Year of Miracles, page 28
part #1 of Collected Stories of the Old Races Series
"We existed before humanity ever dreamed of evolving on this world," Manto whispered, and with each word watched the witch's power grow. "We are bound by blood to one another and only by blood can we be bound. I will give you the words, witch, and the blood of my own kind, the harpies, and you will draw my mothers and my fathers deep into the pages of your books of magic. It will give you strength such as you have never known, for they cannot die by your hand, only live captured so their magic is yours to draw on. It will not last," she was compelled to say. "Not forever. Not for always. There is no magic, even ours, even yours, that is eternal. But it will be long and long and long again, and you will have forgotten that the power is yours to lose aeons before it leaves you."
"Give it to me." Greed garbled the old witch's words, and Manto lifted one hand to slice her own palm open with a talon.
A book formed from her blood, pages of vellum covered with leather. Embossed monsters rose in the leather, sea serpents and harpies, great hairy yeti and the strong-bodied siryns. Words rose on the pages, all the histories and truths of the beings who came before humanity, and at the edges of those words writhed the potential for containment.
Manto hesitated, then thought sharply, terribly, of her lover's screams, and with that cut her other hand, pouring blood onto the pages. The blood shaped itself, drawing pictures, and then the screams began in truth: the mothers, pulled by magic across earth and sea and sealed forever—or nearly forever—into the pages of the grimoire. The fathers too, though they protested less; poor beautiful stupid fathers, never truly understanding their fate. For minutes the howls went on, then hours, into days and weeks and in the end months, and through it all Manto stood and bled, bled herself white but would not die, because to die would be to free the mothers and condemn all of them, the Old Races all, to memory, to legend, to myth, and to obscurity.
Mothers screeched and tore at her as they were swept by, opening new wounds; still she stood strong while Baba Yaga cackled and rubbed her hands together as greedily as any mother. The old witch shone with power, though already Manto could see it would never last, that she would lose bits of it to time and foolishness, and other parts to the cunning of other witches. But for now Baba Yaga was likely the strongest of her kind: could witches easily cross running water, she might conquer the world when humanity was still too unproven to hold against her, but even man's darkest secrets and ugliest dreams laid in protection and conditions, and Baba Yaga was bound by the magic that had made her.
Finally the last of the mothers tore into the grimoire's pages, and the book collapsed shut on itself. Baba Yaga pounced forward and secured it with an iron lock, then clutched it to her hollow chest and squealed with dreadful pleasure.
Manto, weary already, murmured, "In a book of my making, a book of my blood, you may bind any of our kind save myself and the vampires. That is because we harpies come second only to them in primogeniture; I cannot hold them with my blood, but I can tell you how to." She leaned forward to whisper the secret of catching a vampire into the ancient crone's ear, and then she rose to walk away from the terrible thing she had done. She could not even look at the book: it pulsed black to her gaze, accusing her of genocide, although the knowing part of her said no; that she had saved them all, with the book.
"Lose it," she said, almost as an afterthought, "and only another of the Old Races may ever fetch it for you again."
Then she left Baba Yaga behind, and although she did not know it then, began to run, a run that would take her down through the centuries as memory and guilt and those of the Old Races who grew to understand what she had done, hunted her without mercy or surcease.
The one called Daisani found her after a concert. She ought to have known—well, she did know; that was her gift and her curse—but somehow she was surprised anyway, to see his sleek swift form appear across the limousine from her, his arms spread against its wide seat, one leg crossed over the other, casual and arrogant.
She had never seen him before, for all she'd heard of him over the aeons. Brother in all but blood to Janx, the rebellious dragonlord, his closest enemy and dearest friend. Daisani was slight of build, unimposing of height. Not handsome, either, though even she, a harpy, wanted to let her gaze linger on him. That was charisma, and would do well for him if he ever wanted to stand beside her on a concert stage. Dark hair, poofed on top and longish in the back in the style of the decade; she tried briefly to imagine him with the loose, large permed rock star locks that her own natural hair mimicked, and laughed, which was not what one should do when faced with the vampire known as the master of them all.
