A Beast of Nine Horns, page 49
part #3 of Into Vermilion Series
The angel recoiled, hand clasping at her breastplate. The darkness swelled and receded. Six invisible eyes clenched shut in pain, black fog spilling over her like fountainous flows of blood. “What have you done!” Saint Isabeau shouted, mouth overlong and gaping. All of existence shook at her cry.
At last released from the pain assailing her mind and heart, Coral stood, gasping for breath. The light scintillating off the angel’s wings wavered and subsided. A slow scowl transformed the topography of the Lady Saint’s face, bringing back the ungodly pallor of the Baroness.
“How?” the Baroness asked.
How, the Beast chittered in a thousand voices. The dark hissed and thrashed as though Coral’s resolve were a hot brand pressed to its loins.
Staring into the crimson eyes of the Baroness, Coral understood more than she should’ve. She was the mother of all hemomancers, the slaughterer of hemomancers. The bane of two races. A woman who turned her own anger and sorrow into a weapon, and a weapon into a dynasty, and a dynasty into a bleeding world.
“I’m a daughter of two worlds,” Coral said. “I’ve felt more than my share of fear, given more than my share of pain. I’ve seen the good and bad of both. And that’s why you can’t defeat me. Because you’ve known only anger and hurt, and don’t even remember there’s an alternative. You wouldn’t know love or hope if it bit you in the ass.” Cold certainty coalescing to confidence, she felt her expression soften. “I feel so sorry for you.”
The Baroness’s eyes shimmered, her face twitching. The rattling gasp of the dark settled, receded to a sonorous whimper.
“I understand. I really do. Everything you went through. How much it hurt. How much it meant when you finally found a way to change. But the pact with Kakrinolas didn’t make you happy. It only made you hate more. This wound between our races is your invention, your illusion.”
“No,” Saint Isabeau said, her voice weak and trembling. “I will not lose to one so broken. I have glimpsed your mind, and you are beaten.”
“Yeah? Well I’ve got bad news for ya, Izzy! No bitch bites like the beaten, and I ain’t even begun to bite!” Power thrumming through her, Coral hefted the sword. “You made a mistake choosing me as a Vessel. Because I ain’t like you. You are the wound, but I am the world you created. And I choose to heal!”
A crack split the void. Light poured in, and the dark screamed in rapturous agony. Before the scene vanished, washed away with the glow of life, an image played against the front of Coral’s mind: the Beast of Nine Horns, gasping its final breath, and teetering into the nothing of eternity.
Chapter 63
Amid the ringing of the dying dark, a voice fluttered to Coral’s ears. “Coral? Coral, talk to me!”
Her senses started returning to her. Slowly, a cityscape reappeared, dark and soothing, glistening with scattered light dancing off a fresh slick of rain.
Coral gasped for breath. It felt like she’d been drowning, and the damp air went down sweet and intoxicating. As she came to her senses, she felt the ache in her hands. She looked down at Crux Caedis. A crack had split the unbreakable blade from tip to crossguard, and the metal was leaking a fluid that shone like liquid light. The body of the Beast. It was the nail pinning Kakrinolas to this world. It was the cause of everything.
She looked down over the edge of the building they stood atop, down at the shade of the Baroness floating above the sea of broken demonsblood hemocryst. The woman was faded, translucent, like a reflection distorted by heat and distance. Resignation apparent in her posture, the Baroness gazed up at her, her horns glinting in the distant lights, her eyes crimson pools of inexpressible sadness.
“It’s over,” Coral said. “You lose.” She hefted the cracked sword and, with a great heave of her shoulders, hurled it over the building’s edge into the street below. It struck tip-first, and Crux Caedis, the unbreakable sword, the legendary arms of the Lady Saint, shattered into a dazzling swarm of glistening lights.
The Baroness said nothing. She just stared up at Coral, cloaked in sadness. Then, with no word of parting nor note of fanfare, she faded silently away, a ghost vanishing into the rain.
