“I never went to school,” Abigail said at last. “So I’m not… I may get some things wrong. I’m not smart like you Practitioners. Or mortals.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “You sound smart. You’re parents probably did a good job.”
“I never knew my parents either.”
Oh shit. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be. I… you can’t miss what you never had. Or lose it either,” Abigail said. “My first memories are growing up with the Dumpster Babies in Jersey. And yes. It is exactly what it sound like. Abandoned beings, left there because no one wanted them. Changelings who were discovered too early, goblins, orcs… creatures on the fringe of civilization.” Her voice grew small. “It wasn’t a good time for me.”
“…How long were you there for?”
“I was eighteen when I left.”
“Jesus,” I swore. Being a girl going through puberty in a freaking dump ran by creatures that were called the Dumpster Babies…
She gave a hollow laugh. “Now you start to see why people call me dirty.”
“That’s why?”
“Not all of it, no,” She admitted. “The real question is why I was left there.”
“Why?”
Abigail’s voice dwindled to a whisper. “When people fall through the cracks, they need protection, Jain Shin Hallow. That’s true now, and it was true back then. When there was no Practitioner or Hero around to defend them, monsters knew. Werewolves, goblins, vampires, Baba Yagas, bored Fae and things.”
My throat felt dry. I stayed quiet.
“So people did the only things they could. They would choose someone. A sacrifice. Man, or woman. It didn’t matter. Can you guess the fate of these sacrifices?”
“Eaten?”
“They were bred, Jain Shin Hallow,” she said, and bitter anger creeped in her voice. The flashlight shook wildly. “My ancestors are the product of thousands, maybe even tens of thousands, of years of humanity’s weakest being offered as pleasure-slaves and womb-bearers to the other side.”
“You are right that I am not human. I’m not. Atleast, my people were never treated like one,” Abigail said. “Those people who were sold off to the other side, we were below even the gravekeepers, the burakumin, or the dalit. The women were comfort women, and incubators—less than that at times. Food. The men were seed-bearers, often eaten right after mating. And those who bought them? Monsters made flesh. Old ancient things whose names even Assad cannot remember: Fae warlords, vampire-gods. If the captives were lucky, that’s who they were sold to.”
“And if they were unlucky?”
She kept going. “A troll under a bridge. An outcast Strigoi who managed to take control of a village in some remote place. A banshee who had a taste for virgin boys. Goblin generals that needed stress relief for his soldiers after a battle. Or maybe a way to replenish their numbers.”
I shuddered.
“Over time, it was phased out in most parts of our world,” she said. “But a few of us remain. Descendants of the first price that mortals paid to have a safe place. And yet—” she let out a long breath. “My kind weren’t welcome anywhere. We were… filthy. Used. So they struck out on their own and over time, split apart as all people tend to do. Now you see why I am called what I am. Why I am treated the way I am.”
We kept walking. And we didn’t talk for a long time.
I think she was scared. Of what I’d say. How I’d react. That sort of thing.
Maybe I’m being melodramatic. But I think everyone has a small fear inside of us. Of not belonging anywhere, of being a reject. I mean, take a look at some of the people around you. Piercings. The wild hair color. The make-up. It screams ‘look at me, pay attention to me’ but simultaneously, it says ‘don’t come too close or I’ll hurt you’.
I think Abigail was the latter.
Being descended from a family that were used as sex slaves for monsters probably isn’t the best for one’s self-esteem. It probably makes making friends equally as hard. I mean, how many people could understand that kind of backstory
I slowed down. Slowed down enough so that Abigail caught up to me.
She didn’t look at me.
How do you tell someone who’s been told their entire life that they’re dirty, that… that they’re not? That it’s in their head?
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I reached down, grabbed her hand, then squeezed.
She froze, then looked in the general direction of my face, her violet eyes absolutely huge. The goth girl was tall enough so that we were pretty much eye to eye. At first, I didn't dare look because there was a loud stomping sound in my ears which I later credited to my hard-beating heart. I finally worked up the guts to look back at her.
There were tear marks on her cheeks.
Look. We’ve all been teenagers at one point, right? When we’re not really full into adulthood? We know what it’s like to be a kid with hormones all out of wack, right? I didn’t know what else to say. It was cringey as hell, but goddamit, I needed to say something. I'm sure I'll think of better one-liners when I'm old enough to drink.
But at the moment... I couldn't think of anything better.
“I think you’re pretty fucking awesome,” I said. “Thanks for helping me out. Even if it was cause Assad forced you.”
We stayed that way, my words teasing of what could be, and what was.
Just staring.
She said in a breathless whisper, “He didn’t force me, Jain Shin Hallow. I volunteered.”
Then she closed her eyes.
I leaned in.
‘Caller, we are followed,’ Hwari said into our minds.
We broke apart so fast that Abigail dropped her flashlight.
I began to cough, pounding on my chest. Something felt like it was stuck there. Shit, my heart was racing.
“Focus, Jain,” Wol said, his voice next to my ear.
How could I have been so stupid? I was basically wearing my familiar as a scarf, while the other one was constantly patrolling around us in a circle. But it had felt like it was just us two, and that something was about to happen.
Was I really going to do that?
…Was she going to do that too?
“Jain!” Wol snapped.
