ooc; past snippet
The darkness of the vestibule is moving. Whatever was above us has gotten to the door before us, trapping us here. The keening dies down to a low, guttural chant: “Poppets, poppets, poppets…”
They step from the shadows, half a dozen or so of the most grotesque creatures I have ever seen. Dressed to the very last one in tattered, filthy white robes over ancient chain mail and sharp, steel-toed boots. Some have long, matted hair that trails over their shoulders. Others have shaved their heads bald, the cuts still fresh and bloody. One fearsome soul has but one long strip of hair in the center of his head, running from forehead to collar. His arms are ringed in bangles, and about his neck is a necklace made of finger bones. This one, the leader, steps forward.
“Hello, poppet,” he says, smiling hideously.
He offers his hand. His fingernails have been painted black. There are deep black lines inked up his sinewy arms, thorny stems weeping tears of pitch. They end above his elbows, where fat red flowers bloom in a band around his arm. Poppies.
Nell’s words swim back to me: Beware the Poppy Warriors.
----
“What do you want?”
“Why, to play our games, of course. We’ve no quests left to us, no crusades. Only games.”
He claps, and two of the beasts grab hold of Felicity.
“Wait!” I shout. “This is hardly sporting, is it?”
Azreal stops the men. “Go on,” he says to me.
“I propose a game.”
Azreal grins, giving his face the appearance of a death mask. “I am intrigued, poppet.” He snakes his hand around my neck, caressing it, as he whispers into my ear. “Tell me, what sort of game?”
“A hunt,” I whisper.
----
Dear God, yes, a way out! With frantic fingers, I pull at the necklace, but it’s stuck on the lace of my dress. With one hard yank, I pull the amulet free. It sails through the air and skitters across the floor, landing somewhere in the dark.
“We’ve got to find it. Quick, help me look!” I shout.
The cavern is dark. We’re down on hands and knees, hunting for anything shiny. My heart’s a hammer swung hard and fast. I have never felt such fear. Come on, come on. Find it, Gemma, that’s a good girl. Keep the fear from your mind.
Something glints in the dark. Metal. My amulet!
I rush to the spot. “I’ve found it!” I say.
My hand reaches down, but the metal doesn’t come up in my hand. It is attached to something. A steel-toed boot. It takes shape under my fingers as a scream lodges in my throat. When I look up, I see Azreal glowing in the torchlight.
“No, pretty pet. I’ve found you.”
----
“Now, who shall we play with first?” Azreal stops in front of Ann. “Who would miss you, pet? Would anyone sighedy-sigh over one more lost maiden? Perhaps if she were the fairest of them all. But this is no fairy tale. And you are not fair. Not fair at all.”
Ann is so terror-stricken she’s nearly in a trance.
”It would be a blessing if we took you, hmmm? No more burning inside while the others have all they could ever want and more. No need to cut into your own flesh. No more keeping your mouth closed tight around the scream that explodes inside while they mock you.”
----
“Stop it!” Felicity spits out.
Azreal moves to her, caresses her neck. “Such spirit, pet. How long would you last? If I broke and bled you? A week? Two?” He breaks into a slow grin. “Or…would you skitter away inside somewhere, as you did every time he touched you?”
Felicity’s shame shows as a single tear coursing down her cheek. How does he know this about her?
“You be quiet,” she whipers, her voice betraying her anguish.
“All those nights in your room. Nowhere to go. No one to trust. No one to hear you. Not such spirit, then, pet.”
----
I’m face to face with Azreal and his dead, kohled eyes. “What about your fear, poppet? Where should we begin? You can’t even help your own father.”
“I’m not listening to you,” I say. I try to concentrate, abandon my fear. But it is so very hard.
Azreal continues. “All that power, yet you cannot do the one thing that matters.”
A moment ago, the amulet began to glow, to show me the way out. I clutch it in my hand, secretly angling it toward the last two tunnels. Which one is the one?
A hard slap stings my cheek. “Are you listening, poppet?”
Keep concentrating, Gemma. Do I imagine it, or does the amulet glow? It does! It is faint but real. The tunnel directly behind Azreal is the one. I’ve found the way.
“We visit your father from time to time,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I say. My concentration is gone. The glow disappears.
“When he is under the drug’s spell, his mind is most receptive to us. Such games, such games. We told him about you. About your mother. But he’s getting weaker. And we’re losing all our fun.”
“You leave him alone.”
“Yes, yes. For now. Let’s play.”
“Stop where you are!” Felicity stands poised on a rock, her bow drawn back, one eye squinting on the arrow that she aims in a sweeping arc, taking in the whole of the room. The Poppy Warriors caw at her. Her mouth curves into a hateful smile, a mimic of the bow’s string.
“Put the bow down now, poppet.”
Felicity trains the arrow on Azreal. “No.”
His grin vanishes. “I’m going to eat you alive.”
“I don’t bloody think so,” she says through tears.
With a great caw, he charges her. Felicity’s arrow flies hard and fast, piercing Azreal’s neck just above the protection of his chain mail. His eyes widen as he sinks to his knees and falls to the dusty floor, dead. There is a moment of stunned silence, followed by pandemonium. The Poppy Warriors shriek in anger and grief. There is no time to lose.
