nomad, wishing this “duty” on someone else. And it will keep me burning strong.

  Still, I wonder if you’re a Fox or a Rabbit or simply a human. Maybe I will never know, and maybe it doesn’t matter.

  Love, Cecelia

  What?

  I read the last line over and over again. I wonder . . . My eyes flicked back to the mirror, and with a hitch in my breath, I flashed my spirit eye on. A Fox stared back at me, sharing the subtleties of my human face. A Fox or a Rabbit? What did she —

  I exhaled — sort of a laugh, sort of a hitched sob. Since the Moth Queen had come for me, I’d been caught up in my mother’s legacy, my grandmother’s lineage. The fire that burned and the Fox that I was born to be. I had barely given my father a second thought.

  Hands shaking, I put the letter down. I turned my left palm up in supplication and traced the lines of my skin. Arnas was a Rabbit. He was my father’s twin brother. Which meant that there was Rabbit in me, too — or could there be? This only brought up more questions, like why was I manifesting as a Fox in my reflection, with fire in my blood and heat in my heart? Had my genetics abandoned the Rabbit side for the stronger power? Or was there no Rabbit in me at all, because . . .

  I wanted to drag Sil out from under the bed and shake the answers from her. But Sil needed rest, and I couldn’t move holding further proof that I would never truly know myself. When the tears splattered the letter in front of me, I realized that I was finally mourning the loss of something I never had, and I was hot with the futility of losing it.

  I sniffed hard, dragging the back of my hand over my eyes and refusing to let confused sorrow get in the way of my current task. I was doing all I could, sleuthing through the remnants of Cecelia’s life to put together the pieces of my own. I couldn’t ask any more of myself, and the tears were actually a reassurance that I was on the right track.

  I read the last part of the letter over again. Wandering through the countryside like a cursed nomad? Was she just about to embark on a demon-banishing mission, or was this some kind of self-imposed penance for whatever stood between her and my mother? The answer was obviously right in front of me, though; Cecelia had hinted that it was something about me that had thrown off their relationship, and I would bet what little money I had that it was more to do with Ravenna and Aaron’s marriage than with me. The daughter of the Fox Paramount running off to marry a Rabbit probably didn’t sit well with the strict, primeval traditions that Cecelia seemed so enamoured of. It was a wonder she wrote to me at all.

  What I do is lonely work. My heart thrummed with the pang of her words. I had been so angry at her for neglecting me, but I hadn’t really realized the full scope of responsibility to the Family at large, eclipsing, as it did, her family by blood. I understood lonely work, all too well. I had Barton and Phae, true. But those were tentative ties, and none of us knew where to start, what we were doing. The three of us were now hunted. And we could tell no one about it, seek no guidance from those we loved. Alone together.

  I picked up the second envelope and was pulling the letter out before I registered that I’d ripped it open.

  March 8, 1995

  Dear Little Fox,

  Today I am writing from Inverness, Scotland. The air here is cool and damp, and there are hills and mountains and lochs (lakes) that I think you would like. Someday I will bring you along with me, when things are simpler. For now, your mother should be showing you the fire, which you were borne of (thankfully) and will keep you warm while I can’t be there.

  You must be learning to walk, by now. Or dancing before even that. Did you know that I used to dance? Oh yes. I loved it dearly. I loved a lot of things, but they had to be given up. You’ll find that out someday, too, but for now you can revel. You can do what you like without much pressure or pretense. I envy you. Maybe that is why I love you so, aside from the blood ties. Aside from the fact that a part of you is me. It is because I want nothing more than to be you, to go back to that place where I could be myself without the weight of everyone pressing down.

  I tried to run away from what I was, once. Because I heard drums in my blood, and the dancing made me powerful. In Scotland, there are drums. They are called bodhrans, and they sound when you have to go to war. I always feel like I am going to war — in a way, I am — and maybe it will help you if you ever have to. Because the soft lightness of childhood ends too quickly, and you might have to fight battles of your own. Dancing brought out the rawness in me, and allowed me to do things I don’t think I was supposed to do. But I liked it. And I couldn’t stop dancing. Maybe that is what got me here in the first place.

