Page 7 of Scion of Chaos

Just to prove it to myself, I rise and start to rearrange the rubble. First, I reposition the beam again, propping the end of it back against one remaining section of wall, then finding a chunk of roof that’s more or less intact and leaning it across the beam, then another on the other side. When I’m finished, there’s a rudimentary shelter covering the sofa and the mouse nest inside it, and I’m not even winded.

Next I rifle through the mess in my satchel and find an oatmeal cookie I pilfered from the dining hall a couple nights ago. I crouch again and set the cookie on the plaid fabric of the couch cushion next to the nest. Mama Mouse lifts her nose and sniffs, eyeing me warily.

“You need to keep up your strength for them,” I say. “Here.” I break off a piece of cookie and hold it closer to her. She snatches it with her mouth and holds it in her little claws to nibble at it while her babies latch onto her nipples to suckle. Satisfied that she’s eating, I rise.

Like it or not, this is somehow my fault, which is painful to admit. I’m not a destroyer. I’m an artist; I want tocreatebeautiful things, not break them. But what does it even mean? What am I? I’ve met so many other students and teachers at St. George I’m well aware of the possibilities.

There are four elements they taught us about when we arrived, each associated with one of the higher races. Everyone who is allowed onto the island has some flavor of higher race running through their blood. Some students have more than one.

So what do I have? This isn’t the fire affinity of a dragon or the water affinity of a nymphaea. I don’t feel like singing or making music the way a turul-blooded human might. And nothing I’ve done since being here has led me to believe I have ursa blood. No interest in blacksmithing or metalwork, aside from the silver cock ring I made and set with a small piece of void glass. The dildo was really just a model for the jewelry. Icanuse all those mediums, but don’t feel drawn to any one in particular.

I toss some rubble aside, pull out a chair, and sit down, hunting through my satchel for the piece of jewelry that awed my classmates when I presented it for critique. No one seemed fazed by its purpose, wrapped around the enormous stone phallus. Even our instructor, a burly ursa named Steven, was impressed and told me what a perfect ornament it would make for the right fertility god.

Except the ring isn’t here. IknowI stashed it in my bag along with the dildo the night I came back out here to use it.

Frustrated by the gap in my memory, I clear the floor and dump my satchel out. Black shards scatter, along with my sketchpad and colored pencils; a pill bottle repurposed to hold my stash of Kush and more lighters than I thought I had; a couple tampons and a pair of old socks; and other pretty gewgaws that I randomly pick up while out hiking around the island. More junk both creative and non-creative falls out but, the jeweled silver cock ring isn’t among any of it.

“No panicking allowed. Deep breaths,” I tell myself, trying to rationalize all the things that are going wrong today. Things I can’t explain. My strange surge of strength that isn’t even a surge... it’s justthere. The destroyed cabin. The creative urges.

For the first time since I woke up, I think about the mess of sticky fluid my vulva was covered in. I search deep for any sense of trauma—I might not remember everything, but mybodyshould, right? But all my mind wants to dwell on is the pleasant buzz still flooding my veins—the kind of loose, relaxed feeling I have after reallygoodsex.

I shove all my stuff back in my bag and rise to return to the pile of ruins that were the bedroom. Perhaps the ring is in there still? But I stop in the doorway, filled with the certainty that itisn’t, and there’s no sense digging through the mess to try to find something that won’t be there anyway.

Instead I trudge back to campus, girding myself to face the music over the destruction I caused before running off.

4

Nemea

The lights are back on, at least, and when I pass by the dining hall, a work crew is already installing a new pane of glass. I suppose it’s a bonus that the school is owned by a glassblower wielding powerful fire magic.

I skirt past, tamping down my guilt, and head farther up the hill to the girl’s dormitory nestled in the trees on the other side of the rise facing the eastern shore. A warm glow emanates from within and I head up the stairs, looking forward to a hot shower and my own bed.

Audra’s bed is vacant, which is no surprise, but Rachel’s sitting up with her reading light on, paging through a notebook. The other three girls who share this floor are occupied with their own activities and barely acknowledge my arrival, but Rachel looks up and gives me a concerned smile.

“Hey girl. Are you okay? You ran off so fast after that crazy power outage and the bird flying into the window.”

“Bird?” I ask, tossing my bag onto my bed. The contents clank and rattle, and my bed creaks.

“What else could have done that much damage? They think it must’ve been an eagle or a pelican. Something that could’ve survived, anyway, because whatever did it flew off.”

I sit and unbuckle my boots. “That’s crazy,” I say, hoping it sounds genuine. “At least they got the lights back on.”

“Some weird shit’s been happening the last couple days, though—the electrical stuff, and now that bird, and I heard from one of the kitchen guys that when he went to the root cellar to get the potatoes for the fries tonight, it was like a fucking jungle down there. Every last spud had sprouted and grown into a plant. They had to order more potatoes from the mainland.”

I stare at my bare feet and shake my head. There’s no waythatwas my fault, if any of it was. That’s the kind of thing I’d expect of earth magic, not—

Chaos.

—whatever I’m afflicted with. The kind of thing a fertility god might be responsible for, perhaps.

I shake off the sense that I’m right, no matter how crazy it sounds, and reach for my shower kit in the cubby at the foot of my bed.

“As long as we have hot water, I’m good,” I say, and pad to the bathroom.

I crank the water as hot as it’ll go and stand beneath the spray for several minutes before reaching for my soap. When I get to my nethers, I have the smallest, most incongruous sense ofregretat washing away the mess.

It occurs to me that maybe I got roofied and assaulted, in which case I should probably not bathe, but that isn’t the root of the regret. Despite my confusion and uncertainty since awakening in a ruined cabin, I feel pretty good. Better than good. I’m not tired, and I don’t hurt aside from the faintest pleasant soreness between my legs. I’m still fucking hungry, but otherwise, I feel like a million bucks. My creativity is off the charts, the ideas coming so fast I’m forcing myself to resist running for my sketchbook every time some new idea strikes.

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