[Bray, Libba. Rebel Angels. 439-440; 443-444; 448-453. Random House, Inc.: 2005.]
They step from the shadows, half a dozen or so of the most grotesque creatures I have ever seen. Dressed to the very last one in tattered, filthy white robes over ancient chain mail and sharp, steel-toed boots. Some have long, matted hair that trails over their shoulders. Others have shaved their heads bald, the cuts still fresh and bloody. One fearsome soul has but one long strip of hair in the center of his head, running from forehead to collar. His arms are ringed in bangles, and about his neck is a necklace made of finger bones. This one, the leader, steps forward.
“Hello, poppet,” he says, smiling hideously.
He offers his hand. His fingernails have been painted black. There are deep black lines inked up his sinewy arms, thorny stems weeping tears of pitch. They end above his elbows, where fat red flowers bloom in a band around his arm. Poppies.
Nell’s words swim back to me: Beware the Poppy Warriors.
----
“What do you want?”
“Why, to play our games, of course. We’ve no quests left to us, no crusades. Only games.”
He claps, and two of the beasts grab hold of Felicity.
“Wait!” I shout. “This is hardly sporting, is it?”
Azreal stops the men. “Go on,” he says to me.
“I propose a game.”
Azreal grins, giving his face the appearance of a death mask. “I am intrigued, poppet.” He snakes his hand around my neck, caressing it, as he whispers into my ear. “Tell me, what sort of game?”
“A hunt,” I whisper.
----
Dear God, yes, a way out! With frantic fingers, I pull at the necklace, but it’s stuck on the lace of my dress. With one hard yank, I pull the amulet free. It sails through the air and skitters across the floor, landing somewhere in the dark.
“We’ve got to find it. Quick, help me look!” I shout.
The cavern is dark. We’re down on hands and knees, hunting for anything shiny. My heart’s a hammer swung hard and fast. I have never felt such fear. Come on, come on. Find it, Gemma, that’s a good girl. Keep the fear from your mind.
Something glints in the dark. Metal. My amulet!
I rush to the spot. “I’ve found it!” I say.
My hand reaches down, but the metal doesn’t come up in my hand. It is attached to something. A steel-toed boot. It takes shape under my fingers as a scream lodges in my throat. When I look up, I see Azreal glowing in the torchlight.
“No, pretty pet. I’ve found you.”
----
“Now, who shall we play with first?” Azreal stops in front of Ann. “Who would miss you, pet? Would anyone sighedy-sigh over one more lost maiden? Perhaps if she were the fairest of them all. But this is no fairy tale. And you are not fair. Not fair at all.”
Ann is so terror-stricken she’s nearly in a trance.
”It would be a blessing if we took you, hmmm? No more burning inside while the others have all they could ever want and more. No need to cut into your own flesh. No more keeping your mouth closed tight around the scream that explodes inside while they mock you.”
----
“Stop it!” Felicity spits out.
Azreal moves to her, caresses her neck. “Such spirit, pet. How long would you last? If I broke and bled you? A week? Two?” He breaks into a slow grin. “Or…would you skitter away inside somewhere, as you did every time he touched you?”
Felicity’s shame shows as a single tear coursing down her cheek. How does he know this about her?
“You be quiet,” she whipers, her voice betraying her anguish.
“All those nights in your room. Nowhere to go. No one to trust. No one to hear you. Not such spirit, then, pet.”
----
I’m face to face with Azreal and his dead, kohled eyes. “What about your fear, poppet? Where should we begin? You can’t even help your own father.”
“I’m not listening to you,” I say. I try to concentrate, abandon my fear. But it is so very hard.
Azreal continues. “All that power, yet you cannot do the one thing that matters.”
A moment ago, the amulet began to glow, to show me the way out. I clutch it in my hand, secretly angling it toward the last two tunnels. Which one is the one?
A hard slap stings my cheek. “Are you listening, poppet?”
Keep concentrating, Gemma. Do I imagine it, or does the amulet glow? It does! It is faint but real. The tunnel directly behind Azreal is the one. I’ve found the way.
“We visit your father from time to time,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I say. My concentration is gone. The glow disappears.
“When he is under the drug’s spell, his mind is most receptive to us. Such games, such games. We told him about you. About your mother. But he’s getting weaker. And we’re losing all our fun.”
“You leave him alone.”
“Yes, yes. For now. Let’s play.”
“Stop where you are!” Felicity stands poised on a rock, her bow drawn back, one eye squinting on the arrow that she aims in a sweeping arc, taking in the whole of the room. The Poppy Warriors caw at her. Her mouth curves into a hateful smile, a mimic of the bow’s string.
“Put the bow down now, poppet.”
Felicity trains the arrow on Azreal. “No.”
His grin vanishes. “I’m going to eat you alive.”
“I don’t bloody think so,” she says through tears.
With a great caw, he charges her. Felicity’s arrow flies hard and fast, piercing Azreal’s neck just above the protection of his chain mail. His eyes widen as he sinks to his knees and falls to the dusty floor, dead. There is a moment of stunned silence, followed by pandemonium. The Poppy Warriors shriek in anger and grief. There is no time to lose.
[Bray, Libba. Rebel Angels. 439-440; 443-444; 448-453. Random House, Inc.: 2005.]