“Sovereign (noun): A Great One of such valour, merit, and esteem that the Court have deemed them worthy of independence. On becoming a Sovereign, any Keepings the Great One is enthralled to are terminated; and they themselves are free to take Kepts at their leisure. This is in addition to the allods and royalties customarily bestowed by the Court. As such, Sovereignty is a highly sought-after status, though the selection process has been known to last decades, and certain Magistries, like the Veneficii, are not eligible to take part.
Among the terrorists of the Unbound, ‘Sovereign’ is a pejorative. Yet many of this putrid ilk maintain a hierarchy of their own. Those tyrants who manage to rule that lot through fear and violence are often given the informal equivalent title ‘Freeholder.’”
Excerpt from So, You’ve Been Vamped! A Newlydead’s Guide to the Unlife, 2003 Edition, published by the Magistry of the Scáthshiúlóir
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
1864
Summertime
Her feet stomp through the dust, her clothes still wet from the river. The path is shaded only by steep cliffs and dead trees. She sees the wagon: cracked wood, white canvas. With a grunt, she crawls up the feedbox, ducking inside before either oxen can see.
The farmer was right. One of the axles is busted. Harriet can tell by the way everything leans when she stands. Boxes and glasses and tins, but mostly boxes, stacked so tall she’s terrified they’ll fall over. Harriet slowly sets Pa’s Springfield down, gives another wary glance, and swipes an opened tin. If nobody heard the gunshot, she’s probably alone, but…
The lid slides back. A scent flares up. Harriet’s eyes grow wide.
Bacon. Pounds of the stuff, cured and hard and fragrant. Its mere presence makes her stomach dizzy. She’s about to bite down, when…
The farmer mentioned a wife, a daughter. What will they eat? Who buys their boxes? After she… she…
Harriet bites her lip and shakes her head, finding an empty sack and pouring half the tin into it. She starts tearing through the other boxes to do the same. Rice. Cornbread. Dried fruits. Even a little fresh fish and game. They all go into her sack, until she’s nearly cleared the wagon, struggling to lift the heavier boxes until one spills out and gunpowder. Like black smoke it smears across the wagon floor. Harriet peeks inside the box, spots the musket balls, the little pouches for carrying them.
She tries throwing food out of the sack to fit it, but the box is still too big. She’ll just have to lug it back with her.
The way back is hard. Harriet’s sore, and starved, and exhausted. She tries to distract herself, think about other things, but all that comes are memories of her old pastor’s sermons. How Christians should always help. How they have to cast down thieves. It’s a matter of life and death. Heaven and Hell. Something bigger.
Her brow knots. No. He could’ve been a bandit. The family could be made up. And what the hell were they doing out here in this desert? Packing up their whole lives because a few rebels scared them?
Harriet keeps telling herself this, even as her stomach refuses to calm down, until eventually, one thought emerges. Crystal clear.
It’s not a crime. It’s living.
And so she’s able to leave the wagon, the farmer, and his wife and child behind her.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
August, 2004
The damp and fog have already rolled into London, warm with the summer air. The City is a staid place, smooth stone streets surrounded by elegant marble pillars, and this spot seems much the same. A courtyard tucked between ancient blocks, centred around a fountain. On its pedestal stands a woman, sharp-faced, haloed, pointy-eared. The statue breathes wealth, history, beauty. Most would assume she’s an angel.
But tonight, that beauty is marred. By the black hats and yellow vests of London’s Met, pushing traffic back. By the bankers, accountants, and brokers, desperate to get home after far-too-long shifts. And by the gentle hum of the Rolls Royce, the click of its door, as a tall, lean man walks outside. Pale skin, short dark hair, a sharp vest to match his bow tie. He looks like many of the men he now pushes against, but not quite. His eyes are a little too tired, his smile a little too wide. And if one were to look at him through the fountain’s water, they’d find nothing.
He doesn’t cast a reflection.
“Halt!” One of the cops rushes towards him, holding a clipboard, clicking open a pen. “Name and Magistry?”
“What happens if I don’t provide it?”
The cop looks into the man’s smile. But not for long. It’s an old trick of the aether; pheromones, or something, that makes the air feel cold and shrouds his face with migraine-inducing pain. Useful for preserving Court secrets. Necessary to keep mortals at a wide berth.
The cop tries to explain. “After your associate’s murder, the City was asked to increase their security presence-”
“Theatre, officer. That’s all this is. If we wanted the terrorists gone, we wouldn’t be painting such targets.” He fixes his cuffs. “Bright vests, eh? Might want to strip them off.”
The human’s angry. “If you really think we can’t defend-”
“No offence, officer, but I’ve always understood that fighting crimes has been more of a hobby for ‘London’s finest.’”
That breaks the barrier. Magic can’t contain rage. But when the cop finally pierces the veil, looks him in the eye, fear quickly grasps control. He sees skin that’s grown sallow, black irises with no sclera. An ear-to-ear smile showing razor-sharp teeth.