His eyes, already dark, blackened. Manto lifted her palms in apology, a very human gesture: to animals, anything that increased one's size was construed as a threat, but she only meant appeasement. Fortunately, the Old Races were, if not human, at least people, and even a quick-tempered vampire knew a peace offering when he saw it. But she let him speak first, knowing that if she did, it would be in defense of her actions, and to blurt a defense was to admit guilt.
"You're not what I expected," Daisani finally said, which wasn't what she expected. "The last harpy. I expected something more…haggard." He shifted comfortably on the leather seats, glancing out at street lamps that threw light and shadow over him as they drove.
"That's all right," Manto breathed. "I expected someone taller."
"Everyone always does." The vampire sounded unperturbed, but then, if he could be needled about his height he wouldn't likely be called the master of his kind. "I attended your concert this evening. You told a story, and I've been there for enough of it to know it was true."
"That's all my music is. True stories."
Daisani made a dismissive gesture. "Find me a minstrel who doesn't claim that. But you're different. You told our stories. And they believed you. In their way, they believed you."
"They want to. They hear reflections of their own lives in our stories. Not many of them really believe they're dragons or—"
"Elves," Daisani said drolly. "So many human legends, and we failed to manifest ourselves in that particular manner. I wonder if it's our failing, or their magnificence."
"We are not shaped by their dreams." The sharpness in Manto's voice surprised even her.
Daisani's gaze cleared, curiosity pulling at the corner of his mouth. "That," he said. "That was a true thing, what you just said. I could hear it. Not like your songs, either. Those have a familiarity to them, a truth said over and over. This was fresh."
"I sing the songs every night."
"And you but rarely defend our origins as our own." The twitch at his lips bled into a brief, full smile. His canines, against every legend of vampires in the world, were flat, non-threatening. Dragons had pointier teeth, even in their human form, but it was said—although not by Manto, and therefore it was not necessarily accurate—that no one saw a vampire's true form and lived to tell about it.
That thought led her down a path toward a vision, toward seeing, and for a rarity she shut her eyes and turned her face away: vampires might be the progenitors of them all, and the harpies their first children, born too early into this world, but not even she wanted to see the faces of that which may have begotten her mothers and fathers. Just in case—just in case, even if she herself had not said it—just in case there was truth to the legend, and seeing it would mean tonight was her last night to live.
Of course, now that Daisani had found her, that seemed likely anyway.
"Why did you do it?"
"I had to," Manto replied without hesitation. "If you were at the concert, you know that. I told the story."
"Yes." A thinner smile slipped over his face, and to her utter surprise, he sang: "Madness of the mothers, ravaging the land / Simplicity of fathers, bound by war and strife / We're the saner children, lead them by the hand / The future depends on us, embrace both love and life."
Manto, amused, said, "You're a fan," and Daisani, with a sourness of tone that didn't match the brightness in his gaze, said, "I pay attention. But I do believe you, and that leaves me in something of a…quandary."
A knot loosened around Manto's heart, one she hadn't even realized was there. "Oh?"
"There's a death penalty on you," Daisani said frankly, and though she knew it, to hear it spoken aloud took her breath away.
"We don't kill each other. It's one of our edicts."
Daisani's voice went dry enough to be dour. "We don't betray our entire race to a witch, either. Laws are for the law-abiding, Manto; you must understand that by now, even if you look like barely more than a child. I," he said after a moment's pause, "am not among the law-abiding, and I did come here to kill you. To extract vengeance for a people. But when I came, I didn't know—didn't believe—you were a truthsayer."
"And now?" Manto whispered.
"Now I want to know what happens next."
