“The Court tells you that we are all monsters. Creatures of the night, built from the corpses of men, doomed to feast upon our brethren. ‘You can’t deny your nature,’ they shout. ‘You can’t deny the curse.’
But we know the truth. We know it every time we feel fear, and joy, and pain. When a smile crosses our face, or a tragedy makes us sob, we become alive. And in living, we are not bound to any magic, any nature, any Keeper.
Remember this, the first law of the Unbound: We are always human.”
‘Letters from the First Revolt.’ 14th Century, Author Unknown
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
August, 2004
Aiming her gun is easy when she never takes a breath.
At this hour, London was damp, and misty, and quiet. Club music thundered down the road, and light beamed from the steel tower across the river, but here, on this street? Silence. Rubbish twirling like tumbleweeds. Neon signs flickering on and off. The place was almost devoid of life.
A little bit like her.
Rain starts to fall. Wetting her bright red hair. Steaming on the sign of the sushi restaurant she scans. Ricocheting with little rhythms on the barrel of her L42A1 sniper. She keeps recalling little facts about it, to keep herself calm. Bolt-action. Three feet long. Adjustable sights. Twelve and a half pounds. Every 7.62 millimetre cartridge is capable of travelling half a mile in a single second.
The gun will keep her safe. The gun will keep her living.
Her magazine’s got ten rounds.
Harriet Eddards fixes her trenchcoat, and pulls night-vision goggles over her eyes. The sky starts blinking green. She lifts her hand to her earpiece, searching through the static. Blips of a different world shine through, like ships on the sea. Sandra Bullock and Tony Blair. Olympic medals and polar bears in jungles. Songs about places she’s never seen or feelings she’s long forgotten. It’s the world of daylight.
“- weapons of mass-“
“- This War against Terror-“
A world not for her.
The longer she listens, the louder new sounds emerge. Chimes rustling in the wind. Wood creaking beneath her feet. Buzzing that drowns out the rain. It’s not a part of reality, she knows, but it feels more than it. Soon her vision fogs, too. Amber fields, rolling against themselves. White clouds hovering over a calm, happy day.
“- Losing my head-“
“- third election-“
Windchimes and white clouds.
“- Shia militants -”
“- spinning round –“
Windchimes and white-
“Fireside.”
Harriet exhales. Light and sound slowly settle back in. She taps her earpiece, remembering their codenames. “Blackbird.”
“Is the mission still on? You left your weapon in the drop spot.” The voice on the other end is poised and formal, in a way voices these days aren’t. “Took a lot of effort to get that, you know. My contacts in Najaf-”
“- the gun’s a waste a’ time.” Harriet interrupts, hearing the drawl in her accent. “New stuff’s got too many screens an’ cushions an’ gizmos, it jes’ leaves me confused.”
“Those screens are wind calculators, Fireside.”
“I do the maths in my head.”
“And if that’s not good enough? I know you're ‘old-fashioned,’ but we’re bagging a Reeve here. We can’t leave things to-”
“Janet.” Harriet breaks decorum. “I ain’t gonna miss.”
The other end goes quiet. Lets Harriet hear the rain.
“… You’re on the hotel roof?”
She looks at the Courtyard sign. “Yes.”
“And you weren’t seen?”
Harriet scowls into her mouthpiece. The silence answers.
“He’ll leave at midnight. That’s your best window. And be careful.” Janet hisses. “Germaine FitzGerald might be an oafish boor, but you don’t become the Court’s enforcer without knowing how to fight.”
“Didn’t think ya cared.”
“I need you for other kills.”
Harriet rolls her eyes. “Well, I’m not some sobbin’, traumatised, runaway Kept, so I imagine I’m tougher than anythin’ FitzGerald’s handled this century. ‘Less ya count… hoistin’ bags of bribes.”
“You sound annoyed.”
“I’m jes’ confused,” Harriet frowns. “Why we killin’ him, Blackbird? The others won’t support this. Keaton declared him out of bounds.”