“Careful, officer.” The man lowers his arms. “I bite.”
Suddenly, the cop yelps. Something cold and slimy slithers past his leg. The man looks down, sees a writhing black tendril. It piles and climbs onto the fountain, cold lingering wherever it seeps. A tiny bronze button clicks, and the whole base starts to tremble. Marble moves, water drains. Soon, the whole structure has opened up, revealing a platform ready to delve fathoms down.
The officer watches it, frightened, desperate to speak. But a thousand whispers interrupt him, light and airy, sending shivers down his spine.
“S'il vous plaît s'il vous plaît-”
“- a wife, children-”
“- I’ll give anything!”
They join the shadows that build wherever the strange man walks. The officer can see faces in the murk. Eyes piercing through the fog.
“I suppose you must write something,” the man says while he passes. His accent is old, impossible to place. “I don’t want there to be any delays.”
When he steps on the platform, the whispers are gone. The shadows disperse. The cop stares at him, pen dropped, hanging on each word.
“Name: Henri Ombras. Magistry:”
The platform lurches down.
“Shadow-Walker.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“‘No, Ombras, you’re just an old tart,’” the Nocturni speaks in a mockingly low accent. “‘They don’t spill our secrets to any old guard. The Court chooses London’s finest. Heh. Finest, my arse.”
He taps his foot impatiently as the platform bears down. On his flanks: two gargantuan statues, soldiers rising dozens of metres tall. Their shields are elaborately carved, their faces shrouded by helms, as if they were mere vessels of their ancient armour. It makes Henri yawn. They must have awed him, once.
But after five-hundred years, no longer.
The platform stops with a thud, cueing a trail of light to shoot out before him. Aether weaves through the floor and walls, visible in glass panes, and grows wherever he walks. As he nears the great salt-brick walls, an ancient carving greets him. Boars, eagles, ibex and bulls, all bowing before a robed man who grasps the beaming sphere of the Sun.
PRIMUS CUSTOS
LUCIS LATOR
Henri studies the mural, the man. His chin juts out and his brows tilt, just like the other statue. How kind of those ancient vampires to so perfectly steal the arrogance that came before them.
As he passes the line of salt etched into the floor, the Court seems to rise with him. Massive pillars, vaulted ceilings, the stonework more impressive and far pre-dating any British cathedral. Aether flows through all of it, its gilded light trapped in lanterns, flaring stained glass, brightening altars. The room is centred around a gilded throne, and an equally jewelled platform that rises high above it. A woman dressed in white sings from there, in a language that all present have long forgotten. The beautiful notes shower over passages filled with whispers.
The platform’s angled, ever so slightly, so that Sovereigns like himself don’t need to see her chains.
There are three kinds of people in the Court of the New Sun, and like so many places, this distinction is kindly made clear in their clothing. Black-clad Sovereigns boast and jeer, sipping from their cups as quickly as their white-clothed Kepts can fill them. All of their outfits range a dozen centuries, though the retainers tend towards less skin. The real low-rung, the Oathsworn, don’t wear clothes at all. Some are living furniture, their bare backs used as legrests or trays. Others are food, forced to sit on stone benches, waiting in terror beneath posture collars that leave their necks open. Blindfolds cover their eyes, their lips are sealed by bands.
And in all this rush of dead and living, despite being the states reason they’ve gathered, the Reeve’s large coffin is completely forgotten.
Henri approaches it, touches it. The smooth stone is as cold as his fingers. He knows that inside is nothing but ash and dust, but he still hopes for a… presence. The Court provided a portrait of the man: a well-trimmed moustache, and a bright red uniform with a tiger’s hide tied over it. Henri tries to remember when he last saw Germaine FitzGerald so poised, and clean.
They must have drawn that when he was still human.
A growl forces Henri to stop, look up. The source is standing in a corner, just behind the throne, his body layered in chainmail, his face covered by an armoured mask. But Henri can still feel the contempt beneath those beady glowing eyes. And immediately understand the message of the hand reaching down for an axe.
“Seems they don’t want me here.” Henri whispers to the coffin, flashing the armoured man a Cheshire Cat smile. “Alas, I only came here to tell you…”
He taps the coffin and leans down, his voice barely felt on the stone.
“Brûle bien en enfer, Germaine.” He smiles vilely. “Je serai toujours là, à respirer.”
And with that, Henri stands up, brushes his coat, and slowly slinks away.
He’s choosing his vintage from the serving Kepts when he catches the silence, the shift in the air. Henri searches the crowd for friendly faces, or even someone tolerable. Nothing but stares and covered mouths. Seems like many of the Court’s whispers are now about him.
And after the Shadow-Walkers paid for this? How welcoming.
“Ombras.”
“Deputy Kiley!” The heavy voice made Henri flinch. But he’s more impressed than startled. Rarely can someone catch him so off-guard. He forces a grin. “Though I hear you won’t be Deputy for much longer.”
