by E E Rawls
“Hmph. Hercule Dragonsbane,” said the next boy, dripping with aristocratic pride, his pearl-gray hair and layered bangs combed to one side. The air around him gave off a rich, earthy lavender scent to match his lavender vest, white dress shirt, gray cravat and slacks.
His golden eyes burned like that of a dragon’s, almost belittling her, and she fidgeted, quickly looking to the next student.
The tallest and oldest student among them craned his neck her way. “Lykale,” he said briskly. White hair rose around his hairline like an unmown lawn. Rectangular glasses perched on the bridge of his long nose, aqua eyes glowing behind the lenses. He flashed a smile that lacked any warmth.
A stylish tan coat and khaki pants made him fashionable, except for the black choker around his neck with a padlock pendant.
The fourth member rose from his chair to give a cordial bow. “A pleasure to meet you, Cyrus Sole. I am Mamoru.” Lamplight lingered in his red highlights. He winked, and her cheeks flushed. His smile tugged at a viscious scar cut down his lower right eyelid and cheek.
A scar on a vempar?
She almost curtsied but caught herself, bowing her head like a boy instead.
He had a bizarre sense of fashion. His olive skin showed where fabric chunks were missing. “Welcome to Floor Harlow,” he said. “We’re an interesting group, to say the least, but I hope we can still get along.”
She glanced at his black-and-white shoes and bowtie, formally out of place amidst the fabric chaos. “Thank you. I’m sure we will,” she said politely.
What did he mean by interesting?
Before Cyrus took a seat at the edge of the table, she peered beyond the paper screens to see the rest of the dining hall. Chatter echoed and plates clacked throughout the wide space. The other Floors were larger compared to Harlow—having forty or more students compared to only seven.
She could make out a few adults: one vempar man wearing a top hat, and a lady in a sleek dress with serpent patterns.
Gandif had said it was rare for a female to have Ability, but that it did happen. The lady stood out like a bejeweled thumb in the hall. It was a fearful reminder to Cyrus why she was faking her gender. She couldn’t afford to stand out in a crowd like that.
Carts rolled in through a pair of swinging doors at the far back, loaded with silver trays, as servants steered one to each table throughout the hall. At that moment, Master Nephryte arrived, taking the head seat left of Cyrus.
Their dining cart arrived, and Aken jumped up. “I’ll get it!” he said.
The Harlow group stared at him as if feathers were growing out of his head.
“How come when Master Nephryte asks you to get the trays, you never do?” Bakoa began to say.
“Here!” Aken’s fingers splayed, and the biggest tray on the cart suddenly lifted and floated over to the table. With a thump it landed, and a brown blob came out from underneath. The rest of the trays followed suit—more blobs coming out from under them: little clay cranes, she realized.
She watched as they flew into Aken’s palm, where they shrank and he pocketed them, his grin a picture of pride. The other boys shot wary looks his way.
Master Nephryte glanced from him to her, taking mental note of something. He nodded, “Thank you, Aken-Shou.” A faint smile tilted his lips.
Aken’s proud grin faltered.
Cyrus pretended to mind her own business as Aken went back to his seat, and let herself be distracted by the polished trays now lined down the table center.
The thought of food was cheering. But then she had to worry what would be beneath those polished lids, and what she would do about it.
What did a vempar...
—Master Nephryte lifted the first lid—
...eat?
A roasted bird bedded in potatoes, sliced carrots and zucchini, stared up at her. Other trays revealed breadrolls, breadsticks, a heap of fruit salad and lettuce. Cheesecake, cream-filled tarts and croissants for dessert.
Food. Edible food. Delicious food.
Drool threatened the corners of her mouth. How long had it been since her last meal? Her hands darted out like ravenous bird beaks to fill her plate, and she snatched the slab of meat Mamoru carved—ingoring a twinge in her wrist. Plate piled high, she dug in, stuffing her mouth and eating like a starved skeleton, not even letting the fake wood fangs slow her down.