“Aubrey Keaton doesn’t lead the Unbound anymore. Nobody does.” Janet speaks through grit teeth. “And if he won’t wage this war, I will. Tens of thousands look to us. Our freedom’s on the line. It’s hardly the time to play… footsie with our former masters!”
“Keaton only plays footsie ‘cause FitzGerald’s a fuckin’ sham.” Harriet replies. “We hand ‘im stacks, we don’t get loud, an’ he lets the Unbound own this side fer what? A century? What other Reeve’s gonna let us rebuild?”
“He’s a slaver. He’s a rapist. He hunts mortals for sport, and he vomited on my shoes once in 1824. He needs to die.”
“An’ if his death brings a Court army ‘cross the river?”
“It makes killing them that much easier.”
Harriet sighs.
“Fireside,” Janet interrupts. “Do you remember the Revolt? Do you remember what he did?”
Harriet tightens her grip on the gun. Sounds filter through her eardrums: blazing fires, stomping hooves, human screams. She remembers the bodies, impaled and charred and torn to shreds. And the others, dragged back to the Court, to the City, to their former Keepers.
“When you think of our murdered brothers, do you want to hand him a single cent? After all he’s done, you’d grovel at the man’s feet?”
Harriet raises her goggles to inspect her skin. Soft, and freckled. Little rivulets of light, travelling in what were once her veins. Aether. Magic within the blood, shielding flesh that should be dust and moving muscles that should be stone. Preserving her, just like this, until the very end of time.
Normally, aether is dormant, quiet beneath corpse-like skin. But not tonight, not now. Now it blazes with a heat that warms the gun in her hands. A heat that’s almost human.
She doesn’t know what to exactly call this emotion. It’s not quite vengeance. Not quite rage. But Harriet knows that if she shoots him, she’ll feel something.
And that’s enough reason to put a bullet in his head.
Suddenly, sound. Clinking keys and creaking steel. Harriet turns around, staring into dull brown eyes. It’s a boy, Asian, with doughy features below a mat of short, black hair. He wears a bellhop’s uniform, the name ‘Ismail’ on the tag.
He came up here to enjoy a cigarette. It tumbles, still lit, by his shoes.
His vision focuses on Harriet, then the rifle, then her Harriet again. She’s suddenly aware of her dress: the long beige coat, the combat boots, the elbow and knee-pads. They’ll conjure only one word in that boy’s mind. The word they’re always hearing on the news.
He launches for the door, but Harriet moves faster, pouncing with all her weight. They slam into the ground, and still, he struggles. Punching and kicking and clawing her sides. But even though she’s half his size, she effortlessly stays on top. Pulls the uniform’s collar back. Pins his arms down. She hears his gasp as her mouth opens, canines slowly growing into fangs.
She bites him quickly.
Before he can scream.
And then…
… Release.
That’s the best way to describe feeding, for both of them. There’s a little sting, like a needle, when her teeth pierce the skin. But after, when blood flows, everything tastes sweet. She watches the terror leave the boy’s face, his muscles grow slack, hears a little moan of pleasure from his paling lips. Her skin glows through the whole process, his blood transforming within her. Strengthening her.
Eventually, his eyes roll into the back of his head. If she latches off now, he’ll enter a deep, deep sleep. But a part of her doesn’t want to. A part of her wants to take and take until he’s drained whole. The Wilds inside her demands that she feed. But Harriet sets the boy down. Stands up. Watches aether seal the wounds of her bite. She’s used to pushing the voice back.
Even if every decade makes its whisper a little louder.
Harriet leaves him in a corner, tapping her earpiece. “Blackbird, sorry. Had a surprise guest, but he’s been dealt with. Any chance ya can get me on them sushi spot’s-”
Her breath hitches when she turns around. Silently, studiously, an obscenely large raven straddles the barrel of her rifle. Harriet has no idea how it got here so quietly, but it doesn’t stop to peck, or claw, or preen. Just watches her with beady black eyes, furrowed in warning.