At last, exhaustion won out. Coral fell to her knees and let the silence of the world soak her to the bone. For the first time since discovering she was a hemomancer, she felt that oppressive weight lift from her shoulders. She could taste something different in the air, like its dampness had become thinner, sweeter. Tamara must’ve noticed something too, because for a long moment she just stood there, expression dazed and eyes damp, like she was seeing the world for the first time.
Coral breathed hard, nostrils flaring and taking in a wet breath that shivered through her core. When she let it out, it broke her. Everything hit her like a sledgehammer. Chest hitching with silent convulsions, she doubled over and began to weep. Her heart hurt, but she had never felt so free before.
Tamara fell beside her, arms going about her shoulders, concerned questions peppering her. Coral just shook her head, unable to speak through the sobs. Her mind was on the Baroness and her pain, on Descoteaux and her sacrifice, on all the hemomancers who had ever lived and died, carving their own niches in a world pressing glacially inward, corralling them toward inevitable slaughter.
And as she looked down at the street, she saw there were others there now. Two women in lab coats. A purple-haired girl her own age. Lena. Clive. They were all staring up at her and raising voices of question and cautious optimism. But Coral could only cry. She cried for everyone, and for herself. Really, she just cried, aching for catharsis. As she did, the drizzle pattering over the rooftops grew heavier.
Tamara must’ve understood something in Coral’s silence. At some point, she just tucked in against her neck and held her tight, tears washing down her cheeks, her brown eyes the most lovely thing in the world. They held hands, sobs spilling seamlessly into laughter and back again.
Together, in the hemoclasm’s aftermath, they watched as the tears of the dead drenched the city of Saint Isabeau, washing clean the blood of the last thousand years.
Chapter 64
Something strange happened when Crux Caedis shattered. All across the world, at the exact moment the starborn body of Kakrinolas disintegrated, people experienced the simultaneous release of something deep within themselves.
Hearts skipped beats. Gasps were breathed, and momentary spells of dizziness washed over the planet in an ever-expanding ripple, with the city of Saint Isabeau at its epicenter. Some would later describe the sensation as an explosive release of pressure, or the abrupt relaxing of a muscle they didn’t know they were flexing.
Speculation about the event raged in the coming days, but once the broader population realized the war festering in New England had come to an abrupt end, it was too late. Something had irrevocably changed in the zeitgeist, but nobody was exactly sure what it was.
With the de-escalation of tensions in the Cicatrix, and with the CSC rapidly moving to provide treatment to the victims of the scourge, a tentative optimism overtook the media. Futures rallied. Politicians blustered with newfound bravado and conviction—conviction suspiciously lacking during the dual crises of pestilence and war.
Three weeks after the death of the demon Kakrinolas, Director Falk declared the scourge outbreak contained, and the Cicatrix safe for re-entry. At the same time, she announced her resignation.
It was the third hour of questioning, and Falk was just about at her wit’s end. Suits and cameras surrounded her, media and congressmen packing every foot of the chamber.
The Congressional committee was an even split of Anti-Masonics and Socialists. Too many Anti-Masonics by half, Falk thought. Really, they were just scrabbling for political points in a vain hope of weathering the backlash from the clown show that was Congress’s response to the rogue guard debacle. They smelled blood in the water, but hadn’t yet realized it was their own.
Still, given that they were Anti-Masonics, they were being surprisingly cordial to someone who had just confessed to being a hemomancer.
“Director Falk,” Congresswoman Watt said, her bespectacled eyes pinned to a stack of notes, “at the risk of retreading ground we’ve already covered, I would like to ask again about the events leading up to this so-called hemoclasm. Particularly, I’m curious about how this Scourge Maiden figure fits into things.”
Falk sighed. Her ribs ached, still broken from when Kakrinolas’s tail had struck her. “Ma’am, as I explained previously, the Scourge Maiden is something of a blind spot for me as well. What I can tell you is that she alone was capable of defeating the demon at the center of these events, and we owe her a great debt.” Whispers washed through the chamber at the mention of the demon. It was among the loftiest claims in her testimony, and the one the committee was having the hardest time accepting.
