Massacre
The world barely survived the Affliction War. We’ll be lucky if any of us survive the Remnant War.
Azazel blessedly allows me a quick shower in the colosseum’s restroom. Dirt and debris wash from my body like I’d been rolling around in the sand for hours.
I glance down at my naked body and wince. The angles of my ribs and pelvis show more than they should. Hell, I can’t even remember the last time I ate. I imagine they forced nutrient paste into me while I was unconscious, but it has to have been well over a week since I’ve eaten a regular meal.
The shower itself feels glorious, though. For once, there is no one else here with me. Metaphysically, at least.
Mary’s face flashes unbidden through my mind at the stupid thought. The warmth of her body against mine the night before. The way she’d held me like I would disintegrate otherwise.
The way she might feel now pressed up—
“No,” I squeak, shutting off the hot water and letting the colosseum’s cold air hit me like a runaway train. “Not today, Satan.”
Azazel gives me a once over as I exit the training ground’s changing rooms. Their masked face hesitates for a moment at my upper neckline. But not in a weird way—more like they’re confused.
“Do you have a disguise?”
“Do I need one?” I ask glancing down at the fresh joggers and cloak. “I thought this was just the cult attire.”
“We are not—” Azazel huffs softly. “If you ever plan on leaving the Citadel, you will need something for your new identity. And anonymity may benefit you here as well.”
“Citadel?” I ask, and Azazel gestures to the colosseum.
“This cavern is Tempest’s capital. It is the Citadel.”
I file the information away and move on to the more pressing question.
“Do you not trust the people here?”
Instead of answering right away, Azazel begins walking towards the exit of the colosseum.
I lengthen my strides and fall into step beside them.
“There are thousands of supernatural creatures in this place. And that does not consider the sanctuaries across Nye Verden. We are unified under our God Queen’s banner and her ultimate purpose. The title is not simply honorific. If she were to fall, we would dissolve into chaos.”
I shudder at the thought of Mary dying. At the idea that someone could even manage the feat. At the idea of dull orange eyes and full lips that would never quirk again.
“So, she keeps the peace through power?” I ask weakly.
“No,” Azazel says, masked face never wavering from the path ahead of us. People stare this time—where Bast’s presence had been normal, Azazel’s is a warning.
Before Azazel can continue, we slow to a stop as a crowd gathers near the base of the large mountain. All heads turn towards the peak. I follow their stares and take in a sharp breath.
Just past the elevators, a small cadre of people move as if the fate of the world rests on their shoulders.
Bloody Mary’s exceptional body is hard to miss. Behind her, flaming red hair marks Morgana. A few others follow in their wake, each looking like a deranged superhero.
“The God Queen earned our loyalty through fire and brimstone, Hiraeth,” Azazel sounds reverent as they watch the group. “If it were up to me, I would remove the heads of those who dare to question her sovereignty.”
“Who?” I ask, glancing back at the mage.
Azazel’s head tilts for a moment before they let out what might be a laugh.
“How about you tell me after this meeting, yes?”
Without warning, Azazel begins to move again. The crowd parts without prompting and I hurry to catch up.
The Cradle comes into view after a moment and Azazel gestures down into its depths once again.
“What about a disguise?” I ask, giving the precipitous darkness a glare like that might make it behave.
“I have a theory, but we cannot test it now. Now is the time to learn the importance of silence.”
“Was that your way of telling me to shut up?” I ask, but Azazel strolls into the Cradle’s depths like I hadn’t said anything at all.
Shadows swirl around my ankles to feel for the stone stairs as I follow in their wake.
It feels like half an hour passes before voices and footsteps echo down the pitch-dark stairway.
Azazel had sat themselves at their place in the council hall and gone into an eerie silence. That left me to stand awkwardly at their shoulder fiddling with the hem of the borrowed shirt.
“Do not speak unless spoken to,” Azazel says quietly.
I don’t respond, but watch as Bloody Mary enters the room, quickly followed by Morgana. Beowulf and the one I think is Loki are behind them, the latter two speaking in hushed tones.
Since I’m clearly a delusional masochist, I wonder for a moment if Mary tries to catch my eye. Really, she was probably looking to see if Azazel was already in their seat.
I tuck myself further back into the corner beside the mage, but the small movement catches Loki’s attention as he climbs the stairs to his spot.
“What is she doing here?” he asks, enunciating she as if I’m a venereal disease.
“She is my mentee and therefore authorized to be here,” Azazel answers without hesitation, as if they expected the question.
“Surely you jest,” Loki scoffs, seating himself in his chair in the most annoying way possible. “She’s a liability. I say we just put her down and be done with it.”
I look quickly to Azazel, but the back of their head doesn’t really give me any indication of what to do. I don’t really love the idea of being “put down.”
Then I glance to my left to where Mary’s council spot intersects with Azazel’s.
She seems lost in her own head, orange eyes looking off into the distance. Morgana is glaring daggers at Loki and Bast, who I hadn’t even seen enter, is gripping her staff with more force that normal.
“I concur,” Beowulf’s rumbly voice answers.