In the distance, Harriet hears sirens. Her stomach flips. “Oh, fuck.”
“Fireside?” Janet’s voice rises as Harriet rushes towards her backpack. The raven soars away. “What’s going on?”
“Ashlin’s here. Court’s comin’. They musta figured us out!” Harriet unzips the pack, pawing through a pile of pistols until she finds her pair of binoculars.
“What? No!” On the radio, there’s a manic flurry of keystrokes. “I encrypted every source, took every precaution.”
“They’re closin’ the roads right fuckin’ now!” Harriet pries off her goggles and peers through the binoculars. There’s already a convoy streaming down the bridge. Ten Renaults, all in Met regalia, black against the night. The largest is an open-faced truck, sporting a banner that flaps in the wind. A black sun on a field of gold. Its rays move like tendrils, writhing and living. The New Sun. The Court’s Queen. And standing beneath her sigil, with arms as thick as streetlights…
“Blackbird,” Harriet whimpers. “They brought Cappie.”
Marcus Kiley, South London’s Deputy and Kept to the Reeve, is a tower of a man. He wears a thick beard, suspenders, and a shirt that can barely keep in his massive chest. Holsters litter his body, as unkempt as the custodian’s cap on his brow. He squeezes the Renault so tightly, she can see the metal bend.
Harriet ducks down as tires screech loudly against the cobblestones, followed by the clatter of dozens of heavy boots. She pulls the rifle’s cold steel to her cheek, peeking out for a headcount. One, four, six… ten. Cappie steps down last, burning so much aether that his body glows. Even from five stories above, Harriet can hear his knuckles crack.
“Owen, Baker, secure a perimeter!” He barks in his thick Cockney. They follow without question as he withdraws a handgun. “Lyle, your team’s checkin’ homes. Nobody leaves! They ask, we’s huntin’ terrorists. Francine, Percy, you’re wiff me. Everyone go, go! AND KEEP YOUR EYE FAHKIN’ PEELED!”
She watches the Deputy stride into the restaurant, clicking her earpiece to life. “Blackbird?”
“-stupid, stupid. I KNEW that Najaf sale was too easy. Urgh, and if he followed my bills-”
“Janet!” Harriet can barely keep her whisper. “Cappie’s headin’ inta the shop, ya gotta hack me in!”
“H-hack?” Blackbird pauses. “Hack what?”
“Their cameras! Their systems! I dunno, you’ve got the tech!”
“Th-that’s not… we don’t live in the bloody Matrix! I can’t just thrash my fingers around a keyboard until I magically-“
“Jes’ get me fuckin’ in!”
A moment’s silence, followed by the distant sounds of clicks and typing. “Somebody set their password to ‘password.’ I’ll play you the feed.”
More static vibrates her eardrums, as Harriet slips out of position. She leans the bellhop on the door and shoves a pistol against the handle. It’ll stall for time. Then she’s back on the ground, rifle in hand. Studying the figures she can make out through the tinted glass.
From her earpiece, a flicker. Cappie’s lighting a cigar. She doesn’t need to see him to know the habit.
After all, they once called each other friends.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Blood drips from kanji-filled signs. Splatters onto the cute, smiling mascot that invites them to come again.
At the sight of it all, the human behind Deputy Kiley heaves out his lunch. It’s hardly surprising. These soldiers were Oathsworn, weak, tools and toadies all. Before, an odd few might have been plucked from London for their usefulness, but most were just fools, whoring their souls for a sliver of vampiric power. Now, they’re nothing but what the Keeping allows them. Minds of melted clay, to be shaped by Keepers like him.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
Germaine FitzGerald, the Reeve of South London, leans over the table, his six-inch fangs deep in a woman’s neck. She’s still wearing her sushi chef’s uniform, the hat pulled over her eyes, the white apron stained a deep red. It’s a grisly sight, but at least she’s recognisable. The same can’t be said for the… stains by the counter. They were something, once. Now, just a slab of meat.