“Do you have any corroborating evidence that this demon even existed in the first place?” Congressman Stoff cut in. His glower hadn’t left his face since Falk entered the room, and it seemed like it wasn’t leaving anytime soon.
Falk took a slow sip of water, considered how to answer. “Physical evidence within Saint Isabeau notwithstanding, I’m afraid the majority of your corroborating evidence will need to come from interviews with those who were with the Scourge Maiden in the city.”
“You speak of the Sons of Gavin?”
“Among others.” Falk tipped her head back, made a show of her irritation. “Unfortunately, the current leader of the Sons of Gavin reported that the Scourge Maiden herself succumbed to wounds she received during the battle.”
Congressman Rodriguez cleared his throat. “With all due respect, Director Falk, your testimony is rather hard to swallow. While hemomancers being born of demons is not an uncommon idea, hearing it echoed by a woman of science is rather unexpected.”
“And with all due respect, Congressman, perhaps that contradiction supports its veracity. You have my file. You know my history. Before working for the CSC, I was a researcher on Project ULTRAblood. As I understand it, you were briefed on the top-secret contents of the project’s sealed records. Which means you must know of Johnathan Ellis and what we discovered in his mind during those experiments.”
An uncomfortable murmur rumbled through the committee and the gallery.
“While that may be true,” Rodriguez said, “reconciling the contents of those documents and the frankly fantastical things you have told us today… I think I can be forgiven for my skepticism.”
“In the interest of getting a full picture,” Congresswoman Watt said, “I would like to ask you to give us a thorough explanation, from the beginning.”
Falk’s eyelids sagged, exhaustion already tensing her neck. “From the beginning?”
“If you would be so kind, Director.”
She sighed again, leaned back in her chair, manners be damned. Her weary thoughts prodded the boundaries of their legacy, the shadows they’d sculpted and hid within for a thousand years. She thought about all the pain she’d caused in pursuit of this moment, about Descoteaux and the dream they’d, at great cost, fulfilled together. In Noelle’s absence, Falk resolved not to let it all be for nothing. She’d make the people understand, no matter what.
After a long moment, she rocked back down to the floor and gave the committee a severe look. “It all began thousands of years ago,” Falk said, “when a meteor fell high in the mountains of Tibet.”
Rumors became a new pandemic after Falk’s testimony was broadcast to the nation. Most of those rumors predictably centered on the Scourge Maiden. Though Falk had confessed to hemomancy, few outright doubted her account of the events leading up to the hemoclasm, and fewer still could deny that the Scourge Maiden had lived—and died—to prevent a looming apocalypse.
Some claimed the Scourge Maiden was really Saint Isabeau, reborn to deliver them from a vile hemomancer plot to reenact the Red Death. Others said she was a manifestation of people’s cruelty and had come to punish them for their crimes against one another. Some, mostly the Anti-Masonics, continued calling her the Whore of Babylon.
Amid news of the calamity’s end and rumors of the Scourge Maiden, two topics dominated the media.
First was the fallout of Falk’s bombshell revelation that a majority of Congress was bought and paid for by the Dahlia. With her ample receipts, the scandal had ignited into a firestorm feeding on the government’s hypocrisy. That the sellouts were predominantly Anti-Masonics was irony not lost even on the dead. Over the coming months, more than half of all Congressmen and Senators were dragged before impeachment trials. The government’s cull left a power vacuum bordering on a constitutional crisis.
The second media sensation was far more hopeful: reconstruction.
The scope of the damage throughout the Cicatrix was unbelievable. But where there was money to be made, industry stepped in to bear the weight. Reconstruction began slowly, plans drawn in the dust of destroyed churches and homes. Balsam, Vermont, saw a near-miraculous influx of investment to restore its demolished city center, where the Sons of Gavin launched their insurrection.
But nowhere got more attention than Saint Isabeau. Damage was estimated to exceed fifty billion USD. The Hecate campus was in shambles. Streets had been flooded with synthblood, buildings corroded and trampled. The rain of hemocrysts unleashed by the demon had totalled an area of fifteen city blocks. The bidding for contracts was fierce, but presaged an economic upturn never seen in American history.
