Page 2 of Deadly Maiden

In the middle of the battlefield.

He is a monument that will decompose where he fell.

Dying is sowrong.

Thousands, tens of thousands of others die here, but I care naught for them. Or little for them. My grief unhinges my thoughts. They had but tiny lifespans ahead. Orish had forever.

And so, here I am, contemplating ending this child.

My own gore curls down the thick muscles of my thighs, swirls past my calves, writing the bloodiness of this day on my feet.

Vengeance brought me here to this crib.

I heave in a few breaths and surprise myself with a throat-tearing sob.

I am a fool. I weep at the stupidness, the unfairness, the everydayness of my friend’s death.

Everyone dies, if they are neither Aos Sin fae nor dragonshifter, nor enhanced by some nefarious use of etharum magik.

Immortality has its failings, and so I weep for Orish.

“Fuck this day.” I say it quietly, though as far as I am aware, there are none alive in the camp to hear me.

I should kill this babe. It is my only reason for being in this place.

As if to mirror my mood, the outer winds gust through and shake this large tent, sending dust howling, eddying, scattering the belongings of the necromancers. Clothing, hats, a small stuffed purple toy, pens and quills. A stand of umbrellas, coats, and hats topples with a crash.

Grinding my teeth, molars threatening to crack, fangs projecting further than they should in man-form, I shake my claws and partially manifest my wings. The tips smack the inside of the tent, making it expand then tilt. Perhaps I should simply collapse this shelter and leave the gurgling thing in the crib to suffocate.

Coward.I lift my hand, poise my sharp index claw near its throat. A major blood vessel, the carotid, lives there, beneath its skin. One swift motion and its throat will part. Or its head will detach from the neck if I accidentally slice too deep. I imagine the flood of red on the white cloth it lies upon. My claw twitches.

Then the small pink, plump, hairless … cute … thing kicks its legs beneath the mauve blankie and shoves a thumb in its mouth. It sucks on it, slobbering, mouth greedy for food. Its mother perhaps fed it on her breast. Even evil mothers must do this, I suppose.

Hunger is normal not evil.

I lean over and say provocative words.

“I know your evilness is within, lurking. Bite it. Bite your thumb! If blood appears at that small slobber-wet mouth Iwillcut you. You do not deserve to live!”

No blood appears. The skin about its little eyes squeezes, wrinkles, and it coos, making loud, lip-smacking sounds.

“Curse you. Turn red. Glow with sinister colors! Do something!” I finish the request with a growl.

Nothing happens. It remains cute and fragile.

My shoulders sag. The thing looks like a dumb, adorable baby. My anger does not suffice. I cannot do this.

Sighing, I move away, gasping as the gaping hole in my gut takes the moment as its own and cores me with a snaking agony. My spine has perhaps been touched. The wound feels frighteningly deep, as if part of me is gone.

The last vestiges of my dragon form shudder into nothingness. I raise my hands to watch as my claws retract into my fingers.

I should fly from this camp. I have no desire to kill anyone else I might encounter. I trudge outside, kicking away debris but carefully avoiding the pooled blood, brains, and intestines of the male and female guards.

I attempt to shift. Pain drowns my thoughts for a prolonged and wretched moment. I curl over, dropping, my knees thud into earth. I rise from the crouch then stagger onward, hunched over and panting.

The light-purple sky roils with smoke and the scent of well-fired flesh, of spent etharum, of distant screams and sobs. We won this battle, but I fail to care.

The kingdom is saved, yay. Or yay not. My bitterness makes me curl my lip in disgust.

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