“Those are two individual items on the docket,” is the disembodied reply. “Brother Vulpes and Sister Juniper have decided they would like to experience the Hunt from this side of the line. Personally, I believe it's for the best. In this game, given their abilities, they are far more suited to the role of predator over prey.”
My internal alarms continue to blare, drowning out Alfie's senseless cursing. “Brother Vulpes?” I ask indignantly, with a snort of derision. “I'm sorry, I don't actually know a Brother Vulpes. You'll have to be a tad more specific-like.”
“Brother Vulpes deserved a name more befitting his position in this pride!” Beaumont almost sounds offended, his nasal tone hardening at the core. “And the morn of the Primal Hunt seemed the perfect opportunity to induct him into our family's embrace.”
“All right, so you kidnapped a third of my brigade,” I say dryly, cutting through his crap. “What about Felix?”
“The well-spoken lad?” Beaumont makes a soft noise, almost a 'tut'. “Yes, he was quite the anomaly, if you'll pardon an ill-timed attempt at the humorous vernacular. We decided to spare him, temporarily. Until we can straighten a few things out. But that can wait until after the Primal Hunt.”
“What the wank is a Primal Hunt!?” snaps Alfie. It seems he's finally rejoined the land of the living; it did always take him a little longer to wake up than the rest of us. I can tell he's unnerved, because the opportunity to comment on Rhys' 'straightness' flies completely under his radar. “I've never even heard of the poxy thing!”
Beaumont's laugh is short, clipped, and devoid of any humor. “Why, of course you haven't, you sanctimonious little fool. I think you've already proven how sparse your knowledge of the religion you so crudely claim to practice is. You, both of you, such sad sorry excuses for alpha males. You have proven your detriment to not only this pride, but the Sun Mother Herself. Now be silent, boy. I shall speak only to your captain, and the two of you shall remain silent and still, so as not to waste any more oxygen than you must to survive."
In all honesty, Alfie looks like he may explode. Or implode. Or a combination of the two, taking a five square mile-radius of the Kentish countryside with him. We meet eyes for a brief moment, mine narrow in a clear order, and he exhales loudly.
“Well,” he growls to himself, “that was pretty fucking uncalled for now, wasn't it?”
“What's the Primal Hunt, Beaumont?” I may as well ask, if I'm the only one he's going to be polite enough to talk to after dumping us in the middle of nowhere.
At first, a chuckle is the only answer we receive. Every second we have to wait is agonizing, especially knowing Oliver, Juniper, Rhys, and an entire convoy of possible vulnerable Anomalies and their families are at the mercy of this apparent madman.
“That's Elder Beaumont to you, my dear.”
“And that's Captain to you, Elder Beaumont,” I shoot right back through gritted teeth. “Let's both show a bit of respect where it's due, eh? Regardless of gender or religious affiliation.”
“That seems reasonable,” says Beaumont, his thin voice floating on the salty air. “I do always prefer a healthy relationship with my prey, a relationship based on mutual respect.”
“So, we're the prey then? We don’t get to flip a coin?”
Beaumont scoffs in amusement. “Captain, did you think you're the hunter here? The Primal Hunt of Vetrnaetr is the most important festival in the Novanite calender!”
“Nope,” Alfie mutters under his breath.
“We spend weeks, months even, planning the events of these nights! Which sacred location, the tools with which to subdue our prey, the prey themselves…”
Duncan is motioning for us to all clamber to our feet. We're at the backshore of the beach, where the gritty sand dunes dissolve into rolling fields of soil and wild grass. Magick has to be the only explanation for how he's communicating with us, because there is absolutely nothing in the nearby landscape he could be hiding behind.
“I'm a little bit amused you're bragging about choosing your prey months in advance,” I scowl. “Didn't we sort of all roll in unexpectedly a couple of days ago?”
“Oh, you did,” Beaumont affirms. “And we did. We had an entire flock of prey lined up for what was promising to be the grandest Hunt we have ever executed. They were all prepared to entrust their lives to us on behalf of the Sun Mother, to embark upon a bold and daring journey, to strive and suffer and pass on to a better existence.”