Kiley watches with mild interest. Court laws don’t like these kinda massacres. If it were a normal Nocturni, he’d already be taking heads. But it’s Reeve FitzGerald, so even if Kiley wanted to lift a finger… he can’t.
The Reeve finally notices him. Rising to his feet, betraying a barrel-chested body in decades-old fashion. His gilded eyes follow the Deputy’s movements.
“I warned them they shouldn’t refuse me sushi.” He spits out a clump of skin. “Sorry for the mess.”
“I’ll call a cleaning crew later,” Kiley lights his cigar. “But right now-”
“Silence.” Kiley’s lips immediately slam shut. Aether flashes in Fitzgerald’s eyes. “I’m not finished. Have you forgotten basic manners?”
The Reeve kneels back down, his eyes reflecting the same gilded, weaving patterns as Kiley’s. The Deputy stands, lips quite literally frozen, and watches the chef’s corpse shrivel before Fitzgerald licks his lips.
“Proceed.”
“The Unbound’s ‘ere.”
“Which ones?”
“Blackbird.”
“Ooooh.” FitzGerald grins. “Well, I’m glad it’s someone who’s fucking entertaining.”
“Reeve, ‘ese are Revolt vets, not ‘ose tadpoles Keaton throws at us. So I’s suggest you start getting serious, before you get yourself fahkin’ killed.”
“And you’d hate to have that happen, wouldn’t you, Kiley?” FitzGerald crosses the table. “Would rob you of the chance to put the knife in me first.”
Kiley stays silent, his scowl deepening. It just makes the Reeve laugh.
“Don’t worry, Kiley. Your secret’s safe. If we chopped a finger off every Kept with those thoughts, the whole Court would be without hands. But you’re not going to stop me from enjoying this moment.”
Kiley frowns. “Enjoyin’ what?”
“See? You’re from Whitechapel. You don’t even know.” FitzGerald bobs his head. “See, there’s thrill in death. Thrill in killing. You probably bashed some cripple’s head in with a brick at ten years old, you’ve known it your whole life. But I come from a dignified background, Deputy. My palette’s more refined. And I can tell you that the greatest joys aren’t from war or rape or wanton slaughter. Too easy. Too even. No. For a real thrill…”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“... you have to hunt a tiger.”
Harriet stalls her breathing, fixes her aim. The aether courses to her ears, her eyes, sharpening every sense.
“See, walking in the jungle, you feel like a king. The locals keep their heads down, the branches snap beneath your boots. Everything lives in fear of the cold steel in your hands. By the time you see that orange coat, slinking through the grass, you’re already invincible.”
It’s hard not to picture the jungle with him. Towering canopies, zipping critters, sopping wet leaves. Harriet abruptly slaps her own cheek. Focus.
“But the tiger doesn’t get you on its own. No. It waits for the heat. The bugs. The thorns and snakes and moisture. You thought the fight’d be even, but the tiger only leaps at full strength. Only strikes when you’re bleeding from a dozen unseen wounds.”
FitzGerald pauses. The world’s silent, beyond the rain.
“And when its claws rip through you like ribbons, and its bite cuts through your bone, and its roar shakes your ears like nothing in this world, you remember the truth of the jungle. You remember that you’re not a predator.”
Harriet’s breath hitches.
“You’re a rat behind a gun.”
Her chest tightens.
“Scurrying like prey.”
The rifle trembles in her hands.
FitzGerald continues droning on, but his words lose all sound and meaning. Harriet pulls the gun closer to her chest, looping her hands around. Trying to recite the facts, even as the windchimes grow louder.
Bolt-action. Three feet long.
“She’s an animal!” Someone shouts at her.
Adjustable sights. 3x scope.