“We should raise a statue to the Scourge Maiden,” Hecate CEO Neil Bradford suggested at one of many groundbreakings. The board members and construction contractors laughed, so he laughed too and pretended it had been a joke.
But deep down, they all understood, and each of them felt utterly alone.
“I really wish you guys didn’t have to leave,” Nissa said. It felt so dumb to say. The Lockwoods had their own lives to get back to, after all, but she wasn’t quite ready to lose this spot of warmth.
Clive nodded sadly. His blond hair shone fiery orange in the setting sun streaming through Nissa’s bedroom window. She couldn’t believe how lustrous it was, like something out of one of her novels. “Afraid so,” he said. “As much fun as it is livin’ out of the containment ward…”
Nissa giggled to conceal her own selfishness. “What’re you going to do now that this is all over?”
“I dunno. To be honest, I ain’t had much of an idea what to do since I left the Veil. It’s all been a bit of a whirlwind.” He turned a self-deprecating grin her way. “I mean, I guess I ain’t complainin’.”
Nissa felt her cheeks warm. She’d spent the better part of the last month trying to work up the courage to tell him how she felt, but she kept getting cold feet. It didn’t help that they had such little time together amid the post-hemoclasm bustle. And as much as she wanted to say something, it still didn’t seem right to her. It felt too uncertain.
After all, she was probably just imagining those looks he gave her. Made sense, right? What guy would ever be interested in a weirdo like her, anyway? If she could just get up the courage to say something first, she thought, she could at least put the silly idea to rest.
But time was running out. By the end of the week, the Lockwoods would be back in Kentucky, and Nissa would be alone again. What a joke she was, a socially graceless procrastinator.
“So, umm,” Nissa said, trying to rein in her nervousness. “I’ve got some news.”
He arched a brow at her. “News? What’s up?”
“I’m, uhh… I’m going to start attending college.”
“Really? You are?”
“Yeah. I mean, now that Auntie doesn’t need me to live and breathe the hemoclasm anymore… I figure I’ll need to find some new thing to keep me busy. It was Mom’s idea.” It wasn’t, but she was weirdly self-conscious about that point. She was probably the last person who should attend college, given how poorly she handled even the most low-stress social situations. But she wanted to grow out of this tiny fish bowl she’d been born into, and that would never happen if she didn’t take a step on her own.
“That’s awesome!” Clive said, jolting her out of her familiar spiral.
“D-do you think so?”
“Hell yeah, I do! I bet you’ll have a ton of fun there.”
His unabashed excitement was contagious. “Thanks,” she said awkwardly. “I don’t know what I’m going to study yet. But Auntie and the CSC are all I’ve ever known, so… It’ll at least be an adventure.”
“It sure will!” A moment’s hesitation held him. “Where’s the school?”
“Savannah.”
“Oh, hey, y’know, that ain’t really that far from where we’re headed. Maybe I could come visit ya sometime. I mean, if ya wanted.”
Her heart lept into her throat. “R-really? I would very much like that, yes.”
Clive grinned. His smile was downright radiant. “Cool. I will, then.” His gray eyes, like cool stone, stared into her. She felt like he could see all of her. She wished she could stretch out these last days, when Clive was looking only at her, just a little longer.
But maybe the days beyond that horizon wouldn’t be so bad either.
Nobody mocked bureaucrats in the days following the hemoclasm. After a season of unprecedented upheaval and misery, there were a thousand things that had to be organized and tracked. Military forces had to be de-escalated. The National Guards of Massachusetts and Vermont were the subjects of intense investigations. Damage to cities and roads and infrastructure had to be surveyed and inventoried.
The CSC did its fair share. Under the leadership of its new director, Naya Bridgeway, they deployed field clinics across a dozen municipalities. With Lady Descoteaux’s sample as a model, the mass production of scourge vaccines rolled out at record speed. As the vaccination campaign got underway, it wasn’t long before members of the crimson counterculture re-emerged into society.