Oh my god, my mind screams at me. But I don't dare to speak the thoughts I'm thinking.
“The convoy,” is my hollow whisper. I'm not sure he hears it. I'm not sure it even came out of my mouth. “You… how could you?”
“How could I encourage those living worthless, miserable lives to chase hope? To be part of something on such a magnificent scale?”
My head whips from one side to the other, eyes flicking between my lads for some sort of sign that I'm not going absolutely insane. Duncan is staring back at me in sheer revulsion, his bearded face twisted and his brows furrowed in deep, deep disbelief. Alfie is far more frantic; he's whirling this way and that on the spot, as if expecting one of them to come at us out of nowhere.
Considering we already know at least the one warrior, Spectre, has the ability to disappear into thin air, that's probably not too far-fetched a concern.
“And while we traditionally prefer prey who are of a more..." Beaumont's disembodied voice peters out for a moment, as if he's struggling to locate the right word, "... equal status to our own, the level of charity we could provide to these lost souls was enough to sway us. It was going to be a special, special year.
“And THEN!” he exclaims, and Alfie physically jumps. Beaumont must have some knowledge of our reactions, because he bursts into a fit of giggles over this before carrying on what I like to dub the Evil Villain's Mandatory Monologue, which doesn't make an appearance as often as Saturday morning cartoons made me think it would. “And then, who should show up but the most tenacious, most enduring brigade of Anomalies to set foot on British soil in generations. Well, we saw it as a sign from the Sun Mother, of course. A reward for our charity, for our decision to put the inclusion and deliverance of these poor folk ahead of our own tradition.
“She didn't just honor us with better prey,” he concludes, tone chilling several degrees. “She honored us with the best.”
To say I'm chilled to my very core would be the understatement of the fortnight, and there have been some fairly good ones over these last couple of weeks. Starting with 'hey Alfie, I think that petrol can’s bit too close to the fire pit', and ending with 'gee, that Beaumont bloke sure seems a wee bit creepy!'
My thoughts rattle around in my skull, a bingo machine of emotional chaos. How? is my only cognizant thought. It's a legitimate one. How could this have happened? How could we not have been more careful? How could someone who claims to be a proponent of a light, loving religion have so much darkness inside of them?
Another concern gnaws at the nape of my brainstem. My stomach writhes, twisting itself upside-down. My lips refuse to work, my tongue not wanting to form the words, and I take a slow breath to steady myself.
“Elder Beaumont,” I demand, as slowly and calmly as I can, “where is the convoy?”
The silence he punishes me with has to be deliberate. Deep within my belly, my gut squeezes itself into an even tighter ball. For a moment, I'm terrified he'll never reply, and that cruel empty answer will be permanent.
“Izzey owes the pride a favor or two,” he eventually tells us. “He had planned ahead to acquire a much more adequate vehicle for their mass transportation. He has taken them to a predetermined location to await their fate.”
“Fate?” Somehow, the word doesn't tremble.
“Oh, please. Worry not, little Captain of Hope,” Beaumont chuckles with a sweetness I refuse to accept as genuine. “They shall have their deliverance, their moment of ultimate glory. We have seen to that.”
Alfie snarls just
behind me. “That's what we was worried about,” he spits.
If Beaumont hears him, he doesn't give him his time. “The coordinates of their position will be broadcast out to the newly-formed Militia of Britain,” he declares proudly, “so that they too may savor the primal thrill of the Hunt!”
“You handed them over to M.O.B.!?” Alfie shrieks, shoving past me, unable to hold his temper any longer. At his hips, muddy hands ball up into fists, smoking for several seconds before each catches ablaze one after the other.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he continues to spit at no actual presence whatsoever, which doesn't dissuade his aggressive and threatening physical behaviour. “You religiously- and mentally-challenged flipping looney tune! Why in the name of the Sun Mother you say you worship so fucking much would you hand fucking Anomalies over to those fucking savages!?”
