Chapter 2
The woman’s rebuking shouts have carried and caught. Another man is already picking up her chant to toss it at me.
“Bane-blood! The scourge spreads because of you! Rebuke!”
The words painted over his cart are stark and thick.
FRIEND OR FOE
FIEND OR FAE
Other people are starting to look. To slow for the spectacle, despite the swarms. Some fae believe that fiends are the reason the Plagues won’t leave. That our Bane blood means we’re responsible. I suppose it’s easy to blame us, despite the fact that it’s not our fault.
I turn away from the accusing shrieks with my mouth dry and my heart thumping. The Flies hover around me, as if they too want to blot me out. Ducking my head past a particularly thick cluster, I try to ignore the insects squishing beneath my boots as I take a shortcut down an alleyway.
On the street over, there’s someone bundled up in fabric, but the sack she’s holding slips from her hands, and precious fruit spills out onto the street.
Flies instantly swoop in.
“No!”
The woman falls to her knees, desperately trying to gather them up before the insects eat them through. I dart forward, catching one piece of fruit that rolls toward me, batting the bugs away as I tuck it beneath my arm.
“Pella, the jar!”
At the woman’s call, a little girl runs over with a large sloshing container and sets it on the ground. Her gloves are too big for her hands, so it takes several tries before she’s able to pop off the top. The woman dunks the red fruit inside, drowning the Flies still attached.
I hurry and collect two more rolling fruits and shove them all into the jar. Water splatters out and Flies buzz around, some braving the liquid to try to get at the food.
“There,” I say, glancing around. “I think that’s all of them.”
“Thank you, thank you!” the woman exclaims as she slaps the lid over the opening. “I spent all my coin on these.”
Her head lifts to mine, face mostly obscured by the shroud around her, but as soon as our eyes meet, a constellation of four tiny stars bursts to life on her face, though only I can see them. I read them in an instant, the words flowing in.
Embraces change. Enjoys water. Protective.
I blink as the constellation fades away, and notice that she’s holding one of the fruits out to me, the thing bound in cloth and clutched in her hand.
My mouth instantly waters despite the fact that it’s slightly withered and Flies are crusting over it, frantically trying to pierce the peel in the gaps between her fingers. “Quick, take this. As my thank-you.”
I shake my head. “No, that’s okay, really.”
“I insist. You—”
Her little girl gasps, finger raising to point at me. At my horns beneath the veillet. “Mama, look. She’s a fiend.”
My heart drops.
Even through the fabric, I can see the expression on the mother’s face as all her gratitude falls away.
She snatches back the offered fruit and then grabs up the jar with one hand, gripping her daughter with the other.
“These Flies are your fault, Bane-blood,” she hisses, before she hurries them both away.
As if I’m the Plague.
“Have a great day!” I call after her, my tone syrupy sweet.
My expression soured.
I shouldn’t have responded, but between her and the shrieking peddlers, I’ve lost my composure. Rising to my feet, I shove past the swarm, while hundreds of Flies cling around me.
Hurt clings harder.
I should be used to it by now. The glares, the hate, the rebuffs, but none of it ever quite loses its sting.
I quicken my pace when I hear the city’s bell tower clang out. It rings nine tolls—one for every Plague. At dawnlight, noon, and sunfall, it calls this reverberating warning, every day since the Flies came.
And this toll also warns me that curfew is near.
Glancing up, I see the pollution has started to melt away from the sky. It clears every day during sunfall, when the sun is closest to our earth before dropping down. It’s just enough to burn the roiling murk away—until morning, when it gathers again.
Many people lament the loss of their blue sky, but truth be told, it doesn’t bother me that we’ve lost out on clear, sunny days.
I’ve always preferred the night.
I love watching that glittering black veil settle into place.
Maybe I’ve felt a kinship to it because of my hair and horns, or because of the constellations I can read on others.
But it’s only ever beneath those cold stars and the black abyss that I truly feel like I can breathe.
But since curfew means I’m not allowed outside after sunfall, and the Flies thicken the air like pepper-flaked soot, my breaths feel few and far between.
The sun glows through the thinning filth, the heat more intense now since I left the mill. It will only take an hour for sunfall to end. For the sun to dip down past the horizon, sinking below our earth and out of sight.
