by Jen Katemi
If I was scared before, it is nothing to the dread that fills me now. The chant sends chills across my skin and I freeze. What are they going to do with that pot? It looks big enough to hold a person. Even a tallish one, like me. My mind goes temporarily blank as I face the reality that I am most likely going to die today.
Will I sing in my own death? Is that a thing, for banshees?
No amount of lip-biting or hand clutching can now hide the tremors that rush through my body in waves. For some reason, at the moment of facing my coming death, my mind suddenly kick-starts out of its terror-induced lethargy, filling with thoughts of the sexy winter warrior.
Tarrien, I wish we could have gotten to know each other properly. I wish we’d had more time.
I lock my knees, determined not to collapse in a puddle of fear in front of these hideous creatures. The robed man still standing behind me pushes me between the shoulder blades, urging me forward.
I can’t do this. I can’t be here in this place. So much death.
I turn and punch the man in the face. He staggers back, bringing his hands to his already-bleeding nose, and the distraction provides an opening to flee.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I realized the chanting has stopped, which means all eyes are likely on me. Run! I race toward the door but have only taken a few steps when a clutch of magic grabs at me. The enchantment renders me immobile. I growl, trying to push the magic off me and away, force the grip that holds me to let go. Whoever has me is far too strong.
Oily tendrils, visible even to my eyes, wrap around me. I find myself lifted high into the air, coaxed forward to levitate over the heads of the avidly watching crowd below, until I hover horizontally above the altar slab. The magic squeezes so tight I can barely breathe.
I’m not sure which is worse: the lack of air, or the feeling of utter helplessness at being restrained in this way.
Who has me in their grip? A slight lessening of the pressure around my throat enables me to turn my head to the side and my heart sinks when I notice what I hadn’t seen before.
There is a raised dais behind the altar. On the dais rests a throne-like chair, currently occupied by the exiled fae queen. She stares at me with her sweet glamor finally stripped away completely. All the innate darkness within her is now resident on her features.
She is evil, through and through. No doubt whatsoever is left in my mind as I stare back into those malevolent eyes.
But even the queen can’t hold my attention for more than a few seconds. Not when I notice the male who is standing behind her, almost hidden in the shadows. Like the others around the fire pit, he is wearing a dark robe, and with his long dark hair loose, he blends in to the shadowy background in a way that encourages my eyes to miss his presence altogether.
Only I can’t miss him—not when he has one arm held out toward me like that, with his hand in a claw shape directing an oozing purple miasma straight at me.
The magic is there, but not quite there, almost like heat waves rising from tarmac. He’s the one holding me immobile. All by himself. Which makes him a powerful threat in his own right.
And yet, I don’t think he is a necromancer, even though he is clearly channelling purple wizard magic. He has an otherworldly air about him, that reminds me of the queen. I think this man might be fae. As if he hears my thoughts, he shakes his head, shifting his hair backward. The action reveals his pointy ears and confirms my guess.
Who is he? Silver-gray eyes regard me steadily, and my heart flip-flops unevenly in my chest. It can’t be. Those eyes...
It can’t possibly be.
I swallow hard and force out the question. “Tarrien?”
Even as I say his name, I realize I must be wrong. There is no way the winter warrior would be involved in something as evil as this. He might be annoying, and need some lessons in relationship skills, but Tarrien has a brave and decent heart. I know it, with every fiber of my being.
I squint into the shadows, trying to ascertain who it might be.
This is a slightly older fae. I notice a few strands of gray in the dark hair and he has a slightly less muscled presence than the winter warrior I was wrapped around in bed only a few short days ago. Despite the physical differences, and the misleading shadows that make it hard to see anything, the resemblance is clear enough.
“You’re his father, aren’t you?” I say. “The one who betrayed them all, with her.”
The shadows increase around the figure, swirling until I can barely see him at all.
“Coward,” I spit out. “Hiding in the shadows behind the ex-queen. Why not step out and own what you did?”
They’re going to kill me anyway, I figure, so it doesn’t really matter what I say, now. I’m still looking at Tarrien’s dad as I speak—or at least, in his general direction, now that he’s almost completely hidden—but the queen hisses between her teeth. She really didn’t like that ex-queen jibe. I’ve probably just escalated my coming torture and death.
I search through the shadows for one final shot at the fae man. All I can see now is that damn, clawed hand. “Tarrien has been sworn to protect me, you know. And he’ll find me and kill your merry little band of perverted followers. I have total faith in your son.”
A titter of crazed laughter from some of the robed figures in the room seems to break through the temporary stand-off. Tarrien’s father straightens his fingers and withdraws his hand back into the shadows. I drop out of the air unceremoniously onto the slab and all the breath is knocked from my lungs. I gulp and scrabble to get up, until I am held once again in place by that invisible, shadowed claw-hand. The queen rises and steps forward.
She leans over me, her gaze murderous. “Tell us your name, banshee-hybrid, and we will let you live.”
Yeah, right. I really believe you, bitch.
The queen gestures someone from the group around the fire to come forward, and I try in vain to scramble away. Tarrien’s father remains silent in the darkness behind the queen, presumably the one still holding me in place.