The Harlow boys watched in silence. It took several seconds before Cyrus noticed, and she halted her feasting. That growling stomach of hers had failed to notice no one else was eating yet. Letting down a roll and drumstick from her hands, her shoulders slouched sheepishly.
A laugh carried from one of the neighboring paper screens. “Wow, is there a famine we should know about?” A pair of blue-green eyes watched them through a gap in the screens. “I see the strays have gotten themselves a new Floor member, eh? Tell me, is the redhead normal, or a total weirdo like the rest of you?”
Aken stood, chair shoving back. “Shut your pie-face, jerk, or I’ll do it for you!”
“Bring it on, blond toots! Just don’t let that Scourgeblood of yours get out of control.” The speaker’s head emerged, pushing aside the screen. Aken growled. Both boys looked ready to leap across the floor space at each other.
Master Nephryte raised one index finger, and both froze at the warning. “That is enough of that. Denim, Aken-Shou, sit down and eat your dinner, and be grateful for it.” His voice was hard ice.
Aken glared before sitting back down. The other boy slouched away from the screen and back to his own crowded table.
Master Nephryte clapped both hands together, the sudden noise making Harlow jump in their seats. “Now then. Let us pray before we eat,” he said.
Pray? Oops. Cyrus had forgotten her manners completely. Though to be fair, she didn’t know if vempars prayed, or what they believed. “...M’sorry...” She chewed and swallowed.
The Master gave a reassuring nod. “It’s quite all right, Cyrus. This is your first day here. You already have far better manners than Aken-Shou has ever had—perhaps you could teach him.”
Aken made a sound through his nose before settling back in the chair, still glaring at the paper screen enough to burn holes through it.
Mamoru poured from a sparkling water pitcher, its crystal surface catching lamp light. He bent to her ear as he filled her cup—the scent of amber oil surrounded him. “Those two have been enemies since childhood, back when they lived in the Outskirts,” he whispered. “Denim’s a bully, and he’s related to the prince, you see, and has quite a following wherever he goes.”
Mamoru moved to the next cup, and as he did, a sad familiar feeling washed over her. So, bullying happened even among vempar kids. Cherry-top.
Once Mamoru finished filling the cups, Master Nephryte said a prayer, thanking God for the day. “...And we thank you, Lord, for bringing Cyrus Sole into our Floor household. I ask that You guide Cyrus and each of my dear students along the path You have set before them; that You keep their souls safe and encouraged, close to You, that they may grow to know You more.
“In John 15, You called us Your friends—we, the creatures You created. As selfish and sinful as we are, yet You chose to love us. You provide salvation for any who will accept it, even for a hated race like us. I am grateful to You. You are the Savior of our souls and the true Master of all. Amen.”
The students dove into the aromatic food, though far more dignified than she had. She considered the deep prayer as she chewed. It seemed that Master Nephryte shared the same Bible faith as her. So many humans in Elvenstone were against the faith. Of all the Floors to end up in, she happened to be in one with a believing Master. Gnawing on a breadstick, she let her attention rove across the table.
Bakoa started laughing about something, and Mamoru used a fork to fling a pea at his nose, but the pea bounced off and into Lykale’s glasses. Aken guffawed, and Zartanian hid his mouth behind a hand.
Cyrus found herself grinning for a moment, then smothered it. T
he scene reminded her of a misfit family. But she didn’t really belong here, and the thought of family was a sore spot. She was just here to train her Ability.
She worked on cleaning her plate, getting lost in the wonderful tastes and smells. If vempars ate regular food, how did they get the essence they needed to survive? Without realizing, she mumbled to herself, “Do vempars get any essence out of this?” and licked her fork.
The table fell silent, and she gave a start.
“What do you mean?” The Master’s brow furrowed, though he didn’t look at her directly, while sampling the lettuce.
Fear rattled her rib cage. She fumbled for an explanation. The silence was deafening, their waiting looks piercing.
And then Aken broke in, “Well, I’m not sure how they do things in your neck of the farming community woods, but here we—” he reached over and snatched Lykale’s glasses—“Hey!”—setting them on his nose and speaking in a mock-intelligent voice, “—we take the gathered essence of select organisms and infuse it into our produce. Ngah—!” Lykale snatched them back.