Marcus Kiley’s muscular arms are folded over a half-buttoned shirt . His clothes are white, but no Sovereign would be stupid enough to give orders to a man with that kind of glare. Two tendrils shoot from Henri’s arm, curling over glasses of ‘wine,’ but Kiley lifts his hand.
“No phanks. I prefer to hunt wiff me own hands.”
“Not unwise in your position,” Henri sips. “You have to stay in practice.”
Aether is always stale when the blood within has cooled. But still, Henri can test the destitution of whatever poor sod this was taken from. It makes the drink sour.
“I heard that you’ve been considered for Sovereign status. Congratulations!”
“Only took me a hundred eighty years.”
“Temperance, Kiley. You’ve been with us only twenty. And the Court so rarely receives Unbound… converts. You can’t deny them their caution.”
“Heh, true. ‘Ey don’t trust outsiders.” Kiley smirks. “S’pose ‘at’s why ‘ey never promoted you.”
Henri blinks, lets the barb slide. Then makes his smile a little wider. “The Shadow-Walkers have found a valuable place in the Court-”
“- A job ‘at no-one wants-”
“Not every Kept can smash skulls quite like you,” Henri tilts his head. “But they still have the right to try and become Sovereign.”
“Yeah, so ‘ow many ‘ave tried an’ proved ‘emselves this year? Phirteen? Twelve? From a pool of thousands?”
“A chance is still a chance. But we sidetrack.” Henri’s smile fades, and he gestures to the coffin. “I wanted to offer my condolences.”
Kiley snorts. “You’d be the first.”
“Your feelings towards him might be complex, but losing a Keeper is never an easy transition. As a Porter, I’ve seen this struggle in many. I have resources-”
“I ain’t ‘bout to start bein’ some Shadow-Walker’s bitch.”
“You wouldn’t be. We need to foster a relationship, Deputy. FitzGerald and I’s bond, it won’t be easily replaced.”
Kiley laughs again. Longer this time. Forcing Henri to stand awkwardly.
“...One fing I fink I will miss ‘bout ‘at codger, compared to youse tight cunts. The Reeve told it like he felt. And he fahkin’ hated you.”
Two insults, then. Henri’s struggling to keep the fangs in. “I-”
The doors of the gate open, and a wave of sound rushes over. A horde of Nocturni push through the doors, dozens in all, their light skin and fluid movements betraying their youth. More than a few servants drop their trays and rush to join their comrades. They swarm over a man with a dark hat, a scabbard sword, and a blue coat littered with medals. A black scarf is all he wears to keep decorum, and he pushes through the Kepts with a singular purpose, even as they shout his name.
“Captain Morris-” “-Captain Morris-” “-Captain Morris!”
“Look at ‘at,” Kiley frowns. “Scurrying like rats on a capsized ship.”
Henri barely hears him. His focus pinpoints the marks on the Kepts’ skin instead. Cuts, and bruises, and more beneath their suits. The professional way they plead does nothing to hide the desperation in their voices.
“Captain, please, five minutes of your time-”
“- I had some ideas -”
“- you have to help me.”
Henri barely speaks. “Sailors always know where their ships can find safe harbour.”
When the Captain nears the altar, he kneels down, whispers a prayer. The Kepts continue to loudly surround him. Henri can feel the scowls of the Sovereigns around him. Disturbed, obstructed, indignified.
“Why’d ‘e host ‘is funeral, Ombras?” Kiley folds his arms. “Don’t look cheap. An’ we boff know he ain’t here to pray.”
“Reeve FitzGerald and the Captain maintained a strong professional relationship -”
“He told the New Sun ‘e wanted FitzGerald gone.”
“Magisters often have responsibilities that go beyond their opinions.”
Kiley laughs. “Then Morris is the only fahkin’ Magister who ever thought to bear ‘em. Cah’mon, Porter. Be honest, for once. You, him, all this. It’s image, right? Offerin’ bread an’ circuses to distract from the link youse got wiff FitzGerald’s killers.”
“Are you implying something, Deputy?”
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“Implyin’ is a bit too subtle for what I’m after.”
Henri takes a step back. Hardens. Perhaps Kiley’s not ready for Sovereignty, after all.
He still doesn’t know how to play.
“I could tell you, Deputy, that Morris has never contacted Fireside. That his relationship with Blackbird ended the moment she Shorned us. That his heroism in the last Revolt should have permanently assuaged such suspicions in everyone. But, frankly, I know you don’t care. So instead I will warn against barking so accusingly, when your links to the Unbound are quite the more clear.”
Kiley furrows his brows. “I’ve proven-”
“What was the Hermit King’s name, Kiley? The one who made himself tyrant of the slums, lord of the East End? Who fed and raped and killed from whoever he chose, while you stood by and guarded him.”
“Ratcatcher’s dead. I-”
“What of his get? The Freeholder, in Bethnal Green? The Oathsworn report mentioned ravens on the site. Can you remind me how exactly she controls them?”
