Young Writers Society

I am, for the first time in such a lengthy stretch of years that the mere thought of it makes my spine quiver, at a loss for words. Pushing away from the biter’s supporting arm, I am left completely and utterly helpless to defend myself against his deadly accusation. Surely there isn’t a logical, safe way to explain away this situation, especially since I’ve no clue as of to how long he had been watching our conversational--and slightly physical--transaction.

Glancing at Evora, who slips from the dark room covertly, closing the door shut behind her, she looks impossibly paler and so guiltily torn, you’d think she was staring at a crowd while standing upon the gallows. Her eyes flick from me to the biter, and back again. Obviously she’s reached a similar dilemma to my own; without proper knowledge of when the biter began eavesdropping, there was no way to lie and have our stories match up between the three of us. We could always improvise, but Evora was a dreadful actress, no matter how… theatrical her actions could be. Besides, when has that worked out well for anyone?

“Dare I ask how much time has passed between you happening upon us,” Evora starts nervously, holding up her hands for a pointless reference. “and making your presence known?”

The biter--sneaky, mischievous thing he is--only grins, shaking his head as he scratches at his left ear absently. I immediately notice the oil smudge on the top of his left hand and the collar of his cream-colored shirt that peeks out from beneath his leather vest. What had he been up to? Had he and the Dock Master found any types of surveillance in her room? Something told me that it wasn’t the case--this kid’s way too sharp to flutter about the miniscule, selfless things in life when given this opportunity--but I kept my mouth clamped tight on it still the same.

“About how long it took you to power up your guts and grow a metaphorical ‘pair’, as they say, and kiss this lady right here,” the biter gestures to me. “Even longer if you take how long it took you to upgrade from ‘gentle peck’ to ‘open-mouthed monstrosity’, might I add.” He grins, winking at me briefly before locking eyes with Evora, tilting his head as if he were a parent scolding a child. It was a slightly humorous thing to watch--or would have been, if I didn’t suspect his accusations and relentless questions would be directed at me soon enough.

I shudder at the term ‘open-mouthed monstrosity’, though. Damn it to Hell, I knew I’d felt a certain wetness. Large parts of my delicate soul had fallen to their knees and prayed to the heavens that it was only my hyper-actively disgusted imagination, but I suppose the prayers were in vain.

The inventor’s mouth opens and closes like a suffocating fish being wiggled from a hook, her face budding into a red so deep, it seems to bloom deeper than the very base essence of a blood-colored rose. Straightening her velvet vest before adjusting the buttons on her coat, she bristles, straightening her posture. “Intrusions on intimate matters? You were raised above such ignorant actions.”

I glance at Evora, my eyebrows lifting of their own volition. “I do believe it is now properly ‘my turn’, so to speak. Do you two know each other? Aside from the crossing of paths that comes with a mutual employer, of course.”

Both the biter and the inventor latch on to trademark nervous habits. Lifting both arms so that his hands are clasped behind his head, the little biter turns on his heels, whistling a single note softly as he lifts his gaze to the heavens. Evora bites down on the inside of her cheek, stuffing her hands in her leggings pockets to retrieve her custom gloves, pulling each an with an unnecessary care. I am immediately one-hundred percent more suspicious than I was half a second ago.

“Ms. Ayers,” the inventor laughs nervously, smiling weakly up at me as she mentally battles her reddening face. “I have been alive for a rather lengthy amount of time, and as such, have had the privilege of getting to know many different people.”

“You’ve been alive just as long as I have,” I scoff, crossing my arms as my fingers latch on to the hem of my sleeve, fiddling with the pale silver designs along the cuffs. “And I am quite certain that I have not known very many children in my adult life; especially not enough to know how one was raised.” I can’t help but think of my Lady’s children, wincing. Their happy faces as they ran to me, ready to learn sparring and to go horseback riding and to get swimming lessons. Laughing the whole time, they would call me their ‘second mother’, or in the youngest’s case, ‘blond momma’. They trusted me to protect them; I told them to believe in me whenever they had nightmares and my Lady was too tired or ill to tend to them. I failed them. I failed all of them.

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say ‘just as long’,” Evora mutters, glancing down at the carpet as she fiddles with it with her shoe. She’s about to continue when the biter cuts her off both verbally and physically as he steps in front of the inventor, smiling widely at me.

“We knew each other at Firaiga, see.” He chuckles, patting my arm cheerfully. “Back when I was shorter than a horse’s knee.” He uses his hand to give me a rough estimate of how tall he was exactly. I brush him away, rolling my eyes.

