~ Chapter 17: My Uncle Cuts My Hair and It Starts a War ~
I feel sorry for Filly.
My dress is bundled before me, leaving the back of my legs bare. Something soft, with a strange grainy texture, lands on my calves. It irritates my skin and, sadly, I instantly know what it is. Along with the absence of weight on my head, and the fact that I'm not bleeding, I know exactly what dishonor he was talking about. Damitri Damien Davenport, my supposed to be dead, mass-murdering uncle cut my hair because he thinks I'm a disgraced Elf: a mongrel. We're not in an era where woman with short hair are seen as discriminating or unholy, but there is something about having the knowledge that your hair was chopped because of who you are that puts you in a set of mind that's not humbling, but empty.
Rage hits me. A rage that doesn't blind me, but heightens all of my senses. I can hear Davenport's ragged breathing, his heavy boots hitting the floor, his pounding heart, and the soft drops of blood from the open wound in his forearm. I hear Mom's gasp and the silence of the hall as something holds everyone's mind in a captivating prison.
Everything becomes crystal clear.
The burning in my palm doesn't hinder any of my movements as I grab my second dagger. I twirl it between my fingers and feel the weight. It's perfect. It'll fly like a hawk from her post, downward to catch her unsuspecting prey. But before I can let her free, Davenport screams out something vulgar.
I don't understand it, and quickly I realize that's because it wasn't a curse.
It was a war cry.
I turn around, ready to cut him into little pieces, but he's not alone now. Two wraith-like creatures, black and surrounded by shadows, stand beside him.
Vespertilio.
Crap.
Their wings are invisible but not their ugliness. Round heads, squashed noses, pointy ears, beady eyes. A pair of bottom teeth jut out of their mouths and nearly stab their flat noses. Their name describes them: Bats. Their bodies are covered in metal armor, rough fur, and an even tougher hide. Wide arms, tree trunks for legs, and curvaceous claws for toes. They stand taller than Davenport, well over seven feet.
Davenport yells out something else in what I'm now assuming is some type of Demon tongue.
The Vespertilio float toward me, their wings making no noise, not even stirring the air as they snarl down at me.
It's when they're a few measly steps away that I realize I'm still on my knees; as if begging for mercy, cowering like someone who deserves to actually live instead of everyone else in this room. But if I die, who's to stand between Davenport and all of these creatures? Even if they were here, my little rag-tag team of friends are not true fighters. We've never killed anyone. The dummies that we slaughter in droves cannot mentally prepare us for whatever it feels like to take a life; an actual, breathing life.
There are plenty of soldiers in The Burrows who stare out at the world with dead eyes and tell stories of mass-murders, of the lives they took that basically ended their own. I don't want that for any of my friends. We might be Dragon Riders, but we're being trained as peacekeepers; as peacemakers, not warriors for the crown. It's supposed to be a time of peace, not the beginning of a war.
The Vespertilio have stopped. They stand just inches from me. I can smell the death that cloaks them.
My rage doubles.
How many have they killed under my uncle's hand?
How many families have they destroyed while listening to Davenport?
Too many and for far too long.
The burning in my palm intensifies to where I can't ignore it. I finally pull my eyes from the Demons to glance down.
Black blood mixed with a dark vapor drips from my right hand and curls around my fingers. The smoke mentally wraps me in a comforting blanket; it's warm and homey; like baked cookies. But there's a darkness to it that sends shivers down my spine; like on-the-verge-of-burnt cookies.
"Cai," I tug on our mental link, trying to find him. "What is this?"
There's no answer.
I try again at the same time Davenport says; "Dragon Rider."
Why thank you for finally noticing. I'm totally trying to hide the fact that I'm a rider of the large, scaly serpents. What gave it away? My dress? My burning palm? I bet it was my willingness to die.
Suddenly, I'm laughing. On the inside I'm frowning (trying to figure out what's going on with my hand – and my head), but outside; I'm laughing. Like hysterically. As if someone said something completely out-of-this-world funny. But only Davenport has said anything – and it wasn't very funny (more like condemning).
So what, in the name of Flame, am I laughing at?