For a long while, all we receive is silence. The wind kicks up on the beach, only echoing how remote this location is, how stranded and exposed we are. How long will this Hunt last? Hours? Days? How can we find them before they find us, rescue our missing brigade mates, and escape this nightmare?
So much for avoiding otherworldly wankery on Winternights this year, I gripe, allowing myself a moment or two for my poor bitter heart.
“What a tiresome and quite frankly uneducated little pest you truly are,” says the voice we both do and don't want to hear again. “Captain,” he barks at me, “control that mouthy underling of yours. Or we shall be sure to devour him last, and with no honor or sanctity at all.”
Ideally, Duncan would be the one to wrangle Alfie when he starts slipping free of his leash. And I normally wouldn't even have to mention it. But given the massive amounts of one-sided tension between the pair of them, I decide to intercept him myself. I step forward, catching his wrist in my hand, and tug him sharply into my side.
He still has enough of a hold over his temper to subdue himself immediately, to avoid burning my hand. I ensure I take the time to toss him a quick, knowing smile. To let him know I appreciate his cooperation.
“Beaumont,” I address the preacher, my verbiage devoid of any respect it may have once held, “this is absolute bloody insanity. Those are families out there, with children. Families who trusted you.”
“Families who were right to do so,” is his stubborn response. “Families who will soon be in a much better place. A hall built for heroes. A castle for the children of the sun.”
“You're insane,” I repeat, shaking my head. Duncan's hand is solid on my shoulder, squeezing it. “You're absolutely insane.”
“And you're out of time, my dear,” Elder Beaumont announces, the note of finality in his voice reminiscent of door slamming, or a key clicking in a lock. "I would urge you to run, and do what you can to evade us. And when we do find you," he adds, a grim and threatening afterthought, “do what you must to make it worth our while.”
17 Alfie's Righteous Anger
“In here.”
Duncan's big, wall-jumping body makes short work of the pansy-arse door, caving the wood inward.
It's way too flipping obvious! I warned them both several times, not that either one of them will listen to me. They've made that much known. Penny's the captain, and Duncan suggested holing up in a structure and creating a defensive blah blah blah.
And because he's given her more orgasms than me, I guess, she goes with his idea.
“This is dumb as fuck.” I don't bother holding back as I pick my way over splintered shards of wood behind Duncan. I'm shivering from the rain that's coming down, and the howling wind that keeps causing the temperature to plummet. “We're trapping ourselves. We need to find a car or something, get some distance working for us!”
“And go where?" asks Penny in my wake. "We're not leaving without Oliver and Juniper, and we're not leaving without Rhys.”
“I weren't saying—!”
“We're luring them into an ambush,” she presses, firmly. “Into more than they can handle. Once we overpower them, we can force them to take us to our brigade mates.”
“Aye,” comes that vomit-inducing accent from somewhere in the darkness that gets thicker the further into the ramshackle old building we trek, “we want them to find us, eejit.”
I roll my eyes, with a huff I don't bother trying to hide for politeness' sake. Who's to say they'll even find us here? The building itself—an abandoned lifeboat station on the beach—is a bleak, bold, boring rectangle, the inside of which seems to be the set of every American horror movie Oliver has ever made me watch. Sunlight fights to stream through broken office windows, caked in a half-inch of dust which floats on the air like tiny particles of some lost life decades ago. Through an inception of interior doors, Duncan ripping the locks off of each one with a fury I’ve never seen, we find storage rooms, a locker room, and the main... what would you call it, like a hangar but for ships? Is it just a hangar?
Nothing about it really jumps out at me and screams 'vantage point'.
“You know what, mate,” I say, my tone clearly one that isn't in any mood to deal with his ordinary flavor of crude shite, “unless you want me and you to have a little Hunt of our own, I'd shut that big mush of yours.”
Penny's head snaps up from the crate she's rummaging through to shoot me a bitch of a look. But Duncan laughs it off, of course. Why would he take it seriously? Why would he take me seriously?
“Oh aye, that sounds about right for your lot,” he says, hoisting himself up a scaffold to the alighting gangway above, “I'm discovering this weekend yer a wee bit of a violent mob, eh?”