“Firaiga? That was Hell on Exernta, kid. No one survived it.” Not even the Demonic Luminex that had started cast the Animex Ust Fira--or the Hellfire, to us ‘mere mortals’--in the first place. Damn Dea’s Tears trade; that drug did nothing good for the world. No wonder there’s such a prejudice against DLs now.

The inventor glares at the biter, squinting so tightly I nearly thought she’d closed her eyes. Pursing her lips, she let out a long, shaky sigh. “It wasn’t what you’d call ‘easy’, Ms. Ayers.”

“To escape? I didn’t say it was easy; I’m telling you it was impossible. I had to survey the aftermath with the Guard.”

“Escape?” She laughs bitterly, turning her back to me as she begins to walk slowly down the hall in the opposite direction. I follow her without thinking about it very much; it’s her ship. Surely she knows how to get out of these blasted halls. “You could say that.”

I almost can’t catch her last words, she whispers them so quietly--there’s a haunted sound to her voice that makes my inner heart cringe from the sadness within. I feel my lips part, my lungs taking in a breath of air as I prepare to ask after her experiences, but once again the damned biter is interrupting me. “The Guard? Crackers, lady, you really worked with them? That must mean you two met in Royal halls; don’t tell me that’s your connection to the former Queen?” He’s chasing after me as I follow the inventor’s limping form, nipping at my heels like a common untrained hound. I grit my teeth at the word ‘former’; it’s not like she was dead or even properly dethroned; she was backstabbed. Literally.

“Of course,” I hiss, tossing my head so that my bangs fell away from my eyes. It was irritating; I should really consider cutting it, even though the shortness of it was already so scandalous it was dancing along the line of ‘masculine’. “You think some pathetically worthless female was granted with the honor of knowing Her Majesty? I’m no less worthy than Ms. Traditoryn to work under the Queen,”

The dirty little biter smirks as he matches his stride to my own, banking left down another long stretch of hallway, following the shadowed form of Evora like lost souls to a heavenly lantern. “Watch your wording, lady. You might get beheaded for frolicking with Her Majesty if you keep that up. Enemies are just as quick to turn your words against you as your friends are to shield you, and you haven’t got nearly enough friends to be running your chops.”

I glare at him as if I were considering casting Hellfire myself. “You know, ‘work under’ isn’t an improper term for honest work. My Lady is my superior, and I a pawn. It’s a position I not only cherish, but honor. As such, I am tasked with working in her shadow so that she remains safe and unharmed. Honestly, you’re such a child.”

“How long ago was it that you looked good and close at my face, height, and clothing sizes? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’m still considered a kid, no matter how demeaning the term has become.” He laughs, looking up at me with that near-demonic intelligent gaze that shakes my bones and rattles my soul. He’s studying my face so closely, my vision blurs as I nervously try to swerve away from his observational eyes. “You were her Primary Elite, weren’t you? Even more than that, I’d say…” he whispers thoughtfully, though his words make my blood run cold in fear.

“How--?!” I begin, but a shout breaks me off. Looking up to identify the source, my eyes lock with a tall man as he leans down to whisper something into Evora’s ear. I see her turn to look back at me worriedly, cursing. If I’m reading her lips correctly, I’m pretty sure the anti-obscenity inventor just muttered the word ‘shit’.

She waves to us, beckoning us closer. Both the biter and I break into a jog, the lights along the hall between every oaken door casting shadows that contort our own dark floor-followers eerily. She walks toward us as well, and the distance between the three of us burns away till there is only dust, fast breaths, and her hand on my shoulder. “Demonic Luminexian aerial ship; the gun ports are open and the Signature Runes have been activated. An Inferior is asking after a cybermancer on board. He says his Mistress would like a word with her. The crest… the crest on the ship is Liviachi’s, Ms. Ayers.” There’s a fear in Evora’s eyes that I know is well-earned.

Liviachi? Well… damn it to Hell, then. I thought I’d killed her properly last time.

*****

The motion of flicking back the hammer, raising the gun, lining up the sights, and firing has become so effortless over the years, I’m tempted to think it’s second-nature. Another sense, if you will. My ears numbed over time till immune to the loud crack of each shot, arms strong after so many years of holding up a pair of revolvers for lengths of time, many have called me the perfect hunter. I’ve even heard the name Huntress’s Pet a few times, though heaven knows I hate the title to the bone. I’m not anyone’s pet.