"For the love of Flame, uncle," I spit, out, "it sure did take you long enough." Davenport steps back, looking like I smacked him, which I probably just did with that relative bomb. Although I was kind of hoping it'd blow up. Instead he just looks shaken; he'll be fine in a few minutes. I'm still laughing; my stomach is slowly starting to ache with the hysteria of my mirth. "We've never actually met, my name is Smoke Haze Green, I happen to be your niece, and your destruction."
That last part came out of nowhere. I'm his destruction? Seriously? Any more cliché lines oh-helpful-brain? Nope. My brain is dead; quite literally, as I'm still bubbling with giggles of some unknown joke.
Davenport almost smiles, like maybe he gets the unsaid joke, but even that small curve of his lips is forced. My mind kicks into overdrive; spinning faster than light, and that heightened sense of everything around me wakes up again. There's a snarl in that fake smile, one I nearly miss, and now the Vespertilio are charging that little space between us.
Instinct, the same from my first day training under Roxanne, takes over and I'm spinning on my knees; kicking one Demon's legs out from under him and driving my blade through the rough hide and thin bones of his forehead. He goes still immediately. The second Vespertilio dies quickly, my blade, slick with the blood of his comrade, flying through the air and striking him down through the eye-socket. Death is instant.
I'm weaponless now and breathing hard, but adrenaline races through every fiber of my being. The rage is nearly gone, the strange power that it brought remaining, and pooling in my right palm, which continues to burn like my skin is being torn off. The pain makes me wince, but for now it keeps me awake.
"You have been well trained, niece," Davenport starts, a dark grin distorting his already harsh features, "but you cannot fight two fronts at once." It doesn't take me long to realize that the second front isn't the horde of Demons surrounding me or the – where on Fantasy did that come from? – imposing, huge red eye peering through two of the large windows – no that's all the first wave. The second is the wild ache in my hand. And he's right. Even as my adrenaline fights to keep the burn at bay, it won't last out the Demons flittering from the arching windows near the ceiling and slithering through the double doors. Besides, I'm weaponless. "And I'm afraid your friends won't be able to help you either."
Well, there goes the surprise attack.
I'm laughing again.
Surprise attack? What surprise attack?
Oh, yeah. The one where all my friends suddenly show up and we kill all the Demons (and my uncle) saving the world. Well, I guess that cat is out of the bag.
But the unnerving, almost uncontrollable ache in my limbs might still be hidden from his prideful green eyes. I'm in pain, yes. I'm showing it, yes. I know he doesn't know why I'm in pain, because if he did, he'd be less confident and a little more humble about turning his back on me.
His third mistake.
The first was cutting off my ties to Cai – somehow.
The second was cutting off my hair – that just fueled the already burning, wild rage inside me.
Now, strike three has been hit, and he's out of here.
Davenport turns back around, watching me, his harsh face pondering, his gaze questioning. Does he feel the power suddenly rolling through me veins, like I do? Does he fear it, like I do? Or is he craving the darkness that comes with it, like I do? It's not rage I feel anymore. It's an understanding; a harmony; a strong sense of peace. I'm prepared to bring Davenport his worst enemy yet.
Davenport laughs when I stand up; hairless (sort of), weaponless (yeah, just a little bit), army-less (definitely), but full of power (also definitely).
"Raish." The word (sounding like r-AU-shh) flows from his lips. A demon word meaning burn.
How I know that, I have no idea. I don't spend my free time learning a "dead" race's dead language. Davenport on the other hand obvious does (or did).
The screams are the first thing to penetrate my thoughts. They're cruel sounds of bloody murder. But then the flames begin to lick at the windows, following the demon horde. The red eye at the window has left, and in its place is a full blast of red, molten lava: Red Fire. It's hotter, stronger, and burns faster than any other fire and only two dragons have ever been reported to have the ability to spew Red Fire: Flame and one of Davenport's dragons; Felix. His twin Willow was imprisoned sixteen years ago, or some rumors say killed, but her brother was never found. I have an irking feeling that Felix is the red eyed, Red Fire breathing dragon outside the castle.