"No," Manto said, almost before he had finished speaking. "You don't. No one ever does. Not really. But I can tell you she's been born already, the human who will change our future. I can tell you that your path and hers have already been set to collide. And I can tell you that the things I have done will come undone, when all is done. That I would not have done them if they were not necessary to the future of us all…any more than you would have done what you have done, to ensure the future of us all."
She saw it then, a glimpse of what a vampire truly was. Rage flew through Daisani, sluicing the veneer of humanity away. For an instant, less than a breath, less than a heartbeat, barely a blink, she saw into the cold uncaring killing depths of space, and the burning endless distant heat of a star, all shaped into a creature that sustained itself on blood and fear.
Then it was gone, and the man sitting before her was hardly more than a man, no more than a tap of one fingertip betraying tension or agitation. His voice, though, carried the death of everything in it, as he said, "I believe you're about to suffer a fatal accident, Manto. Probably in an airplane; that's very popular for musicians."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you will most certainly suffer a genuinely fatal accident," Daisani said softly. "Come back in a generation or two as your own child or grandchild, but wait until this future you have spoken of comes to pass, Manto, because it is known that I have found you, and if you do not die at my hands tonight you will surely die at someone else's, soon. Leave your music as your legacy, but die, that you might live again."
He glanced out the window again, then said, with something almost approaching sympathy, "This world isn't safe for us to live in anyway, not if we live as large as you're doing. Even I live too visibly, and far fewer people know the face of a real estate mogul than a rock star. Janx has slithered low, taking over crime syndicates and underworld activities so that the world never sees his face. I believe it chafes him even more than it does me, as I lack his vanity. But you've chosen a lifestyle you can never sustain. They're young and foolish and beautiful right now, and I see why they called to you. But they'll turn on you, Manto, so you had best go now, before it's humans and Old Races both hunting you."
"Why are you letting me go?"
The vampire's gaze went bleak. "Because I have done the things I have done to ensure our future, and I am not—mostly—a hypocrite. I won't condemn you for taking the same actions I decided were necessary, particularly as I decided without the advantage of true foresight. But mostly," he said, and his gaze softened then, "mostly because I find you've given me a modicum of hope, and it's almost impossible to offer hope to a creature like me."
"Don't hope too much. There's a great deal of darkness to come."
Daisani's smile went almost fond. "Oh, child. What am I, but a thing of darkness?" The smile vanished. "Tonight, Manto. Die tonight, or tomorrow you will die for real."
Then he was gone, as suddenly as he'd appeared. The car door must have opened and shut: Manto could hear its echo, and feel the breeze of his passage, but he was incomprehensibly fast, and she, after sitting stunned for a moment, sighed and leaned forward to tap on the limo's separating window. "To the airport, please. I feel like seeing the sunrise from the air."
And so she did, hovering above the horizon in gold light, broad wings catching the wind as, below, the little plane she had rented spun and fell out of control, until it smashed, with a dramatic explosion, into the mountain tree line far below.
The heat of the fire would wreck most chances of finding a body or hopefully even bones, though there would always be those—this, Manto saw, with as much clarity as she had ever seen any future—there would be those who would never believe she had died this day. Even some amongst the Old Races wouldn't believe, save that Daisani himself was the source of the promise of her demise, but enough would. Enough of the Old Races, more than enough humans, and those humans who didn't would always be thought of as slightly mad; that was the price of conspirators. If they were lucky—if Manto herself was—they might live long enough to see themselves proven right, but she doubted it: there were many years to go before that came to pass.
Wings spread, she turned toward the sunrise, flying into it as if a phoenix had been born of the harpy: fiery gold and red everywhere, spears of light illuminating her feathers, turning them precious in hue, and in the dawn she saw farther than she had ever seen before.
No ordinary human living now would see her return, no: not with the morning sun casting its shadow over a world that, all unknowing, awaited the Old Races' rising.