“-abandoned by God-”
“YOU’VE DOOMED US!”
“Scurrying like prey.”
She grits her teeth, tucks her head. 7.62 millimetres. She’s got ten rounds. She’s got ten rounds.
Eventually, the windchimes grow louder than any voice. Puffy white clouds replace London’s overcast grey. She’s not here. Or in the jungle. Or anywhere between.
She’s just focusing on her gun. Squeezing it, tighter and tighter.
The gun will keep her living.
The gun will keep her safe.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
POW!
The little girl gasps as the tin carton plops into the soil. It’s still smoking from the dent the bullet made.
Harriet lowers the massive rifle Pa gave her and hops fiercely to get his attention. Her fiery red hair bounces with every leap. She wears a wide grin that betrays missing teeth.
A gust of wind roars over the farm, bending grain and slamming wood shutters. Harriet’s happy for gust, a cool salve to the Iowan summer sun. She looks beyond the copse of trees, to the fluffy clouds in a sky as blue as her eyes. All around her are sounds of insects, barn animals, life, the bronze windchimes just a whisper from the porch.
“NUH-UH!” Her brother Billy squeaks, struggling to hold his gun. The barrel of the rifle easily towers a foot over his head. “That was my shot! Yer lyin’!”
“Harriet.” Pa’s voice makes her instantly stand taller. “What’d I say ‘bout tellin’ lies?”
“I ain’t…” Harriet huffs, folding her arms. “Ah, please. Anybody coulda hit that!”
“But I hit it first!” Billy bounces. “Yer jes’ jealous!”
“Jealous!?” Harriet takes a step back.
“Yeah! Yer jealous cuz Pa’s lettin’ me practice shootin’ Injuns with ya!” Billy looks smug. “Think I’m gonna win?”
“You… you…” Harriet’s lip quavers. “I’d never be jealous of a dumbass like-”
Smack! A stinging pain cuts Harriet off. She rubs her cheek, feeling the pink skin, before she dares to look up. A straw hat half-covers her father’s angry glare.
“Harriet Josephine.” Her eyes grow wide. “Where the Hell did ya learn that language!?”
“P-Pa, I-“
“Ya don’t wanna shoot guns, is that it? Would ya rather help Ma cook the meals, or sew quilts with Suzie!?”
“N-no sir!” Harriet clenches her fists, breathing quickly. “I-I-I-”
“Look at me.”
She looks into his eyes. Standing at attention like his little soldier.
“Are ya gonna keep givin’ that lip?”
She shakes her head quickly, tears in her eyes.
“Then apologise to yer brother, now.”
“I-I’m sorry Billy. Fer callin’ ya a swear.”
“An’?”
She sniffles. “A-an fer tellin’ lies.”
“Good girl.” Pa nods, turning to his son. “An’ Billy, my boy! What a shot! Them Dixies march up, they won’t know what hit ‘em”
He ruffles Billy’s hair while Harriet looks at the ground.
“Yer gonna be a soldier one day, jes’ like yer Pa! I can feel it. You’ll make this country… HARRIET!?”
Harriet drops the gun, running across the unkempt fields. She doesn’t care about the wind blowing off her bonnet, or the mud caking the hems of her dress. She just runs and runs and runs, past their targets, and into the trees. Branches cut at her skin, her hand pricks against thorns, but she has to find it. She has to show him.
“HARRIET!” Pa marches his way through the bush, swatting at branches and cursing under his breath. “... little shit… how many times I gotta… gotta…”
He finds her in the grass, resting on her hands and knees. A rabbit lays beneath, one foot stuck in the air, its pelt pristine. There’s a hole where its eye should be. While he struggles to lift his jaw from the floor, Harriet looks up, beaming with pride.
“I wasn’t lyin’, Pa. Jes’ didn’t aim fer the carton.”
Her father breaks into a grin and rushes her, scooping her up in a massive hug. “Look at that. Look at that! Only nine years, an’ my lil’ coyote’s get ‘er first perfect kill!”