  Will you dance, too?

  Love, Cecelia

  My heart beat a little faster. There were endearments in this letter. Words that I’d longed to hear. Even though Deedee had spent countless years asserting that I’d been loved, I refused to believe it unless it came from the lips of the dead and disappeared who should’ve been there to say it. But Cecelia had used “love,” and addressed me as “little Fox.” What if I’d turned out to be a Rabbit? Not that it mattered; she’d left me out of her life despite the fire I’d inherited . . .

  But here it was, plain before me, and I was paralyzed by the enormity of it. I was loved.

  Her words ricocheted through me again. Things I was not supposed to do. There had been drums of my own calling me when I had been consumed by vengeance for Barton, when I’d attacked Zabor’s monsters with the brutal efficiency of the monster I, myself, had become. I hadn’t heard the drums since then, but I wanted to.

  I liked it, she’d said. I clutched the letters close.

  *

  “Roan!”

  I snapped to, reeling aside as what could only be called a shard of fire glanced past my face at eye level. It exploded on the far granite wall of the summoning chamber, leaving no trace.

  “What the hell was that for?” I rounded on Sil, getting back to my feet in time to slide around another shard, this time with a bit more grace.

  Sil herself landed with molten poise, as she’d been firing the things through her tail like clay pigeons. Yep, she was definitely back to her old self, and these training sessions hadn’t abated since her strength came back.

  She sprang up again, turning end-over-end until she was a fiery, airborne saw blade. The shards came out of her in multiples, sending me careening and jerking out of their paths. It was a little more than obvious that she was pissed.

  “For god’s sake, Sil! Gimme a break!” I whirled around, and the fire-disc Fox in the air had grown bigger, bristling with flaming shards. I glanced at the summoning chamber doorway, which was sealed as usual.

  “You are here to work,” her voice roiled with the blaze, “not to daydream.”

  I cringed, and what I’d been thinking of flashed through my mind unabated, which just annoyed me more — Cecelia’s letters, the Owl cop Seneca, the first dead girl by the river. And the boy. The boy at the crime scene snapping my picture, setting me up with each flash, teeth gleaming. Those teeth. They seemed to get sharper every time I thought of them. I wanted to reach into the memory and smash them out of his —

  “Focus!” Sil bellowed, then the sulphur meteor that was now Sil rocketed over my head.

  I turned my face to the heat, pivoted with my arms out, and turned the blaze aside on my own. At first, the fire met my flesh but seemed to wrap around my arms like ribbon. I closed both hands around the flames, testing for a sure grip.

  And I heard the drums, like Cecelia predicted I would. The steady beat in my pulse set the tempo. It was leading me, reassuring but firm, and this time I wouldn’t let it turn me into something wrong.

  The fire bobbed around me like something liquid, or something with light ballast. It
listened to my movements, obeyed me, and when I felt it was growing too heavy to support any longer, I slammed it down into the unforgiving black marble of the chamber floor, where the fireball shattered like a glass balloon. Shards of brimstone skittered around my feet, then disappeared into the dark.

  Sil stood in front of me, eyes filled with golden appraisal. “Well,” was all she said, swishing her tail like a pendulum.

  It was only when she spoke that I remembered to breathe, and that I registered the megashakes quaking through me. I was standing in a half-crouch, arms spread out, like I had just executed a triple Salchow, waiting for the judge’s score. My knees gave out, and I fell to them, panting.

  “This is why I push you,” she said, coming closer. “You have to stay focused and present. And you improve when you do.”

  “I know,” I grumbled, pressing my hand into my thigh as I got to my feet. “I get it, okay?”

  Sil snuffled. “You’re letting your frustration dictate your skills again, and that will get you nowhere.”

  “That’s not true!” I argued, but it was feeble. I’d been thinking about ripping that photographer apart when things seemed to click and the fire yielded to me. I crossed my arms, pacing. “I just . . . I can’t get to it any other way right now.”