Also By C.E. Murphy
Sign up here for the CE Murphy Mailing List
Also by C.E. Murphy
The Heartstrike Chronicles
Atlantis Fallen * Prometheus Bound (forthcoming) * Avalon Rising (forthcoming)
The Austen Chronicles
Magic & Manners * Sorcery & Society (forthcoming)
The Walker Papers
Urban Shaman * Winter Moon * Thunderbird Falls * Coyote Dreams * Walking Dead * Demon Hunts * Spirit Dances * Raven Calls * No Dominion * Mountain Echoes * Shaman Rises
& with Faith Hunter
Easy Pickings
A Walker Papers/Skinwalker crossover novella
The Old Races Universe
Heart of Stone * House of Cards * Hands of Flame
Baba Yaga's Daughter
The Worldwalker Duology
Truthseeker * Wayfinder
The Inheritors' Cycle
The Queen's Bastard * The Pretender's Crown
Stone's Throe
A Spirit of the Century Novel
Take A Chance
a graphic novel
Acknowledgements
Acknowledgements
This collection has been a very long time coming, and I have a lot of people to thank for their support. Some deserve a special shout-out: Katrina Lehto, who has always been a tremendous supporter of the Old Races, and Brian Nisbet, who essentially yells, "Shut up and take my money!" every time an Old Races project is mentioned. Paul-Gabriel Wiener, who is a rock, and Joliene McAnly, who goes beyond the call of duty as a reader.
This book (and many others) wouldn't exist without the encouragement offered by Bryant Durrell and Carl Rigney. Fred Hicks got me through the first stages of learning print design. Tara O'Shea has made me some gorgeous covers, and I was thrilled to work again with editor Betsy Mitchell on the titular novella, Year of Miracles.
The war room, as alway, keeps me going: Mikaela Lind, Robin D. Owens, Diana Pharaoh Francis, Laura Anne Gilman, Ellen Million, Michelle Sagara, and numerous others are there, writing with me across the world, day in and day out.
And then there's Ted, and our son, who keep right on believing in me. I love you boys.
Special Thanks
Special Thanks
Sorry, that last page doesn't even begin to cut it.
The Old Races short story collections have been crowdfunded projects that have taken far longer to realize as a final product than any of us imagined. Over the course of six years, more than 400 people have helped support the creation of these stories.
My sincerest thanks to all of the following:
A. Marina Fournier, A B Warwick, Abbie Heater, Adrianne Middleton, Ailsa Barrett, Alani Joli Abbott, Alena Franco, Alena M. Callaghan, Alice Tyrell, Althea Clark, AM Koenig, Amanda Lane, Amanda Priole, Amanda Samuels, Amanda Weinstein, Amber Salem, Andrea N King, Andrew and Kate Barton, Andrew Walker, Andy Merriam, Angela Bischel, Angela Korra'ti, Angela N. Hunt, Anne Burner, Anne Pascale Quinty, Annette Beecher, Anthony James, April Macholtz, Ashley Crump, Ashok Kumar Banker, Audrey Salick, Axisor, Barbara Eagle, Barbara Gallant, Barbara Hasebe, Benaets Dorien, Bernadette, Beth Rasmussen, Beth Skaggs, Beverly Lee, Breanne MacDonald, Brenda Jenigan, Brian & Diane Dupey, Brian