Harriet makes something between a scream and a laugh, nuzzling into his chest. “D-does that mean I get the special stew?”
“Special stew?” Pa laughs as he sets her down. “Harriet, Harriet, shot like that? Yer gettin’ more than a special stew. C’mere!”
Harriet gasps as he flashes a knife blade. Four inches of clean, sharpened steel. She reaches out before pausing, looking into his matching blue eyes.
“Ya… I… yer gonna…?”
“Show me ya can skin it,” Pa hands off the knife with a grin. “Jes’ like I taught ya.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
screeeeEEEEECCCH!
Harriet blinks, and the whiteness fades. Her world fills with raindrops and steam and the sounds of tires. Her words are indistinct, but Janet’s screaming in her ear. Her breathing’s uneven, she’s layered in sweat, everything’s so dizzy-
Then, she sees it. The largest van, pulling away and towards the bridge. It’s FitzGerald. Fuck fuck FUCK!
“FIRESIDE!” Blackbird’s buzzing finally forms words. “THE TARGET HAS LEFT THE SITE! DO YOU-”
“SHUT THE HELL UP!”
Harriet grabs her rifle, throws off the earpiece, and sprints, scanning for a clear spot. When one rooftop ends, she leaps onto another. Climbing and sliding, bending and ducking. The wind makes strange noises as she moves faster and faster and faster. Her eyes burst with bright light, aether building in her hands.
Something whizzes past her ear: bullets, several. She turns for a moment, eyes the shooter down. Cappie drops the pistol, shouts a curse. Leaps into his truck, and starts barking orders while the engine roars.
Streams of automatic fire pepper the redbrick of the rooftops. But they’re too wild. She’s too fast. They can’t score a hit. She lifts her gun, looks, fires. Someone screams. Doesn’t look, fires, someone screams again. She reloads like a machine, without stopping, without thinking. A bullet finally strikes her, grazing the forehead, knocking her down. But her aether is primed, pounces on the wound. Sealing her skin just as it starts trickling red.
Abruptly, she slides to a stop. Nearly falls off the roof. Looks down. Abandoned cranes, blocks of cinder. A demolition site.
She’s five stories up, and there’s no more street left.
She watches the van. It’s almost reached the bridge. They’ve stuffed him in the back. There’s no windows, no vantage. Cappie’s right behind him.
Something crackles by her fingers. Harriet studies them, the little sparkling lights. Aether. It’s wild, energised, barely contained. She can use it. She stares at the wall below. Memorising the stones, the graffiti, the mortar, capturing it in her mind. Focus, focus, she’s gotta focus!
She squeezes her fist. Closes her eyes. And when she releases, they erupt into blue flames.
A chunk of the wall has been copied. Reappearing, brick by brick, right on the bridge.
Just in time for FitzGerald’s van to reach it.
Cappie’s car collides an instant later, glass and metal splattering across the street. It caves in the back doors of the first car, which would normally be a problem, but Harriet’s already peering down her sights at the van’s exposed front end. She doesn’t really understand cars - they’re all well after her time - but she can gander what happens if she shoots the big tank.
Sure enough, the front begins to blaze.
It’s a strange thing, Nocturni and fire. It doesn’t burn their skin quite like Sunlight, but they despise it all the same, with an almost instinctive revulsion. Perhaps it’s an aspect of their curse, or a legacy of the Predecessors that gave them this power. But when a flame grows near a Nocturni, every synapse in their mind tells them: ‘run.’
And if they can’t?
Even from this distance, Harriet can hear the thrashing, the screams, and watch the van tilt this way and that. Claws on clothes, teeth on flesh. One human manages to fire his gun, but it doesn’t stop the caved-in doors from getting a few more human-sized dents. One by one, the screams die out, until she’s forced to hear FitzGerald’s claws scratch against steel.
The Wilds took him.