I have to be out of sight by then too. The curfew is for everyone while the city is Plagued, but it’s far stricter for fiends.
I won’t be allowed out until dawnlight burns with the first ember of morning.
By then, the last of the stars will be snuffed out and the seeping core gathered again, enough to blot the sky bloody.
Depressing.
Constant.
Never-damn-ending.
I push myself to move faster, stifled beneath the fabric despite summer nearing its end. I need to get out of these layers before I’m nothing but a puddle of sweat.
Two more blocks, and my building comes into view. We live on the third floor of the tenement. It’s not fancy like the large manors or apartments in the center of the city, but it still boasts the same half-timbered look as the rest of the buildings, with a layer of faded brickwork at the bottom.
I climb up the exterior stairs at the side of the building, squishing insects as I go. The view up here shows me just how widespread the Flies are, gumming up the street, hovering over rooftops, trying to squeeze into windows and doorways while more gather around the people below.
When I reach the third floor, I flick a finger at the pinned tarp stretched tight against our front door.
There are hundreds of Flies stuck to the dried glue.
Most dead, some still squirming, trying to wriggle free.
We spread fresh paste on the tarp every few days.
I’ll probably have to toss the whole thing out soon and find another piece of fabric to use, before the weight becomes too heavy.
I grip the top left corner and pull the tarp off the peg. As quickly as I can, I duck beneath, grip the knob, and push open the door. My eyes barely adjust to the dim lighting inside before I’m yanking up the paddle to swat the Flies that came in with me.
Some are stuck to my face covering and sleeves, and I thump my hands at them until I have a few dozen littered upon the floor. Grimacing, I stomp over them to make sure they’re dead, and then sweep them up with the hand brush, dumping the black bugs into the waste bin by the door.
As I straighten, I hear my aunt call out, “Alright? Or did you get eaten alive?”
I snort as I begin to unwrap myself and shuck off my boots and gloves, making sure no other Flies are anywhere on my clothing. If I miss even one, eggs might be laid and then we’ll have an infestation on our hands. “Not this time, but they tried.”
“They always do.”
When I’m down to just my tunic and pants, I take in a relieved breath and untuck my veillet. I pull out the wedged fabric from the knot at my nape, letting my hair flow freely down. The ends of my shimmering black tresses hit my hips, and I shake it out to get rid of the trapped heat.
I walk across the front room to head for the kitchen, passing the chaise sofa and the rickety table that still manages to look pretty with the circle of embroidered fabric placed in the center.
The windows are all blocked off, so the air is stagnant and the lighting dim, but it does the job to keep the Flies out.
Plugging the chimney was the most irritating task.
Took a lot of sticks and fabric and glue stuffed up there before we finally got it closed off.
Who knows if it’ll ever work properly again.
And still, with every cranny crammed, every crack glued, every gap sealed, a few insects still manage to get in sometimes. They’re that annoying.
Fae used to walk around a magically beautiful world where flowers just . . . bloomed upon touch. And what do we get now?
Plagues.
No wonder so many people no longer pray to the Fates. I can’t blame them. Not that I’d ever say that out loud. I don’t think it would be smart to act impertinent to the ones who created our world, even if they did put too much power in our core.
I circle around our kitchen table, my feet treading over the worn rug upon the floorboards. Our counters are well used, cuts marked into the wood grain, stained rings strewn around, but every worn bit of it feels cozy. My aunt is at the stovetop, stirring a chalky soup with herb sprigs poking out.
“Smells good,” I say as I go to the sink and wash up, using the water she gathered yesterday.
“It’s done,” Aunt Lenna replies, as she tucks her hair behind her pointed ear. Unlike most women in the city, she keeps her hair short instead of wearing a veillet. It’s cut bluntly at her jaw and dark blond, though silver has started to grow in at the roots.
Reaching for the shelves, I grab a stack of bowls and set them down. “I’ll bring her a serving.”
My aunt nods and spoons out the soup, and I grab what I need before heading to the short corridor. There are four doors, one after another. The rooms are tiny, but we’re lucky to have our own spaces and the small washroom.
I rap my knuckles against the last door and then ease my way inside, careful not to spill. As soon as I turn, I see her sitting up in bed, holding a needle and thread with a pile of clothes in her lap.
“Hi, M?m.”