Then the queen does a little hand wave of her own, and a blast of magic hits me in the face. Pain such as I’ve never felt before almost crushes my head from the outside in. His magic already holds me firmly in place. This bonus blast from her is nothing but torture for torture’s sake.
I am glued to this damn slab, while suffering the migraine from hell.
I hear pitiful moaning, and realize it’s my own voice. The pain is so intense I can’t stop keening like a baby. If I ever felt powerless in my life before, this is ten thousand times worse.
After what feels like an eternity, but may only be a few seconds, the pain in my head eases, though I still cannot move.
“Your name?” The queen waits, and I manage a weak grin.
“Indigo.”
Her face turns ruddy, and she nods stiffly. “So be it.”
A robed man appears in my vision. Oh, great. It’s the guy who collected me from the bathing room. The one who enjoyed the view of my privates a little too much. This time, he holds a stiletto-style blade in one hand.
So, this is it? This is the end?
There is something I have to ask before I die. I need to know...
“Did you kill my friend, Sienna?” I direct my gaze past the throne toward the man still wrapped in shadows. “Are you the one responsible for all this...horror? These...abominations?”
A quick flash of white teeth is my answer. He’s smiling. The fucking bastard. No doubt about who is the true monster in this room.
The queen releases a strange growling sound. Clearly, she doesn’t like that my attention has wandered from her. “I am in charge here. Not him. You will address me.”
Well. I amend my thoughts. No doubt about this pair of true monsters. They’re all monsters, here, but these two? They deserve each other.
As if she hears my judgemental thought and wants to demonstrate its truth, she reaches out and stabs my cheek with one of her long, pointed fingernails. The pain is
sharp and unexpected and brings tears to my eyes despite my efforts to control myself.
She raises up her hand. A drop of my blood meanders from her nail tip down her finger. The red color against her pale skin is oddly mesmerizing.
“Beautiful,” she says. “Your blood will do nicely.”
An appreciative murmur from the crowd reminds me that we have an audience. The queen waves her hand and a pretty white bowl materializes in her upturned palm.
She hands the bowl to stiletto guy. “Cut her, and drain it into this.”
Cut me? Drain me? Terror builds in my chest and a tiny moan escapes my throat as I strain against the magic holding me rigid. The effort is futile.
She leans over me. “We will take your blood, either way, but provide us with your true name, and we will only need a few drops. You will be allowed to live.”
My chin trembles. I clamp my teeth together to try and control the fear and stop myself blurting out the name I can hardly remember. Indigosturianawella. That was the tongue-twister moniker my dear mother gave me, for some reason. The word hovers on my lips and I bite down on them to stop it from coming out.
What good will my name do them? Why do they need it so much? And what are they planning to do with my blood? Are they going to drink it? Paint themselves in it? Make a stew with it in that big, black pot bubbling away just out of my line of vision?
And here I was, worrying earlier that this ritual would involve something sexual. Laughter threatens and I know I am close to losing it.
“Choose not to cooperate, little hybrid,” the queen continues, “and we will drain you completely. Garner every...last...drop. And then, we will find and drain all your bastard siblings, until there is a river of banshee blood, and their deaths will be your fault, because you didn’t give us your name.”
The man with the knife moves suddenly and fast, lifting my almost-not-there dress and stabbing hard at my upper thigh.
My thigh? You chose my thigh, you fucking pervert? You couldn’t have chosen my wrist? If my eyes could burn holes through a person, stiletto guy would be swiss cheese right now.
At first, the pain is hardly there at all, just a burning sensation that suddenly grows hotter. Blood begins to seep out of the wound and down my leg into the bowl that the man shoves between my legs.
I can barely move at all. Only my eyes, darting about as I search vainly for any means of escape, and my mouth, twisting in a mix of terror and hatred. And my lungs. At least I can still breathe. For now.
“Give us your name!” The queen’s screech fills the air.
The man smirks, and stares down lasciviously at my exposed privates, before bringing the stiletto to his mouth and licking it. For some reason, that action is the very last straw out of all the things I have already endured.
Everything inside me reacts. I open my mouth, and instead of giving them any words, I let loose with the loudest and most haunting banshee song I have ever allowed to cross my lips.
They should never have left me with breath in my lungs.
I give them everything that the theater crowd have always wanted, and far more than any of my human audiences could ever truly take. I sing of death, and life, and all things between. I sing of the moment of extinguishment, the black grief when someone disappears from existence, and the utter joy of new life, of resurrection.
I sing the song of the banshee, and I do not hold back at all.
Chapter Ten
THEY SAY THE SONG OF the banshee is the most terrifying sound in existence.
Perhaps it is.
The queen staggers away, shrieking and covering her ears. Stiletto guy drops the knife and cowers, hunching until he is out of my view. Beneath the perfect notes releasing from my throat I hear the frightened cries and screams from the crowd who gathered to watch whatever this ritual would have entailed.
Through it all, I stare straight into the shadows at the Tarrien look-alike.
Take that, you murdering bastard. You killed my beautiful friend. Now you can experience the song that I had to sing for her.
