Deadwater Kings • Part I ✓

33. IRA DEORUM

"For years, our mothers have told us that we are fallen angels, and that the only way to return to a place where we're accepted is to atone. To grin and bear it and earn our way back." Hadrian's heart pounded in his chest. If he weren't the Witchking, someone probably would have tried to kill him by now. "Why the hell should we atone for something we don't even understand?"

Ilse's hand wrapped around his upper arm, gentle this time. "Hadri --"

"We didn't fall," Hadrian continued, "we were sent. The thing we've been punished for is our mission: taking the humans down. We're more powerful than they could ever hope to be and yet we let them divide us and slaughter us like animals. We live in fear, but we're gods. It's time we acted like it."

To his surprise, the coven didn't do anything. They just watched. Watched and waited. Mal's eyes fixed on the sand, a tendon jumping along his jaw. Farah's flaming gaze was wild and a grin tugged at her face.

"The hunters are moving to exterminate us. It doesn't matter if you agree with me or not -- we will die if we don't fight back."

Mal spoke up again. "You're talking about exterminating the humans right back."

Hadrian pursed his lips. "No. I'm saying we need to stop holding back."

"What do you need us to do?" Farah's small, accented voice barely reached Hadrian, but he knew the young witch meant it. She was standing now, shoulders squared and her fists clenched. He scanned the coven and saw similar expressions throughout. He swallowed. This was more than he'd ever expected. 

"Just follow me," he spoke quietly, trusting his coven to listen, "and do whatever you need to do."

✕

They surfaced by the dozens, a strange fullness in the air. There were more of them in one place than Hadrian ever remembered seeing outside their sanctuaries. He hauled himself up and out of the water, dripping water down onto the wooden docks. 

Magic waited for him. It let him look at the unique structure covering the island, short houses with picket fences and green grass leading up to a monstrous temple dedicated to his people's death. The coven shifted uneasily behind him. None dared fully emerge from the sea. Only a few had ever been this close to the Manor, and even they trembled at the thought.

He glanced at the ships bordering the stretch of wood. Farah caught his attention. Only her eyes showed above the water.

He jerked his head at the nearest ship and started walking.

She went back under, several witches close to her following suit. 

A swell of magic slipped through his fingers as they pulled it within themselves and twisted it to their desires. More witches joined once they saw what they were doing.

The ship, a massive freighter that could transport hundreds of people -- slaves, really -- groaned. Its metal flanks shuddered and hissed.  That was the only warning before its panels wrenched apart, water rushing in and frothing at the various compartments. Hadrian sensed humans within, panicking and dying.

Ships screamed as the rest of the coven followed Farah's example. Their metal hulls shriveled up and splintered into the ocean, some ripped to pieces as if by giant hands. 

His feet touched solid ground and felt the coven's hesitance behind him even as they shredded human vessels.

This was what they'd chosen. Even so, he wouldn't object to giving them a hand. He didn't look back to the coven. Magic gathered in the curve of his palm and his closed his fist around it, dragging it along after himself.

The sea rose up to answer his call. 

Thin at first, water lapped at his heels. Then it truly answered and rushed ahead in a low wave. 

He climbed the stairs, leading the sea and the witches up higher. 

Deadwater pushed the doors open ahead of him as Hadrian stepped into the main hall. Polished tiles bubbled and steamed under the pressure of so much power. Almost without thinking, Hadrian retraced the path he'd walked a lifetime ago. The water surged and worked itself into bubbles at his ankles. His knees. His thighs. It settled there, urging him onward. 

He sensed the hunter converging around him but paid them no mind. Red flashed in his periphery as Ilse slammed a hunter into the water and held him there with the help of two more witches. Their thin arms pushed the powerful killer beneath the water. Blood bloomed around them.

To his left, two more hunters were dragged under by witches who didn't even bother to surface. The sounds of splashing silenced the sound of screams. 

Hadrian stopped in front of the open door to Greymark's office. 

The water swirled viciously like there was a predator underneath. 

Laid on his desk was Greymark. Obviously dead. His face was frozen but not rotten, he couldn't have died too long ago. Hadrian stomped down on the disappointment and stepped inside.

"Hadrian!" His eyes slid up slowly. Pierce stood on one of the shelves, just out of reach of the water. He stretched his hand out to Hadrian, something akin to desperation shining in his eyes. "Come on, son. Get out of there."

Hadrian didn't move. For a solid five seconds, he was touched by Pierce's concern.

Deadwater shifted as Ilse walked in. Her white dress was drenched a light pink. Her lips parted when she caught sight of Pierce and she glanced between the two men. Pierce took a moment too long to notice her. 

Understanding dawned on the old hunter's face.

Hadrian grabbed his still-outstretched arm and yanked him from his perch. Pierce splashed into the water. His mouth opened like he was about to yell, filling with deadwater. Hadrian wrapped both hands around the hunter's throat and held him under.

Pierce flailed and kicked, splashing more than he actually hit Hadrian. 

Hadrian looked up at Ilse. Her eyes were wide and he realized he still had the stone-cold expression he'd put on for his speech. Other witches stood behind her, something like pride in their eyes.

They wanted this. The revenge, the killing. 

Pierce's strikes weakened. His hand grasped Hadrian's sleeve and for a moment, he caught sight of Pierce's face through the calming water. He finally stilled. His eyes were wide open.

His hand went limp, splashing back down into the water. 

Hadrian let go of the hunter's corpse and let the water push it away. He turned to Greymark's corpse. 

Someone had stabbed him under the jaw.

Lin.

He smiled. Of course she would. 

He snapped his fingers and the books lining Greymark's office shelves burst into flame. The heat washed over him like a blessing. Ilse stepped aside to let him pass. The flames followed him out, crackling along the wood structure and devouring as it went. It danced across the top of the deadwater, avoiding the witches and rocketing through the building.

Malachai fell into step on Hadrian's left, Ilse on his right, and Farah behind him. The rest followed.

--

"Ira deorum" (Latin, "wrath of the gods")

Like the vast majority of inhabitants of the ancient world, the ancient Romans practiced pagan rituals, believing it important to achieve a state of pax deorum (peace of the gods) instead of ira deorum (wrath of the gods): earthquakes, floods, famine, etc.