Clanking metal alerts Harriet to the other car. Cappie’s slithering himself through the tatters of a window, his boots gone, hands and feet almost glowing with aetherial light. It only takes a moment for him to spring onto a building, sticking to the side as his fingers dig deep into pure rock. When he starts climbing like a spider, Harriet sucks in a breath. She’s seen those fists hit people.
She’s gotta get the fuck out.
She starts moving when she hears a disgusting sound from the first car. Burning aether. Bending steel. The back doors fling open, and FitzGerald charges out. He’s on all-fours, layered in red, foaming at the mouth. Only when he feels rain on his skin does he stall. S lowly rise to his feet. Sniff the air, and search the clouds.
It’s too good a chance. Harriet lifts her gun. Her aether must glint off the barrel, since the Reeve of South London seems to take notice. But he doesn’t run. Or shoot back. Or even think to shout. He just studies her as she lines up her aim, like a started deer. She’s looking at his eyes down the sights when stands straight.
Opens his arms.
And smiles.
Then she squeezes the trigger, and blows off half his head.
Harriet sighs. The gun slackens in her arms. Already, bits of the Reeve’s brain sizzle on the cobblestones, his body returning to the age aether would never let it take. Suddenly, her legs are jelly, and it feels like she’s only just remembered to breathe. She did it. She actually did it. The Unbound’s greatest kill in at least a generation.
So why doesn’t she feel proud?
She doesn’t see Cappie reach his rooftop. Hear his shout as his Keeper turns to ash. Doesn’t realise how much his powers have grown in just twenty years.
Not until he’s crossed the street in a single leap. And his massive, aether-infused fist collides directly with her head.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Harriet opens one eye to dark clouds and shrieking pain. The other stays closed, layered in something sticky. She tries to scream, but her throat is filled. Tries breathing next, but she must have punctured her lung. Aether thrums all around her, but random sparks show that the magic’s overwhelmed. She turns, with difficulty, towards her hand. It’s resting on concrete, and a growing pool of blood. The demolition site. She’s staring at the husk of a building. Can’t find her goggles, but the sniper rifle is right there. Her hand rises, and falls. Just out of reach.
Something rumbles in her stomach, and she vomits more red.
Her memory catches up to her - the running, the shooting, Cappie’s fist. Falling forever. Harriet starts to get up, but a dizzying amount of pain forces her back. She finally looks down, sees the beige coat in tatters.
Three pieces of rusty, bent rebar stick straight through her chest.
A crash. The loud crunching of gravel. Harriet squirms as Cappie lands a few yards ahead of her, approaching like a cautious cat. She starts frantically reaching for the gun, but her injured groans make him chuckle. He grabs her shirt and hoists her off the rebar. Letting her dangle in the air, held only by his hand.
“Fireside.” He says flatly. “Been a long, long time.”
He flips her over his shoulder. Harriet’s face crashes into the dirt, scratching her cheeks, making her head spin. She tries to flop away from him, but he stops her with a kick, pushing her onto her back and pinning her to the ground.
“What ‘appened to you, Eddards? I still remember when you was Scott’s lil’ girl.” He reaches behind his back. “Scrappy an’ scrawny an’ full o’ life. She wouldn’t work wiff someone like Blackbird. She wouldn’t get ‘erself killed.”
Harriet pales. Cappie’s pulled out a wooden stake, six inches long and sharp like a razor. She starts squirming, until he presses his foot on her impaled ribs.
“When ey’s find Janet, she’ll get torn to pieces. ‘Ey’ll make flags of ‘er fahkin’ skin. But wiff you, I’m bein’ gentle. Makin’ sure you die ‘ere.” He taps the stake against his heart. “You’ll be frozen, you’ll be oblivious, an’ you’ll feel no pain. Not until it’s over. Not until the dawn.”
She tries to speak, but only blubbers. Cappie’s face hardens the longer he looks down. But she notices something past him A large, black shape. Buzzing around the cranes.