The windows don't explode under the heat. They melt. Boiling down the walls and once meeting the cold floor; harden. And then; explode. Tiny, dust size fragments of glass rain down on us but that isn't a problem. It's the roaring, fire spewing dragon outside that becomes a dilemma. Supposed Felix continues to spray his harsh, molten fire through the window frames – or what's left of them.
And here I am. I finally find myself in the midst of the burning, death-daring flames.
And I'm not alone.
Davenport is still just feet away.
And he's not alone.
"Have fun with my niece, Sticks." Davenport says to the figure beside him.
'Sticks' is a tall demon, but is not a Vespertilio, it is a Talpa – meaning its soul has been fused with a human's so that it can blend in with the Fantasy crowd: a Chameleon basically. The body it inhabits is a middle-aged man who has probably never seen the world through his own eyes – or will never remember what it looked like, what it smelled like. In fact his mind is most likely decayed and even if you did kill the soul-stealing Demon inside him, the chances of the host surviving are fairly slim.
Sticks steps toward me and its multi-colored gold and grey eyes assess me brazenly. I swallow thickly, my body betraying me as I take a defiant stance. I want to leave, I want to find my friends and make sure they're okay. I want to find Mom, my sisters, my brothers, and everyone else. I... I...
NO! I will stay here. Because worrying over them will get me killed and then I really won't be able to check on them.
So, I prepare myself, just as Sticks pulls a long cane from behind its back. It's rounded, looking like a wooden baton.
It smiles, the movement showing its jagged teeth. "Don't worry," its voice is smooth; almost calming, "I'll be quick."
"Smoke!" Someone – sounding slightly like Mom – yells from the sidelines. My bow slides along the floor and thumps to a stop when hitting my dress; a quiver full of arrows has been wrapped around the recurve's limbs; my sword and sheath are attached to that.
Sticks snarls at the weapons, but my heart pounds. Vespertilio are one thing, they're darkness bundled in a body, they have no soul and obey endless commands of death. Talpa are different. They inhabit someone. If you're not careful, you'll kill both creatures and not just the Demon. I've read how to do it, but it comes with experience to do it correctly, and I haven't exactly practiced how to expel a Talpa from the host it has latched onto.
I lean down and grab my sword. A rare thought occurring to me; it's not my sword. Well, it is, but it's not. My sword should have a black, dragon-scale blade; my hilt should have a replica of Cai's head curling at my palm. Instead the blade is bronze, the copper color flickering with the fire light, and the hilt is a plain leather wrap. It's also insanely heavy. This is not my sword, but it'll have to do as Sticks comes flying toward me, its baton at the ready.
I dodge the first attack, but the second rains down on the sword, vibrating through my arms. I hate swords. Why did I grab the sword? I glance longingly at the bow now a step too far away. Snarling, I shove Sticks back enough for one step. I jab forward, aiming for its midriff. It steps back again, grinning darkly. Now the bow is at my feet, one more stab and Sticks will be a step away enough for a quick revaluation of my situation.
I'm successful in getting Sticks to go back again, although to the Demon it appears this is just a game – perhaps cat and mouse. And I'm afraid this mouse is wearing a dress and running out of options.
Sticks walks forward slowly, that crazy glint never leaving its mix-matched eyes as it twirls the baton between its fingers. It smirks about something most likely painful to come. I discarded my sword when I grabbed my bow, but not one arrow was fired before the Demon charged, grabbing and snapping the string. From there on it made a point to step on my arrows. Cai's presence hasn't returned, leaving me alone with this rage I can't seem to do anything with. Somehow I'm alive. Somehow I've continued to out-run and dodge every attack Sticks has aimed at me. But I have a feeling my luck is about to run out. The only weapons I seem to have left are the anger and fear building in my veins as I control an unrecognizable force.
My palm stopped aching a while ago, but the burn that has peeled back my skin is raw with the swordplay earlier. The new skin is black, but I don't know if it's soot or my actual hand.
My retreated steps have stopped becoming calculated as Sticks attacks faster, suddenly impatient, and I find myself backed against column, the surface still warm from the flickering fire eating at different places around the ballroom. Thankfully everyone seems to have cleared out – although all that movement of hurried bodies is just a blur in my memory.