Kiley flexes his shoulders, and growls, fangs showing. Henri maintains his posture.
“Sorry to bring up old wounds.” He smiles. “I know you two once shared a Keeper.”
“Your plan’s not gonna work,” Kiley hisses. “Market yousselves ‘owever you like, it won’t make ‘ese Sov cunts forget why ‘ey don’t trust you.”
“Perhaps we’re not marketing for them.”
“Porter Ombras?” A soft, squeaky voice pulls both men from their parlay. It’s a young man, with bundles of paper close to his chest. He dresses like most Kepts these days: sharp, professional, even trendy.
“Oooooohh.” Henri turns. “Finally, I get called on for a turn!”
The boy meekly nods, stares at the ground. That’s when Henri notices the bite marks around his collar bone. Likely ‘gifts’ of ‘love’ from his Keeper. “I-I just need a-a-a few moments of your time-”
“Well, don’t waste them stuttering.”
The boy turns red. “My K-Keeper said the Court wants me to be more useful. So I-I’ve written together a f-few proposals on s-streamlining the Oathsworn process.”
“Oh. London’s Met leaving you unimpressed? I was just thinking the same thing!”
“I-I was hoping to present them to Magister Morris, but the C-Captain’s a busy man-”
“That he is.”
“- so I was wondering if you could make an introduction?”
He can feel Kiley smirk behind his back, but Henri takes it in stride. Grasps the nervous boy by his shoulder and tries to not notice that signature Kept twitch. “I see. You want me to, er… what’s that term the mortals have?”
“Networking, sir.”
“Network him!” Henri pushes the boy along. “Well, young one, I too am a busy man, but I can respect someone so clever-”
“Ombras.” Henri turns again. Kiley’s scowling. “If ‘ese young knew half of what Morris’ done, ‘ey’d sprint away in fear.”
Henri feels the boy quiver, his glance shifting between the two men. But the Shadow-Walker merely points beyond. “Look at that mural behind you, Deputy. Can you read what it says?”
They both study the back of the Court’s gates, a display almost as stunning as the one in front. A tall woman, with greying hair and a rich dress of black and gold. From her back juts out a glittering bronze halo, and creatures of all kinds kneel towards her, just like her forebear. The desire for continuity is obvious - she even holds a ball of aetherial light.
But there’s a single break from Lucis Lator’s beauty, something that immediately catches every viewer’s attention. The eyes. No haughtiness. No pride. Just piercing intensity. Henri reads out the words on the bottom:
“Ego sum Sol Novus. Timete me sicut vos timete aurorum. I am the New Sun. Fear me as you fear the dawn.”
Henri meets Kiley’s eyes, keeps the boy back.
“So if you think Morris would terrify these Kepts, Deputy, I’d say they’re terrified already.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“God fuckin’-” Harriet Eddards sighs as the keys tumble from her hands, clattering against the door. She presses her head to the wood and starts slowly kneeling down, but the pain in her chest turns biting. Putting a hand on her belly, she can still feel the holes. Her clothes might have changed: combat boots, coveralls, a Green Day t-shirt she found stuffed in Janet’s van. But her aether’s spent, and a wound like this will take more than one night’s healing.
“Come on!” She hisses, trying to kick the keys up with her boot. She’d consider asking the neighbours for help, packed as they are in the borough’s tight homes and highrises. But they’d just ask why she’s so pale. “Ya lousy-”
A loud squawk and flurry of feathers send Harriet leaping from the porch. She nearly unslings her rifle, until she spots the intruder. A gargantuan two-and-a-half foot tall raven, its plume midnight black, its eyes glowing with trace amounts of aether.
“H-Howdy Nancy…” Harriet raises her arms as the corvid settles on a dead plant. “P-P-Promise, I ain’t-”
Harriet’s eyes flash as Nancy leans forward, the keyring held firm in her beak. The vampire smiles.
“Well look at that.” She takes the keys and slides them into the door. “Guess ya finally decided to get off yer scary streak.”
The moment the door opens, Nancy takes off, swooping into the kitchen. Harriet’s quick to follow, once her nostrils… adjust. Aisling Finnerty’s home smells like its owner; a permeating mixture of sawdust and wet cat. Several rooms are filled with piles of… things. Clothes and beer cans and fast food bags, sometimes so tall that Finnerty will slide into them like a fish and fall asleep. Every step Harriet takes comes with a tiny crunch of crumbs or broken glass. It’d be a hazard to her health, if she wasn’t already dead.
But, through painstaking effort, Harriet has managed to turn the living room and kitchen into a relative isle of cleanliness. She throws her gun on the sunk-in couch and turns to Finnerty’s - as usual - abandoned pile of mail. Finnerty likes to ‘opt out’ of the post office, just like she ‘opts out’ of the bank, the neighbourhood potluck, the Kirby sales pitch - anything involving people. But, as those poor Kirby salesmen learned, ‘opting out’ isn’t always pretty, so keeping up with the Joneses has fallen mostly on Harriet’s shoulders. She might only stay in the house once a week, but most mortals think she’s the owner.