He steps out past the throne and I see him clearly for the first time. He grits his teeth and scrunches his face, struggling to hold onto the enchantment freezing me in place.
The banshee song continues to wash over him; over them all. Dying and death. And life. And then dying once again. And death. Do you like the cycle of existence, father of Tarrien?
As I reach a crescendo, the magic holding me captive finally collapses into nothing. I’ve done it. I’ve broken through his concentration. I launch up onto my bare feet, standing on top of the altar, and continue to power my voice and my song outward. I reach into every nook and cranny of the room, turning in a circle, filling it all with sound.
I ignore the prone and writhing robed figures. They are nothing but followers, pathetic and weak. Instead, I focus on the queen, who has jumped back up onto the dais and reached Tarrien’s father. They stand together, in front of that damn throne. Her hands are still over her ears. I step up my attack, sending everything I have in their direction.
The man’s face is murderous, and I sense a rolling swell of power at the periphery of my consciousness. I have never felt anything like it before. I know it is coming from him, and I know that the moment my voice falters, he will blast whatever he is holding onto my way. It will crush me. I feel it already, chipping away at the edges of my song, looking for a crack. Waiting.
I can’t keep singing. The banshee call is draining me of everything I have...
Is it the banshee call that is causing this feeling of dizziness? I don’t usually feel as weak as this when I sing. Not unless death is involved. My death? My legs tremble hard, as if no longer able to hold me up. I look down, at a huge pool of blood all over the altar, and realize I’ve been bleeding out of my thigh wound all this time.
How is that possible? It was only a needle-sized hole. That man must have nicked an artery. I shake my head, blinking. My vision is wonky. Another rush of dizziness sends my head spinning. Blackness threatens at the edges of my vision...
Oh, God. Am I dying? Have they drained me, despite my song? Have I inadvertently drained myself?
As the blackness grows, it becomes harder to focus. My song falters and eventually fails. The wave of magic that had been waiting in the wings rushes over me, but it feels less powerful than before. I guess he must have drawn it back inside himself, saving his energy. He knows I’m so weak from loss of blood that he doesn’t need to crush me. I am already done.
As the room falls silent, the queen straightens, her eyes flashing fury and her smile wide and grim. Now there’s one who won’t hold back. Tarrien’s father places a hand on her shoulder, as if in caution. She shakes him off and faces me. Even with my failing vision I read the murderous intent in her expression. She lifts her hand...
And then a flash of bright silver light fills the air.
Did the queen do that? Did Tarrien’s dad? Judging by the shock that slackens their features, it would appear not.
Hope sparks in my heart as a whole horde of men, dressed just like Tarrien in his dark winter warrior armor, burst into the room. And there is my Tarrien, in the lead, wielding an enormous silver sword in one hand and a wicked-looking dagger in the other. His face is terrifying, and to me, utterly beautiful.
My Tarrien. I like the sound of that. Is it really him? Or is it my dying brain, conjuring up the one person in the world I most want to see right now? The one person I will most regret not getting to know properly in this lifetime.
Oh, Tarrien. I wish we had the chance of a future, together. I think it would have been magnificent.
Too late. Far too late. My mind is fuzzy and I can’t formulate proper thoughts or words. Not anymore.
My song is done.
I collapse onto the bloody slab and warm blackness claims me.
Tarrien
I’VE NEVER IN MY LIFE seen a more beautiful, nor terrifying, sight, than Indie standing up on that blood-soaked altar
in a see-through dress, her lower half covered in blood. Her dark hair streams out as she swivels around to face me.
She’s alive. Thank the winter gods. I am not too late.
Our gazes meet for just a moment, and I see relief, and something more, in the depths of her brilliant emerald eyes. I want to explore that something more, desperately, but now is not the time.
Her face is so white it scares me. Even her lips are leached of color. My brain suddenly registers how much blood surrounds her on that stone slab. More, perhaps, than a part-fae could stand to lose and still survive. She crumples into a tiny heap amidst the blood.
I release an enraged roar. No! I will not let them kill her. I will not.
My bellow echoes throughout the cavernous room and I rush into the throng alongside the warriors who joined me on this mission, swiping left and right and removing necromancer heads as I go.
A row of abominations forms and for the first time I realize this crowd is a mix of wizards, a couple of witches, and warped supernaturals. I pause to count the row facing us. Seven vamps and seven werewolf loups. I point some of my warriors toward a few of the robed necromancers still alive who are scrabbling for the exit, and the remaining five warriors automatically form a line behind me.
Six of us, against fourteen of them. Not impossible, though we need to do this fast, or Indie will not live.
The loups all rush us at the same time, and the sounds of battle fill the air once again. Screams and cries, and metal against bone. Growling and hissing and yelling, and gurgles as some of them die, choking on their own foul blood.
Too late I remember Indie’s banshee magic, amongst all this death and dying. Will she survive that on top of what they’ve done to her, if she is already so weak?
I shoot a glance toward the altar. She isn’t moving at all, and has not made a single sound as all these creatures die around her. That is unheard of for a banshee. Unless the banshee in question is dead.