“If you’re trying to prove you have a brain upstairs, then that was pathetic,” the older student replaced his glasses. “You’re as much a scientist as an ape in a lab coat.”
Aken shooed the insult aside. “In normal-people speak, it means Draev groups go out, gather essence, put it in containers, then put it in our food. There ya have it!”
It...was in the food? Select organisms—in other words, the essence of faeryn, humans and other races.
Cyrus almost dropped a potato. But essence wasn’t blood. It was a form of life-energy. So...it should be safe to eat? At least her cover hadn’t been blown.
“Harvesting essence is a dangerous job. Encounters with Argos are frequent lately,” the Master spoke, swirling a glass of sparkling clear liquid.
How was essence harvested? She’d heard rumors. But Master Nephryte looked kind, refined, not like someone who could...
“Harvesting is not fatal. I have never had a casualty,” the Master set down the glass after a sip, as if reading her thoughts. “But some Draevs are careless, taking too much and not valuing the lives of other races. That’s why people hire Argos to protect them.” His gaze darted to Aken, who was making a little clay crane fly back and forth around Mamoru’s head.
“Sounds like we shouldn’t harvest, then,” Bakoa commented.
“It’s necessary for Draevs to harvest, Bakoa,” said the Master. “Vempars live here because of the abundance of essence-filled food. Otherwise, every vempar would be out hunting for themselves and spreading fear, which could start a new war—as it did in the days of old, the Time of Wandering, when our race were scattered wanderers. Things are different today; the kingdom unites us, and the Draev Guardian League oversees our needs.
“Our only worry now is earning money—which is a far easier worry to handle and less life-threatening,” he added. “Being citizens of a kingdom, forced to obey set laws, has brought stability and made vempar kind into a true civilization.”
“Blahhh.” Aken thumped his head against the back of his chair. “History equals boring.”
“How’s harvesting done?” Cyrus asked. “I mean, back home at the farm I never had to, and it wasn’t talked about much...”
Master Nephryte turned in his chair to face her, and placed a hand on her left shoulder. “Harvesting is done through Touch,” he said quietly. “Micro-receptors in the palms of our hands can draw out a living thing’s essence.”
A nervous twinge crept up her back. They used their hands, not fangs? She’d better be more careful. At least her act as an ignorant country boy was proving useful—no one seemed suspicious that she lacked knowledge.
Master Nephryte shifted to address the rest of the boys around the table, raising his voice, “A powerful vempar can use Touch against other vempars, as well—to weaken or drain them of life. This is how criminals are executed: weakened first, so they cannot Heal properly, then hung. Of course, beheading is more efficient...”
Bakoa dropped his fork and clenched his neck with a frightful squeak.
“However,” the Master furthered, “taking essence from fellow vempars is otherwise prohibited—except in cases of self-defense. You should be wary, young students. Vempar outlaws won’t hold back in killing a Draev in this manner. One day, you will have to battle such outlaws as part of your duty to protect the kingdom.”
Her body gave an involuntary shudder, suddenly cold. Becoming a Draev was sounding more and more unappealing.
‘I’ll get out of here once I master my Ability,’ she told herself. There was no reason to stay, once she was sure she could survive on her own out in the world. She sipped the glass of water.
“THIS WILL BE YOUR ROOM.”
The Master halted before one of several doors lining Harlow’s dorm; a rug ran the length of tiles quieting their steps. Coming in from the stairwell, the entryway branched into two corridors: to the left student rooms, to the right a study and the Master’s living quarters.
“You’re next to mine!” Aken said, and swung an arm around Cyrus’s shoulders, which she attempted to evade. “We’re gonna be neighbormates! Like roommates, but neighbors.”
“Yeah, I figured that out.”
As she reached for the doorknob, Master Nephryte asked, “Your suitcase?”
“Oh, this is all I have.” She indicated the backpack slung over her arm. A flash of sympathy crossed his face—the kind you give a runaway. Though it was Aken who carefully asked: “Do you have any family?”