One of my knuckles clicks loudly as I clench both hands into fists.
“Those wankers ain't Novanites,” I growl darkly. Sternly. “I seen fifty shades of Novanism all over this country, north to south and back again, and this ain't it. What this is, it's sick, it's twisted. It's… it's wrong.”
“How do you mean?”
Penny's tone isn't friendly or casual, she's all business. She's rummaging through crates, separating items into a plastic bucket. I can't decide whether the dried mud on her face makes harder to take her seriously, or a damn sight easier.
“Well, you know,” I shrug. I'm starting to shiver less, my natural body heat warming me up now I'm out of the storm. “They look the part, but some of it's just wrong.”
“Do you have an example?” she asks without glancing up.
I huff out a breath. “All right, we got these six basic tenets we live by. They're a bit like rules, but I guess more like suggestions. They're vague as all hell, proper open to interpretation and all that. But the general consensus is the same.”
Penny glances up for long enough to smirk. “That's a big word. Where'd you learn that one?”
“You. Anyway, I heard him banging on about the tenets to poor Oliver, right? Which went down like an indie rock playlist at a Sovereignty gala, as you can imagine. But he kept mucking them up.”
“Mucking them up how?” Penny tilts her head back, calling up to Duncan, “Oi, Dee! You find any lug nuts, hang onto them for me, all right?”
“Aye, Cap,” is the distant reply from above us. Nova only knows where he's gone off to.
I toe-punt a lug nut toward her across the rust-bitten diamond plate. It’s a big one, probably bigger than anything Duncan’s going to find her. “Replacing words, forgetting them entirely. Stuff that changed the point. It's like he learned a completely different version.”
“Or changed it himself,” says Penny darkly.
“Wouldn't be overly shocked. The lines he changed were pretty messed up: 'freed' to 'kneed', and he got rid of the word 'light' altogether. The fuck did light ever to do him?”
Penny snorts softly. “As a Novanite, you think it'd be on the list of things he counts as holy. Isn’t that everything your goddess stands for?” She straightens up and brings her bucket with her to a metal dustbin, lifting off the top. She immediately slams it down again with a clatter that rattles the entire dome-ceilinged structure.
I stare at her, and above us Duncan appears at the guardrail. “Lass?”
“I don't think anybody's been through this rubbish for a long time,” she says sheepishly. “Whatever's in there for us can stay in there."
I snort my laughter out my nose. Duncan sighs, going back to whatever he was doing. I don't really care, it means he's not in my personal space. Or field of vision. In fact, I can almost pretend he's not even here.
“What about the Primal Hunt, what about Vetrnaetr?”
The scorn I answer with would be enough of an answer for her, I think. Even if she didn't listen to my actual words. “I ain't got a scooby what the hell he's banging on about. Legit. I've met loads of prides in my time, and I ain't ever heard of this Hunt thing, not once. Vetrnaetr's a feast, to remember dead ancestors and read fortunes about the upcoming year. Weaker animals used to get sacrificed, yeah, to mark the end of harvest. But this is sacrifice taken to a whole new level.” I stretch my arms over my head, popping and cracking the air pockets in each of the joints. “Bloke's a right kook, he's off his flipping trolley.”
“And he's got the other half of our brigade,” is Penny's weighted addition.
Fuck. She has a point.
Duncan appears from the balcony above with several massive chains looped around his shoulder, landing hard between us. It's a bloody good metaphor for where he fits into my life, I can't help but notice. “Ugh. I'm telling ye, it's a right pish that lifeboat ain't laying around.”
“I imagine it's the first thing that was looted,” Penny says off-handedly. Her mind is clearly elsewhere, and for good reason.
“Now who's the fooking eejit,” I snicker.
Duncan's fist slams into the staircase behind him with an almighty clang that sends Penny and I jumping out of our skins.
“All right, Savage,” he barks, and if I were ever going to be scared of him, now might be the time. Maybe. “I've been putting up with yer long enough and I'm done. Out with it!”
I stare at him, blinking. When I do this, Penny calls it 'gaslighting'. I call it 'baiting a wanker'.
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