“There has been enough death today, you freaks,” Morgana finally says, her voice almost shrill with anger that I’m not conceited enough to believe is for my benefit.
“Yes, there has,” Mary finally says. She sounds exhausted. “We shall wait for the other archons to join us before beginning. Do see that you behave yourselves.”
And with that, she gets up and disappears down the stairs on the other side of the balcony. Somewhere further into the Cradle’s depths.
“Why are you so desperate to save this one’s life?” Loki asks, jabbing a thumb in my direction, but directing the question at Morgana.
“You couldn’t even wait forty seconds before starting something, eh?” Morgana shoots back, a soft, red light dancing in her eyes.
It takes me a moment to realize the red is coming from her, not any of the few braziers that light the room.
“I simply know the stakes. We cannot afford something jeopardizing what little progress we’ve made,” Loki sneers, sounding like a petulant child.
Whatever Morgana was going to say is cut off by more voices from the dark stairwell. Loki doesn’t even look at me as he settles back into his chair. He crosses one leg over the other like he hadn’t just advocated for my execution.
None of the other council members look my way as twenty-one humanoids file into the small space at the center.
Some of them are clearly supernatural—at least six of them some sort of were-creature.
There’s a dozen that might be Remnants or simply well-hidden supernaturals, and three that would pass for regular humans.
Except being here means they’re anything but.
The chatter seems to hit a crescendo before silencing like a doused flame. I turn to my left again and see Mary retaking her seat. She doesn’t even glance my way.
I’d be pissed if I didn’t already expect it. Hell, last night was probably just a damned hallucination made up by my mind to cope with the ghostly assaults.
Of course, my imagined knight in shining armor is Bloody fucking Mary.
“In the last twenty-four hours, it has become increasingly clear that Damien Roberts is directly in league with Darkrend. With the weapon and media technology in their possession, they have the capability to commit any number of atrocities and spin the narrative exactly how they please.”
Her exhausted tone and body language are gone. Instead, there’s a fire glowing in the orange irises. And I can’t help but stare right at them as she speaks.
Why shouldn’t I? Not like she’ll look this way anyways.
“In the next hour, reports will come in of a terrorist attack at a downtown New Chicagoan shopping center. The NCPD cohort says they will be blaming the attack on myself and several other Remnants associated with Tempest.”
This time, Mary’s orange irises sweep further past Loki and seem to land on Azazel.
And then me.
She returns her gaze to the general audience before gesturing to the far wall behind everyone.
“We have the raw footage, though. In part because of Guild informants placing scouts in the region.”
Without warning, the far wall snaps to a fairly high-resolution video playback. I glance at the wall behind me and don’t see a projector. And I swear there hadn’t been a screen on the other wall a moment ago.
I focus on the screen again and nearly let out a shriek. I manage to clamp both hands over my mouth and watch as an explosion rock Arthur’s Bookstore.
Screaming echoes from wherever the footage is taken from—maybe the building beside the one I use as a perch. And several figures in black outfits move in on the wreckage.
Somehow, the bookstore looks intact enough, but there’s smoke and licks of flame coming from somewhere within the building.
The camera zooms in on the darkly clad figures as they emerge from the store, each of the six holding patrons by the wrists or arms.
“Oh my God,” I hiss, and can’t give a fuck at the several sideways glares I get. I don’t even glance to see if Mary heard me.
Alice’s tiny form is held loosely in the meaty grip of some freakishly large thug. The guy is almost Titan’s size with glowing green eyes emanating from the mask over his head.
A crowd has gathered around the small group of terrorists, but no one intervenes as the furthest one from Alice’s captor steps forward.
With how far away the camera operator is, there’s no way to tell what the man says, but he draws a dagger and plunges it into the chest of the man in his hands.
My heart thuds roughly as the body hits the pavement.
Something moves behind the group, and the first one turns to see a woman and her child moving out from the wreckage of the shop. He doesn’t even fucking hesitate before launching the dagger at the woman.
Instead of simply striking her, it fragments and shrapnel hits the child, too. They both fall to the ground unmoving.
The next four men do the same to their captives. Each dying in a brutal, pointless sacrifice.
Then Alice’s captor.
“Oh, please,” I whisper, hoping to any fucking god that exists that this doesn’t end the way I think it will.
She hardly lets out a cry before the dagger tears out her slim throat. The girl falls from his arms, dead before she even hits the ground.
The screen blurs as I unsuccessfully hold back tears. Numb horror floats in my body like an untethered balloon.
“The three of the six in that video are Guild members. One is an NCPD operative—the first and final of the men are directly within Darkrend’s inner circle.”
There’s a hum of voices around me. Except they’re not in horror. They’re curious. They’re even a bit confused.
No, because none of them knew Alice. None of them had lived amongst these people. These were all acolytes of the God Queen. They lived here—with others like them.
The video hasn’t clicked off. Someone’s talking, but I don’t hear them. The screen is frozen on Alice’s limp form falling from the man’s hands. She’s dressed in her usual skinny jeans and polo. Like she’d just gotten to work.
She was innocent. A simple, fucking bystander.
And I failed her. In the end, this goddamned secret war had still claimed her. Like—
Like it’d taken Percy.