The straw heads of the practice dummies collapse within themselves in response to the embrace of bullet after bullet, dust and straw flying everywhere as rotting burlap fabric tries--and fails--to hold the mock heads to their wooden necks. Each shot is between the eyes, right in that lovely spot where blood might flow elegantly down the nose, staining lips with copper-scented liquid as it drips down unworthy necks. Too many people these days have allowed Luminexian nature to take hold of them. First the Artificial Runes, then Dea’s Tears, and now a man who bedded a cybermancer is on the throne. A man like that… what’s worse, the cybermancer herself, or the half-wit fool who impregnated her four times?

Flicking the guns so that the revolving magazine is exposed, I spin the chamber, knocking the empty shells out onto the dirt. They kick up dust, but the miniature clouds of dirt haven’t even reached their peak before I’ve reloaded all nine slots in both guns, slamming the chamber back into place. Silver glints against the sun as I lift the weapons for the 70th time in two hours. I’ll win this bet if it’s the last thing I do; shoot, I’d win it if it were the first thing I’d ever done.

“I see why the Huntress keeps you so close to her side,” I hear yet another stuck-up voice wheeze nasally behind me; I really wish the sound had drowned amongst the gunshots so I could properly ignore the fool. Holstering the weapons rapidly, I turn, immediately singling the owner of the voice out with a solid glare as I brush past him. Vic and Marely are clapping and whistling as they stare at the demolished dummies--all six-hundred and thirty of them, as wasteful as that may seem--so I tip my hat to them as I pass.

“What do you want, Akdel? You know I ain’t no Queen’s bitch, and I sure as Hell ain’t licking the boots of some half-assed King lounging on a throne he don’t deserve.” I spit, glancing down the dirt road--which also doubled as a Main Street, if you’d believe such a thing--to make sure Karla had taken her babies in like I’d asked. It smelled damp, and the clouds in the distance didn’t exactly have cute little smiles drawn on them. They looked like something out of a mortal nightmare, or even some DL’s best dream.

Akdel only laughs, following me up the steps to the porch of a small wooden building that looked about ready to collapse. “Your vast vocabulary amazes me, Ms. Lector. You really should try professional debates; I’m sure you’d shock your opponent so thoroughly that his hairs would stand in end from the pressure.”

“Shut up,” hissing, I push the rotting door with chipping blue paint open, trying not to cough as paint chips slip into my mouth. Damn Luminex; this town would still be beautiful if they’d never got ahold of it. I can’t even leave the Huntress out of the blame, no matter how much she despises her condition. “What do you want, damn it? Spill it and get the Hell out of my town.”

“Yes, of course,” the slender, feminine-looking man reaches under his pale brown coat, pulls something from an inner pocket, and hands the files to me. I snatch them out of his hands, biting the finger of a glove on my other hand with my teeth to peel it away from my skin. It doesn’t take me long to scan over the important bits. Pisses me off, is what it does. “I know you aren’t very fond of her,”

“I hate her guts,” I growl, dropping the glove onto an old wooden table crafted some fifty years ago. That doesn’t mean it was an elegantly carved antique, though; it’s a rackety piece of furniture that can barely support the weight of a glove. All the age adds to it is termites. “She was Larana’s right-hand woman before she became Liviachi, and you know what I think about Larana’s granddaughter. Cybermancers, backstabbers, and murdering Luminex-bedding shits, the whole lot of them. Why do you insist on shoving this trash in my face?” I shove the papers back to him, nearly throwing up at the sight of the heart drawn at the end of the DL’s signature.

“Because, my lady,” he stresses the word in such a way that I’m inclined to find myself insulted, but let it go because he can’t think of anything more creative. “She doesn’t want you to kill threats to her power this time.”

“Eh?” Leaning against a chair beside the rickety old table, I tilt my hat up to look at him better. He’s a pretty little thing to high-society women for sure, long blond hair tied back in a delicate ponytail, pale complexion starkly bringing out his crystal blue eyes. He ain’t my type; looks like a porcelain doll for heaven’s sake.

“She wants you to hunt down Regina,” Akdel’s got a sad look in his eyes that I couldn’t have half a shit about; he isn’t the first to fall head-over-heels for the former Queen, and unfortunately he isn’t the last. That’s old news. Liviachi hunting down one of her own kin, however non-blood that kin may be? That’s news worth the ‘new’ title. Good news, to kick it.

“Hunting for a Queen of Hearts, you say? Well then,” I purr, hand on my hip as I lean forward and paw the papers back from him. “Color me intrigued…”