Cantaloupe 25, Rocky Road 16, Blue Raspberry 27
Title: Thirteen Shadows
Author: darkfaerieclaw
Story Continuity: The Lethean Glamour (non-main story)
Prompts: Cantaloupe #25: behind bars, Rocky Road #16: where it all happened, Blue Raspberry #27: a hint
Extra: Malt (birthday: Icthusfish's picture prompt)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It would be such a cliche if it wasn't happening to her.
It had taken Miskatova months - far too many of the precious things - to clear her schedule enough to plan both a vacation to her father's most comfortable retreat, and an extra four weeks to plan out just how she was going to manage to kill Prince Valentio, the newest prince and obstacle in the way of her becoming queen, during that time. In the end, she figured to hell with it, she'd just hire an assassin.
The reservation was wonderful; green everywhere, and there was a cabin inside the forest that no one seemed to know about, completely bare of anything. Miska felt safest in there, even though there were all manner of beast and monster outside, because there was nowhere to hide. Just you, the walls, and the gods.
She'd been in the cabin for an hour or two when she noticed this was not the case. There was a woman - dark-haired, pale-eyed, dressed palely and snappily and with pine cones in her hair - in the shadows, staring at her, not saying a word. Her eyes - gray, like thunderclouds - were blank of any emotion, but still gave the feeling of the kind of scientific dissection Miska saw in the weapons development labs when she was a child. An arctic chill seized Miska's spine and remained there, as if her spine had been transformed into ice.
"How did you get in here?" Miskatova hissed, and realized almost immediately that was the least pertinent question. The woman said, "I've been here since before you arrived."
"No you were not," Miska said. "I would have seen you."
"Would you have?" The woman said, a little amused. Miska noticed a strange, darkly lilting quality to her voice, as if she was a half second away from singing a dirge. "Perhaps that's true. I mean, if you say it is, then it must be. Since you know everything, am I right?"
"I would have seen you," Miska said. The woman smiled. "Maybe under different circumstances you might have. It's terribly dark in here, you know. Do you know why?"
Miskatova looked outside, where the moon hung brilliantly against the thick darkness of the sky. Then she looked back at the woman, who appeared completely serious. Miska snorted. "I get it now. The pine cones should have been my first hint. You're mad, aren't you, poor girl?"
"Me? No to both," The woman said. "This place was blessed by Adanvari. It's dark during the day, too. E-spec-ially during the day."
"Why was it blessed by Adanvari?" Miskatova said, and tossed her hair. "Seems to me he'd have more important things to do than bless a little cabin like this."
"A long time ago," The woman said. "Well, not so long, I guess. Twelve years. There was a woman. Lonely, old, and dying. So when Adanvari offered to give her children, she didn't protest, even when they numbered thirteen. She asked no questions; just raised them, talked to them. Im-pris-oned them, if you want my honest assessment. They were not allowed outside until the crown took an interest. And of course they took an interest, because these were not ordinary kidlets. Granny Cherota, as she was called, was forced to reliquish partial control of the kids to the government. She didn't mind; she was having trouble keeping up with the godspawn."
"So the kids were born again, under a knife. Their human sides were less humane and more animal selfishness, and their demons became unholy and horrible. Some killed themselves; some had to be put down, like rabid guard dogs. There was one girl who became three - she made a deal with the god that made her. She's his Branded, his favorite child. But on-ly her - the two inside her are not welcome to that power. But they can take it, just the same. The children that remain are contract killers; the children that fell behind returned home. Here. They like the shadows, having been born of them, and they keep this place nice and dark."
"What happened to...Cherota?"
"Mmm," The woman said, touching a hand to her chin. "That's not something I know for certain. She's definitely dead, of course. Nine killed her. But wherever she's buried, this place isn't it."
"Well, I hope he's behind bars," Miskatova said, with a tone like that you hear at the very end of a conversation, and hoped that would be enough of a hint that the woman would understand she wanted to leave. The woman just smiled and said, "Oh, I'm sure you do. And he is - it is. The demon nature of the children was kept behind bars, like it was just something you can hide a-way. But, here's the thing - you can't. Because they'll huff and they'll puff, and they'll shake the bars, and - and then they'll get tired of that, and BOOM - suddenly, they're standing in a fortress of ash; and those bars? They're just a pool of liquid metal glowing in its own heat."
"I need to go," Miska said, and the woman - when did she get so close? - said, "Yes, you do."
And she was different. Suddenly, there were markings on her face, and her eyes were less stormclouds and more distant moonlight. "By order of the king, I, Seven of the Thirteenth Guard, have been contracted to neutralize you."
"I am the king's niece, you idiot," Miska said, and stepped back rather than forward. It was a mistake.
"Yes," the woman said tranquilly. "You are. But the king wants Lysandro to rule, not you. And you've cut through a lot of obstacles to get here. A lot of important obstacles. Your assassin, by the way, is floating somewhere in the Rialda River about now."
"I-" Miska looked around for something, anything-
"This is not a book, and you are not a heroine," The woman hissed. "You don't get a chance to escape."
Later, a woman with pine cones in her long, dark hair and eyes like moonlight ran into the reservation's hotel, crying about the poor girl - strangled or with her neck broken, she couldn't, didn't want to tell - she found in a tiny, unoccupied cabin. She gave her account of how she discovered the body - so much like her grandmother, strangled or broken and twisted - and the investigators gave her their sympathies, the address of a good grief counselor, and a dismissal. And when no one was looking, the woman exchanged winks with the coroner and sauntered off vaguely towards Volacoeur.