“Bills, bills… kind of ya ta not feed on the Mormons this time, Ashlin’... what’s this?”
It’s a conspicuous envelope, with yellowed paper tucked within. Finding no return address, Harriet opens it cautiously, unfolding the letter to reveal…
“Nuthin’.” Harriet squints, holds it up to the light. “Who the fuck sends an empty letter?”
Tok. Tok-tok-tok. Harriet turns to find Nancy perched on the fridge. The raven looks at her, pecks the plastic, then looks at her again.
“Ohhhh, no. Mm-mm. Not gonna happen.” Harriet folds her arms. “Yer jes’ pretendin’ ta turn over a new leaf, right? Hopin’ I’ll forget?”
Nancy makes a low growling sound, then works even more intensely. Tok-tok-tok-tok-tok-tok-tok!
“Every time. Every goddamn time. Ya gimme that look, ya say, ‘No Harriet, I’m serious, I’ve changed.’ An’ then I open the door an’ what do I get? Bites an’ claws an’ shit in my hair. Ya think I’m fuckin’ dumb?”
Nancy tilts her head, making her best puppy-dog impression.
“Yeah, keep makin’ that face, birdbrain. Hope it works on yer ma.”
Harriet huffs and turns away. For a few seconds, she hears light scratching. But it’s followed by soft, sad coos. They almost sound like whimpers.
A few more seconds pass.
Harriet turns to open the fridge.
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“Fine, fine!” Harriet pulls out a bowl of corn, the only thing Finnerty ever keeps in stock. “But yer only gettin’ a handful, cuz the last thing I need is - AH!”
The moment she opens the lid, Nancy pounces. Everything becomes a blur of claws and wings. At one point, the bird pecks open her finger, revealing a thin trail of blood.
“YA FUCKIN’ - SEE, SEE! I KNEW I-”
The bird flaps away when Harriet’s hand hits the table. Harriet snarls, triumphant, but the victory proves short-lived. There’s a loud sizzling sound by her finger. She looks down slowly, and notes how her blood has smeared the blank page. Runic symbols appear in bright colours, the whole sheet swirling. Her eyes grow wide, and she hurriedly grabs the paper.
“Shit. Shit! SHIT!”
She throws it towards the pile of beer cans just as the letter ignites, a flare so bright it leaves spot-marks in her eyes. Just as quickly, the flames die down, and the paper somehow turns into something intact. Harriet gasps for air.
“POISONED ONES!?” She huffs. “JEEZUS CHRIST!”
The veneficii, or Poisoned Ones, were the Court’s most enigmatic servants. Powerful beings who, without rhyme or reason, seemed to control aether as easily as others breathe air. But that control was unstable, barely leashed by the Court through the Keeping and a blind, fanatic loyalty. They were known universally as rats, and thus were rarely an Unbound’s friend. But… magic pipe bombs? In the mail?
Was it retaliation?
The ground around Harriet starts to rumble, and she watches the silverware shake. A heavy base pushes through the window, joined by a roaring engine and a chorus of howling laughter. Harriet grips the table.
Finnerty brought her friends.
The front door swings open with a kick, immediately magnifying the bass. Nancy dives through the air and perches on the shoulder of a teenage girl, maybe twelfth-year, with a short brown bob and a brown trackie. An entourage of young boys follow her, sporting black sweats, ball caps, face-scarves, and a few too many layers for summer. She sets a half dozen shopping bags with a dramatic bow, while her crew stare at Harriet with cat-like yellow eyes.
“‘Arriet Eddards.” A tongue rolls over Aisling Finnerty’s fangs. “We’s present to you the finest fookin’ gifts of the movverfookin’ Blockbustah.”
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Harriet greets them with an awkward smile, trying to ignore the lead pipes they’ve brought in. “Hey Ashlin’.” She peaks over the crew, to an unmasked young blonde, hiding behind his mates. “Oh! Howdy, Andrzej!”
The boy, newest to Finnerty’s flock, flinches at her words. But he manages to whisper something in Polish. “... Cześć.”
Another man climbs the front step behind him, arms filled with bags of Doritos. His buzz-cut is a good two heads taller than the other boys, and three heads above his employer.
“Bird,” he says, with a thick accent. “Where’m’I slappin’ the crisps?”
“The fookin’ couch, nudnik! What, youse gonna ‘low it in me fookin’ garms!?” Finnerty’s way of speaking - a gargled hodgepodge of Cockney, wildly thrown swears, and foreign words - borders on unintelligible at the best of times. But with her ‘mandem,’ or whatever she’s calling them now, it somehow gets infinitely worse.
Harriet steps aside to let the tall boy, Jayden, through. “Didn’t realise we were hostin’ a party.”