Nisbet, Brian Stanley, Brianna Agnew, Bryant Durrell, Caitlin Crowder, Caitlin Dean, Camilla Cracchiolo, Caragh Murphy, Carinna Files, Carl Rigney, Carol, Carol Guess, Caroline LeBel, Caroline Valdez, Carolyn Butler, Carolyn Curtis, Casse Williams, Cat DeMira, Cat Wilson, Cate Howard, Cath Stevenson, Catherine Sharp, CathiBea Stevenson, Charity Hirose, Charlee Griffith, Charlene Hamilton, Charles Watson, Charlotte Calvert, Cheryl Prentice, Chiray Koo, Christi Panchyk, Christina Bounds, Christina Dwyer, Christina Sutt, Christine Swendseid, Christopher Buser, Christy Hopkins, Chrysoula Tzavelas, Cindy Curry, Coby Haas, Colette Reap, Cori May, Cori Weisfeldt, Corra, Cory W. Trotter, Coutrney Ostaff, Crystal Yocum, Cynthia Witkus, Danielle Ingber, Danielle Ingber, Danielle Walther, David Bills, David Capon, David Lauber, Deb Alverson, Debbie Matsuura, Deborah Alverson, Deborah Blake, Deborah Erickson, Debra Meyerson, Debra Orton, Deirdre M Murphy, Denée Zah, Denise Moline, Diana Taft, Diane DesAutels, Donal Cunningham, Doniki Boderick-Luckey, Donna Antonio, Dough McGill, Earl Miles, Edward Ellis, Elisabeth Pait, Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth Cadorette, Elizabeth Cook, Elizabeth Garvin, Elizabeth McDonald, Elizabeth Naylor, Ella Peabody, Ellen Million, Emily Ervin, Emily Poole, Emma Bartholomew, Emma Pitt, Equustry Handcrafts & Preserves, Erica Olson, Erin Catley, Erin James, Evangeline Cheng, Evil Hat Productions, Farrell Maginnis, Flynn, Freya Wilson, Gabriel Krabbe, Gareth Kavenagh, Gary LeTempt, Gemma Tapscott, George Riley, Georgina Scott, Glenn Case, Glynn Stewart, Gretchen Shanrock-Solberg, Heather Fagan, Heather Knutsen, Heather Roney, Helen Katsinis, Holly Tidd, Hugh McSweeney, Hugh Myers, Jacqulynn Uhrmacher, Jai Adams, James Scott, Jana Lindberg, Janet Gahagan, Janice DiMarco, Janis Ossmann, Janne Torklep, Jean-Marie Diaz, Jeffrey D. Katz, jennifer, Jennifer Cabbage, Jennifer Erwin, Jennifer Simpson, Jeri Smith-Ready, Jesse Cunningham, Jessica Nelson, Jill Valuet, Joanie Sheaffer, Joann Capser, Joe Fernandez, John Baker, John F. Richards, Joliene McAnly, Joshua Johnston, Judith Weber, Julie Kuhn, June Lundstrom, Justine Birmingham, K. Gavenman, Kaela Woolsey, Kari, Karin Meacham, Karyl Fulkerson, Kat Bonson, Kate Kirby, Kate Larking, Kate Sheehy, Katharine Miller, Katherine Malloy, Kathleen Gavenman, Kathleen Hanrahan, Kathleen Tipton, Kathryn Duffy, Kathryn Wehner, Kathy Franklin, Kathy Rogers, Kathy Traxler, Katie Bergman-Bock, Katrina Lehto, Katy Wagers, Kayla Lowes, Kbrem, Kelly McDonough, Kelly Myers, Kelsey Thornton, Kerry aka Trouble, Kerry Cobey, Kerry Malone, Kes Yocum, Kiely Ohman, Kilsharion Kinsey, Kim Smith, Kristina Rumpff, Kristine Kearney, Kristy Mika, Kyna Foster, Lacey R. Ruby, Larisa LaBrant, Laura Anne Gilman, Laura Atkinson, Laura Blalock, Laura Denson, Laura Hobbs, Laura Wallace, Lauren DeVoe, Lauri Weaver, Laurie Gaughan, Lazytea Creations, Leah MacLean, Leah Moore, LeAnn Haggard, Leann