Author: darkfaerieclaw
Story Continuity: The Lethean Glamour (non-main story)
Prompts: Cantaloupe #25: behind bars, Rocky Road #16: where it all happened, Blue Raspberry #27: a hint
Extra: Malt (birthday: Icthusfish's picture prompt)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It would be such a cliche if it wasn't happening to her.
It had taken Miskatova months - far too many of the precious things - to clear her schedule enough to plan both a vacation to her father's most comfortable retreat, and an extra four weeks to plan out just how she was going to manage to kill Prince Valentio, the newest prince and obstacle in the way of her becoming queen, during that time. In the end, she figured to hell with it, she'd just hire an assassin.
The reservation was wonderful; green everywhere, and there was a cabin inside the forest that no one seemed to know about, completely bare of anything. Miska felt safest in there, even though there were all manner of beast and monster outside, because there was nowhere to hide. Just you, the walls, and the gods.
She'd been in the cabin for an hour or two when she noticed this was not the case. There was a woman - dark-haired, pale-eyed, dressed palely and snappily and with pine cones in her hair - in the shadows, staring at her, not saying a word. Her eyes - gray, like thunderclouds - were blank of any emotion, but still gave the feeling of the kind of scientific dissection Miska saw in the weapons development labs when she was a child. An arctic chill seized Miska's spine and remained there, as if her spine had been transformed into ice.
"How did you get in here?" Miskatova hissed, and realized almost immediately that was the least pertinent question. The woman said, "I've been here since before you arrived."
"No you were not," Miska said. "I would have seen you."
"Would you have?" The woman said, a little amused. Miska noticed a strange, darkly lilting quality to her voice, as if she was a half second away from singing a dirge. "Perhaps that's true. I mean, if you say it is, then it must be. Since you know everything, am I right?"
"I would have seen you," Miska said. The woman smiled. "Maybe under different circumstances you might have. It's terribly dark in here, you know. Do you know why?"
Miskatova looked outside, where the moon hung brilliantly against the thick darkness of the sky. Then she looked back at the woman, who appeared completely serious. Miska snorted. "I get it now. The pine cones should have been my first hint. You're mad, aren't you, poor girl?"
"Me? No to both," The woman said. "This place was blessed by Adanvari. It's dark during the day, too. E-spec-ially during the day."
"Why was it blessed by Adanvari?" Miskatova said, and tossed her hair. "Seems to me he'd have more important things to do than bless a little cabin like this."
"A long time ago," The woman said. "Well, not so long, I guess. Twelve years. There was a woman. Lonely, old, and dying. So when Adanvari offered to give her children, she didn't protest, even when they numbered thirteen. She asked no questions; just raised them, talked to them. Im-pris-oned them, if you want my honest assessment. They were not allowed outside until the crown took an interest. And of course they took an interest, because these were not ordinary kidlets. Granny Cherota, as she was called, was forced to reliquish partial control of the kids to the government. She didn't mind; she was having trouble keeping up with the godspawn."
"So the kids were born again, under a knife. Their human sides were less humane and more animal selfishness, and their demons became unholy and horrible. Some killed themselves; some had to be put down, like rabid guard dogs. There was one girl who became three - she made a deal with the god that made her. She's his Branded, his favorite child. But on-ly her - the two inside her are not welcome to that power. But they can take it, just the same. The children that remain are contract killers; the children that fell behind returned home. Here. They like the shadows, having been born of them, and they keep this place nice and dark."
"What happened to...Cherota?"
"Mmm," The woman said, touching a hand to her chin. "That's not something I know for certain. She's definitely dead, of course. Nine killed her. But wherever she's buried, this place isn't it."
"Well, I hope he's behind bars," Miskatova said, with a tone like that you hear at the very end of a conversation, and hoped that would be enough of a hint that the woman would understand she wanted to leave. The woman just smiled and said, "Oh, I'm sure you do. And he is - it is. The demon nature of the children was kept behind bars, like it was just something you can hide a-way. But, here's the thing - you can't. Because they'll huff and they'll puff, and they'll shake the bars, and - and then they'll get tired of that, and BOOM - suddenly, they're standing in a fortress of ash; and those bars? They're just a pool of liquid metal glowing in its own heat."
"I need to go," Miska said, and the woman - when did she get so close? - said, "Yes, you do."
And she was different. Suddenly, there were markings on her face, and her eyes were less stormclouds and more distant moonlight. "By order of the king, I, Seven of the Thirteenth Guard, have been contracted to neutralize you."
"I am the king's niece, you idiot," Miska said, and stepped back rather than forward. It was a mistake.
"Yes," the woman said tranquilly. "You are. But the king wants Lysandro to rule, not you. And you've cut through a lot of obstacles to get here. A lot of important obstacles. Your assassin, by the way, is floating somewhere in the Rialda River about now."
"I-" Miska looked around for something, anything-
"This is not a book, and you are not a heroine," The woman hissed. "You don't get a chance to escape."
Later, a woman with pine cones in her long, dark hair and eyes like moonlight ran into the reservation's hotel, crying about the poor girl - strangled or with her neck broken, she couldn't, didn't want to tell - she found in a tiny, unoccupied cabin. She gave her account of how she discovered the body - so much like her grandmother, strangled or broken and twisted - and the investigators gave her their sympathies, the address of a good grief counselor, and a dismissal. And when no one was looking, the woman exchanged winks with the coroner and sauntered off vaguely towards Volacoeur.