The Red Fire died as soon as Supposed Felix left, shadowing Davenport from outside to undoubtedly destroy the rest of the castle. The ballroom went from rich browns and deep reds to scorched black ash. The glossy floor, which once looked like a mirror is now flaring with scorch marks from where the Red Fire flared across its surface like dancers stuck in a twirl of shadows. Dark vapor flows through the melted windows, curling around the pillars and gagging anyone it meets. Tapestries and table clothes have been burnt to strips of paper and cloth; the once beautiful room now choking on death.
The ballroom went from celebrating a wedding to arranging a funeral.
For once I wish I could be like my name-sake; the lung-killing chemical that tints the air black. I wish I could disperse among the clouds, or perhaps cloak myself around Sticks and choke the Demon to death.
That thought just adds kindling to the fire I'm trying to control inside.
"Stuck are we?" Sticks asks, that toothy grin showing how much it is enjoying this. "And completely alone. It's so sad. Everyone abandoned you. The prophesied Pure One, left on her own to defeat the foe. Such a cliché ending."
Rage. A new kind of red rage builds under my skin and thoughts of death and destruction fly to the forefront of my mind. This Demon deserves to die.
Reason. That undeniable part that keeps me out of trouble, that makes sure I work for what I want and help those even when I don't feel like it, comes to mind.
Yes, this Demon deserves to die, but what about the body that it is inhabiting? Am I to kill him too? He doesn't even know of the crimes that are happening. Would he want to? Would he want to live after knowing what his body did, what the Demon inside him did? I will not make that choice for him.
So, shoving down the rage, I stand tall and wait to see what this Demon will do. I'm done playing its game, it's time for this to end.
Sticks considers me, its gaze wary. Its demonic energy most likely recognizes the power battle that rivals on inside me; it probably even realizes that it is my target.
But then its grin returns and it moves toward me with easy strides. That is, until the low grumble begins to crawl up the earth from behind him. He turns fast; baton at the ready, and I catch the black and silver coat of a huge wolf.
I can't say I've been around a lot of Werewolves, in fact I can't remember ever being around one, but I do know that normal wolves – whether Werewolf or wild – aren't the size of a pony and they don't hold so much power that I can feel it pressing down on me. The rumble in the wolf's throat rises as it closes the distance between him and the Demon. Its power latches deep in my bones and then I'm shaking with the force of it.
"How nice," Sticks comments, preparing for the wolf. "A Pure One and a wolf for dinner, my appetite has been fed." Sticks snarls but it doesn't compare to the charging Werewolf.
I'm not too sure of the proceedings that follow, it's all a rush of movements and blood. Between blurred mixtures of black, silver, and claws, I fall to my knees, exhaustion curling in my head. It's a mental battle to stay awake and the sudden headache doesn't help.
My vision snaps into place suddenly, just as the silver wolf lunges; front claws digging into Sticks' chest before the back paws have even left the ground. He seems to just extend like a slinky. The Demon flies back, the first blow I've seen it receive showing in bloody slices, tattering its shirt and tearing deep into the skin. The wolf has made his mark, and shown he is not to be trifled with. Sticks bites the challenge, chuckling darkly as it climbs to its feet. It doesn't wince or grovel in pain as it stands tall and proud before this wolf whose head reaches past the Demon's shoulder.
"Good, some fun." Sticks says, twirling the baton over its fingers. "The girl was a hopeless cause pumped full of Angle." I frown, confused as it pauses, the baton going still, and then it snarls; showing those pointed teeth. The wolf responds in kind, daring the Demon, and because Demons can't see their own demise, Stick walks blindly into a losing battle.
The wolf leaps, again his body seemingly longer than it looks as he knock Sticks to the ground again. The Demon is to its feet – with some new bleeding gashes on its body – as soon as the wolf spins around.
The next blow is delivered by Sticks, the baton whacking across the Werewolf's brow as it avoids being swallowed whole. The wolf doesn't stop, the gash along his muzzle closing as quickly as it occurred. Another piece in the puzzle has been revealed as only true born Werewolves can heal as quickly as they're wounded. But that fact doesn't help me in my bewilderment of who this could be.
