The Beast

SIXTY-FOUR

Up in the Sanctuary, Vishous followed the call of the birds past the bathing area and the Reflecting Pool, all the way to the edge of the forest. For a moment, he wondered if the intention wasn’t to draw him into the boundary itself, even though it was his understanding that if you tried to go through that stretch of thick trees, the shit just spit you back out where you started.

But then he slowed.

And stopped.

The birds that had been lending their voices to the air fell silent as he looked over at the one place he hadn’t even considered ending up.

The cemetery where the Chosen who had passed had been set to rest was ringed on all four sides by a boxwood hedge that was tall enough so he couldn’t see over it. An archway broke up the dense, small leaves, and it was on the trellis that the birds sat, staring at him mutely, their job now done.

Walking over, he ducked down as he entered even though there was no need to as the arch was plenty high to accommodate his head. And as he stepped inside, the birds flushed into the air, taking flight and disappearing.

It was impossible not to think of Selena as he stared at the statues of the females, which were not in fact statues at all. They were Chosen who had likewise suffered from the Arrest, perishing, as Trez’s mate had, from a disease that was as relentless as it was deadly.

A flapping noise turned his head.

There, on one of the boxwood hedges, waving as if it were a flag, was a block of glowing symbols in the Old Language. The missive was not actually mounted on anything; the text was free-floating, coalesced into an order that presumably would make sense to whomever read it, and yet it moved in folds upon a non-existent wind, like the words had been stitched into cloth and sent up a pole.

With a sense of dread, he approached what he knew his mother had left behind for him.

Reaching up, he grasped the top edge and pulled the message flat, feeling weight, though none existed, and a terminus, though there was none.

The golden symbols fell into a series of straight lines, and he read them through once. And then again. And then a final time.

There are seasons to all things, and my time has come to its end. I am saddened by much that has transpired between us, and between your sister and myself. Destiny proved to be more powerful than what was in my heart, but such as it shall be.

I shall appoint a successor. The Creator is allowing me that discretion and I shall exercise it when the time comes, which is nigh. This successor shall not be you nor your sister. You must know this is not out of animus, but in recognition for what you both have chosen for your lives.

When I exercised my due to bring the race into existence, this was not the ending I foresaw. It can be difficult, however, even for deities, to differentiate between what they will and what will be.

In another dimension, mayhap we shall meet again.

Tell your sister I send my love unto her.

Know that I bestow it upon you as well.

Good-bye

When he let the text fall back into place, the symbols scattered into the air much as the finches had, rising up and vacating into the milky-white sky.

Vishous turned around a couple of times, as if the act of pivoting would somehow prove or disprove this reality. Then he just stopped and became one more statue in the cemetery, his eyes fixed, but seeing nothing, his body frozen where he stood.

He couldn’t decide whether what he was feeling was relief or grief or . . . hell, he didn’t know what the fuck it was. And yes, he had a sudden impulse to go get Butch and have his best friend stretch him out on a rack and whip him until the blood spilled cleaned out the mess inside of his head.

The Bloodletter was dead, V’s sire long since having been killed by his sister, the fucker passing on to Dhund if there was any justice in the world.

Now, his mahmen was gone.

Neither of them had been much in the way of parents, and that had been fine. That had been his normal, such that people who had had a mahmen and a father who were functioning properly in those roles had always seemed like the weird ones.

So it seemed utterly fucking bizarre to feel rootless now considering he’d never actually had a family.

He thought back to Rhage’s survival on that battlefield. And then considered that tiny little infant pulling through when she really shouldn’t have.

“Fuck,” he exhaled.

Just like his mother. The last thing she did before she kicked it, if you could call her disappearance by the mortal sobriquet death, was grant him his prayer—and save Qhuinn’s daughter’s life.

A final fuck you, as it were.

Or, shit, maybe that was just his nasty filter twisting everything into a bad light.

Whatever. She was gone. . . and that was that. Except . . .

Jesus Christ, he thought as he rubbed his face. The Scribe Virgin was gone.