  “The power of the Five can only be accessed with a tranquil heart, and you carry a dangerous element in your blood. As destructive as water.”

  I couldn’t stop my derisive laugh. I whirled on her. “Oh c’mon, Sil, you think this giant demoness is gonna just roll over with a tranquil heart when I come at her? I have to fight, and yeah I’m mad! So why not use it if it gets the best result?”

  At this she sat without breaking eye contact. “What did you do, just now? To master the meteor?”

  I stopped pacing. “I just . . . I grabbed it and smashed it? I don’t know.”

  “You danced,” she said.

  “I . . .” I had heard the drums. But they weren’t the harsh, rapid pealing of staccato beats that led my fury weeks ago. They were steady as a heart. There was some tranquility to it, I had to admit. “I guess I did.” I scratched my cheek. “That’s good though, isn’t it?”

  “It’s better.” Sil inclined her head. “But not yet good enough.” She thrust her chin up, and I smiled, seeing the flash of pride in her eyes. I was getting there. And if it meant dancing my way to victory, then I’d learn as many moves as I could.

  Her head tilted, the ruff of her shoulders rippling. “Where did you learn that?”

  “Cecelia.” I shrugged, cheeks warm and feeling pride of my own. Then I pulled the garnet-bladed sword free of my belt before I could get sappy. “Shall we continue?”

  Sil nodded. “We shall.” And the fire rose again; this time, I was ready to meet it.

  The Broken Tenet

  “The spring is nearly upon us.” Anton Bel shakes his large, ponderous head. “This has already gone on far too long.”

  Eli, unmoved by this token and extremely useless observation, goes on feeding live mice to his enormous snake. The snake pushes out its muscular coils, sliding backwards to strike. Eli closes the tank lid and stands aside so that all assembled have a view of the snake pulling back, tight as a bow string, before it snaps out and devours its quarry.

  The assembly of elders, advisors, and dissenting Owls keep silent. Eli exchanges a glance with his father at the other end of the room but doesn’t linger. Eli can handle this himself.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bel,” Eli intones dryly. “But I’ve access to several calendars. We all know what time of year it is.”

  A hand slams palm down on the round oak table in the centre of the gathering hall. Eli flicks his eyes in the direction of the obvious dissaproval, and the culprit, Bel himself, slowly retires his hand to his lap, consigning his eyes to the floor.

  Eli turns to fully face them now, aware of each muscle and bone beneath the flesh of his face. He knows his manner has so far worked to unnerve this small-town council, but also puts them at ease; after all, he is their highest authority at the moment, and at least they can rely on him to remain impassive in the eye of ruin. Even though he’s only twenty-five, a youth filled with promise, and they are mostly quivering old men haunted by their imminent graves.

  “Gentlemen. Ladies. Yes, spring is near. No, the blood has not been paid. We are behind schedule.” Arms folded, he moves to the hall’s eight-foot wall of windows overlooking the grounds of the manor house in which he’s been a guest since arriving from Seoul weeks previous. It was his father, Solomon Rathgar, who had been tapped to offer guidance for this year’s cull, but Eli, newly minted Paramount though he was, had more authority now than even his pious father could offer. This surprised everyone, since Solomon had always been a fixture, and now he had been replaced by the son no one knew he’d had. Eli glares out the window at the snowdrifts the size of a man.

  A hatchet-faced councilwoman gestures to the window — Eli catches the movement in the reflection of the glass. “But winter’s grip is still firm. There is time enough, no?”

  “Time enough to sit idly by and wait for our destruction,” mutters Bel from under his enormous bushel of a beard.

  Eli narrows his eyes, favouring Bel with a glance, but the response is taken up by an incredulous squeak out of Gregor Fellin’s teeth. “Do you dare suggest we break the tenets of Ancient for the sake of your patience?” he cries. Classic fundamentalist.

