Philippa Ballantine - Spectyr

“And carry messages to the Hive City,” the Presbyter of the Sensitives agreed.

“The . . . Hive City?” Sorcha dared a question.

Mournling nodded, his eyes drifting to a point somehow past her. “The city of Orinthal is made of the mud of the land, baked hard, like the homes certain insects of that place build.”

Deacon Faris had to swallow hard while the image of a tall earthen building, made of ocher earth, rose against a flawless blue sky. It was the city the spectyr had shown her. Risking a glance at the Presbyter, she caught a flicker of something that might have been the slightest inclination of the head. Mournling was among the greatest Sensitives of his age—and she shouldn’t have been surprised he had gleaned something from her thoughts.

Presbyter Trelaine leaned back in his chair. “I concur; let us have some more time and send our best Active to guard the Ambassador. It seems a good choice to me, and it will please the Emperor.”

Rictun waved Sorcha away. “Go, make your arrangements. The Presbyter Secondo will give you details later.”

Sorcha tried not to show her joy as she left. Despite everything, she did not want to rub Kolya’s face in her little victories. She had no idea what Mournling was doing—why he was helping them—but one thing was sure: she had more allies than she ever guessed.

The Hive City of Orinthal awaited, as did Raed Rossin, the one man she wanted to see above all others in the world. It was almost enough to make her start believing in fate. Almost.

Winds blew over Arkaym, but Hatipai flew against the prevailing currents. She had been forced to lie to that royal nothing. It would not do to have her believers see that she could be so restrained, so she had claimed to be an angel. Soon enough she would reclaim her power, and then the time for deception would be over.

The hunger inside her burned white-hot; if she had been human, she might have called it pain. This fragile form was not yet physical, and only faith would improve it.

Finding that was far more difficult than Hatipai had anticipated. Before the Break and the arrival of more of her kind, she and a select few had this world all to themselves. They had been the strongest, able to cross between worlds before there was a rift. Competition was the way of things on the Otherside—and if she was forced to compete here, then she would. Hard.

As Hatipai floated high among the clouds, her perception was spread wide, a net seeking faith. She could not linger long in Vermillion—not with the Mother Abbey in control of the city. If she took blood, bone and skin from there, the consequences could be fatal.

Finally, Hatipai felt a tug from below. It was faint, oh so very faint, but there it was. Faith. Wrapping her golden wings around her, the angel fell. Four tiny lives were below, looking up, praying to the Bright One. They could not know what a visitation from their goddess truly meant. They would learn.

Walls, doors and locks made no difference to Hatipai—for at this moment she had no body. A family prayed in the close confines of the cabin on their tiny ship tied to a city dock: mother, father and two teenage boys on the edge of manhood. Ripe and sweet to her senses.

On their knees, they whispered the secret names of Hatipai to a small statue of her. The goddess of wisdom d strength, depicted as a full-breasted woman with spread wings and a beatific smile. She felt not a flicker of compassion; these mortals only existed to supply her with what she needed.

Hatipai began to glow, and the family looked up as the tiny cabin filled with light. Their simple meaty faces spread in delight.

“Great lady,” the mother whispered, and her eyes began to water, “all these years we have prayed—our mothers and fathers, their mothers and fathers, and nothing . . . ” Now her tears were pouring over her cheeks, stricken by the joy of having her faith finally confirmed.

It was a common reaction. The family groveled before her as was just. Hatipai remembered vast churches full to bursting with penitents, the songs, the sacrifices and the heavy smell of incense. She had been truly mighty then, the greatest of all her kin. Now she was reduced to this. Yet, if her plans succeeded, that would change.

She looked down at them through blazing eyes, weighing the value of their meat for her needs.

“Oh, Bright One”—the husband, still on his knees, put an arm around each of his sons—“bless my children with your healing light.”

That was it. They were young, strong, full of faith and fervor. They were just what Hatipai needed. She spread her frail, ethereal limbs wide, her wings swinging up to take in all of the cabin space. “I shall indeed.” Her voice rang like bells around them.

The younger boy’s smile was awestruck when she reached down to touch him. Hatipai’s ethereal body pierced him through, and immediately the boy screamed. It was a pure, musical sound that did not last. Hatipai took his bones, drawing the ingredients that made them into herself, while he collapsed to the floor, a bag of flesh robbed of structure.

The remaining three made guttural sounds of panic, like cattle that finally smell the butcher’s purpose. Yet familial bonds stopped them from rushing away from her immediately. As the mother dashed to the remains of her child, Hatipai stepped forward to wrap her now more structured arms around the other boy. He tried to run. His eyes widened, bright blue and panicked. He burst away from the protective hold of his father and leapt for the door.

She was faster. When her wings curled around him, he howled, feeling the sharpness of her power puncture every muscle and sinew. Hatipai sucked them down greedily, pulling his form into her with a sound that would have been disgusting if she had possessed any mortal sensibilities.

When their second child’s form splattered to the ground, a dry mass of skin and bone, the two parents didn’t scream. Nor did they try to run. The mother’s eyes darted to the remains of her sons as if she thought it some magic trick in very poor taste. Then she looked at Hatipai. The geist was used to worshippers admiring her beauty, so she felt the nakedness of her brand-new body especially sharply. It needed covering.

The man was closest. His skin came free with a sound like ripping velvet, while his screams erupted from a mouth now devoid of lips. The woman wailed with him. It was only bare moments, heartbeats, since she had been pleased to see the gleaming angel in her home.

Mortals were such fickle creatures. They called into the dark, demanded answers and attention from forces they could not comprehend, and yet when they had that attention and those answers, they complained about them.

The skin settled around her form, and now Hatipai could feel the warmth of the room and smll the tang of blood and fear. It was a scent she remembered well. The man staggered, blood pouring from his body like a squeezed sponge, and then shock took him. He crashed into the small altar the family had been praying at, sending food offerings and incense sticks clattering into the gore. Then he was on the floor spasming like a gutted fish.

Hatipai was no longer interested in the man. She was already appreciating his gift.

Looking down, she saw that the body had also shuffled into a familiar pattern; it was modeled on a princess of Delmaire—one that Hatipai had devoured from within in the earliest years of her arrival in this world. In her opinion, this use of bone, flesh and skin was much better than any their original owners could ever have put them to. As she was admiring what she had made, the woman came at her with a knife.

It was certainly not the first time a mortal had attempted such a thing, but it was quite possibly the most pathetic. Hatipai caught her arm before it had even completed its downward descent.