“Bet Man don’t fink much ‘bout most tings, innit?” Jayden replies, causing the other boys to laugh. Harriet knows she should be offended, but honestly, she can barely understand.
“Ah… an’ how ‘bout yerself, Jayden,” Harriet folds her hands. “Things doin’ well?”
“Sure.” He glares at her beneath his face-covering. “But a bit less wiff you.”
Harriet shrivels back as he marches down the hall, giving Finnerty a fist bump and pulling the boys out behind. The Freeholder waits for the door to slam shut before she stops nuzzling her bird.
“I’d hug ya, but…” She points at Harriet’s chest. “‘Fraid somefin’ might stick through.”
“It’s the accent, right?”
“Wuzzat?”
“Yer friends? The, uh…” Harriet lowers to a whisper. “The coloured ones? Issat why they don’t like me?”
“The col-... you mean Jayden?” Finnerty snorts, shakes her head. “Naw, naw, Man’s just takin’ piss. ‘E’d never-”
“You see ‘at gun Fireside swingin’ ‘round?” Jayden’s voice breaks through. “Bitch fahkin’ mental.”
“She’s schitz, man.”
“Don’t know what Bird be seein’, bruv. Peng ting like ‘at ain’t worff-”
The car’s engine cuts them off, but Harriet stares worriedly at her friend.
Finnerty merely shrugs. “I mean… maybe it’s cuz youse callin’ him ‘coloured.’”
“I - no, no, it ain’t like that, Ashlin’. I’m old, but I ain’t got no problem with-” Harriet stops, scowls. “Actually, no. If yer gonna lecture someone, start with the damn bird.”
“Don’t slander Nance! Girl’s a gem!”
“She attacked me! Again.”
“An’ you prolly fookin’ earned it. Bitch got priorities. Now sit down and quit kvetching. Don’t wantchu walkin’ off and getting fookin’ impaled again.”
Finnerty waltzes off to the kitchen with her strange gait - hopping on her toes, bouncing side-to-side - while Harriet collapses onto the couch. She watches her friend strip off her hoodie and open the pantry, a space equally full of corn.
“Any chance I’ll get ta see the real Finnerty?”
“No. ‘Cause no one wanna see the ‘real fookin’ Finnerty’.”
“I ‘fookin’ do.”
Finnerty glances back with an exhausted grimace, which Harriet returns with a smile. The Freeholder sighs, flaps her arms about, and stands still while bright aether floods her entire body. The human-like shein Aisling Finnerty wears vanishes wherever magic touches it, revealing dark wispy hair, sharpened claws, dozens of scars, and skin that’s pockmarked, cragged, yellow. Her face shifts even more, her ears elongating to points, her jaw shrinking into an overbite. Rich black feathers sprout along her arms and legs, turning thick and fuzzy by the chest. Finnerty’s eyes take an eagle-like hue.
“‘Ere.” Finnerty brusquely pulls out a bag of popcorn. “Your fookin’ magic trick. ‘Appy?”
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“Very. An’ speakin’ a’ magic tricks, best be careful. We got Poisoned Ones.”
“Ah, fook.”
“Sent a letter through the mail that nearly blew my fuckin’ face off. I think-”
“It look cool?”
“-my blood- wha?”
“The magic? Fire, sparkles, ‘at sorta shite?” When Harriet scowls, Finnerty bobs her head. “Mans make some fookin’ scenes, I’m just sayin’.”
“Well, the letter’s right over there, if’n ya wanna read.”
“Pffffft, fook no! Fook the Veneficii.” Finnerty slams her popcorn into the microwave. “Slytherin-ass little freaks.”
The microwave roars to life, and for a few seconds Finnerty watches it, mesmerised. Like it might start spewing liquid gold. Harriet squints, confused.
“Uh, Ashlin’? What’re ya doin’?”
“I’m makin’ popcorn.”
“Fer yerself?”
“It ain’t for the fookin’ Queen.”
“But yer dead. Ain’t ya jes’ gonna throw it up?”
Finnerty mimics a high-pitched voice. “‘Ain’t ya jes’ gonna’... bitch, I don’t care! It’s fookin’ Movie Night! We has toilets!”
“Movie Night?” Harriet looks at the bag. Sure enough, a DVD case has edged out. She can read the title beneath the blue Blockbuster sticker. “Really? Spider-Man 2?”
“Don’t say it like ‘at. It’s Spider-Man fookin’ 2. You’re gonna love it.”
“But the first was so cheesy-”
“IT’S A SUPERHERO MOVIE!” Finnerty bounces. “IT’S S’POSED TO ‘AVE FOOKIN’ CHEESE!”
Harriet gasps when she sees the clock. “Ashlin’, shit, we can’t watch a film! It’s four-thirty! Sunrise is in an hour-”
“We’ll pull the fookin’ curtains.”
“It’ll put me in a deathsleep-”
“So tell the Sun to go fook itself! You ain’t its fookin’ bitch!”