A raven.
The bird starts diving just as Cappie squeezes his fist.
“Shoulda kept wiff the others,” he says through grit teeth. “Shoulda known your fahkin’ place.”
Wait for it…
He raises his hand.
Wait for it…
The bird’s halfway there.
Wait for it…
In slow motion, she watches his knuckle move down.
… now.
Harriet screams, and forces her eyes wide open. The aether responds, a brilliant flash of light that makes Cappie pull back. The raven arrives a moment later, flapping its wings, clawing and cawing. Harriet’s dropped like a sack of flour, the pain stinging through her body. She hears a howl from above; the raven pecked Cappie’s eye. The stake’s right there, on the ground, but she’s not sure she can reach it. She’s not sure she can stand.
Then, she springs. First for the wood, then up. Leaping onto the massive figure, screaming into his chest. She levels the spike deep, aiming for the heart. She hears a rip as it tears clothes, a squelch when it pierces flesh.
The momentum brings Cappie to the ground, and Harriet helplessly joins him. Crashing makes her stomach burn, and she heaves again, right on his chest. It’s more bile than blood this time. Once it’s over, she crawls away, eyeing the Deputy’s body for movement.
There’s none. His muscles lay like tree roots. His face is frozen stiff.
It takes Harriet a minute to reach the sniper rifle, and another to stand up. By that point, she can breathe again. She’s using the gun as a crutch, in shock that she’s still alive.
Smaller footsteps approach, run past her. A woman dressed in all black points a Glock at Cappie, kicking his frozen arm. Her face is sharp and focused, and her headset hasn’t left her ears. Harriet waddles over, swiping a sidearm from the woman’s spare holster. It’s a Browning. Has a comfortable weight. She opens the magazine, rubs her thumb over the rounds. Probably 9 millimetre. She counts to twelve.
“Fireside, I…” Janet turns around. “Lord above. What in the blazes happened to you?”
Harriet chuckles, then winces. Thank God for that bellhop’s blood, or the Wilds would drive her to the same madness that took FitzGerald. “Doesn’t matter,” she heaves. “The Reeve’s dead.”
“Then my list is one name shorter.” Janet makes an effort to hide her immense pleasure. But it’s clear in her glittering eyes. She gestures towards Cappie. “But what should we do with him?”
Harriet looks around, searching for the raven. Finnerty knew him better, but the bird’s already gone.
“He knows our secrets,” Janet points out. “Better than anyone the Court has. And with his Keeper dead, his position will be reviewed. They’re gonna make him Reeve.”
Memories of the Deputy pass by, fragmented by time, almost all forgotten. She sees him drinking with Red, sparring with Finn. Flaunting his muscles, singing his shanties, kissing his wife. His wife. She knows he had a wife. But Harriet doesn’t know when she died, and she can’t remember her name.
An image seizes her mind. Looking down the sights tonight, seeing FitzGerald’s grin. In the moment, she gave it no thought, too focused on the trigger. But now…
scurrying like prey
scurrying like prey
scrurrying like prey
Maybe he was tired. Of the jungle, of the Court, of the Unbound, of the Keeping. He was looking for a way out. Maybe he was bored. Of eternal life, of the endless victories, of his own lack of honour or shame. Or maybe he didn’t even understand. Just knew he had to die with a gun in his hands.
Waiting for a tiger.
But suddenly, Harriet can’t feel vengeance, or rage, or anything else. That little something inside her is just static. Wind chimes and white clouds. The Reeve listened to the same stations. Fought in the same wars. Ended up in the same place. Killing not for justice, or joy, but because it’s what he’s always done.
And she doesn’t know any better.
“Leave him.” Harriet abruptly turns around. “It doesn’t matter.”
Janet reaches out. “Fireside-”
“We could shoot a hundred Reeves.” She hobbles towards the waiting van. “They’ll always find another.”