Sticks goes for another lunge, but the wolf bats him away, sending him clear across the room. When Sticks doesn't return the wolf casts a bright gaze on me, his silver orbs considering and looking for something. He gives a wolfish grin that I recognize a moment later.
"Eaton?" My voice is small, my throat parched from inhaling the thickness in the air.
He nods, panting, his eyes gleaming.
"What are you doing here?"
The look he gives me only Eaton ever could. It's a look of; 'are you dumb?' Which I might be. I have been failing to fight a Demon while Eaton just swats him around like a bouncy ball.
I decide not-answering is best and just purse my lips. Eaton chortles.
There's a scream of outrage in the direction Sticks was thrown and the Demon can be seen coming toward us, baton at the ready and face a mixture of detorted pain. It looks like one of its legs is broken, as it hobbles forward as fast as it can.
Eaton rolls his eyes and sits while the Demon runs forward, still halfway down the hall. I raise my eyebrows at my Werewolf-friend, he shrugs and gives an obvious annoyed look at Sticks, still barely any closer.
"You could just end him real quick." I suggest, shaking my right hand out as it starts to sting again.
Eaton shakes his head, looking on the verge of laughing, which is a funny expression to see on a Werewolf's face. He sighs when Sticks falls down, yelping loudly.
"You're probably torturing the human more than the Demon." I comment, crossing my arms to stop myself from tearing my hand off. There's a blackness to my vision that builds with the pain.
Eaton seems to consider what I said. With a huff and a slight glare, he stands up, shakes out his shaggy starry night pelt and walks to the Demon, trying to run forward again. I stand up too, trying to distract myself from the dullness invading my head. I grab my sword as I go, and circle around Sticks, watching him as he tries to find that cocky-bravery he had before.
The baton comes swinging and Eaton pounces, growling sharply and clamping down on the Demon's arm. I cringe as Sticks screams and with a powerful jerk the arm comes lose. Sticks falls to its knees, its screams of anguish deafening any noise around us. The Demon's pain tolerance has just been met, and hopefully it is enough to draw him out of the host's body; although I'm not sure which would be a mercy; dying with the Demon suppressing all your pain and you knowing nothing about it, or waking up to a missing limb and quickly bleeding out.
Eaton stalks his prey in a full circle, just out of reach if the Demon should try anything in its dying moments. His gaze is considering, his thoughts probably along the same line as mine. Blood clots his beautiful dark silver coat, but he doesn't care, as he watches the Demon.
Sticks gasps, falling back over its legs. "Make... make it s-stop." It cries, its remaining hand grasping at the gushing wound from its missing arm. I have a twisting feeling that the human has made an appearance as the Demon tries to find an escape, even when there is none.
The sword in my hand suddenly feels impossibly heavy, dragging my body down even though I'm still standing tall. Eaton's bristly fur brushes my shoulder as he walks past. Sticks relaxes back, breathing heavily as Eaton stands over it. I turn my head at the quick, precise movement of Eaton's maw coming around the body's head and the cringing sound of bones crushing. My knees buckle a moment later, my body finally realizing the threat is gone and now tending to the needs in my own body – like fresh waves of exhaustion and the agonizing burning in my palm.
There's a strange moment of silence, interrupted by quick steps and yelling voices.
"I've found her!" Someone yells from somewhere beyond us, but there's a buzzing in my ears and I'm nauseous. Blood coats everything. Me, Eaton, Sticks, the ground, the burning furniture, the destroyed castle, even the sunrise is covered in blood as its red glow crests Blackridge Mountains.
I don't – or can't – feel any relief in its warmth.
I don't know what I'm feeling, but it is not relaxation, or a peaceful sense of mind. And maybe it doesn't matter, because even in the light of the new day, everything is very dark. The adrenaline rush has left me and my mind finally comprehends what just happened in the time span of – who really knows how long.
I can only smell blood.
©JJHays2017
~ Vote and Comment ~
Thanks,
JJ