Parenteau, Leigh Ann Melloy, Lesley Mitchell, Lianne Burwell, liesbehindstars, limugurl, Linda Ervin, Lindsay Stalcup, Lisa D Fischer, Lisa Ellen Spencer, Lisa Gingerich, Lisa Guertin, Lisa Pegg, Lisa Soto, Lisa Steele, Lisa Stewart, Liz Syreen, Liza Hernandez, Liza Olmsted, Lizzette Piltch, Lola, Lola McCrary, Lori Long, Lori Lum, Louise Southwick, Lucy Cox, Lydia Leong, Lyn Mercer, Lynette Miles, Lynette Tait, Lynn "Lazytea", Lynn Calvin, Lynn Lehto, Lynn Shulak, M.A. Ottewell, Maggie Murphy, Marcille Ripperton, Margaret Menzies, Marjorie Taylor, Marnie, Marsha Hansen, Marsha Simmons, Mary Anne Walker, Mary Baldwin, Mary D Sloan, Mary Gustafson, Mary Hargrove, Mary Keefe, Mary Spila, Mary Spila, Maryanne Shoobridge, Matt Girton, Maureen Gately, Max Kaehn, Megan Pokorny, Melanie Colligan, Melissa Sirimanne, Michael Bernardi, Michael Fitch, Michael Nickerson, Michael Perkins, Michelle Curtis, Michelle Edwards, Mikaela Lind, Mindy Mymudes, Ming-Li Kong, Miss A. C. Walker, Moira Ireland, Mood Ring Media, Morag Watson, Nancy Weston, Nathalie Boisard-Beudin, Neal Levenson, Nellie Batz, Nichole Beck, Nicolai Buch-Andersen, Nicole Hall, Noriko Shoji, Norman Tison, Pam Hatler, Pamela Blome, Pat Knuth, Patricia Davis, Patricia Lindsell, Patricia O'Neill, Patrick Malone, Patsy Tisdale, Paul Anthony Shortt, Paul-Gabriel Wiener , Penelope McClain, Persephone, Peter McClean, Phil Stracchino, Phillis Rostykus, Rachel Coleman Finch, Rachel Gollub, Rachel Maloney, Rachel Narow, Rachel Reither, Ralph Hebb, Rebecca Lysohir, Rhona, Robert Fisher, Robert Lambert, Robert Tinsley, Robin Burton, Robina Lowes, Robyn Huffman, Roseann Farber, Rubber Soul Books, Ruth Leon, Ruth Stuart, S. Elektra Hammond, S. Ingram, Saifa Rashid, Sam Juede & Donald Cook, Samantha Camp, Samantha Dailey, Samantha Greenall, Sandra Jakl, Sandra Mraz, Sarah F.W., Sarah Brooks, Sarah Foscarini, Sarah Goslee, Sarah Palmero, Scott Drummond, Scott Shanks, Sean Blakey, Sean Collins, Sean Collins, Shannon Scollard, Sharis Ingram, Sharon Corbet, Shawn Capistrano, Shawn Tumey, Sheena Pennell, Sheila Lester, Shel Kennon, Sherilyn Petterson, Sherry Menton, Shirley Darch, Siobhan Mc Shane, Sionainne Creative Enterprises, Skye Christakos, Sonia Williams, Stephana Bekebrede, Stephanie Boose, Stephanie Dawson, Stephanie Douglas, Stephanie Fischer, Stephanie Johnson, Sumi Funayama, SusanB, Susan Carlson, Susan Petroulas, Susan Shelly, Susan Sullivan, Susannah Cowtan, Suzanne Montague, Taiyo Lipscomb, Tami Mitchell, Tangled Strings, Tania Clucas, Tanja Gardner, Tara Lynch, Tarja Rainio, Tasha Turner Lennhoff, Tennille Kelly, Tiana Hanson, Tiff Arnold, Tiffany Myers, Tiffiny Quinn, Tim Grech, Timothy Bowie, Timothy Hankins, Tom & Rosie Murphy, Tony James, Tony Stroessenreuther, Tracy Davis, Tracy McShane, Treasures of the Heart, Trip Space-Parasite, Trisha Abdin, Trygve Henriksen, uninvitedCat, Valentine Lewis, Vathek, Vicki Keith, Victoria Hench, Walt Boyes, Walter Acheson, Wolf SilverOak, and Zach Bertram