“Ashlin’,” Harriet whimpers into the pillow. “I wanna heal.”
“I’ll heal you wiff me fookin’ jokes, an’ me insightful critiques of the film’s themes. ‘Sides, can’t stall. Tomorrow’s Game Night.”
“Game Night!?” Harriet rockets up, but the pain in her chest sends her straight back.
Finnerty points at a mysterious black box by the television. “The fook you fink I got ‘at PS2 for!?”
“But ain’t vidya games fuckin’ kids’ stuff?”’
“Kid’s stuff? Kid’s stuff!? This ain’t fookin’ teddy bears, Eddards! This is real fookin’ life!” Finnerty reaches into the Blockbuster bag, waving around a dramatic cover. “Look, look! Castlevania: Lament a’ Shadows! You play as a vampire hunter, it’s like fookin’ trainin’ for us! And see? It says ‘PEGI Twelve-Plus!’ ‘At’s us! We’re Plus!”
“But… I-I ain’t ever played a vampire game before-”
“And ‘at’s fookin’ fine. You can fookin’ watch!”
“Ashlin’, if ya wanted me ta watch all these movies an’ games, why didn’t ya invite me at nine?”
“I was busy.”
“With what?”
The microwave dings, and its door slides open. Finnerty greedily scratches the top off with her claws, speaking between bites.
“Somefin’ important.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“ARRIGHT EVERYONE! THIS IS A FOOKIN’ ROBBERY!” Finnerty fires her pistol, smashing a lightbulb and raising the shop’s alarm. “TONIGHT IS A FOOKIN’ MOVIE NIGHT, AND I’M ALL OUTTA ME BLOODY FOOKIN’ CRISPS!”
A half dozen boys leap out from behind her, knocking down shelves, splitting bags, smashing glass. They scoop up armfuls of cheap crisps and sprint out, sometimes using aether to move at super-speed bursts. Finnerty eyes a can of Pringles, barely noticing the manager and cashiers cowering behind her. That tweaker’s blood gave her a great fucking high, but she’s coming back down, she’s antsy. She’s about to pop her trophy open when she catches two boys, struggling to carry a TV.
“Oi. OI!” Finnerty rushes towards them, flailing her gun. “What the fook does Mans fink ‘eyse doin’!”
“Look at the tag, geezer!” Jayden points to the shelf. “It’s fahkin’ seven-’undred quid!”
“An’ youse slap it down, right fookin’ now, an’ fill youse fookin’ arms wiff me movverfookin’ snacks!”
She turns, and her eyes twitch. Corn. Rows and rows of corn. They just stack it up like that, piled in the fridge? Four gunshots demolish the glass barrier between Finnerty and her birthright. She hovers over the cobs, hopping from foot to foot, before sliding them wholesale off their shelves, and bundling them into her trackie.
“‘Is night.” Her nostrils flare, still reeling from coke. Her eyes are bloodshot. “‘Is fookin’ night-”
She freezes. New sounds. The manager’s on the phone, cursing to himself in Bengali. The cashiers squeeze themselves right behind. Finnerty scowls. That won’t do. That won’t FUCKING DO!
“Hello, hello! My name is Rajendra Bose, I own store on Victoria Square. Please, you have to-”
Finnerty’s landing sends all three mortals back, so loud and heavy that she cracks the counter’s glass. Her eyes glow menacingly as she tilts her head, lifting the gun sideways, never leaving her squat. She must look so cool. One of the cashiers - ‘Eugenijus’ - seems ready to piss his pants.
“Evenin’. Labas. Salam.” She tries to catch all their tongues. “Rude time to call. Can’t see we’s in the middle of somefin’ major?”
The manager doesn’t respond, his phone rattling in his hands. Finnerty slowly reaches over, plucks it up with two fingers, and brings it towards her ear.
“Lucille, right?” Her eyes spark. “‘Eyyyyyyy! Wagwon, what you say? Oh, ‘is? It’s nuffin’. I’ll make sure to give you an’ the kids a lil’ back-to-school bonus.”
Aether coursing through her hand, she smashes the phone beneath her fist. The manager’s hand is still extended, so she gently drops in the largest pieces.
“Word of advice, for next time we do this.” She lets her tongue roll dramatically over her fangs. “When you call 9-9-9, youse gotta ask for someone I ain’t bought. Try Brian.”
She smiles, winks, and then leaps backwards. Off the counter, and into the night.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“Ya showed them yer fangs?”
“Yeah.” Finnerty cackles. “And it really fookin’ spooked ‘em!”
Harriet’s gone pale. “A-An’ did ya forget that we have rules ‘bout these sortsa things?”
“What, ‘eyse gonna call the cops? Fink me lil’ show mighta perished the option!” Finnerty makes a clicking sound and fires a finger gun. Laughing to herself, she then proceeds to peck out pieces of popcorn from the bowl by her knees. Harriet sighs and buries her brow in her hand, until eventually even her friend notices.