“Not really.” She looked away.
Aken gave her shoulder a squeeze. “That’s okay, buddy. Neither do I. In fact, none of us Harlows do.”
She gaped. “All of you are orphans?”
He nodded. “That’s why people call us strays. Me, Bak, Zartin, Lyk, Maru—all five of us. Well, except for Herc,” he thought again. “But his parents are self-absorbed noble snobs, so I’m sure he feels like one sometimes.”
She stifled a laugh at the odd nicknames. “Was it because of humans?”
“For me, it was. But the others are orphans for different reasons—not that they’ve bothered to share much about their pasts with me.”
Listening, Master Nephryte glanced at a pocketwatch before interrupting. “The hour is late, and I have paperwork to look over, so I’ll leave you to get accommodated. I hope you find everything to your liking, Cyrus. My room is down at the other end, if you should need anything. Sleep well.” He patted Aken’s shoulder, to which the boy grimaced.
She dipped her head as the Master left, then, breathing in, she pushed open the door with her elbow.
The bedroom was bigger than her old one back in Elvenstone. An olive-green bed against the right wall, a backless sofa against the left wall by the window, and green curtains framing a view of Draevensett’s steep rooftops and towers piercing the sky. She went over to the window; below was an open courtyard—a circular garden at the heart of Draevensett. Around it circled a spiral walk, connecting all floor levels.
“What’s that floor opposite us?” She indicated the rest of the fifth-floor across from them, on the other side of the moon-shaped courtyard.
Aken scratched his jaw. “Floor Tathom.” He said it like the name gave him a sour taste.
She ran a hand along the cedar wood chest at the foot of the bed. Other furniture included a dresser, side table and nightstand. A brass lamp sat beside a clock in the shape of a cat, and a second lamp attached to the wall near the ceiling.
Shelves stood ready and waiting to be filled, and a built-in closet left of the door was deep enough for an amount of clothes she’d never owned in her life. Opposite it, a small alcove held a sink and mirror.
She surveyed the perfect room for a moment, imagining a new life, a new start. As soon as she let herself feel excited, though, a sadness crept in. It was all finally catching up to her, all in a rush. One day waking up inside a familiar cramped human room, the next standing in an old fash
ioned dorm in a foreign city...
“It’s just like my room, only my bed isn’t against the wall,” Aken said, his voice cutting through the dreary waves threatening to swamp her. He surveyed the beige walls. “You can borrow some of my art prints, if you want.”
She poked at two items found laid out on the bed: patch-like things in the shape of symbols. “What’s this?”
Aken tapped the large one, “That’s Draevensett’s and the D.G. League’s coat-of-arms.” A fang bearing bat wings, with two white feathers crossed underneath, and a large shield for a background.
“And this,” he tapped the smaller sticker, “is Floor Harlow’s.” A yellow sun with rippling sunbeams and a bird in flight. “You put them on your shirt. It’s so we don’t have to wear school uniforms. Don’t worry, they stay on and don’t get messy.”
“Oh.” They felt silky between her fingers.
Aken studied her sideways, as she dragged her backpack over to the bed, letting it drop on the green rug. She slid down with it, resting her head back against the bed, knees drawn up.
He sat down without a word beside her.
After a long moment of feeling awkward, she worked up the nerve to speak. “I guess I’m feeling overwhelmed. It’s all so much to take in—so many different sights, rules, people...all at once.”
Chased away from her hometown, spending a fearful night in the woods, struggling to adjust to a different culture, and pretending to be someone she wasn’t—that’s what she really wanted to say.
Gaining some energy, Cyrus forced herself back up on her feet and began to unpack. The few contents of her backpack plopped onto the bedspread—including the ruby pendant necklace and stuffed bunny. She fingered each.
“Those look special.” Aken sat up on his knees to see.
“Mementos.” She held the bunny in her arms for a moment, “...Of my mother.” Tucking the necklace inside a hidden zipped pouch in the bunny’s back, she propped it against the pillow. Her knuckle involuntarily rubbed a damp corner in her eye.