“Wuh—yeah!” I coughed into my hand, trying to regain my bearings.
‘Something follows us,’ Hwari repeated.
Abigail composed herself better than I did. “Which direction, Elder?”
‘From whence we came,’ she replied.
“Crap.” My heart was still racing and I wasn’t sure from what anymore. The thing with Abigail, or the fact that my plan had actually freaking worked and someone was here. “If it’s Hidebehind or Tagalong, they’d barely be noticeable. How many of them, Hwari?”
‘I am uncertain.’
“This is too early. I’m not ready.”
“They’re fast, Practitioner,” Wol said, holding his nose up to the wind. His whiskers flinched. “Close.”
“They? As in more than one?” I groaned. “How the hell do they know where we are?”
“I can’t be tracked. Atleast, not unless I want to be,” Abigail said quickly.
It had to be me then.
“We have to move,” I said. “Ok. Change of plans. We’re heading towards where the Mother Tree was.”
“Why?”
“Open space. We’d be able to see them coming. Here, there’re too many things for practitioners to manipulate. Trees. Dryads. Snow. Cold.” I let the bitterness enter my voice. “If these guys are practitioners, they’re going to be better than me at using these things to their advantage. I need to even out the playing field by taking out their advantage.”
Abigail nodded. “Do you know the way?”
“Somewhat,” I said. Then I opened my Third Eye.
The my viewpoint of the world shifted, the spirit world overlapping the physical. The trees turned see-through, showing me the various dryads that were asleep in the fetal position. Not only that, the relationships I had with the beings I was contracted with—Wol, Hwari, Hidebehind, Tagalong, Underthebed—were visible through the representation of strings.
I tugged on two of the thinnest ones, trying to get their attention.
“The last time I saw, the older the dryads, the closer we were to the Mother Tree. Come on, this way,” I said and began leading the way.
We hadn’t walked a full ten yards before Abigail screamed, “DUCK!”
I didn’t hesitate. I threw myself forward.
Acting on instinct, I grabbed Wol off my shoulder, wrapping my arms around him to shield him from the fall. I heard him yowl something incoherent in my ears as we fell to the ground, and a series of deafening cracks split the air. Brief flashes of light cast away the darkness, like still-frame photos being flicked through frame by frame. Abigail had fired.
Two cloaked figures, running through the snow. One of them flying backwards, arms flailing, pain evident on his face. The other—a face I recognized from somewhere—holding a freaking axe that was glowing blue. The man with the axe ran through the snow, holding the axe up and Abigail’s handgun spat fire a few more times. But the bullets never found their mark. Instead, they seemed to be drawn to the flat side of the axe. Each time the round bounced off the steel blade, there was a visage of a screaming man and woman that burst from the axe, crowding back in afterwards.
My shell-shocked brain finally recognized the man: Victor’s Second from the first part of the trial. His staff was strapped to his back.
Abigail pulled on the trigger a few more times, but the chamber clicked empty.
The man lowered his axe, thought not all the way.
“Troy?” He said to the man who had fallen over behind him. “Are you hit?”
The fallen man was breathing raggedly. He moaned in pain. “Bitch got my leg. Fuck.”
“Stay down then,” the bearded man’s eyes never left Abigail. “Detritus. Finish reaching for whatever is under your skirt, and I’ll cut your throat.”
Abigail’s hand froze.
His glowing eyes roamed the dark forest, settling on me. “There you are.”
My eyes were glued to the axe. The man’s instrument? A trinket? No, too powerful to be a trinket. It was the man’s instrument, for sure. But instruments didn’t hold powers, as far as I knew. Mine should’ve been an exception.
“Ghosts,” I sputtered, realizing. “Those are ghosts in your axe.”
As if they could hear me, the numerous spirit faces on his axe bulged, a few of them letting out a moan. Some of them grew large enough to see the cause of death. A bullet hole in a forehead, numerous gunshot wounds to the chest—all death by bullets.
He didn’t answer, his eyes on the gun.
“Derek Valtin. You’re interfering with a trial overseen by the Table. The Hudson Witch is judge. Let us go,” Abigail said.
Derek’s expression was steel. “No,” He said simply.
“Forget it, Abigail,” I said. “The fact that they’re doing this means they’re up against the Table anyways.”
“Quiet,” Derek said.
Abigail bristled. “This… if you stop following the rules, our whole world comes crumbling down. There’s a reason why the Table is there. Once someone steps past the line, others will follow. People will get hurt, or worse, start being taken. Other places will see New York as weak.”
Derek didn’t seem like the talkative type. He kept the scowl fixed.
Derek’s attention was on Abigail’s gun. He wasn’t even looking at me. Mortal Ferromancy, they called it. Everyone seemed to be scared of it. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I got the appeal. It could kill with a snap of a finger. Of course people were scared of it.
But if there’s one thing I learned through all this, it’s that brute force rarely matters. It’s flashy, it’s loud, and it gets people’s attention. Axes. Guns. Staves. Magic. But when it comes down to it?
People tend to underestimate the little guy.
I grabbed the doll off my backpack, and placed it on the ground in front of me.
Derek frowned, confused.
Then his eyes widened.
A split second. That’s all it took.
“Underthebed,” I whispered. “I release you.”