“Oiiiii, ‘ey! Don’t give me ‘at!”
“If ya put in a tenth of the effort you give ta robbin stores anywhere else-”
“I fookin’ did!” Finnerty slams the popcorn bowl dramatically. “I built me mandem, bought me house! An’ look, look, right over there!”
Harriet turns to where she’s pointing, a framed diploma awarded for ‘Community Development.’
“I went to fookin’ uni!”
“With Ratcatcher’s money-”
“Which I ‘ad to find!”
“After he gave ya the bloody key.” Harriet sighs. Finnerty opens her DVD player, not even bothering to look back.
“Not like you’ve found your fookin’ zen eivver,” she hisses. “Ploughin’ ‘round Court Town, shootin’ ‘eir fookin’ Reeves.”
“FitzGerald was walkin’ all over us. I had ta stop it. We’re at war.”
“What fookin’ war? The war we lost?” Finnerty turns back. “They grow, we shrink. Every year. ‘At war only exists in a century-old history book and youse crazies’ fookin’ heads.”
“How many Nocturni live in this city? Ten thousand? Twenty? An’ how many a’ those are slaves to that goddamn-”
“Not enuff to be me problem.”
“But one day, it will. They’ll come marchin’ in with their tanks an’ cars-”
“No ‘ey fookin’ won’t! Which you fink ‘ey care more ‘bout, Eddards? Their Smaug-ass vaults of wealth, or me an’ me street friends?” Finnerty scowls. “Only fing ‘at’s gonna change their minds is you and ‘at goddamn madwoman slaughtering folk like it’s fookin’ Fallujah!”
“Yer only sayin’ that cuz Cappie-”
Harriet cuts herself off. The air’s grown thick, and Finnerty’s eyes are wild. The Freeholder’s lips start to tremble, even as her brow bends.
“Sh-shit. Ashlin’, I-I didn’t know he was there. I’d never-”
She’s interrupted by a swipe of fabric. Finnerty’s pulled up her sweatpants to reveal a feathery leg. Strange blacks marking riddle the ankle; runes, writhing across the skin like smoke in lamplight. Harriet can read them clearly, even in a language she can’t name.
‘Aisling, Kept of Zalman.’
Harriet turns away. “Ashlin’-”
“Look.”
“I-I don’t wanna see-”
“Look.”
Harriet bites her lip and stares. Finnerty slowly relaxes, her eyes stern.
“Ugly, innit? Well guess what? It don’t come off! I get to walk ‘round wiff it for the rest of me fookin’ life!”
“I-I’m sorry-”
“You see ‘at Pole kid, Andrzej? Too scared to leave ‘is trackie, jumpin’ at fookin’ owls? You know ‘ow a Keeper does ‘at to a man? ‘Ow easily you can fookin’ break ‘em?”
“Of course. Half the Unbound are Shorn. I understand-”
“No, you fookin’ don’t! You don’t know what it’s like to ‘ave every choice ripped from your fookin’ skull. Existing on someone else. Bein’ there’s, forever! ‘At’s the fookin’ fate of every poor goddamn sod ‘at walks into Court Town. And yet you tell me off, while you keep fookin’ sprintin’!”
“I can’t jes’ stand by! Ashlin', they killed our friends."
"People die all the time. Don't mean you 'ave to fookin' join 'em."
"But I need more than cheap blood and slashin’ tires-"
“The fook you fink I brought us this?!”
Finnerty yanks out the BlockBuster DVD case, giving it a few good shakes. Harriet squints at it, pulling back. “I-I’m not sure I-”
“What've we done, Harriet? From the second we walked in this city? We laid low, and took what we could. And maybe the Court won, maybe we lost folk, but now? Now, we’ve got it easy. For the first time in our whole fookin’ lives! We’re drownin’ in shit to do, and none of it will fookin’ kill us! I know it, Jayden knows it, FitzGerald knew it, the fookin’ ******. The only one who don’t is you! Why can’t you see ‘at? Why can’t you fookin’...”
Finnerty’s expression freezes. Her eyes look somewhere past Harriet.
“... fookin’...”
Harriet knits her brows. Sometimes Finnerty gets that expression. When she’s cussing out people’s ‘fake problems,’ or she’s remembers Ratcatcher by some unknown smell. She never says what’s wrong, never allows a discussion, but they both know Harriet knows that feeling.
Windchimes and white clouds.
“Hey, Ashlin’?” Harriet slowly waves her hand over her friend’s face. “I… I think I do understand what yer sayin’.”
Finnerty blinks a few times. “You do?”
“Sure.” Harriet smirks. “Ya also want me ta watch Shrek 2.”
For a moment, the tension lingers. Hesitant, fleeting. But then the Freeholder of Bethnal Green’s smile springs back. She dives into her plastic bag, and starts throwing out more than a dozen DVD cases.
“This is why we’re friends, Eddards.” She pauses to devour two fistfuls of popcorn. “You know me so fookin’ well.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++