  “Those tenets were laid down when the spirit of this Earth commanded itself!” Bel barks back. “Back then it could be relied on to keep the balance, but now —”

  “Enough.” Eli’s cool tenor has ripples skittering across it, the bickering fools wearing on him quickly. Their eyes go round on him, and he can’t help but smile; they look so much like their Family’s sigil — collars puffed, dander up, faces flushed. And yet, none of them are willing to draw blood where required. But Eli is.

  “The tenets of which you speak,” Eli begins softly, pacing the table, calculated, “are guidelines given to those charged with protection of this realm. The Five must keep destruction neutralized and maintain the balance. We are slaves to these rules, yes. And since the Families have shrunk, the full burden of this task falls often to the Owls. It is a heavy burden to bear. It always has been. Many sacrifices have been made, all for the greater good. And we are not dealing with a lesser darkling here — this is Zabor, a Celestial, from the beginning times. She would destroy us all if she were to wake, unsated.

  “Yet how can we protect our world when we are commanded to sit back and wait for ‘fate’ to intervene? I’m not a stranger to this frustration. We have all felt it in the past, and Ancient has a purpose for these tests of our patience — and in the end, it always prevails.”

  Eli stops, trying to master the tremor pulsing in his chest like a starburst. They must hear the voices, too; the Owls in attendance exchange almost-terrified glances, either because of his speech or the hissing oaths seeming to rise from the room’s dark corners. Eli feels his spirit flex. “But it has come time to realize that the old tenets are useless to us, especially when Ancient itself sleeps idly. We must act independently, yet still for the greater good.”

  Fellin purples instantly. “Are you actually agreeing with this — this — dissenter?” he blusters, flapping his hand at Bel, who looks equally perplexed at this turn.

  The other assembled members rasp to each other in shocked whispers, a shudder of doubt, rage, and absolute fear rankling through them. Eli expected all of this, but even without the influence of his hidden advisors, he knows it is the only tack.

  Eli pivots towards Bel. “You’ve suggested that time is running out. And you’re right. Six-foot-high snowdrifts are no barometer for our doom. A melt could come at any time, and when the ice breaks up, the flood waters will rise. Someone intervened in the Moth Queen’s delivery of our sacrifice. Rather than fumbling around wondering why
or relying on the hapless misfires of Zabor’s children, it has been suggested we take matters into our own hands.” The outcry rises, and Eli finds, to his annoyance, that he has to speak over it. “We have done all we can to assist the river hunters, but the Fox-girl has evaded them. Their tactics can no longer be relied upon.”

  Eli’s father rises to his feet, and the Owls elbow each other to hush. Eli has seen this protest coming. Solomon Rathgar is Eli’s personal dissident, always ready with protest. Ever since Eli had been chosen as Paramount, their already tenuous relationship has eroded nearly to nothing. “You are being unfortunately reckless, Elias,” his father intones like a war gong. “You are suggesting we take the girl to Zabor ourselves, that we break the tenets that govern the Denizens of Ancient and the Five Families to hasten the task. To make it seem like we are loyal to a darkling, and not Ancient.”

  Eli catches Fellin nodding his head like the sycophantic dipping-bird he is. “The law clearly states,” Fellin argued, “that any appeasement given in blood can be given only by Death, taken by the darkling independently, or given willingly by the sacrifice themselves! These are laws made to protect us all and maintain the balance —”

  The balance . . . the word echoes in a place deeper than Eli’s soul, repeated over and over in the hollows of his head. Mona Fawkes, her face carved from crystal, has cut in: “— laws that, if broken, could end up waking the demoness no matter what we do, and put us in the path of Ancient’s fury for disobedience. We are guardians, not executioners. Let the river hunters deal with her. To get involved directly could cost us everything!”

  Eli smiles. Then, letting his control slip, he laughs — and the sound is so alien it jars everyone. “You seek authority and comfort in the Old Laws,” speaks a hundred tones that aren’t his, and yet must be, “and yet it is my Law here that will be absolute.” His hand creeps up to his chest, to the solid, cold thing that lives there. A shard of his mind curries for control, stopping the hand from unbuttoning his shirt and exposing it to the room.