P. Cast: Destined

“He spiesss!” Nisroc said, and the other Raven Mockers mirrored his excitement with their distinctive croaks.

“He does, but at the moment he may not know he spies,” Kalona said. Then he added, “You understand, Nisroc? You are to watch him. To remain unseen by all except Rephaim.”

“Not to kill vampyresss?”

“Not unless you are threatened—then do as you will, without being taken or killing any High Priestess, ” Kalona said slowly and distinctly. “It is never wise to needlessly provoke a goddess, so Nyx’s High Priestesses are not to be killed.” He frowned at his son, remembering his other child who had almost killed Zoey Redbird not long ago—and who had died for it. “Do you understand my command, Nisroc?”

“Yesss. Tell him I will. Rephaim to watch. Rephaim to ssspy.”

“Do so, and return before dawn lightens the sky. Fly high. Fly fast. Fly quietly. Make yourselves like the night wind.”

“Yesss, Father.”

Kalona glanced around, nodding at the thickness of the surrounding woodland, and appreciating the fact that his children had found a high, isolated spot in which to nest.

“Humans, they do not come here?” he asked.

“Only huntersss, and they no more,” Nisroc said.

Kalona raised his brows. “You killed humans?”

“Yesss. Two.” Nisroc moved, agitated and excited. “Against rock we threw them.” He pointed a little way ahead of them and, curious, Kalona strode forward to look down on the steep side of the ridge where the massive power lines that carried electric magick for the modern world stretched before him. The humans had cleared the area surrounding the tall pylons so that the land fell away from him in a wide ribbon that stretched to the horizon. The clearing had left exposed jagged outcroppings of huge chunks of Oklahoma sandstone, clean and lethal and jutting toward the sky.

“Excellent,” Kalona said, nodding in appreciation. “You made it look like an accident. That was well done.” Then he turned back to the clearing and the Raven Mockers who clustered there with all of their attention focused solely on him. “This place is well chosen. I want all of my sons around me here. Nisroc, go to the Tulsa House of Night. Do my bidding. The rest of you fly to the west. Call to your brothers—call them here to me. Here we will wait. Here we will watch. Here we will make ready.”

“Make ready? For what, Father?” Nisroc asked, cocking his head.

Kalona thought about how his body had been entrapped and his soul ripped from him and sent to the Otherworld. He thought about how after he’d returned she’d lashed him, enslaved him, and treated him as if he’d been her property to command

“We make ready for Neferet’s destruction,” he said.

Everyone looked at him with suspicion. Rephaim hated it, but he understood it. He’d been an enemy. He’d killed one of their own. He’d been a monster.

The truth was he could still be a monster.

As third hour began and a professor who called herself Penthasilea read from and then spoke about a book written by an ancient vampyre named Ray Bradbury entitled Fahrenheit 451 , and the importance of the freedoms of thought and expression, Rephaim tried to school his new human features into a semblance of attention and interest, but his mind kept slipping away. He wanted to listen to the professor and have nothing more to worry about than what she called “deciphering symbolism,” but the change from boy to raven obsessed him.

It had been as painful and terrifying as it had been thrilling.

And he remembered almost nothing of what had happened to him after it.

Image and sensation were all that remained with him from the day and his transformation into a raven.

Stevie Rae had gone with him up from the deep, earthen tunnels to the tree nearest the depot—the one that, not so long ago, had served as an escape route for them from the blistering sun.

“Go back inside now. Dawn is breaking,” he’d said to her, touching her cheek gently.

“I don’t wanna leave you,” she said, throwing her arms around him and hugging him close.

He’d only allowed himself to return the embrace for a moment, then he’d gently unwound her from around him, and guided her firmly back to the shadowed, grated entrance to the basement.

“Go below. You’re exhausted. You need to sleep.”

“I’m gonna watch until you’re, uh, you know. A bird. ”

She’d whispered the last part as if not saying it aloud would change whether it was so. It was probably foolish, but it made him smile.

“It does not matter whether you say it or not. It’s going to happen.”

She’d sighed. “I know. But I still don’t wanna leave you.” Stevie Rae had reached forward, out into the lightening morning, and taken his hand. “I want you to know I’m here for you.”

“I do not believe a bird knows very much of the human world,” he’d said because he hadn’t known what else to say.

“You’re not gonna be just any bird. You’re gonna turn into a raven. And I’m not a human. I’m a vampyre. A red one. Plus, if I don’t stay here how are you gonna know what to come back to?”

He’d heard a sob in her voice that had made his heart ache.

Rephaim kissed her hand. “I’ll know. I give you my oath. I’ll always find my way home to you.” He’d been about to give her a little shove through the entry to the basement when a sickening pain had torn through his body.

Looking back on it he realized he should have expected it. How could it not be painful to change form from a human boy to a raven? But his world had been filled with Stevie Rae and the simple but complete joy of taking her in his arms, kissing her, holding her close …

He’d not spent time considering the beast.

At least he’d be prepared next time.

The pain had ripped him. He’d heard Stevie Rae’s scream echo his own. His last human thought had been worry for her. His last human sight had been of her crying and shaking her head back and forth. She’d reached for him as animal had completely replaced human. He remembered spreading his wings as if he was stretching after being imprisoned in a tiny cell. Or a cage. And flying.

He remembered flying.

At sunset he’d found himself cold and naked beneath the same tree beside the depot. He’d just pulled on his clothes that had been left neatly folded for him on a little stool when Stevie Rae burst from the basement.

With no hesitation she’d hurled herself into his arms.

“Are you okay? Really? Are you okay?” she kept repeating as she’d studied him and felt his arms as if searching for broken bones.

“I am well,” he’d assured her. It was then he’d realized she was crying. He cupped her face in his hands and said, “What is it? Why do you weep?”

“It hurt you so bad. You screamed like it was killing you.”

“No,” he’d lied. “It wasn’t so bad. It was just surprising.”

“Really?”

He’d smiled— how he loved to smile— and pulled her into his arms, kissing her blond curls and reassuring her. “Really.”

“Rephaim?”

Rephaim was wrenched back to the present by the sound of his name being called by the professor.

“Yes?” he responded with his own questioning tone.

She didn’t smile at him, but she also didn’t taunt or admonish him. She simply said, “I asked what you believe the quote on page seven means. The one where Montag says Clarisse’s face has a light that is like a ‘fragile milk crystal’ and the ‘strangely comfortable and rare and gently flattering light of the candle.’ What do you think Bradbury is trying to say about Clarisse with these descriptions?”